“It’s okay if you are.” He offers me his arm, which, although tempted, I don’t take.
“I imagine it’s the adrenaline,” he says, taking my rebuff in stride. “Our bodies produce it when we’re stressed or in danger, and it can make you feel unsteady.”
“Are you a doctor?” I ask sarcastically.
“I was a cook in a hospital cafeteria in New York City.”
“Oh.” He’s trying to lighten the mood with a joke, but the pain in my stomach worsens with each step. I look up as a shooting star streaks across the night sky. Following itspath, I hope it will take my aching belly with it as it fades from view.
“We’re here,” he says.
“I can’t go in there.”
“Why not?” he asks.
We stop in front of a crescent-shaped driveway on Harbour Street, where uniformed doormen greet a line of cars as guests enter the Myrtle Bank Hotel.
“The United Fruit Company owns this hotel. You know who they are, right?”
“I do. They are the largest distributors of bananas in the Caribbean.”
“The working conditions at their facilities are as horrific as those on the sugar plantation you own.” I don’t hold back. “Banana factories are no better than sugar plantations.”
His dark brows knit together. “Let me be clear—I don’t own the Tynesdale sugar plantation.” Abruptly, he points toward the hotel entrance. “I rent a room here—Suite 357. If you’d like, you can go upstairs until you feel better.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key, and extends it to me.
I want to throw it at him. “No, thank you. All I need is to get home.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be rude, but you don’t look well. I’m not sure you’ll make it home,” he says. “I’ll wait for you downstairs—at the bar. Then, I’ll drive you home, or if you prefer, we can have a late supper—whatever you’d like.”
As much as I want to escape, the nausea in my stomach feels like it has a mind of its own and deserves some privacy. “You’ve already done enough for one night.” I wish I felt well enough to leave.
“I could never do enough,” he says, his tone heavy with apology.
What does he mean? He could never do enough of what? He can do any number of things, such as burning down theTynesdale sugarcane fields, and not just a seasonal burning of the sugarcane stalks. No, he can have the whole estate burned to the ground—also one of my recurring dreams.
I have plenty of ideas I’d share for making him useful if it weren’t for my stomach. I take the key from his hand. “Room 357. I’ll be right back.”
“Take as long as you need.”
CHAPTER 4
OTHELLA
Savoy Ballroom, Chicago
Tony Schaefer doesn’t have an office. He holds his meetings—at least the ones he’s had with Perry and me—at the Savoy Ballroom on 47th and South Parkway, near the Regal Theater. An entertainment “it” neighborhood for Negroes, the Savoy has as many white couples showing up on its dance floor as colored. Not that I mind. The more the merrier. The dance hall is my favorite place in the whole wide world.
Everything about the Savoy is top-notch: the colorful lighting, the beautiful red leather lounges, and that new dance floor—so smooth you can glide across it. There are also two wall-length bars, one at each end of the remarkably long dance floor, staffed by the best bartenders in the city. The waiters, too, are dapper, in bright white dress shirts and large red bow ties as they serve the lounges and box seats.
The highlight is the music. Two bands alternate on one stage every night, so the music never stops. One hour, I swing to Benny Goodman and his orchestra. The next hour, I shake my hips to Chick Webb and his band. All night long, themost jumpin’ jazz and the hottest music play on a brightly lit stage against a blue-sky backdrop. When I leave Chicago, I’ll miss the city’s nightlife the most—the nightclubs, the juke joints, the Savoy Ballroom, and all the dancing.
I am a swell dancer, too. Folks think I’ve been dancing since I was a kid. That’s how good I was right off the bat.
Swing. Lindy Hop (or jitterbug). Shimmy. Foxtrot. Just name it. And Perry is an excellent partner. Such a strong boy! He can fling me between his legs, over his head, and around his waist as easy as pie. And I ain’t no pint-size filly. Pleasantly round in all the right places and extra busty, I have a healthy figure that has helped me draw (and keep) the attention of some roughly woven men, both colored and white. But Perry wins the prize for handling me on the dance floor, and sometimes in the bedroom, too.
My heart races in my chest. “Lord have mercy,” I say out loud. Could it be that I am gonna miss Perry Merriweather? Have I lost my mind? I can still feel the weight of his big body on my chest, my fear, as he slammed me into the sofa and wrapped his fingers around my throat. I lean against a wall and close my eyes. I’ll miss many things about Chicago, but Perry Merriweather better not be one of ’em.
“Excuse me, miss. You can come right in.” The maître d’s voice is a rope, pulling me back to my senses.
