“I digitized a few frames of the old reel, and I swear Miss Honoree is in the film, dancing.”
“You have footage of her dancing in 1925?”
“Blurry footage, but once I get the complete reel restored—even if it isn’t a Micheaux, it could be significant to film historians.”
“I’m listening,” she says; her lyrical voice sounds intrigued.
I can’t seem to open my mouth.
“It can’t be that awful,” Lula says, noticing my hesitation. “Tell me.”
“It’s not awful, just embarrassing.” I shrug. “I spent the last of my money to get here and to get a room for a couple of weeks.” I can’t believe I’m bearing my soul to a stranger—but I need her to let me in Honoree’s room. “I should’ve finished this project a year ago, but life happens, and frankly, fate helped me find my grandmother’s long-ago box, and Honoree—”
Lula winces at my blunder.
“Sorry, Miss Honoree is the last person alive in the city—shit, in the USA—who met the people she met and can talk about Chicago history the way she can. So if this film is also a Micheaux—”
Lula chews her lower lip, studying my face, and all I can think is:Come on, Lula. Help a brother out.
She starts down the hall toward Honoree’s room. “I shouldn’t do this,” she says over her shoulder. “But if I don’t, I have a feeling you’ll stand here all day bothering people.”
I smile. “Look how well you already know me.”
We stop outside the room.
“You should go in. Miss Honoree’s resting her eyes, but she’ll sense you’re there and wake up. Ready to answer your questions.”
CHAPTER 12
HONOREE
Saturday, October 24, 1925
(Sometime just before dawn)
“Damn. Damn. Damn.”
“What’s wrong with you, Honoree?” Colethea propped a hand on her hip. “What are you cursing about?”
“I need to go back to the dressing room. I left my lucky cigarette holder.” A small lie. She may not know what was inside the envelope, but it wasn’t something she would share with anyone. Even drunk, she had that much sense.
Colethea opened the kitchen door to the alley. “Lord. I’m cold as hell.”
Hazel held her coat collar to her throat. “I’m taking a cab.”
Honoree called out, “I’ll catch up with y’all at rehearsal on Monday.”
Colethea placed a finger on puckered lips. “Shush! Keep your voice down. And don’t forget to close the door tight when you leave. Should be someone around to lock up.”
“I won’t forget,” Honoree said quietly before raising her voice. “Y’all have a swell weekend.”
Soused, Colethea stumbled toward the street, barely able to place one foot in front of the other. But she was no drunker than Honoree.
She shut the kitchen door and wobbled toward the hall. It had to be five o’clock in the morning—or close to it. The envelope would burn a hole in her bag if she didn’t get rid of it quickly. With a hand on the wall to steady herself, she reached the archway outside the dance hall without having to crawl.
A musician played piano softly in the balcony. Not jazz, but some other kind of music. Something with less rhythm and long, lazy riffs. It was too dark to make out the face of the piano player, but the tip of a cigarette blazed like a firefly buzzing in the night. On the other side of the hall stood the barkeep, but he was not alone.
Two men, white men, were with him. They appeared to be customers, but the large Black man behind the bar had to be Houdini.
