DEATH NO LONGER HAS DOMINION

Memphis sat in a crowded pew of the Mother AME Zion Church between Aunt Octavia and Isaiah. Up front, Gabe’s coffin gleamed under a blanket of lilies, donated by Mamie Smith herself. Every seat was filled, and a crowd of men stood three deep along the back wall. It was close in the room, and women kept themselves cool with wooden fans provided by the funeral home.

Pastor Brown took the pulpit and hung his head sorrowfully. “A young man, struck down in the prime of his life by an unspeakable violence. It’s almost too much to bear….”

People cried and sniffled as Pastor Brown spoke about Memphis’s dead friend, about his promising life ended too soon. Memphis swallowed hard thinking about how they’d fought the night he was killed. He wished he could go back, talk it over. He wished he could stop Gabe from leaving the party alone. If they’d left together, would he still be alive? He took out Gabe’s lucky rabbit’s foot. Mrs. Johnson had given it to him earlier, saying, “He’d want you to have it. You were like a brother to him.” Memphis squeezed it tightly in his hand.

“Death no longer has dominion over Brother Johnson,” Pastor Brown thundered.

“Amen,” a woman called.

“For the Bible assures us, ‘as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life. For if we have been planted together in the likeness of his death, certainly we shall be also in the likeness of his resurrection.’ Thus sayeth the Lord.”

“Hallelujah,” several people shouted. And then, “The word of the Lord.”

“Pray now for our brother, Gabriel Rolly Johnson, that he may be sheltered in the bosom of Jesus Christ and find everlasting peace. Amen.”

“Amen,” the congregants answered. The choir began to sing. “Wade in the water, wade in the water, wade in the water, the Lord’s gonna trouble the water….”

The sorrowful notes of the familiar spiritual washed over Memphis, dragging him down into terrible depths like stones in his pockets. Aunt Octavia cried into a handkerchief, softly praying “Lord, Lord” under her tears. Every now and then she’d reach a gloved hand over and squeeze Memphis’s hand to comfort him, but Memphis remained dry-eyed and numb. He looked down at Isaiah, who hadn’t stopped staring at his shoes. He thought about what Isaiah had said to Gabe down at Mr. Reggie’s: You’ll die. Had Isaiah really seen something happening to Gabe? What if somebody had overheard them talking? What if somebody said something to the police? He had to protect Isaiah, no matter what.

After the service, the funeral procession made its slow, mournful passage down Broadway. The Elks Club had paid for the burial, and they’d insisted on a proper good-bye. They walked in front wearing their sashes, Papa Charles leading the way, his hat held to his chest. Behind him, several of Harlem’s best musicians played a mournful dirge on their horns and a choir of women in black dresses sang. A flatbed truck carried Gabe’s coffin through the streets to its temporary resting place at the Merrick Funeral Home. Later, his family would bury him. Reporters ranged along the sidewalks taking notes and pictures, reaching up in the nick of time to remove their hats as the casket passed by. Memphis walked behind the casket with slow, dutiful steps all the way to the funeral home. He hadn’t been inside since his mother’s death, and he couldn’t face going in now.

“I’m just going to get some air,” he explained to Octavia, who patted his cheek, called him poor child, and waved him on. Memphis slipped unnoticed into the throngs of people trying to get a glimpse of the Pentacle Killer’s latest victim. Some were just curious onlookers. Some were angry and shouted at the line of police for answers. Hadn’t they caught the killer? Wasn’t he behind bars? What now? What were they doing to protect the citizens of New York? When would they feel safe again? The police remained silent.

At the corner, Memphis spied the girl from the museum. Weren’t they supposed to be helping to catch this killer? Why hadn’t they caught him yet? Memphis was overcome with anger, and he marched up to Evie O’Neill and tapped her on the shoulder. It took her a second to recognize him.

“It’s you. Mr. Campbell.”

“You know who the killer is yet?”

“Not yet.”

Memphis nodded, his jaw tight.

“Did you… did you know the deceased?” she asked.

“He was my best friend.”

“I’m so very sorry,” she said, and Memphis thought she sounded sorry, too. Not like these reporters, who would say “sorry for your loss” and then follow with a question about whether your best friend was a dope fiend or ask whether you thought jazz music was to blame.

“Memphis!”

At the sound of Theta’s voice, both Evie’s and Memphis’s heads turned. She was running down the street, her stage makeup still on, a coat thrown over her costume. Evie could see the sequins peeking out. Theta gave Evie a quick hug, then turned to Memphis.

“I came as soon as I heard,” she said.

“You… you two know each other?” Evie asked.

“He’s gone,” Memphis said, his voice cracking on the last word. “Gabe’s gone.”

Theta spoke soft, soothing words to Memphis, and Evie felt odd standing by without saying anything at all.

“I’m so sorry about your friend,” she offered, though it seemed hollow.

Memphis turned to her, his face gone hard. “I want to help you find Gabe’s killer.”

“There is something you can do,” Evie began uncertainly. “It would help our investigation if we could have something of the deceased’s… um, of Gabriel’s. Preferably something he had with him the night of his death.”

“How’s that going to help?” Memphis challenged.

“Please,” Evie pleaded. “Please trust me. We want to catch him as much as you do.”

Memphis reached into his pocket and pulled out the rabbit’s foot. “It was his good-luck charm. He was never without it.”

“Thank you. I promise I’ll take very good care of it,” Evie said, but Memphis wasn’t listening. Theta had slipped her hand in his, and they were looking at only each other. Evie walked away, leaving them to their private, silent conversation.

The press jammed against the barricades, calling for comments, trying to tease out quotes, while the cops stood firm, mouths shut. T. S. Woodhouse was front and center. Evie tried to sneak past.

“Well, if it isn’t the Sheba,” he said, blocking her escape. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

“So why don’t you leave?”

“You aren’t sore about that story, are ya?”

“And how! I asked for a favor and you repaid me by stealing my tip and printing it in the papers.”

T. S. Woodhouse spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m a reporter, Miss O’Neill. Let me make it up to you. Tell me what you’ve got on this and I’ll do a whole feature on you. Maybe even give you some column inches to write up whatever you want. You’ll be the most famous flapper in Manhattan.”

“I’m sorry—I no longer talk to reporters.”

She walked away and Woodhouse scurried to keep pace with her. “C’mon, Sheba. The bulls aren’t giving us anything but the same wad of chewing gum. We know Jacob Call can’t be the Pentacle Killer, unless he can off somebody from behind bars or he’s got an accomplice. Say… accomplice. That’s good.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Woodhouse.”

T. S. Woodhouse gripped Evie’s arm, and she glared at him until he was forced to remove his hand. He jerked his head at the other reporters. “These fellas get the jump, I got no story for today. I’ve been showering daisies on your Uncle Will’s museum. I’m trying to make a name for myself here, too. You understand?”

She did understand. She also understood that T. S. Woodhouse would do anything, say anything, step on anyone to get that story. It had been a mistake to get involved with him. And it was time for T. S. Woodhouse to get his comeuppance.

“Very well, Mr. Woodhouse,” Evie said. “We believe the killer is working from an ancient mystical text, the Ars Mysterium.”

“Yeah?” Woodhouse said, practically salivating at the tip. “That’s good.”

“Now, don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, not even your publisher”—Evie bit her lip and made a show of craning her neck to be sure they weren’t overheard—“but we believe the next killing will take place tonight, on Hell Gate Bridge. You’ll want to be there with your cameraman.”

“You on the level?”

“Would I lie to such an upstanding member of the press?”

T. S. Woodhouse was weighing his ambition against her story. She could tell by the twist of his mouth.

“Thanks, Sheba,” he said at last.

“Don’t mention it—and I do mean that, Mr. Woodhouse.”

It had been a perfectly hideous day, but as she walked away from T. S. Woodhouse, Evie couldn’t help but feel a stab of satisfaction at thinking of him later, freezing in the bitter wind on Hell Gate bridge, waiting for a story that would never happen, while all the other reporters got the jump on him.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 548