He lifted fried meat from the skillet and folded a slice of bread into a fist-sandwich. After a big, sloppy bite, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and Honoree smiled.
The other man, a cook, judging from his apron, held a large butcher knife, slicing a slab of meat on the cutting board. On Tuesday nights, Archie sold pork sandwiches and fried potatoes sprinkled with plenty of salt in a brown paper bag for twenty-five cents.
Honoree had never seen this cook before, but Archie went through cooks like water down a drain.
“Mr. Booker T. Washington had it right, Mr. Bailey. Colored people need no help pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps. We do best when we keep the white man out of our lives, out of our business.”
“Have you read Du Bois’sThe Souls of Black Folk?”
“I don’t read nothing by that man,” said the cook. “He talked ill of Booker T. Washington—may he rest in peace—and that don’t sit well with me.”
“Du Bois didn’t speak ill of Washington—they disagreed. Debate between intelligent men of the Race should be encouraged.”
The cook glared. “The Race should do what we know. Leave the white man be. We don’t need to live where they live. You make good money, running a policy wheel in the colored part of town. Making just as much cabbage as them rich white folk uptown make. You don’t need a white man’s help to make money.”
Even from where she stood, Honoree could tell Ezekiel was uncomfortable with the cook’s reference to his illegal profession. “Yes, I believe in supporting our neighborhoods, but what if one day, all the Black people leave Bronzeville? Want to see some other part of Chicago? Some other parts of the world?”
Ezekiel added a friendly smile, but his gaze slid toward the archway where Honoree was hiding, which wasn’t the best place to hide. Spotting her had been easy. With a sigh, she walked into the kitchen, stopping a few feet from the cook and Ezekiel. “How you two boys doing?”
The cook nodded shyly, but Ezekiel scarcely glanced at her. He just kept talking.
“Mr. Du Bois has written that the Negro should be accorded the same equal rights that the world gives the white man. So no matter where we live or want to live, we should have the right to choose, and have the right to be whoever we want to be with whomever we choose to be with—it’s our right as citizens of these United States.”
The cook cleared his throat. “I don’t want nothin’ to do with a white man’s world. I do just fine, living in Bronzeville with folk I can trust.”
“That is also your right, sir.”
The cook reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “I’m feeling lucky. I need to place a bet today. What’s your birthday, Mr. Bailey? I’ll bet on you.”
Ezekiel frowned, not amenable to sharing the information. “Not sure that is such a good idea.”
“July 1, 1903,” Honoree said, stepping farther in the room. “Use three, nine, and seventy-one.”
The cook’s eyes glowed. “You that chorus girl who figures out the lucky numbers for Archie’s policy dream books.”
“Correct.”
The cook grinned. “I best bet on these numbers before the day gets away from me.” He wove toward the front of the cafe. “Be right back.”
Honoree walked over to the worktable across from Ezekiel. “I was heading outside for some fresh air and didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You okay? You look—”
“Everything’s copacetic.” She craned her neck to the side, tempted to blurt out everything about her conversation with Archie. But it wasn’t the time. A cloud of smoke rose behind Ezekiel’s head. Quickly, she circled him. “The pork is burning.” She turned off the stove and moved the pan from the burner. Shaking her finger as if scolding a child, she said, “Remember, I saved your life.”
“Thank you.”
“How come you didn’t keep your promise?” she asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“Trudy took a swing at me—not an actual punch, but she went off on me in front of a bunch of people about Houdini. In the dressing room. In the basement. In front of everyone. Trudy blamed me for the barkeep’s murder. Told me that Houdini got killed because he didn’t have the”—she paused to make sure they were still alone—“that damn envelope.”
“I’ll talk to Trudy again.”
“I thought you said she would do what you told her.”
Ezekiel glanced at the short hallway where the cook had exited. “Let’s take this conversation outdoors.”
