“I thought she paid off the police.”
“She does.” He let that land while he drew on the cigar, turning the air thick and spicy. “The white folks’ll lose interest in our games. They’ve got bootlegging to keep them busy. Still, might want to be extra careful out there. I’m telling all my runners. How’s your aunt Octavia doing?”
“Fine, sir.”
“And Isaiah? He getting along all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, good. And on the streets?”
“Smooth as Gabe’s licks.”
Papa Charles smiled. “Best way to learn the business is from the streets up. Someday, you can be working right here next to me.”
Memphis didn’t want to work for Papa Charles. He wanted to read his poetry at one of Miss A’Lelia Walker’s salons, alongside Countee Cullen, Zora Neale Hurston, and Jean Toomer—maybe even beside Mr. Hughes himself.
“You all right, son? Something the matter?”
Memphis found his smile. “You know me, sir. I don’t wear worry.”
Papa Charles smiled around his cigar. “That’s the Memphis I know.”
Good old Memphis. Reliable Memphis. Charming, easygoing Memphis. Look-after-your-brother Memphis. Memphis had been the star once. The miracle man. And it had ended in sorrow. He wouldn’t ever risk that again. These days, he kept his feelings confined to the pages of his notebook.
“It’s time to collect the gratuities from our grateful friends,” Papa Charles said—code for the protection money every business paid to the Dapper Gentleman if they wanted to stay in business and have his protection. The city ran on corruption as much as on electricity.
“Yes, sir.”
“Memphis, you sure you all right?”
Memphis offered up the smile again. “Never better, sir.”
On the way out of the club, Memphis nodded at Papa Charles’s chauffeur, who stood guard beside a brand-new Chrysler Imperial before blending into the crowds out for a good time on Lenox Avenue. He hit up the various nightclubs Papa Charles ran—the Yeah Man, the Tomb of the Fallen Angels, and the Whoopee—along with smaller speakeasies hidden in brownstone basements on tree-lined side streets. Memphis followed big men through back rooms gray with cigarette smoke where people sat at green felt tables playing cards, hustling pool, or rolling craps. The women would cup his chin, call him handsome, ask him to dance. He’d beg off, using the smile to smooth the rejection. Sometimes the club owners offered him a drink or let him listen in on the jazz or watch the revue girls dance. Other times, they made him wait upstairs in a dimly lit office, where Memphis was never sure if they’d be coming back with money or a Tommy gun. In the neat columns of the ledger, he wrote down the amount paid, dodging questions about whether Papa Charles knew if the fix was in for this fight or that game.
“I’m just a runner,” he’d say and use the smile.
On the streets, he kept an eye out for plainclothes cops. If he got arrested, Papa Charles would have him out in a few hours, but he still didn’t want to take the chance.
It was well after eleven when Memphis returned to the Hotsy Totsy. Gabe came running up to him. “Where you been, boss man?”
“Out on business. Why?”
“Come quick! It’s Jo. She fell and hurt herself.”
“Then call a doctor.”
“She’s asking for you, Memphis.”
Jo sat at the bottom of the stage stairs, crying, surrounded by concerned chorines. Through the crack in the curtain, Memphis could see the audience getting restless. It was time for the next number to start, and already Jo’s ankle was swelling up. “Caught my heel on the second step and turned it,” she burbled through her tears. “Oh, please, Lord, don’t let it be broken.”
“You’d better tell Francine she’s on,” one of the chorines said.
Jo shook her head. “I gotta go on tonight. I need the money!” She looked up at Memphis, her eyes hopeful. “I remembered about you. What you could do. Please, can you help me, Memphis?”
Memphis’s jaw tightened. “I can’t do that anymore.”
Jo sobbed and Gabe put a hand on Memphis’s arm. “Come on, brother. Just try….”
“I told you, I can’t!” Memphis shook off Gabe’s hand and stormed down the stairs as the stage manager cradled Jo in his arms and carried the miserable girl away. Onstage, the emcee announced the next number, the Black Bottom, and the other girls plus Francine scampered out wearing smiles and very little else. Memphis deposited the money he’d collected on his rounds with the secretaries. He pushed out into the night again, his mind troubled by memories of a time when he was someone else, a golden boy with healing hands: Miracle Memphis, the Harlem Healer.
