The Savoy Ballroom, Chicago
As Robbie and I prepare to leave the Abbotts’ house for the LaSalle Street Train Station, I think about the past few hours and how much has changed. Many lies have been told and doubt still lingers inside me, but I learned a few things.
When Tony told me about Perry, and how I was suspected of killing him, I couldn’t just take his word for it. Now, could I? Too many voices in my head kept telling me one thing: Perry spoke to me before I left the apartment. He was alive. But what if he wasn’t? I had to be sure. So, while I was still at the Savoy, I made a call. After changing my clothes, I slipped into an empty back room with a telephone and dialed the Deering Street Police Station.
A smart move for a gal in my profession is to make friends with members of the Chicago Police Department. The telephone conversation went like this:
“Officer Bowers, here.”
“Richie, do you know who’s calling you? You recognize my voice?”
“Yeah, I do, and you shouldn’t be calling me unless it’s to give yourself up.”
My stomach dropped. “So, it’s true? The cops are looking for me?”
“You betcha. You killed your old man. Most of the cops in the 4th Ward are after you.”
“I didn’t kill nobody. We had one of those fights we always have. Nothing serious. A few punches were thrown, and I hit him with an ashtray to keep him off me.” My throat felt like dust. “Is he really dead?”
“As a doorknob.” Someone shouted at Richie to hurry up. “I gotta go.” Then he spoke so quietly I could barely hear him. “My advice to you, girl, is to get lost—and stay lost.”
“Sure, I’ll do that. Thanks for the advice. Just one thing. Why did the police decide it was me so fast? They ain’t lookin’ for nobody else?”
“A witness ratted you out, kid.” There was more shouting in the background, but Richie, thank the Lord, didn’t hang up. “They heard the fight, saw you run out of the apartment like the devil was chasing you, and then they went inside and found Perry dead on the floor.”
“We got nosy neighbors, but none that nosy. Who’s this witness?”
“I ain’t telling you that. I’m being nice to you ’cause up till now, you ain’t done nothing but steal shit. The most harm you ever caused was breaking a few men’s hearts and wallets—but murder is different, Othella.”
“I swear he was alive when I left. Or at least I thought he was.”
But the line was dead. Richie had hung up, and I wasn’t talking to nobody but myself.
The shock I felt in that moment is probably why I forgot about my suitcase until now.
Major Thomas offered to pay my way to Jamaica as an assistant to Robbie Barnes. What else could I say but yes? Robbieexplained that we’d help Katherine Dunham and the major’s daughter with some anthropological fieldwork. Whatever that was.
But who am I to care, as long as it gets me outta Chicago? And on a midnight train to boot?
Just one more thing to do: get the suitcase I left at the Savoy Ballroom. I tell Robbie Barnes he’ll have to pick up my suitcase but I can’t go in with him to the Savoy. He looks at me kinda funny. “I know it’s an odd request,” I say, eyelids fluttering. And that’s enough for him to agree to do it. In fact, he’s so excited about our mutual travel plans that he’d agree to most anything I ask. He surprises me, though, and handles the task without a hitch. Perhaps, I’m judging him too quick. Who would’ve thought someone like Robbie Barnes could be slick?
Robbie and I arrive at LaSalle Street Station with time to spare.
It is enormous. Thousands of people crowd the main waiting room, with its high ceilings and long black benches, which remind me of the AME Fellowship Church, a thought I don’t welcome. It’s almost as hot as the church, too. Even at almost midnight, Chicago can’t escape the sweltering heat.
Once inside, I head to the Negro women’s restroom to change out of my fancy gown and into my traveling outfit. First off, I tie my hair back in a ponytail. Then I put on a navy-blue jumper with large rose buttons, a rose-colored blouse, a matching belt, and Oxford shoes. Because I never know what role I might play, I pack as much as possible.
When I return to the main waiting room, I follow Robbie’s instructions. Clutching my ticket, I present it to the ticket agent before entering the concourse lobby. From there, I make my way to the last row of pews closest to LaSalle Street.
Robbie is waiting. “Our train departs from Track 10.”
“This is a fancy train, isn’t it?”
“Red carpet service all the way, but we have regular tickets, not the expensive ones.”
He leads me to the boarding area, where we find two seats on a bench near the back of the crowded room. “You look different, like a schoolgirl,” he says shyly.
“Should I take that as a compliment?” I raise an eyebrow. “And look at you with your brown slacks, white shirt, no tie, cloth jacket, and newsboy cap. I’d say we both look like schoolchildren.”
