But the deal was no deal, Mike told himself, because Peekaboo lied. And he told himself that, even had she told the truth, he would have betrayed her; that she was correct in her assessment of a favor between blacks and whites. And that he did not give a fuck.
For from the corner of his eye, he had seen Dolly turn minutely away when Peekaboo said she did not know where Lita was.
And so, he went to find Lita Grey. And he knew where to find her. He’d learned in Dolly’s room: from the photograph of the black adolescents of Benton Harbor, Michigan.
He found Lita in a one-room flat, in the least run-down block of the Negro section of Benton Harbor. Down the street from the AME Church where she and Dolly had attended confirmation class. Many of the block’s inhabitants were, or worked for, the town’s Negro professionals.
The pastor had the house just north of the church. The town’s two black dentists, three black doctors, all five members of the Negro Bar, lived on the same block of Pine Street.
The grandest homes had a coach house in the back. Most of these had been converted into garages; and many had had the coachman’s, or chauffeur’s, quarters on the second floor turned into apartments.
Hers was one room, its entrance off the corridor, carved out between the other three flats, and running from the landing of the staircase through to the one bathroom.
She had violet eyes, tawny blond hair, and ivory skin, and was now known as Nella Adolphe. She had been born Berenice Mancuso, and had performed, in Chicago, under the name of Lita Grey.
She was twenty-eight years old, and fear had helped her to look forty. She was dressed in a simple, prim, ankle-length gray dress. Over it she wore a brown cardigan, a thin, threadbare coat, and a head scarf.
She preceded Mike up the stairs, and ushered him into her room. She started to close the door behind her, and then stopped.
“We have to keep it open,” she said. She motioned at the window, giving onto the main house.
“Our housekeeper, there . . . I think she’s got nothing to do but spy on the tenants. And especially . . . ,” she said, and ran her hands in front of herself, indicating the female form. “So she can see me,” Lita said. “So, I’m going to stand here.”
The low light came in through the window. Mike stayed at the open door, his hat in his hand, his coat on.
“And we don’t get too much heating in here,” Lita said. “Which is a change, from, even in Chicago, you know, it was, those apartments were warm—”
“Uh-huh,” Mike said.
“—on Lake Shore Drive,” Lita said. “Hey, but that’s a sad topic. Maybe you could advise me, or help me to come back?”
“Maybe I could,” Mike said.
“How could you do that?” Lita said. “’Cause I’m safe here, I think. But . . .”
Mike nodded.
“And I only have two ways to make a living. That I know of,” she said.
“How do you live here?” Mike said.
“I work,” Lita said. “For a dentist. And I’m a receptionist. They killed Ruthie.”
“Yes. They did,” Mike said.
“It’s terrible. To lose someone,” Lita said.
“Yes it is,” Mike said.
“Then, you know what I mean,” Lita said. “But . . .” She looked out of the window. “And, you know, I think that I got Ruthie killed.”
“How was that?” Mike said.
Lita sat on the bed and began to cry.
“How was that?”
“’Cause I mentioned. That we had that letter. In the safe.
“Ruthie knew we had to get out. The problem, only place she could go, downtown, with our own. But they knew where to look for her, so . . .”
“But they didn’t know where to look for you,” Mike said.
“So, inn’t funny,” Lita said, “once again, who had the advantage.”
“Yes, that’s funny,” Mike said.
Lita stood, and looked out the window.
“Who’d you tell them that I am?” Mike said.
“I said you were an insurance adjuster. And I have to show you some ‘receipts’ that I had in my room.”
“I said that I could help you,” Mike said.
“How could you help me?” Lita said. “To come back?”
“Perhaps,” Mike said.
“How?” Lita said.
“I . . . ,” Mike said. “I’m going to ask a favor of someone. Who might set you up.”
“Back in Chicago?” Lita said.
Mike shook his head.
“Somewhere,” she said.
Mike nodded.
“Doing . . . ?”
Mike said nothing.
“’Cause I can sing,” she said.
“Yes,” Mike said, “but if you sing, you might get noticed. Maybe Cuba?”
“Cuba,” Lita said. “Cuba. Thank you.”
“Will you tell me? What was in the letter? In the safe?” Mike said. “You read the letter?”
She nodded.
“What did it say?”