“Let’s see what’s inside The Federalist Papers,” Sam said, coughing as the dust spiraled up into his face.
“Looks like an ordinary book,” Evie said. “Not hollow. Any hidden messages?”
On a hunch, Sam turned the book upside down and shook it. Several pieces of paper fluttered to the floor. Sam picked one up. It was a rectangular card with a series of patterned holes punched into it. The other cards were the same except for the typed headings: Subject #12. Subject #48. Subject #77. Subject #12. Subject #63. Subject #144.
“Sam, what are these?” Evie said, turning one of the cards over. “Why are there all these little holes?”
“It’s code.”
“Honestly, Sam, how can this be code? They’re just holes.”
“The holes are the code. Listen, one Christmas, I worked at Macy’s—”
“As an elf?”
“Yeah. I put you down for two lumps of coal,” Sam shot back. “As a punch card operator. We kept information on sales in code. That’s what these cards are—coded files. All these little holes? Information.”
“So how do we get to see that information?”
“They hafta be read by a special machine.”
“You see one of those special machines around here?”
Sam peered into the gloom. “No.”
Evie flipped through the cards again, reading aloud. “Subject number twelve. Subject number forty-eight. Subject number seventy-seven… Wait a minute.” She ran back to the wall, looking from the cards to the map. “These subject numbers correspond to different towns! Why, look—they’re all over the country. Subject number seventy-seven is in…” She searched the map. “Here! South Dakota. And Subject number one forty-four is…” Evie traced a finger to another thumbtack. “Bountiful, Nebraska.”
“Subject number twenty-seven, New Orleans. Subject number twelve, Baltimore…” Sam said.
“How many of these are there?” Evie said, stepping back a bit to take in the whole of the map.
“Don’t know. The highest number we’ve got is one hundred forty-four.”
Evie frowned at the wall. There was a thumbtack stuck into Zenith, Ohio, beside a number. Subject zero.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, coming closer.
“Sam!” she whispered urgently.
“Here. Grab some of these,” Sam whispered back, stuffing some of the punch cards into his vest. “Put ’em in your purse.”
“That’s the first place someone would look.” Evie lifted her skirt and shoved the punch cards into her stocking, under the garter, beside her silver flask. She smoothed her skirt back down. “Were you staring at my legs, Sam Lloyd?”
“Your flask, actually. I’m a sucker for silver,” Sam said, moving to the door.
Evie came up behind him. “What if we get in trouble?” she whispered. “This isn’t like breaking into a pawnshop. We’re trespassing in a government office!”
Sam’s wolf grin was back. “I like it when the stakes are high.”
He opened the door a crack. At the far end of the corridor were two men in gray suits. Their gait was calm but deliberate, and something about it unnerved Sam, though he couldn’t say why. The men seemed out of place—not like postal workers. More like security of some sort. If pressed, Sam could use his skills to disorient the men long enough to get away, but that was an absolute last resort. He liked keeping his divining talent—if that’s what it was—a secret. Secrets were protection.
Evie peered over his shoulder. “Who is that? Police?” she whispered, confirming his gut reaction.
“Don’t know, but they don’t look friendly. Come on. We can’t get out that way,” Sam said, shutting the door. “We’ll have to go out the way we came in.”
“Sam. There’s nothing to catch us on the other side. We could break an ankle. What if those men hear us? What if they want to use the lavatory?”
The footsteps were very close now.
“Maybe they don’t even want this office,” Evie whispered.
“Maybe,” Sam said, but he flipped the latch on the door anyway. The footsteps echoed louder, coming closer, then stopped just outside the office. Sam grabbed Evie’s hand, and they dove under the desk and squeezed in together. The space was tight. Evie could only curl up against Sam. His hand rested on her arm and his mouth was against her neck.
The doorknob rattled, then fell silent. It was followed a few seconds later by the click of a key in the lock. Evie took in a sharp breath.
“Easy, Sheba,” Sam whispered, his breath warm on her skin.
Hallway light spilled across the office floor, then receded as the door was shut again. From their hiding spot under the desk, Evie and Sam could see the gray trouser legs and black shoes of the two men as they moved silently around the abandoned office. File drawers were opened and shut. One of the men stood in front of the desk, very close, and Evie’s heart hammered so hard in her ears, she feared it could be heard plainly. Sam rubbed his thumb in small circles against the inside of her wrist. It was meant as a reassuring gesture, but it sent shivers up her arm and made her head buzzy.
One of the men spoke. His voice was bland, almost soothing. “See anything that looks like a prophecy?”
“Not unless it’s written in dust,” the other man said. His voice was quieter and raspy, like a broken whisper.
Both pairs of shoes faced the wall with the map. “So many chickens to round up.”
The men stood in the gloom a moment longer. The door opened to hallway light, then closed again. The key turned in the lock. The footsteps moved away. Evie turned her head, and Sam’s mouth was a breath away from hers. There was a feeling inside her like bees.
“That was close,” she whispered. Her head was light.
“Yeah. Yeah, it was,” Sam said. Neither of them moved. His hand still cupped her wrist gently.
“I-I suppose we can go now,” Evie said.
“Suppose so,” Sam answered.
“Well,” Evie said, then she crawled out from under the desk and stretched. Sam followed, but he turned away and leaned against the wall for a moment.
“You jake?” Evie asked.
“Sure. Just, um, gimme a minute,” Sam said. He sounded winded. In a second, he turned to her, looking a little flushed, as if he were newly drunk. “I, ah, guess we’d better breeze while we can.”
They started down the long hallway. Sam could still smell a bit of Evie’s perfume on his collar. He gave her a sideways glance just as she looked his way, grinning, clearly invigorated by their shared adventure. And Sam’s heart felt suddenly too big for the cage of his chest.
A janitor came around the corner with his mop and pail, and Evie let out a yelp of surprise. The janitor startled, then narrowed his eyes. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be down here. Who let you in?”
“Gee. We’re awfully sorry, Pops. We were looking for the dead letter office so we could pay our respects,” Sam said, and Evie let out a little snort of laughter, which she covered with a cough. “Guess this isn’t it. Excuse us, won’tcha?”
They sidled past the janitor, holding fast to each other’s hands. Evie’s giggles bubbled up, and that was all it took to make Sam lose his composure.
“You’re not supposed to be down here!” the janitor yelled after them as they broke into a run, both of them laughing hysterically.
By the time Sam and Evie arrived at the Waldorf, the Radio Star people were waiting.
“I’m gonna see if I can scare up one of those punch card–reading machines,” Sam said, smoothing back his thick dark hair and securing his Greek fisherman’s cap in place once more.
“Who do you think those gray-trousered men were?” Evie asked.
“Don’t know. But I got a feeling they weren’t looking for dead letters.”
“Oh! Don’t forget about tomorrow night! Pears soap is very excited that you’re coming on the show with me.”
“Do I hafta?”
“Yes. You do. It’ll only be a few minute
s, Sam. Just enough to sell soap and make the advertisers happy, which will make Mr. Phillips happy, which will make me happy.”
“That’s a long chain of happy. Okay, Sheba. I’ll see you at nine.”
“Nothin’ doing. Show’s at nine. You’ll see me at half past eight.”
On the other side of the windows, Mr. Phillips’s secretary waved impatiently to Evie and nodded toward the magazine people.
“I suppose I’d better get in there,” Evie said. She could still feel the lingering ghost of Sam’s touch on her arm.
“Suppose you’d better,” Sam said, without moving.
“Well,” she said.
“Yeah,” Sam said.
“So long, my lovely leprechaun,” Evie called as she backed away.
Sam doffed his hat to her. “So long, Mutton Chop.”
Sam watched through the hotel’s tall front windows as, inside, the photographer had Evie pose with a tennis racket, as if she were pretending to reach for a serve. It was just a photograph, but Evie’s expression was one of fierce concentration, as if she meant to hit that ball out to the stars. Sam knew he should be moving on, but he couldn’t seem to go.
On the road to New York, Sam had spent a wild couple of months with daredevil aviator, Barnstormin’ Belle. He’d liked her plenty, but in the end, he’d left her to chase after Project Buffalo.
“Always thought it would be a plane that’d bring me down someday. Never figured it would be a boy like you,” she’d told him. “Someday, a girl’s gonna break your heart. Let me know when it happens. I’d like to send her a thank-you note,” she’d said, slapping a pair of aviator goggles over eyes glistening with tears. “Scram, Flyboy. I got a show to do.”
Sam had a skill that often let him take what he needed. But you couldn’t do that with love. It had to be given. Shared.
Through the window, Evie saw him. She made a funny face—a silly gesture—and Sam felt it deep inside.
“Don’t get soft, Sergei,” he muttered to himself.
The uniformed doorman approached Sam. “May I help you, sir?” he said, letting Sam know he’d worn out his sidewalk welcome.
“Pal,” Sam said, giving Evie one last, longing look, “I really wish you could.”
At a noisy Horn & Hardart Automat on Broadway, Evie hunkered down in a corner and kept an eye out for T. S. Woodhouse, who pushed through the door at last with his usual louche swagger.
“I was surprised to get your call, Sheba,” he said, taking a seat and helping himself to a forkful of her apple pie. “Why, these days, you’re busier than Babe Ruth’s bat.”
Evie tucked a dollar beside his hat. Woody glanced at it, then took another bite of pie. “Aren’t you getting enough press these days, Sweetheart Seer?”
“It isn’t about me this time,” Evie whispered.
Woody grinned. “I have never heard those words from your lips.”
Evie ignored the jibe. “Woody, I need you to put that feverish brain of yours to work on something that requires real investigation for once.”
“I do love the way you ask for favors, Sheba. Full of humility and grace.”
“You want humility and grace, head to a nunnery. This is important.”
“I’m all ears.”
Evie wasn’t entirely certain she should trust Woody, but he was all she had. She looked around to make certain they weren’t overheard. “You ever hear of something called Project Buffalo?”
The reporter raised an eyebrow. “Is this a charity that takes kiddies to zoos?”
“No. It was a government project during the war, maybe even before that.”
Woody wiped his mouth, keeping his eyes on Evie. Then he took out his pencil and wrote Project Buffalo on his notepad. “Go on.”
“I-I don’t really know much about it, except that it might have had something to do with Diviners.”
“How’s that?”
“As I said, I don’t know. I only know that Sam’s mother went to work on it—”
“Doing what?”
“She was a nurse,” Evie said, keeping her face blank. Woody didn’t need to know everything. “That’s the whole crop.”
“I guess I’ll have to ask Sam if I want to know more.…”
“No!” Evie said, placing a hand on Woody’s arm. “You mustn’t tell Sam. He’d have a conniption fit if he knew I was talking to you. This is strictly confidential, Woody. I only want to help him find out what happened to his mother.”
Woody’s slow smile alarmed Evie. “Ah, young love. Okay. What was Mrs. Lloyd’s first name?”
“Miriam. Miriam Lubovitch. They changed their name to Lloyd somewhere along the line.”
Woody kept his chin down but flicked his gaze up at Evie. “Sam’s Jewish, then?”
Evie held his stare. “So’s Al Jolson.”
Woody shrugged. “I’ve got nothing against Jews. But some folks do. Your Mr. Phillips, for one. Just a friendly tip. Okay, I’ll see what I can dig up. But it’s gonna require a great deal of digging.” He cleared his throat, glanced meaningfully at the dollar, and waited.
“That’s what rats do, don’t they? Dig?” Evie shot back. She rummaged in her purse and handed him another dollar. “That’s all I can spare.”
“My bookie thanks you, Miss O’Neill. One more thing: What happened up at Knowles’ End with Hobbes?”
“I told the papers all about it then. It’s old news,” Evie said, pushing the rest of her apple pie around on her plate with her fork.
Woody smirked. “The truth, the partial truth, and nothing but. See, I got a funny feeling something happened up there that you’re not talking about.”
“Such as?”
“Such as maybe John Hobbes wasn’t human.”
Already, Evie was regretting her decision. If you gave a fella like T. S. Woodhouse half an inch, he’d bulldoze his way in for more. “We all get funny feelings sometimes, Woody. Have a milk shake and forget about it. Sorry to cut this short, but I have to perform for a ladies’ supper club before the show.”
“You gonna get a read on the chicken salad?” Woody teased. Then he turned serious. “I’m gonna find out the truth about what happened, Sheba. No matter how long it takes,” he said and gobbled the last bite of pie.
“Memphis! Memphis!”
Outside Floyd’s Barbershop, Memphis turned to see Rene, one of Papa Charles’s runners, waving him down. “Memphis! Papa Charles wants you.”
“What for?” Memphis said, his heart racing a little at the thought. Papa Charles didn’t just send for people without reason.
“Didn’t say. Just said to come get you and bring you to the Hotsy Totsy. Now.”
A crow cawed from the top of the lamppost.
“What’re you squawking at me for? Why don’t you make yourself useful and tell me what Papa Charles wants?”
The crow squawked again and fell silent.
“Thanks for nothing, bird,” Memphis said, hugging himself against the cold.
At the Hotsy Totsy, Memphis entered Papa Charles’s well-appointed office, nodding at Jules and Emmanuel, Papa’s bodyguards, who sat outside his door, Tommy guns resting on their laps.
“Memphis, come in,” Papa Charles called from behind his big desk. “Have a seat, son.”
Memphis perched on the edge of the chair. He tried to lick his lips but his mouth was dry. The heavy smoke from Papa Charles’s cigar made his eyes burn. Papa Charles folded his hands on his desk and looked at Memphis.
“Memphis, I’ve known you for a long time. Knew your daddy well. Your mama, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ve always looked after your family, haven’t I? I made certain that Isaiah had a new baseball glove, or I sent one of my boys over to fix Octavia’s icebox when it wasn’t working?”
“Yes, sir,” Memphis said, his unease growing. Was he in some sort of trouble?
“And when you got arrested a few months ago, who got you out of jail?”
“Those cops fram
ed me. They were dirty for Dutch Schultz and trying to send you a message,” Memphis protested. If he hadn’t been working for Papa Charles in the first place, he wouldn’t have gotten pinched, so it seemed unfair of his boss to bring it up now.
Papa Charles made a We all know how it works gesture. “Still,” he said, blowing out circles of smoke. “I have done you favors, yes? The time has come I need a favor from you.”
Memphis swallowed hard. “What sort of favor?”
“You know Mr. Carrington, owns the big store on One Hundred Twenty-fifth?”
Carrington’s was a department store where mostly white people shopped. Memphis had been inside once, but when one of the store detectives seemed to go everywhere Memphis did, he’d left in a hurry.
“Yes, sir. I know it,” Memphis said tightly.
“Mr. Carrington has been a good friend to us. And he needs a favor. I heard this morning that his wife has the sleeping sickness.” Papa Charles tapped his cigar against the side of a silver ashtray. “Part of my job is to look out for Harlem, for what is in our best interests. We don’t need the trouble people are having down in Chinatown. Don’t want the health department up here shutting down our businesses and restaurants and clubs. It would be very bad for all of us if this got out.”
“So why doesn’t Mr. Carrington get a doctor? He can afford one.”
“Doctors haven’t been able to cure the sleeping sickness. Mr. Carrington remembers you, remembers your work at the Miracle Mission.” Papa Charles picked a stray thread from his spotless wool trousers. “If we do a good turn for Mr. Carrington, he’ll do a good turn for us. Like help to keep Dutch Schultz’s men from causing us trouble.”
The whole mess of the situation was dawning on Memphis. “Papa Charles, you know I don’t do that anymore. Not since my mother.”
“Memphis,” Papa Charles said on a sigh, and then he gave Memphis the sort of stare that got things done in Harlem. His words were quiet and deliberate. “You think I was born yesterday? I knew the minute Noble Bishop came into Floyd’s talking about a heavenly healing that it was you. Do you deny it?”
Memphis looked down at his hands.