It took another hour to write a first draft of the column. It led with a section on Esther, followed by a second section on the film festival, with Evelyn’s quotes, and a few lines on the party at the Walter Whites. I wrote the second half in under ten minutes. It was the first part, the paragraphs on Esther where I took my time.
How far should I go in identifying Whitfield and describing his role in Esther’s life? I could present a convincing case for Esther having been kidnapped by a jealous admirer. Did I dare hint at Whitfield as “an admirer?” I knew I dared not label him as her intimate associate or imply that he was behind her disappearance. I had innuendo and gossip, but nothing concrete.
Maybe, I would talk to Sam about it over dinner.
I got to the Bamboo Inn at six o’clock on the dot and waved at the large tuxedo-dressed bouncer at the door.
“Hi Henry.”
“How you doin’, Miss Lanie?”
Big Henry had a soft voice and gentle Southern accent, beefy arms and broad shoulders. He had a sweet nature, but he’d deck you in a second if you got smart with him.
“Mr. Delaney here yet?”
“He’s upstairs. Got a nice table, too.” Henry gave me an amused smile, revealing a large gap between his two front teeth. He was such a romantic. “You have a good night, now.”
“Thank you, Henry.” I slipped past him with a nod. “Merry Christmas.”
“You, too, Miss Lanie.”
The Bamboo Inn was lovely and popular, with balcony booths overlooking a spacious dance floor, but it was more than just a pretty face. It offered some of the best Chinese food in Harlem, at decent prices, too. And live music with no cover charge. Henri Saporo’s Orchestra played nightly and the club was a great place to hear jazz improv.
If you wanted to see “high Harlem,” or aspired to be a part of it, then this was one of the places to go. The guests weren’t necessarily highbrow, but definitely a cut above the rest. Debutantes booked the place for cotillions. College kids took their girls on a spin around the dance floor. The diners were well-dressed men with high-tone women. There were lots of models from Vanity Fair, lots of beautiful people from different races, some as black as jet, others as pale as alabaster and lots of sepia and mahogany in between: lawyers, architects, doctors, councilmen, the Astors and their darlings, Asian men who brought their porcelain dolls to mingle with Harlem’s “better set.” The crowd included a few gangsters, but they too were well-mannered, well-dressed, well-shod. A few were carrying, but the guns and hip flasks were tucked away. The laughter was well-bred, genuine but muted.
I’d been to the Bamboo many times, but mostly on business, to do the kind of one-on-one I couldn’t do at parties. The thought that I was there to have dinner with my boss took getting used to. I wasn’t sure what he expected or wanted. He wasn’t like our old boss. That was clear. But in a way, that made matters worse. Because if Sam was interested, then he was really interested. Only I didn’t know what to do with a man’s interest. It had been so very long …
I decided to be neutral and businesslike. And see what happened.
A waiter showed me to Sam. Just as Henry said, Sam had managed to get one the prized booths in a balcony. He was studying the other diners. His grooming was perfect. From the close cut salt and pepper hair to the buffed fingernails and tailored suit and tie, Sam was clean. He always made a good presentation in his business clothes, but for tonight’s appearance he’d taken extra care to fix himself up nice. The result was … well, I had to admit it: Sam Delaney was one fine-looking sheik. There was strength in his shoulders and honesty in his eyes. He was kind and, beneath his caution, compassionate: a solid combination. Any woman in her right mind couldn’t help but be aware of it. And most women would respond to it. But I wasn’t “most women.” I didn’t want to respond to it. I didn’t remember how, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
A nervous smile flitted across his face when he saw me. He gave me a polite kiss on the cheek and helped me out of my coat.
“Glad you made it,” he said.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
He deliberated, choosing his words. “I would say that at the moment, you have a lot on your mind. And maybe dinner with me isn’t at the top of your list.”
His humility surprised me. I didn’t know how to answer. A waiter coming to take our order saved me from having to. Neither of us looked at the menu. We’d each been to the Bamboo Inn so often we knew the bill of fare by heart. I ordered beef with broccoli and Sam had prawns. The waiter took the menus, leaving us alone and feeling awkward.
“Lanie,” he began, “one reasons I invited you here was to repair our relationship. I have the feeling that somewhere along the line, we got off on the wrong foot.”
“No—”
He held a hand up. “Please. I thought if we talked, met outside the office, we might … oh, I don’t know, get to know one another better. Find some common approach.”
“Well,” I shrugged, “Sure. Where do you want to begin?” Before he could answer, I said, “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself? You’re a big mystery to everyone on staff.”
“There’s nothing mysterious about me. I’m just a regular guy.”
Despite my general disinterest in men, I did sometimes wonder about Sam. He was even more close-mouthed than I about personal history. So now, I listened carefully.
He’d grown up in Washington, DC, he said, attended Howard. Had fought in the war. Never married.
“Never wanted to?”
Wistfulness touched his voice. “Oh, I wanted to all right. Just never made it that far.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“We’re talking about someone specific?”
“The day before the wedding, she called it off.”
“Why?”
“Doubts, she said. Hers—not mine.”
“Was there somebody else?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Sam was silent for a moment, away with his thoughts. Then he came back and gave me a warm smile. “Enough about me. I want to hear about you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not all that interesting.”
But Sam persisted. I tried to tell just the bare outlines, but he wanted more. So I mentioned how my husband died and I found my way to the paper.
“When I first started at the Chronicle, it didn’t have a social column. The column was my idea. But the powers-that-be didn’t want to hear about it. They wanted the paper to be taken seriously and, for them, that meant hard news.”
“How’d you get them to change their mind?”
“I told them there was already too much focus on crime, on the bad things happening in our community. We should write about the professionals who’re doing well. We should write about the dignity of our people.”
“And that got ‘em?”
I laughed. “Well, it helped when circulation started going up. It proved that we could compete with the Tattler and the Amsterdam News. People could buy the Chronicle and get both hard news and soft features for the price of one.”
“Smart move.”
The waiter arrived with our food. I requested chopsticks and Sam looked surprised.
“I’d starve if I had to use those things.”
“They’re easy, if you know what you’re doing.”
I got chopsticks for Sam, too, and tried to show him how to use them. That result was hilarious, with very little food making it to his mouth. Sam finally declared that he just wasn’t a chopsticks kind of guy. He took up his knife and fork with relief.
Conversation paused while we ate. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. We both came up for air at about the same time. After a moment, he laid aside his fork and fingered his glass.
“Lanie,” he said, “I want to apologize.”
“What for?”
He sighed. “For coming down so hard on you. It’s just that I’m worried. These are not always nice people. They could hurt you.”
“I understand. But I’ll be fine.”
He obviously didn’t think so. His eyes told me as much.
“Tell me, why’re you so fixed on this Esther Todd thing?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You didn’t even know her. You weren’t related to her.”
“But I don’t know any of the people I write about. Not really. And yet I’m expected to write about them with feeling. The difference is that they’re famous and Esther wasn’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is to me. Why should I care more about the partying of a rich woman than the disappearance of a poor one? Who do you think I most identify with?”
“But it’s not a matter of who you most identify with. It’s not even about whom your readers identify with. That’s never what your column’s been about.”
“Then what is it about?”
“Fantasy, entertainment, escape. Places like this, where people can forget about day-to-day reality.” He gestured toward our elegant surroundings.
He was right. Absolutely, totally right.
“Then it’s too little,” I said. “Way too little.”
“You don’t like your job, anymore.”
“I do. At least, most of the time I do. But sometimes … sometimes I get so sick of listening to people whine about nothing. And I get so angry with myself for just focusing on the superficial. Everybody’s talking about the Renaissance that’s come to Harlem. It’s great, yes it is. But there’s another Harlem, some would say the greater part, and the people who live in it are struggling to survive.”
“That’s not your concern.”
“It is. Esther was one of those people. Maybe the folks outside of Harlem don’t care about her—why should they? They’ve got cares of their own. But we should care. She was one of us.”
“Lanie, it sounds great in theory, but—”
“Theory? All right, how about something that’s not a theory: I gave Esther’s family—her son—my word. I promised that little boy that I’d do everything I could to bring his mother home.”
Sam drew a deep breath. “But nobody expects-–”
“He does. Or did.” I remembered the look on Job’s face when I last saw him, the battle against losing hope, the skepticism and cynicism. A young face grown old.
Sam looked worried. “Lanie, I’ll let you in on a little secret: I agree with you one hundred percent. However,” he held a hand up, “the job you have, at this paper, at this time, does not permit you to go on a personal crusade for justice.”
“I’m just trying to find out the truth.”
“I heard that you talked to Bellamy.”
“You mean you got a call on that, too?”
“These things get around.” Care lines had cut furrows in his forehead. “I’m concerned about you doing too much work on this. And not the right kind of work. Talking to ex-cops and old witnesses isn’t quite what I want my society reporter to be up to.”
“I’m trying to do a thorough job.”
“You’re a perfectionist. I commend that. It’s one of the things I admire about you. But this job requires superficiality. The column’s supposed to be light and bright. But sometimes you over-think things; you lose track of the forest.”
“What does that mean?”
“That you’re learning more than you need to know. And that could mean trouble.”
“For you or for me?”
“Both. I told you, our readers don’t want a sad story for Christmas—and I don’t want my reporters going out on a limb.”
“But that’s what I do. Take chances. It’s part of my job.”
“No it’s not. You’re not an investigator. You write gossip. That’s what you’re paid to do. Write light-hearted gossip.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
He put down his fork and studied me. “For a while now, I’ve wondered: What’s a smart reporter like you doing writing a column about people partying all night?”
“I told you—”
“I know what you said, about your husband and all. But that was then. Maybe you’ve healed and maybe it’s time for you to move on.”
“Move on? How?”
“Write something else.”
I had a sudden suspicion. “Is that what this was all about? So you could fire me? Do it in public so I wouldn’t make a scene?”
“No, of course not.”
His denial went right past me.
“Your job is to protect the paper. Instead you’re …” I was so hurt, I couldn’t find the words.
“I’m what? Yes, my job is to protect the paper. It’s to make sure it makes money and gets funding.”
“And you do that by kissing up to rich people and big shots?”
“I do it by not alienating the very people who support us.”
“That sounds fine and good, but it’s like they say: a man can’t serve two masters.”
“Lanie, you and I have different responsibilities. I have to see the whole picture. I don’t have the luxury of concentrating on just your column. Lanie’s World might be your world. But it’s not mine. And I can’t afford to let it be.”
His words hit like a hammer. A bolt of pain shot through my head. His eyes reflected instant regret, but the damage was done. A crevice had opened between us. A few minutes ago, we’d stood shoulder to shoulder. Now, we were on opposite sides of a divide.
“We’d better call it a night.” I grabbed my purse, pushed my chair back and stood up, not just hurt but angry and disappointed. And suddenly, very very tired.
He was on his feet in an instant. “I’m sorry. It seems like tonight, I do nothing but apologize.”
“That’s okay. I appreciate your honesty.”
“Let me take you home.”
I shook my head, wanting only to get back to the sanctuary of solitude. “I’ll take a taxi.”