He pushed the paper to the middle of the kitchen table. “They want you at the cafe by one o’clock. A woman named Zelda left word with Mr. Turner. She also said you better be on time. See, written right here. ‘Be. On. Time.’”
Honoree snatched up the piece of paper. “Thanks, Kenny. What time is it now?”
“Almost noon.” He reclined against the chair and placed his arms behind his head like he would remain in the same spot all day. “Get dressed.”
“You need to leave.”
“Why? You always let me stay.” Hastily, he removed a sketchbook and pencil from his peacoat pocket. “I’ll draw a picture of you—getting ready to work at the Dreamland Cafe.”
“No, Kenny.” Usually, she didn’t mind him drawing sketches or taking pictures with his Kodak Brownie, but not today. “Go on now. I’m serious. Time for you to leave.”
“Damn, Honoree. You have a new job, and you forget how to be polite.” He jammed the sketch pad into his coat pocket.
“I was not that polite before.” She smiled to soften the truth of her words. “Now go on. I need to dress—and the message says I can’t be late.”
There were so many things that could’ve caused Zelda to call and leave that message. The meeting could be about something other than Houdini with all the happenings on the Stroll.
A block from the cafe, however, Honoree could barely walk. Dread stuck to her Mary Janes like a thousand chips of stone.Stop fooling yourself. The meeting is about Houdini.Anything else wouldn’t be her kind of luck.
* * *
It was a little before one o’clock when she walked through the kitchen’s back door. A crowd had already assembled. Dancers from the audition, a few musicians from the band, and a couple of cooks busying themselves at a counter with flour, butter, and eggs. Everyone looked uneasy, shifting from foot to foot, waiting for the finger of blame to point in their direction.
The old waiter with the shoe-polish black hair was on the other side of the kitchen. With a firm grip on her box purse, Honoree headed toward him.
“Chester Maximilian,” she called after him, but he darted into a corner next to a smooth-top stove. “Chester, or is it Maximilian?” She couldn’t recall which name was first. “Would you stop running, please.”
“I ain’t running.”
“Then why are you acting like an army of ants crawled into your pants?”
“I’m tired. I fidget when I’m tired.”
“I’m tired, too.” No time to waste, she asked the question plainly on almost everybody’s mind. “Why are we here? Do you know?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t.”
“Come on. I can tell when someone is hiding something. You’re watching those doors as if Saint Peter himself is about to stroll into this kitchen.”
He bounced on his heels, his twitchy gaze looking for an exit, but Honoree blocked the small man’s path.
“We were here late—you, me, and your girlfriends,” he said in a whisper. “Mr. Buttons don’t like waiters hanging around after work. So, y’all need to keep quiet about last night and what happened—especially about the gin and all.”
Honoree’s shoulders relaxed. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of mentioning last night to anyone. I just wanted to make sure we were of the same mind.”
“Yes, ma’am. My mind is the same as yours. If Mr. Buttons finds out I messed with his liquor, he’ll toss my ass out in the street. I don’t want to lose a job over a couple of bottles of hooch.”
“Makes sense. So if anyone asks what time we left, you’ll say three o’clock this morning, and none of us went anywhere near the main dining hall.”
He nodded vigorously and turned to go, but Honoree placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Come on, tell me. Do you have any idea why we’re here?”
The old waiter smoothed his whiskers into place. “The cops want to talk to those of us who worked late.”
She feared she might upchuck, the way her insides twisted. Questions from Zelda or Mr. Buttons, she could handle. Talking to coppers made her ill.
“Will those other two girls keep quiet, too?”
