The Cotton Club came to life at night. Lights pulsed through the windows, and music vibrated from the inside all the way out to the street. Even the passersby not keen on finding a drink, or quick entertainment, stopped to peer into the windows and see the source of the commotion. Those that craved debauchery and desired sin and mutiny entered. Authorities be damned, it was one of the few places in the city where cultures clashed.
Brown-skinned dancers lined up by the stage, swaying and bouncing to the evocative live music. Their long legs glimmered in the light, beaded skirts and flashy tops catching the eyes of the audience. Some of the girls blew kisses and the crowd hollered for more.
Now that she was seeing the club at night, Layla found the place quite fascinating. A beautiful Black girl on the street would never be treated as kindly; not even well-educated Black people in the workforce garnered much respect. But here, in the Cotton Club, where white people paid for this entertainment, whooping and clapping at the performers as if they were animals, Black people were praised.
It felt like a circus. Layla couldn’t imagine how the performers felt, being scrutinized by the white gaze every night on that stage.
“Interesting,” Elise murmured by her side.
Layla couldn’t disagree. Since walking in with the Saint heiress, she’d been captivated, though the idea of voluntarily going to an establishment that usually forbade Black patrons made Layla’s skin prickle. While Elise gave the club hostess the name of one of the club managers who had done business with her father, Layla noticed a poster in the foyer detailing the opening of a new clinic. Before she could get a closer look, the manager showed up.
“Elise Saint, daughter of my favorite business partner,” greeted the white man who had been called to let them backstage. He wore a tailored suit and swirled a glass of amber liquid in his hand while he chewed a cigar. The smoke weaved between them and Layla blinked as it clouded her eyes. “If I tell your father you’re here, he won’t question me, will he?” the man asked Elise.
“No, Mr. Calhoun,” Elise said. “He will be very appreciative that you donated your time and space to help our investigation.”
“I sure hope my club is not involved in anything dirty. We’re already bleeding money, and the police are on us most busy nights. One more blow might just finish this place,” Calhoun muttered around his cigar. “You can talk to the dancers that aren’t performing, but don’t bother anyone else. If I get a single complaint from any customers, you’re out of here. Got it?”
Elise nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Layla hardly waited for Calhoun to be out of earshot before she began to mock Elise. “‘Yes, sir. No, sir.’ God, if you stooped any lower, you might end up in hell.”
“You’re so lovely to be around,” Elise said, sarcasm dripping from her words. “You know it’s easier to play the long game with them than to be resistant. It only makes things harder. Police have done worse to Black men for misspeaking in the South. Be grateful you have rights at all.”
This, Layla could not ignore. “Excuse you? You must be brainwashed, Miss ‘I have a dress for every type of occasion’ and ‘I’m gifted jewelry as frequently as a parent buys their child candy.’ I will never be grateful for being treated like a second-class citizen, or barely human. If you want to be disrespected, that’s your choice, but I refuse. It’s bad enough that I can’t choose how I function as a damned reaper.”
Layla stepped back to distance herself from Elise. She tried not to acknowledge the resentment she had toward her reaperhood because it was like beating a dead horse. But still, it unnerved her that people like Elise were so horribly adjusted, they couldn’t even acknowledge their own faults or privileges. Humanity was the one thing Layla wished she had. While being a reaper moved her further from being considered human, being Black already set her back several steps. Elise was foolish to accept the scraps they were handed. That was exactly how white people controlled minority groups: by making themselves out to be graceful saviors everyone was lucky to have.
But there was nothing lucky about being forced to assimilate just for a chance of being given rights that you already deserved in the first place. There was nothing lucky about relying on others for validation. There was nothing lucky about only being acknowledged while you were on your knees. And for white people to acquire superiority only through forcing others down to their knees made them bereft. Layla had lasted her whole life without kneeling to the white standard. She would continue to do so for as long as she existed.
Layla clamped her mouth shut, pressing her lips together so tightly, the color drained from them. She remained silent as she followed Elise around the back of the club. The bustle of the club decreased the farther they went. Once they reached a dressing room, the sounds from the busy stage almost faded completely. Layla stopped clenching her fists, her sensitive ears no longer ringing with the bumps and vibrations of the music. A relieved breath left her body and she looked around the dressing room for Giana.
She was easy to spot. The dancer with the darkest skin and the longest legs stuck out like a glistening mirror among stained glass. Rhinestones embedded in her corset bodice glinted in the light; the white fabric of her skirt stood out against her brown skin—Giana was radiant.
The dancer watched Layla in the vanity mirror. She set her makeup brush down, turning to face her. “Welcome to my humble abroad.”
Layla laughed sharply. “It’s abode. But thank you, Gigi.”
“Gigi? You haven’t called me that in ages. You must need something.” Giana pulled her mink shrug off a stool beside her and gestured toward it. “Please sit, lovey.” That hospitality of hers never got old. She was the closest thing to a sibling for Layla. Giana had been there for Layla throughout the adjustment period after turning, and Layla was glad to see her now.
Elise nudged Layla. “Who is this?”
“This is my friend, Giana Taylor. Giana, this is Elise Saint—”
“Oh, I know you, Miss Saint.” Giana grinned. “Welcome home. Please tell your father that Harlem is grateful for his contributions to the Cotton Club. The neighborhood has been thriving. Your family seems to have no shortage of financial gains.” Giana eyed the pearl necklace at Elise’s throat, then the gold signet ring she wore.
“If her father were white,” Layla remarked, “he would probably own the world. He knows how to make a profit from anything.”
“Truly,” Giana said. “Your Saint friend is quite—”
“She’s not my friend,” Layla snapped.
At the same time, Elise laughed dryly, “Oh, please.”
Most people in Harlem knew of the feud between Saints and reapers, and more significantly, the spilled blood between Elise and Layla. Sometimes Layla thought that the two of them existed as an ancient legend in another life.
“Hmm.” Giana lifted a brow and slipped the fur shrug over her shoulders. “What did you need? Please make this quick. I need to rehearse my routine.”
Layla took the stool beside her friend. “Did you know a young man named Theo Smith? His mother said he spent a lot of time here before he died.”
Giana’s eyes flashed. “You knew him?”
“Hardly. I’m trying to figure out how it was that he turned, but was human when he died,” Layla said.
Confusion twisted Giana’s expression. “Oh, Layla, you know I don’t like getting involved in other people’s dramas.”
“I know, Gigi, but it’s not just drama; it’s reaper business too,” Layla said.
Elise had remained standing, her eyes wandering around the room. But now she turned to stare at Giana and went still.
Giana sighed. “Theo did stop by here a few times. But not to work. For the…” She lowered her voice. “The speakeasy. Jamie could tell you all about it. Theo had a crush on one of the dancers; oh, they were adorable,” Giana said.
“Who?” Layla asked.
Elise also pressed closer, her interest piqued.
Giana paused. Her lower lip trembled as she considered her next words. “Shirley Redfield. She hasn’t been here recently. I’ve heard she’s sick.” Giana breathed in deeply. “When did Theo die?”
“Two days ago.”
“That’s when Shirley stopped showing up for work,” Giana whispered.
Layla opened her mouth to ask another question, but Elise beat her to it. “Do you know where she lives?”