We move to a quieter part of the Savoy, a room in the back, so Tony can give me the rundown on the party I’m about to crash. It’s at Robert Abbott’s mansion—he owns theChicago Defender. He and his wife are hosting a reception for their guests, Count and Countess di Abbatino—or Josephine Baker. The famous showgirl and amazing dancer, she is someone I’d love to meet. But I know I won’t get within ten feet of her. What if I acted a fool and drew all sorts of attention? That wouldn’t be good for a gal trying to steal a watch.
“How can a colored man make that much cabbage without having served time?” he says. “Some damn newspaper for colored folks shouldn’t earn him that much money—especially during the Depression. I bet he’s running a scam. Ain’t no way he’s wealthy and legit.” Tony has a bunch of Negroes he either works with or goes to bed with, but funny how he hates a colored man who makes more money than him.
He says almost the same thing about the mark, the only part of his rant I commit to memory—the bits and pieces I need to do my job.
The man is Major Leonard Thomas, and Tony’s object of desire is a priceless pocket watch—soon to be in my clutches. It will be a simple grab and go. Lickety-split and I’ll be on my way to the midnight train, just like that.
Finally finished, I head to the ladies’ room to change into a gown one of Tony’s goons fetched for me. I touch up my makeup—rouge, raspberry-red lipstick, and mascara—and tame my unruly eyebrows. But there’s nothin’ to be done about the dress. It’s a pale blue gown with drop sleeves and a pink bow around the waist—they call it the sweetheart look—and something I’d never wear voluntarily.
As I put the final touches on my hairdo—a neat bun at the nape of my neck, my long bangs swept to the side and pinned behind my right ear—I keep thinking about what Tony told me about Perry. What if Tony lied just to get me to steal this pocket watch? What if Perry isn’t dead? On the other hand, does it even matter? I know I heard him call after me. He was alive when I left. I’m still leaving town. It’s all aces once I deliver the watch, and Tony pays me my money. But can I leave Chicago without knowing for sure if Perry is dead? Shouldn’t I check with someone other than him, just in case Schaefer is a big fat liar?
Another glance in the mirror. I look as good as I’m gonna look for the job I have to do. I just wish I could stop thinking about what Tony told me about Perry. Did I kill him? I don’t rightly know. I wish I could find out for sure. But I can’t ask Tony. I’ll have to get the truth from somebody else.
CHAPTER 5
VIVIAN JEAN
Hartfield House, Bronzeville, Chicago
The birthday celebration ends shortly after my parents’ departure. I bid farewell to our guests and promise Katherine that I’ll be ready for the Abbotts’ reception in an hour. I still haven’t had a chance to talk to her, but I will make time during our ride over to the party.
“We can all go together,” Katherine says, winking at Tully as we escort her to the foyer. “Send a car for me. I hate driving at night.” She gracefully exits the house, and I watch from the vestibule window as she enters her automobile, parked in our circular drive. She waves just before lowering herself into the driver’s seat, knowing I’ll be watching enviously. I can’t drive a car. Teaching me how wasn’t a priority for my father or my first husband, and after Clifford’s accident, I lost interest in learning. Though Tully promised to teach me—but that was before.
“I’ll wear my pink silk gown to the reception—and the gift from the major.” I waltz into our bedroom ahead of Tully. “The jeweler did a splendid job, don’t you think?” I touchthe pocket watch nervously. No matter how we might have acted toward the end of the party, the tension between us weighs heaviest when Tully and I are alone.
He walks past me and dumps the gifts he’s carrying onto our canopied bed.
“You should’ve talked to him before this afternoon.” He immediately beelines for the small table beside the dresser where he keeps his bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a tumbler. “We could’ve avoided that little show.”
“It’s water under the bridge,” I say, and Tully grunts as if he’s been punched in the gut. My poor choice of words triggered his reaction.
Clifford died when his car crashed into the Clark Street Drawbridge and he drowned in the Chicago River. The accident occurred on the evening of December 10, the same day he transferred the trust fund and the same date written on the note that has caused Tully and me so much pain, sorrow, and discord.
This note, lost for months, was discovered by a carpenter four weeks ago under a file cabinet in Clifford’s office, now the new library of Hartfield House.
December 10, 1933
I know what you’ve done. For all these years, you have
been nothing but a liar—a fraud.
And I know who you don’t love and who you truly
love.
It’s wrong, and you will come to regret it.
Clifford
The note was too cryptic to take seriously, I told Tully. There’s no way to know to whom Clifford was writing or what he was writing about. “You keep insisting that the note, the trust fund, and the car accident are connected, but it’s a tragic coincidence,” I argued. Except Tully doesn’t believe in coincidences.
“Water under the bridge, huh?” Tully growls, pulling me out of my memories. “Like the note Clifford wrote?”
“Don’t do that, Tully. Please don’t change the subject. I made a mistake. I wasn’t thinking when I said it.”
“I’m not changing, I’m trying to finish a conversation you don’t want to have.”
“Because it’s ridiculous. Clifford didn’t write that note about us. He had no reason to. We weren’t having an affair.”
