Harlem Redux by Persia Walker Page B

she purred. “I was very sorry to hear about Lilian. She was a lovely girl. I miss her.”
    “You knew her well?”
    “Not really.”
    “But—”
    “We’ll discuss it later.”
    He examined her with astute eyes. She was the kind of person who amused herself by collecting people, throwing them into an arena, and watching them rip one another to shreds. Well, he had a reason for being at her house and it was not to perform like a slave in her personal Coliseum. She would speak to him. It might take time, but she would. Meanwhile, he would try to be as superficially sociable as the rest of her guests.
    She lit herself a cigarette, grabbed herself a fresh glass of gin from a passing waiter, and made sure he had a drink too. Then she led him over to a corner sofa, where once settled she studied him over the rim of her crystal glass under suggestively half-closed eyes.
    “I heard that you’re marvelously attractive but utterly unapproachable. Does the description fit?”
    “Admirably.”
    Her eyes twinkled. “You’re a very serious man, aren’t you? Don’t you ever laugh?”
    “When I have reason to.”
    “Yes, of course.” She crossed her legs and became suitably serious. “You’ve been gone a long time, haven’t you?”
    “I wasn’t here while Lilian was ill, no.”
    “And now you’d like to talk to people who knew her?”
    He nodded.
    “Well, I can’t help you,” she said. “I didn’t know her that well—certainly not well enough to explain why she did what she did.” She paused. “I could tell you about Gem. Would that help?”
    Why was she claiming to know Gem, but not Lilian? His answer was cautious. “Perhaps.”
    She studied him, curiosity beaming out of one eye, calculation out of the other. “But why should I tell you anything? What do I get out of it?”
    “What do you want? Money?”
    She threw her head back, laughed, and gestured to the overdone room. “Good god, no! I’ve got more than enough of that, don’t you think!” Then she leaned closer. “What I want,” she whispered, “is much more costly.”
    Her jewel-like eyes glided over him. My, my, she was a live one. On a side table, he noticed a copy of The Beautiful and the Damned, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s mood piece depicting the dissipated lives of a wealthy couple.
    “You haven’t introduced me to your husband,” he said.
    “He’s out of town this week.” She leaned closer to him. “Convenient, don’t you think?”
    “I suppose it depends ... on what you have in mind.”
    Her bright eyes grew even brighter. “You just must come and see me. One day next week. I’ll be at the Fifth Avenue address.” She told him exactly where. “Come, darling. I’ll give you everything you want. And more.”
    Yes, he was sure she would.
    “That’s a lovely offer, but I can’t accept it. I’ll be leaving town.”
    At that, she straightened up, her cherry lips in a pout.
    “Must you?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “How tiresome.”
    “So, we have to talk. Now.” He put his glass down on the table nearby. “I wanted to ask you—”
    Nella raised a hand and pointed. Her gaze had fixed on a point across the room. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
    He followed Nella’s pointing finger and saw a large man cutting through the crowd toward them. Actually, it wasn’t so much that he was cutting through the crowd as that it was parting before him.
    People were actually moving to get out of his way.
    The newcomer’s robust figure was sleekly packaged in an expensive suit. His left hand was shoved into one pocket; his right held a short, fat cigar. He bore no resemblance to his newspaper photographs. The grainy newsprint had always conveyed the sense of a crude ruffian, but in life Adrian Snyder presented the image of the polished, successful businessman. He was in his early fifties. There was nothing to hint at ruthlessness, nothing to show that here was a man whose rivals tended to end up in the East River.
    Nella