Babylon Sisters Page 22

  Miriam had generated an outpouring of attention and outrage, but she didn’t want to talk to a lot of curious strangers, so two days before the story appeared, she moved some of her things into the upstairs bedroom next to Phoebe’s. Staying with me for a couple of weeks would put her in a safe zone without making her feel like she was under house arrest. She had the run of this place, and Amelia was right next door. Louis and B.J. lived around the corner, and Blue Hamilton’s presence guaranteed her safety on the streets anywhere in West End. She had come a long way from the days she spent hiding behind that horrible wig, and she was getting stronger by the day.

  Tonight we were going to Miss Iona’s for a dinner in Miriam’s honor. I hadn’t seen B.J. for more than a few minutes since he got back from Miami, and I was looking forward to seeing him and to toasting the Sentinel for reclaiming its place as Atlanta’s most-read newspaper. I had just changed clothes and persuaded Miriam to shut down the computer and go upstairs to get ready if she didn’t want to face Miss Iona’s wrath for being late, when the doorbell rang.

  “Fifteen minutes,” I said, heading downstairs. “We’ve got to be walking out that door or Miss Iona will want to know the reason why!”

  “I’ll be ready.” She laughed, and I heard the shower splash into life.

  I opened the front door to find Sam standing there with a scowl on his face. The man never tired of arriving unannounced. This time he didn’t have a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. He had a copy of the Sentinel, which he held up as if he were showing it to me for the first time.

  “Have you seen this?” His voice was one loud boom of indignation.

  “Of course I have. Come in.”

  He stepped inside, but stayed near the door like he was too pissed off to come in and sit down. “Do you see any reference in here to Mandeville Maids?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then please tell me why I spent two hours with your friend B.J. talking about our expansion project and our refugee outreach plans and our scholarship program.”

  He must have forgotten that he had already told me the scholarship program wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  “This is a multipart series, Sam. This is not the last one that will appear. The programs you talked about will probably fit in a story that runs later.”

  That calmed him down a little, but he was still annoyed. “Then why did he talk to me now?”

  “Because they have to work ahead,” I said, not feeling nearly as patient as I sounded. “I told you that, remember?”

  He looked at me. “I guess you did.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, but I remembered my meeting with Ezola, and the word spy might as well have been tattooed across my forehead.

  “Is there anything wrong, Sam?” Other than that the boss thinks you are a slumlord and is probably getting ready to cut you loose?

  He ran his hand over his bald head. “No sense pretending, Catherine. I’m feeling some distance between me and Miss Mandeville.”

  “Distance?” Now I felt as though my spy tattoo was flashing like a neon sign.

  “Nothing I can put my finger on. She’s just not confiding in me like she used to. Like I’m out of the loop.” He paused again, then looked up at me sharply. “Did you see her while I was in Columbus?”

  Too late to lie. “Yes. She invited me to lunch to tell me that the Sentinel’s story had been good for business.”

  That drew a smile. “I showed her the figures. She couldn’t believe it.”

  “Well, then,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a matter of trust, Catherine. I don’t feel that she trusts me like she used to.”

  “I’m sure you’re wrong,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “I was hoping Mr. Johnson’s story would project me in a positive light and put me back in her good graces. When that wasn’t the case, I guess I was just disappointed.” He gave a little bow and tucked the Sentinel back under his arm. “My apologies for interrupting your evening, and thank you, as always, for your wise counsel.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, opening the door for him and wondering if I was supposed to report this to Ezola as I watched him get in his car and drive away.

  It was too late to report anything now. Miss Iona said eight thirty sharp, and she’d blame me if the guest of honor was the last to arrive.

  “Miriam!” I called from the front of the stairs. “Time to go!” I listened, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Miriam?” I called again. The shower had stopped and she hadn’t come downstairs. Where would she be?

  I took the stairs two at a time and called her again as I peeked into the open bathroom door, glanced in my room, then Phoebe’s, then the one where she was staying. Her dress was still laid out on the bed. “Miriam?”

  Nothing. Something was wrong, and I had no idea what, but it was making the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I leaned down and looked under the bed, then behind the big chair in the corner. Finally, I opened the closet door slowly, suddenly, sickeningly, unsure of what I might find, and there she was, sitting in the corner, curled around her knees in a tight little knot.

  “Miriam, what happened?” I said, going to put my arms around her. “What’s wrong?”

  She was shaking like a leaf. “It’s him.” Her voice was a whisper of wind through dry grass.

  “Who?”

  She nodded, rocking back and forth in my arms like it was all she could do not to run over to the window and jump out. “The man downstairs.”

  “Sam? He’s gone. Do you know him?”

  “His voice,” she whispered. “I remember his voice.”

  “When?” Now I was whispering, too.

  “The night before they took Etienne.”

  58

  It took me half an hour to talk Miriam out of that closet, into her clothes, and then into the car so we could go to Miss Iona’s, where Louis, Amelia, and B.J. were already waiting anxiously. Miriam was still terrified. When she heard Sam’s voice—how could she forget it?—she had immediately assumed he had come looking for her.

  “When did you hear his voice before?” B.J. said, when we had settled into Miss Iona’s neat little living room like a protective shield around Miriam, who sat between me and Amelia on the couch.

  “He came in with the others who took us to work every day, but they were shining a light in our faces so we couldn’t see him,” she said. “Only his voice.”

  “Could you hear what he was saying?”

  She nodded miserably, as though somewhere in her brain, it would be playing over and over on an endless loop until we found her sister. “He was saying ‘that one,’ and ‘that one,’ and ‘that one,’ like he was picking out the ones he wanted. The next day, they took Etienne off with two others from our group and then she was gone.”

  Louis walked over to the fireplace, where Miss Iona kept several pots of bright green ferns; then he turned back to B.J. “Tell me what you’ve got on this guy.”

  B.J. already had something on Sam? I was surprised. He’d never mentioned it.

  “He’s been on the housing end for a couple of years. Quincy Davenport is just a front, and he’s so scared now, he’s telling everything he knows.”

  It dawned on me that B.J. must have known about Sam’s involvement when he got here. Then an awful thought popped into my brain. Was he just using me to get a story? Had I believed all that dancing in the dark was one thing when it was really just a good reporter following a lead?

  “We used to have to worry about white folks riding up in here with sheets over their heads,” Miss Iona said, wearing her company apron over her pale blue sweater and skirt. “Now they just send a brother.”

  “Is there anything that ties him to the prostitution?” Louis said. Over his shoulder on the mantel, there was a picture of his father sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, putting another issue of the paper to bed.

  “Nothing
on the record. These guys are making so much money, they’re ruthless. Nobody wants to be the one who told.” B.J. looked at Miriam. “Are you absolutely sure that was the voice you heard?”

  Miriam nodded. “Oh, yes. I remember thinking, How could someone with such a beautiful voice use it to bring us such misery? I’ll never forget it.”

  Why hadn’t it occurred to B.J. that it might be dangerous for me to be so close to Sam without knowing he was about to show up in a story? Now I was a dupe for B.J. and a spy for Ezola. All because I was trying to pay my child’s tuition. Committed motherhood can sure make for some strange bedfellows, especially when you’re used to sleeping alone.

  B.J. looked back at Louis. “I need another couple of days and I’ll have what I need to corroborate what Miriam’s telling us. If what I think I’m hearing is true, Sam Hall is the one who’s supplying women to the guys from Miami who started this whole circuit. Now he’s ready to go out on his own, and to do that, he needs a steady supply of girls to keep it going.”

  “How long are we—”

  Miriam shuddered a little bit, and Amelia put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and shook her head almost imperceptibly at Louis. Too many details. He stopped in midsentence. “Should we talk about this later?”

  Amelia rewarded him with a smile. “I’ve got an idea. Listen, Miriam, why don’t you and me and Miss Iona go out there and hook up some dinner while these folks figure out what we’re going to do next?”

  Miss Iona stood up immediately and held out her hand to Miriam. “Come on, little bit. You still gotta eat.”

  Miriam followed them out to the kitchen and left me and B.J. alone with Louis, who was trying to process this new information. So was I.

  I turned toward B.J. and he smiled, oblivious. I took a deep breath. “Did you suspect Sam was involved when you asked me to set up an interview?”

  Louis looked surprised. “You already interviewed this guy?”

  B.J. nodded. “His name had already shown up a couple of times, so he was on my list when I got here. When I realized Cat was working for him, I took her up on her offer to put us together.”

  When he got here? He suspected Sam the whole time and never said a word? “That night at the Pleasant Peasant, when I was rattling on about my new client, you already suspected Sam in all this?”

  “Not at this level,” B.J. said quickly. “I thought he was in the housing end because of his father. Not the prostitution.”

  “That’s not the point,” I said. “The point is, you didn’t tell me! I’m working for these people, and the whole time you suspect them of absolutely awful crimes and you never say a word?”

  “Not the whole company. It’s just him,” B.J. said. “There’s nothing that points to Ezola Mandeville in any of this.”

  He was still not listening. I looked at Louis, who clearly wished he could join Amelia in the kitchen. “Did you know about this?”

  B.J. jumped in. “I hadn’t had a chance to share it with him yet. It’s all coming together pretty fast.”

  Louis didn’t say a word.

  “I think Miss Iona needs some more help in the kitchen. What do you think?”

  “Miss Iona’s wish is my command,” he said, easing out of the room like Cab Calloway at the end of a long evening at the Cotton Club.

  B.J. looked confused. “What’s wrong?”

  “You should have told me!”

  “I thought it was better not to,” he said calmly. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable at work.”

  Like he was looking out for me. Uncomfortable was an understatement. This job was probably over. “Not until you got your story, anyway.”

  He looked hurt at my accusatory tone. “I would think you’d want me to find out everything I could about this guy. Look at what he’s doing!”

  That wasn’t fair and he knew it. Or he should have. “Did you think I wouldn’t cooperate if you told me the truth right up front?”

  He looked at me, and his voice was almost defiant. “I didn’t know how much the contract meant to you. I couldn’t take a chance that you’d tip them off before I had a chance to check it out.”

  He didn’t even feel like he owed me an apology. “What makes you think I won’t go tell them now?”

  His tone softened, and he smiled at me like we were friends again. “Because I know you better now.”

  I was too mad to be distracted by that nonsense. He had used me. Now I had to look out for myself. Just like always. “I need to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “Of course.”

  Of course. “Is there anything at any level that points to Ezola Mandeville? Anything at all?”

  He shook his head firmly. “No. Not a thing.”

  “Have you looked specifically for her?”

  “I’ve looked harder for her to show up than I have for Sam.”

  “Why?”

  His voice was gentle, but unapologetic. “She would make a better story.”

  I stood up. “I respect her. I respect the work she’s doing and why she’s doing it.”

  “I know.”

  He probably never even heard of Bessie and what she did for Bigger and what she got back in return. Did I owe him more than I owed a black woman trying to do business on behalf of other women?

  She was strange, but she respected me in a way that B.J. didn’t seem to at all. Sam was on his own, but Ezola deserved better. “I have to tell her.”

  That got his full attention. “You can’t tell her. What if she tells Sam?”

  “She won’t.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Because, I wanted to say, she wants him busted as bad as, if not worse than, you do. Because if she has a little advance warning, she can do some damage control and not lose everything she’s built and is still building.

  “Trust me,” I said. “She won’t tell him.”

  I sat back down and B.J. came and sat beside me. “This story is very important to me, Cat. If I do it right, it can make up for all those years I spent drinking and talking and wasting time.”

  It sounded like the chorus of a country song. Just drinkin’ and talkin’ and wastin’ time.

  “My professional relationship with this woman is important to me,” I said. “I can’t let her get blindsided like this when she’s not even implicated.”

  He stood up and started pacing. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Cat, but if it’s about the money, I can help.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  His voice was still very gentle, like he was afraid I might bolt, as I had done in the restaurant. “Louis told me you only took the Mandeville job to pay for Phoebe’s college. I want you to know, I can help.”

  Now he was my knight in shining armor? “Louis was wrong for discussing my finances with you, and you are wrong for trying to discuss them with me. I don’t want anything from you, and Phoebe’s tuition payments are not your problem.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that this story is important for all the right reasons. I don’t want to risk it by tipping our hand.”

  “I’m not interested in tipping anybody’s hand,” I said, stepping back outside of that our. He still hadn’t apologized for withholding information, placing me in a highly volatile position with my clients and exposing Miriam to a fright that really shook her up. “But until we spend a little more time together, I don’t think you should assume you know me as well as you think you do.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Miss Iona stuck her head out of the kitchen door and waved us in for dinner. “Come on to the table before it gets cold!”

  “It doesn’t mean anything.” I stood up and looked down at B.J., knowing there was no way to explain how it felt to know he hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me the truth about Sam. Or to wonder if that was the way he felt when I told him about Phoebe. “Let’s eat.”

  59

  After dinner, Louis and B.J. went back dow
n to the Sentinel office to meet with the police detective we’d talked to a few weeks ago. We had more information than they did, but it was important to keep them in the loop. Amelia suggested that Miriam move her things from my house to Miss Iona’s. That was still close enough to walk to work without leaving West End, but she wouldn’t have to worry about another drop-in visit. Miss Iona said Sam didn’t know her from Adam’s house cat. It was a good suggestion, but it left me alone to consider the events of the last couple hours. B.J.’s almost casual revelation about Sam had thrown me for a loop, but his complete inability to see why it bothered me really made me feel frustrated and powerless, a dangerous combination for someone like me, who prides herself on being in control.

  This was exactly what Ezola had been talking about. Being misled by men we thought we could trust. Looking foolish or careless or both because we had misjudged B.J. and Sam. The things they had been doing behind our backs were coming back to haunt all of us in different ways, but I knew she wasn’t going to like it any more than I did. B.J. had said her name didn’t show up in his investigations, and I knew better than anybody that her loyalty to Sam had seen its best days. I flipped through my Rolodex for Ezola’s private number and picked up the phone. She had a right to know, and I had a responsibility to tell her.

  She answered before the second ring. “Yes?”

  “It’s Catherine,” I said, feeling suddenly not quite sure about where my loyalties should lie. B.J. and I were on the same team, but Ezola and I were in the same sisterhood. “I have some bad news, but I thought you should hear it from me.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The next story in the Sentinel’s series has Sam’s name in it. Quincy Davenport was just a front. Those slum houses all belong to Sam.”