“Thank you. Thank you,” he said, addressing those gathered. “Sadly, though, my liquor crates are empty, and my skill with cards has reached its limit. There should be some beer next door, in the photographer’s flat.”
A few groans of disappointment, but more cheers praised Ezekiel and his card skills. The crowd filtered away as Honoree approached. “I see you ran out of hooch.”
Ezekiel winced a grin. “Sorry. I thought I’d brought more than enough. Didn’t expect all of Bronzeville to be here.”
“I never imagined you knew three-card monte.”
“Even an old dog has new tricks.” His chest puffed up. “I have great hands, Honoree.”
“A doctor’s hands.”
A flash of pain in his eyes and a grimace in the lines around his mouth—damn. Why did she say that? She hadn’t meant to remind him of the man he’d promised to be.
Ezekiel shoved the deck of cards into his pocket. “You have to do something clever to keep the mob calm when the booze runs out at a rent party.”
She moved to the other side of the table. “I didn’t mean anything,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.” It had to, since he couldn’t look her in the eye. “Thank you for the booze, for tending bar, for the tables, and for fixing things with Mr. Buttons.”
“You thanked me, and we shouldn’t talk about it here.” He lowered his voice. “Remember, many of the folks here are my customers. I don’t want them to think I do favors for some people and not for others.”
“Some people, or just me?”
“Only for you, Honoree.”
She believed him, and the realization gave her a hard shiver.
“Are you cold?” He raised a hand. “Do you want my coat?”
Before she could reply, a frantic male voice hollered, “Ezekiel!”
They both pivoted toward the door. Jeremiah was running toward them, the expression on his face thoroughly unsettled.
“Dewey Graves is here. Showed up down at the bonfire.”
Ezekiel turned to Honoree. “Did you invite him?”
“No. Never. You know Dewey. He’ll show up for no good reason other than to cause trouble.”
Ezekiel scowled. “He needs to leave.”
“Honoree!” Now it was Bessie yelling and running at them. She shoved Jeremiah’s sizable frame aside and grabbed Honoree’s arm. “There are a bunch of white boys outside.”
“What white boys?” Ezekiel asked.
“In the alley behind the building.” Bessie panted. “It’s one of them athletic clubs.”
Honoree knew all about the “athletic clubs,” groups of white boys who hurt Negroes who had moved into a white neighborhood and crossed the athletic club’s race line. They firebombed houses, burned them to the ground—and the coppers let ’em.
Jeremiah placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “They’re here for Dewey.”
“It’s not an athletic club. They don’t come this far south,” Ezekiel said. “You two stay here.” He headed off with Jeremiah at his side.
Partiers milled around, whispering. Others headed toward the window, which overlooked the alley. They peered down, searching for the white faces as the embers of the bonfire gave some dim light.
Honoree wasn’t keen on taking orders from Ezekiel but waited a beat before following him with Bessie tagging along behind her. A group of white men, six of ’em, had gathered at the bottom of the stairs.
