Dear Sister Dead, page 17
Levy's jaw tightened. He threw a reproving glance at me. I stared back at him. His jaw worked, then he said to Sam. “Yes.”
“How soon after that did you find out that he was stealing from you?”
Levy closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. “Not long after." He wiped his face with his handkerchief. "Apparently, he’d started right after I hired him."
"You confronted him," Sam said.
Levy nodded. "He’d started gambling again, couldn’t help himself, he said, and he was in over his head. Again. Only worse than before. And he blamed me. Said it was my fault.”
“Because you’d put him in charge of your books.”
“He said I’d made it easy. Like putting a drug addict in charge of a pharmacy. I told him to leave, that if he didn’t I’d go to the police. He laughed and said we both knew I'd never do that. And then he demanded money. He said he had to leave town. He’d just learned that Sharkey had been released from jail. He couldn’t take the chance of hanging around.”
“So, you paid him.”
Another curt nod. He ran a hand through his hair. “I was sure I’d never see him again. Oh, I know blackmailers lie. They say they’ll go away and never ask for more. But in his case, with this loan shark out there, I felt sure he’d go away—and stay away. He was scared. Terrified.”
“But he came back. He started calling.”
“When he couldn't reach me at the church, he'd call me at home. I hung up on him. It felt good at the time, but I shouldn’t have done it. It only made him angry. He had letters, you see, letters that I’d written him. Proof of our—our relationship.” Levy looked at his hands. They were trembling. He balled them into fists. “I finally realized, there was no way out.”
“Not quite.” Sam eyed him steadily.
“Excuse me?”
“You came up with what you thought was the perfect solution.”
Levy paled. “I ... I don’t ...”
I pulled out another newspaper cutting, a duplicate of the one Blackie’s men had found in Sharkey’s trash, and slid it across the table. Levy stared at it, turning gray.
“You sent this,” I said. “And you knew exactly what you were doing. You put a target on Slocum's back. Only the violence you let loose didn't just take Slocum. It took Vera, too."
Levy's eyes widened in horrified realization. His jaw dropped open and for several seconds he seemed barely able to breathe, much less speak. His mouth moved but no words came out. Finally, his chest heaved and a strangled sound came out. His eyes gleamed wetly and were filled with a dark, bottomless sense of terror. Finally, he found his voice.
“I-I didn't mean for that to happen. God knows I didn't." His voice held a slight quavered. "I-I tried so hard to find a way out. I had this knot in my chest. All the time. It got bigger every day. Squeezing my lungs. Crushing me. I couldn’t breathe.” His voice broke. “Then, one day, it came to me. I knew exactly what to do. Tell Sharkey where Mason was. It was a simple, clean solution. Elegant even. Looking back, I can see how crazy it was. But at the time, it made sense. I wasn’t sleeping or eating. I was half out of my mind with fear. Deep down, I knew it was wrong. Right after I sent that letter, I regretted it. But even then, I wondered, what else could I do? I just wanted my old life back.”
“The life you yourself put at risk?” I snapped.
Levy flinched as though I’d slapped him. “I deserve that,” he said. “I never meant for Vera to get hurt.”
“If anything, you were trying to protect her?” Sam said.
“Exactly.”
“It never occurred to you that Sharkey’s killer might find her with Slocum?”
“No, of course not. Why would it? It boggles my mind. I still don’t get it. Why was she there?”
“She was there,” Sam said, “doing her best, to protect and save you.”
Levy looked stunned.
“Remember those letters I told you about?" I said. "They were from Slocum to you. They demanded payment."
"But I only remember one letter. And that one disappeared."
"There were two more. Somehow, Vera got hold of them. That's why she pawned her jewelry. That's what she was doing with him. Trying to pay him off and finally get him off your back.”
“She knew?” Levy’s eyes were haunted. “But why didn’t she say something? Tell me?”
“My guess,” I said, “is she was just hoping to keep it all quiet—so that you could still retain everything you threw away, everything you said you’d be willing to die for. ”
Levy's features grew drawn. He wept silently. His shoulders shook and tears slipped down his face.
“You’re right,” I said. “She did love you. She was willing to risk her own life to protect you. And she paid dearly for it.”
Levy nodded, gulping, his face downcast. He was quiet for a long time. When he finally looked up, he said: “So, I guess you two are planning to take this to the police—that is, if you haven’t already.”
“The police have the notes from Slocum.”
“How—?”
“I gave them to them.”
Levy seemed to physically shrink inside his own skin. “And what about you, what you said, Lanie, about ...”
“Keeping your secret?”
Sam and I exchanged glances. We understood what publication would mean for Levy: the tsunami of shame that would engulf him, the endless beating he would take amid public humiliation and embarrassment. In some ways that would be as bad, if not worse, than the sentence he would surely get at the end of a criminal trial. As for his life in prison, it would be hell.
“We would never do anything to hurt you or your church,” I said. “But the truth—”
“Will out.” Levy finished. He nodded to himself. “How much time, do you think I have before they come for me?”
“I’m afraid, not long,” I said. “Maybe till tomorrow morning.”
Levy dragged himself to his feet. He was bowed, stooped, a far cry from the proud upright way in which he’d carried himself only a couple of hours before. He started out, then paused and turned in the doorway.
“‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.’ Proverbs 16:18. As a preacher, I knew that, and yet ...” He shook his head, in a bewildered fashion, then drew himself up. “Thank you. Thank you for finding out who did this to my Vera.”
I stood and went to him. “Levy, every man is within the realm of God’s forgiveness. You always preached that. Remember it now. Hold on to it. Hold on.”
He looked exhausted. His eyes were sunken. If they were windows to his soul, then they showed a soul in ruin. “You’re a good person, Lanie. Vera always said she was lucky to have you as a friend.” He looked over to Sam. “And you’re lucky to have her, too, son. Take good care of her.”
I took his hat and coat down from the rack and held them out to him. He put his hat on and then shrugged his way into his coat. I opened the door for him. He stood there for a moment, gathering his strength, then stepped out into the bitter cold of that night. Sam stood behind me, his arms strong and warm wrapped around me, as we watched Levy go down the stairs. He moved like an old man, unsteady and unsure. Once on the street, he paused, then waved goodbye and started the slow walk home.
“He looks so lost,” I said.
“We did right,” Sam said softly.
“Did we?” I snuggled deeper into his embrace, needing his warmth. “Maybe. But that doesn’t make having done it any easier.”
“No,” he whispered. “It never does.”
CHAPTER 28
The next morning we woke to the presence of a police car and an ambulance before the Kincaid house. It was Levy. Beulah had found him. He was alive but comatose.
Sam and I followed the ambulance to Harlem Hospital and waited as the doctors treated Levy. Hours went by. Eventually, Sam had to leave to go to the newsroom. I stayed, hoping for an update. More hours passed. Finally, they let me in to see him.
His complexion was healthy actually, his skin moist. But he was having difficulty breathing, rattling with every exhale. A doctor stopped in while I was there. He told me that fluid had accumulated in Levy’s lungs.
“Fluid? So it wasn’t a heart attack?”
“No,” the doctor shook his head. “We suspect veronal. An overdose.” He eyed me keenly. “We know that his wife died recently under terrible circumstances. Was he ... ?” The doctor’s gaze held mine.
“Yes ... in a great deal of pain.”
“I see.” He turned to Levy, his expression heavy with sad wisdom. “At least, he’s sleeping now. No more pain.”
Levy lingered for two days. Very early on the morning of the third, his condition worsened. By midday, he was gone.
Sam and I, by tacit agreement, did not print the entire story. Perhaps, our decision was wrong. I know that some would criticize us for it. But it was a decision I could live with. We told only the part about Glenn, Slocum, and Sharkey.
So, Harlemites were free to fete him with a funeral parade worthy of a man of his eminence. And they did. And when it was done his congregants laid him deep in the ground alongside Vera.
Martin del Ray didn’t openly attend, of course. But I saw him lurking in the shadows under the trees afterward. Once everyone else had gone, he came forward and joined me at the Kincaids' graveside.
“I’m here for her, not him,” he said.
"I know."
We lapsed into a prayerful silence for several minutes, saying our private farewells.
“I’m trying to forgive him,” he said. “Vera would’ve wanted me to.”
“Yes, but for your sake, not his."
“It’s hard. Very hard."
“If it’s any comfort to you, I think he had a hard time forgiving himself.”
“It isn’t. Any comfort, I mean.”
“Give it time.”
“As in, time heals all wounds?”
“As in, time makes them somewhat easier to bear. But only somewhat. Such wounds, they never heal. I don’t think they ever fully do.”
CHAPTER 29
“You believed in her, Lanie, and you were right,” Sam said.
I snuggled next to him as we took a stroll through Riverside Park. “I just couldn’t see her breaking her vows and stepping outside her marriage.”
“Could you have imagined Levy doing it?”
I thought about it. “No, you’re right. I couldn’t have. And I still don’t understand it, because I know he loved her. I mean, anyone who’s married might find themselves attracted to someone else. It happens. But to act on it?”
He studied me. “You were never once unfaithful to Hamp—or he to you?”
“No,” I shook my head. “Why do you ask?”
“Because,” he shrugged. “Sometimes people just ... do what they gotta do and love ain’t got nothing to do with it.”
I cocked my head, studying him now. “And are you one of those people, who just ‘do what they gotta do?’”
“Yes, I am.”
It was one of those defining moments in a relationship. Everything seemed to come to a standstill. My heart squeezed. I felt nauseous. I’d never taken Sam to be a man like that, the kind who steps out on his woman.
“I see,” I murmured, drawing away from him.
“And what I’ve gotta do,” he said softly, pulling me back, folding me into his arms, “is love you—love you with all I’ve got—and be there for you, come dusk or dawn.”
I searched his eyes, looking for some clue, some indication that I might be wrong to love him, because love him I did. I’d been trying to hold back, to protect myself. But now, I realized that it was too late.
“Secrets, Sam. That’s what destroyed them. Secrets. They both kept them and in the end, it destroyed them.”
“Are you worried about us ending up that way?”.
“Well, I hope not. I mean, their story is pretty dramatic, isn’t it?”
“That it is.”
“And I mean, neither one of us ...” I paused and looked up at him, at his handsome profile outlined against the blue sky. “Neither one of us has any secrets of the kind, the seriousness, that Levy had, right?”
He smiled, bent and kissed me hard, then wrapped his arms around me. “Every man—and woman—has secrets. Most times, we’re not even aware that they could be considered secrets.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, I think it comes down to what people think is important. Something I know about myself I might not think it’s important enough to tell you—and with you, it’s the same.”
“Sam—“
“Nah, now hold on a minute. What happened between them two, it was bad. No, it was worse than bad, but you don’t need to worry about it happening to us. We’re not headed that way, Lanie. Don’t you ever worry about that.”
I studied him, my gaze meeting his forthright brown eyes. I loved him. There was no doubt in my mind that I loved him. I’d just have to get over my fear, that fear that had taken root in my heart when Hamp died, the fear that there would always be something lurking in a man’s past that might reach out at any moment, jump out like a boogeyman from a closet, wrap its claws around him and yank him away from me.
Don’t be paranoid, I told myself. Learn to open your heart.
As these thoughts passed through my mind, I heard Sam’s voice.
“I love you, Lanie Price. Never fear. I’m not going nowhere. I’m here for the long haul, to stay right with you.”
I turned in his arms and rested my face against his chest. It was broad and strong, and the heart that beat within it was strong and regular. I closed my eyes, said a prayer for Vera and Levy, and thanked the Lord that I had found someone to love and trust again.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Blood Vintage Press
All rights reserved. © 2023 Persia Walker
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts.”
Persia Walker writes critically-acclaimed 1920s crime novels. A native New Yorker, she has lived in Germany, Brazil, and Poland. She loves Indian food and lives with her extraordinary cat, Sunday. Her online home is persiawalker.com.
Sign up for Between the Lines, on Persia’s Substack.
ENJOY THIS BOOK? YOU CAN MAKE A BIG DIFFERENCE!
Reviews are the most powerful tools in my arsenal when it comes getting attention for my books. Much as I'd like to, I don't have the financial muscle of a New York publisher. I can't take out full page ads in a newspaper or put posters on the subway.
(Not yet, anyway).
But I do have something much more powerful and effective than that, and it's something those publishers would kill to get their hands on.
A committed and loyal bunch of readers.
Honest reviews of my books help bring them to the attention of other readers.
If you've enjoyed this book, I’d be very grateful if you’d spend just five minutes leaving a review. It can be as short as you like.
Thank you!
ALSO BY PERSIA WALKER
Have you read the others?
Goodfellowe House
Lanie Price will go anywhere, talk to anyone, to get her story. So when she revisits the unsolved mystery of a young woman's disappearance, she starts asking questions—the right questions, but of the wrong kind of people. Come along as Lanie adds sizzle to this cold, cold case.
Black Orchid Blues
Lanie Price witnesses the brutal nightclub kidnapping of the "Black Orchid," a sultry, seductive singer with a mysterious past. Hours pass without word from the kidnapper. Then a gruesome package arrives at Price's doorstep and the questions change. Just what does this kidnapper want—and how many people is he willing to kill to get it? Evil hides behind the genteel façades of affluent Strivers' Row and stalks the ballroom of one of Harlem's most famous gay parties. In a complex plot that keeps you tied to the page, Black Orchid Blues explores the depths of human depravity and the desperation of its victims.
Backdrop to Murder
On a dank night in September, Lanie Price is called to the scene of a grisly double murder. The victims: a popular photographer and a Cotton Club beauty. The suspect: the dead man's jealous wife. The cops say she did it and an outraged community believes it. But when Lanie delves deeper, she finds much sinister forces at work.
Lyrics of a Blackbird
Civil rights attorney David McKay disappeared years ago while investigating a lynching. Now, he's back, very much alive and determined to find the truth behind his sister’s brutal death. His search rips back the curtain on the glittering world of the Harlem Renaissance to reveal a world of lies, hypocrisy, and tragic betrayal. Each day brings him closer to the truth—and closer to ruin. How soon before time runs out? How soon before his enemies uncover his own secret shame—the sin that could destroy him?
Don't miss out!
Click the button below and you can sign up to receive emails whenever Persia Walker publishes a new book. There's no charge and no obligation.
https://books2read.com/r/B-P-GFVE-PJVEC
https://books2read.com/r/B-P-GFVE-PJVEC
Connecting independent readers to independent writers.
Persia Walker, Dear Sister Dead
