Lair of Dreams
“How’s that?”
“As I said, I don’t know. I only know that Sam’s mother went to work on it—”
“Doing what?”
“She was a nurse,” Evie said, keeping her face blank. Woody didn’t need to know everything. “That’s the whole crop.”
“I guess I’ll have to ask Sam if I want to know more.…”
“No!” Evie said, placing a hand on Woody’s arm. “You mustn’t tell Sam. He’d have a conniption fit if he knew I was talking to you. This is strictly confidential, Woody. I only want to help him find out what happened to his mother.”
Woody’s slow smile alarmed Evie. “Ah, young love. Okay. What was Mrs. Lloyd’s first name?”
“Miriam. Miriam Lubovitch. They changed their name to Lloyd somewhere along the line.”
Woody kept his chin down but flicked his gaze up at Evie. “Sam’s Jewish, then?”
Evie held his stare. “So’s Al Jolson.”
Woody shrugged. “I’ve got nothing against Jews. But some folks do. Your Mr. Phillips, for one. Just a friendly tip. Okay, I’ll see what I can dig up. But it’s gonna require a great deal of digging.” He cleared his throat, glanced meaningfully at the dollar, and waited.
“That’s what rats do, don’t they? Dig?” Evie shot back. She rummaged in her purse and handed him another dollar. “That’s all I can spare.”
“My bookie thanks you, Miss O’Neill. One more thing: What happened up at Knowles’ End with Hobbes?”
“I told the papers all about it then. It’s old news,” Evie said, pushing the rest of her apple pie around on her plate with her fork.
Woody smirked. “The truth, the partial truth, and nothing but. See, I got a funny feeling something happened up there that you’re not talking about.”
“Such as?”
“Such as maybe John Hobbes wasn’t human.”
“You gonna get a read on the chicken salad?” Woody teased. Then he turned serious. “I’m gonna find out the truth about what happened, Sheba. No matter how long it takes,” he said and gobbled the last bite of pie.
Outside Floyd’s Barbershop, Memphis turned to see Rene, one of Papa Charles’s runners, waving him down. “Memphis! Papa Charles wants you.”
“What for?” Memphis said, his heart racing a little at the thought. Papa Charles didn’t just send for people without reason.
“Didn’t say. Just said to come get you and bring you to the Hotsy Totsy. Now.”
A crow cawed from the top of the lamppost.
“What’re you squawking at me for? Why don’t you make yourself useful and tell me what Papa Charles wants?”
The crow squawked again and fell silent.
“Thanks for nothing, bird,” Memphis said, hugging himself against the cold.
At the Hotsy Totsy, Memphis entered Papa Charles’s well-appointed office, nodding at Jules and Emmanuel, Papa’s bodyguards, who sat outside his door, Tommy guns resting on their laps.
“Memphis, come in,” Papa Charles called from behind his big desk. “Have a seat, son.”
Memphis perched on the edge of the chair. He tried to lick his lips but his mouth was dry. The heavy smoke from Papa Charles’s cigar made his eyes burn. Papa Charles folded his hands on his desk and looked at Memphis.
“Memphis, I’ve known you for a long time. Knew your daddy well. Your mama, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ve always looked after your family, haven’t I? I made certain that Isaiah had a new baseball glove, or I sent one of my boys over to fix Octavia’s icebox when it wasn’t working?”
“Yes, sir,” Memphis said, his unease growing. Was he in some sort of trouble?
“And when you got arrested a few months ago, who got you out of jail?”
“Those cops framed me. They were dirty for Dutch Schultz and trying to send you a message,” Memphis protested. If he hadn’t been working for Papa Charles in the first place, he wouldn’t have gotten pinched, so it seemed unfair of his boss to bring it up now.
Papa Charles made a We all know how it works gesture. “Still,” he said, blowing out circles of smoke. “I have done you favors, yes? The time has come I need a favor from you.”