Night, Gunny!”
Vincent “Gunny” Van Dyke waved good-bye without turning around as he walked through the bustling kitchen of the Manhattan Tower Hotel. His bellman’s shift was over and he was looking forward to the weekend.
The new kid he had just hired—“Dodger” was it?—opened the back door with a flourish and a little bow. “Evening, sir,” Dodger said with a grin.
“Good night, my good man,” Gunny replied, sounding as high class as one of the big shots who often stayed at the hotel.
Dodger gave Gunny a once-over. “You look swank,” he said with his thick Brooklyn accent. “Got plans?”
“You bet I do,” Gunny replied.
Dodger snapped his fingers. “You’re off to hear your friend’s band up in Harlem!” Dodger clutched Gunny’s wide lapels as if he were a man begging for his life. “Please, you gotta take me with you.”
“No can do, Dodger,” Gunny said. “You’re on the night shift now.”
Dodger mimed stabbing himself in the chest. “Cut out my heart, why don’tcha,” he moaned.
Gunny laughed. He liked the squirt. He was rough around the edges maybe, but solid.
“Don’t worry, Dodger,” Gunny promised. “Once you’re back on days, I’ll bring you up to Chubby Malloy’s Paradise to hear Jumpin’ Jed and the JiveMasters.”
“Will you get me a girl, too?” Dodger asked eagerly.
Gunny laughed again. “I’m not a miracle worker.”
“Cruel.” Dodger took a step backward and looked stricken. “So cruel.” Then he smirked and winked.
The sun was dipping low, and the chill in the air made Gunny walk briskly to the subway. He put his nickel in the slot and hurried down the stairs for the long trip uptown to Harlem.
Gunny peered out the window as the subway crawled out of the tunnel and rumbled along the elevated tracks. We go back a long ways, ol’ Jed and me.
Jed was a bit older than Gunny and they had known each other since childhood in Virginia. After the Great War, they both moved up to New York. Now, almost twenty years later, Jumpin’ Jed was the leader of his own band at the nicest nightclub in Harlem—maybe all of New York City—and Gunny was bell captain at the Manhattan Tower Hotel. We’ve done well for ourselves, Gunny thought with satisfaction.
Still, something nagged at him. Gunny didn’t crave the flash of Jumpin’ Jed’s life as an entertainer. But sometimes he wondered if there were something more he should be doing, something just outside view that he was meant to discover.
The clattering train pulled into Gunny’s stop with a screech. This neighborhood was a lot noisier than the fancy area around the hotel. Here pushcart peddlers shouted out to customers, men and women hurried home from work, children played stickball in the street while neighbors hung out windows and yelled down to them.
When Gunny turned onto Jed’s block, the roar of construction sounds added to the din. He stopped to check out the new building going up. A group of small boys huddled around the work site, watching in awe as a crane hoisted supplies to the upper stories.
“It’s going to be a while yet before it’s done,” a man beside Gunny commented. “Ambrose Jackson is doing mighty well for himself.”
“Hope he’ll have some tenants for all those new office spaces,” Gunny said, watching in fascination as several workmen walked expertly along girders high above him. “Must be a real optimist.”
Despite the Depression still raging around them, Ambrose Jackson managed to acquire properties. Ambrose didn’t live in the neighborhood, but everyone seemed to know him anyway.
How does he do it? Gunny wondered. So many people were struggling, but Jackson kept starting new enterprises.
Gunny turned to go. Suddenly he was body-slammed so hard the breath was knocked out of him. He flung out his hands and grabbed on to the person who had rammed into him, trying to steady himself. He looked into the very angry face of Jeffrey Wright Jr.
“Junior!” Gunny exclaimed. “Where’s the fire?” Junior was the sixteen-year-old son of Jeffrey Wright Sr., the drummer in Jumpin’ Jed’s band. Gunny had known the boy for years. Junior was the spitting image of his father, with his short dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, and deep cocoa skin. His eleven-year-old sister, Delia, looked more like her mother.
“Let go of me, old man!” Junior wriggled out of Gunny’s grip and tore down the sidewalk.
Gunny glared after Junior as he vanished into the crowd. “Flighty kid,” Gunny grumbled. “No respect.”
“Junior!” a woman called. “Junior Wright, you get back here this instant!”
Gunny turned and saw Mrs. Wright standing with Delia.
“Evening, Mrs. Wright, Delia,” Gunny said as he approached them. “I see Junior is in a lather over something.”
Mrs. Wright had a hand on her hip and a frown on her face. “I’m so sorry, Gunny,” she said, embarrassment coloring her dark cheeks. “He shouldn’t behave like that.”
“It’s the age,” Gunny said. “With luck, he’ll outgrow it.”
Mrs. Wright laughed. “I hope Delia never grows into it then!”
“Mama.” Delia rolled her dark brown eyes.
“What has him so fussed?” Gunny asked.
Mrs. Wright sighed. “He and his father had a fight.”
“Again,” Delia added.
Mrs. Wright gave the girl a warning look, as if she didn’t want family business to be so public. Then, changing the subject, she asked, “What brings you uptown?”
“I’m here to see Jed Sweeney, upstairs.”
“Oh, you missed him,” Mrs. Wright said.
That surprised Gunny. Jed was expecting him. “Do you know where he went?”
“Try Marvin Halliday’s place,” Mrs. Wright suggested. “He was going that way.”
“I’ll do that,” Gunny said.
Is Jed checking up on the competition? Gunny wondered as he headed toward the still-under-construction nightclub. The whole neighborhood was abuzz about Halliday building a rival club just a few blocks from Chubby Malloy’s Paradise.
As soon as Gunny rounded the corner he knew something was wrong.
The street was deserted. He had never seen a block so empty in Harlem—not ever.
He moved forward slowly, his eyes scanning for an explanation for the uncommon stillness. During the Great War Gunny had learned silence could be a warning sign of something deadly—a trap, a recent slaughter.
As he got closer, he saw shattered glass all over the sidewalk. The Blue Moon’s front window was smashed.
Not good.
His feet made crunching sounds as he crossed to the door. Standing to one side, his back against the wall of the building, he tapped the door lightly. It swung open easily. No response from inside. He cautiously stepped into the dark bar.
Even in the dim light it was obvious the club had been wrecked.
And worst of all…
He could see the dead body on the floor.