*****
Tracy knocked on the door of Fortune’s study and was rewarded with a “Please come in!” She opened the door and entered.
The entire top deck of The Heart of Fortune contained Fortune’s living quarters. That included a wonderfully appointed lounge that looked as if it could have been one of the private lounges located in The Baltimore Gun Club or New York’s Cobalt Club. Fortune sat in a high backed armchair of distressed leather the color of cinnamon. “Ah, here she is, Mr. Kelly. It is my utmost pleasure to introduce you to my cousin and bodyguard, Miss Tracy Scott. Tracy, this is Mr. Reginald Morris Kelly.”
The man sitting in the twin of Fortune’s chair raised his huge frame up out of it with the grace of a much lighter man. Tracy’s doll-like hand disappeared in his, which was easily the size of a baseball mitt. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Scott. Your name is spoken of just as often as your cousin’s. It’s said you’re a woman of many unconventional talents. And may I be bold and say that you are as beautiful as I’ve been told?”
Tracy did indeed look beautiful in her burnt umber borderprint dress and matching shoes that added two inches to her height. Her round face with apple cheeks, curly black hair, and large, sparkling coffee colored eyes only enhanced her aristocratic poise.
Kelly released her hand and gestured toward a smaller version of the chair he and Fortune sat in. “Please join us.”
“Thank you.” Tracy sat down and turned to Obarr, Fortune’s manservant who had somehow appeared at her elbow without Tracy hearing, seeing, or sensing him enter the lounge. It was one of Obarr’s traits that disturbed and disconcerted her to no end. That and the fact that Obarr never seemed to age. Tracy had known him ever since she was a little girl as he had been Fortune’s manservant ever since Fortune was eight years old. And Obarr looked exactly the same now as he had then. “Champagne, please.” Obarr bowed and went to fetch it. “So, gentlemen,” she said, crossing her legs. “What sort of business are we discussing this afternoon?”
“Mr. Kelly is the President and CEO of the Sovereign City Negro Advancement Association.”
“I do believe I’ve heard of your group, Mr. Kelly,” Tracy said, accepting her glass of champagne from Obarr. “In fact, I’m positive I have. Representatives of your group have tried two times to come on board and see Fortune without making a proper appointment so that they could be cleared beforehand.”
“And I apologize for that. I appreciate and respect the fact that you take your cousin’s safety seriously-“
“Mr. Kelly, I take the safety of everyone on this ship seriously. And so does our Chief of Security, Mado. You have met him, I presume? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“I did indeed. He’s a most formidable looking fellow.”
“No one and I do mean no one gets to see Fortune McCall here in his private living quarters until they’ve been cleared by either Mado or myself. Not even representatives of such a prestigious organization as yours.” Tracy sipped her champagne.
“My people were understandably anxious to meet with Mr. McCall. It’s not every day that a Negro of his wealth and international reputation comes to Sovereign City. And I’ve had a word or two put in my ear that Mr. McCall has a…how shall I put it…privileged status with The Mayor’s Office?”
Fortune swirled Napoleon brandy in his snifter as he said to Tracy; “Mr. Kelly has come to us with a problem he thinks we can help him with. Go on, sir. Explain your calamity.”
Kelly nodded and took a sip of his Scotch and water before commencing. “As you may or may not know, Sovereign City has three predominantly Negro communities-“
“Tompkinsville, Marcy Village, and Sumner Court. Yes, I know of them. Tompkinsville is located on Sovereign City’s upper west side and is considered the most vital and prosperous of the three. Most of Sovereign City’s richest and influential Negroes live and work there. Including yourself, Mr. Kelly. Sumner Court is a solid middle class Negro neighborhood while Marcy Village is, to put it blatantly, a hellhole.”
“Which is exactly why my organization has been putting a lot of time, effort, and money into that neighborhood recently, Miss Scott. The Sovereign City Negro Advancement Association’s primary function is to improve and enhance the quality of life for all Negro citizens of Sovereign City in all ways. Politically, economically, educationally-“
“A fine and worthy goal. How much of a donation did you ask Fortune for?”
Kelly sat back a bit, blinking. “You are a most direct young lady, aren’t you?”
“I find it saves time, sir.” Tracy looked at Fortune. “How much?”
“I gave him a check for $10,000. But there is another matter that Mr. Kelly needs help with. And if I can prevail upon you to cease interrupting him, he can get on with informing you of exactly what that situation is.”
The look in Fortune’s eyes gave Tracy all the hint she needed and she took it. She turned back to Kelly. “My apologies, Mr. Kelly. I beg you, please continue.”
“Marcy Village is, as you so accurately put it, a hellhole. The unemployment rate there is the highest in the city. The level of drug and alcohol abuse is frightening. Street crime is so prevalent that honest folk go indoors at sundown and stay there until sunup. My organization has targeted Marcy Village for improvement and we’re working hard to bring that neighborhood up. But there’s been a recent problem that has impeded our work.”
“Which is?”
“Arson. In the past three weeks three tenement buildings have been burned down to the ground. Four people have been killed. Twice as many hospitalized. It’s by God’s grace alone that more haven’t been killed or hurt. Those buildings were fire traps that should have been torn down years ago. The police were called, of course and investigated. Just enough to determine it was arson. But no suspects were arrested.” Kelly leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. “We have Negro officers working in Marcy Village and Negro police detectives as well. They’re all good men, doing an extremely difficult job and doing it to the best of their ability. But this is something they simply do not have the necessary experience to deal with.”
“How do you know it’s arson?”
“I’ve seen the police reports.”
Tracy nodded, accepted her refilled champagne glass from Obarr. The manservant walked around in back of her to refill Fortune’s snifter as Tracy said, “The police have closed their investigation, I take it?”
“Sovereign City is very progressive in its attitude toward minorities, Miss Scott. That’s why I moved my family here. I’m not saying there’s no racism here, but Sovereign City…well, it’s different. It’s trying to live up to what this country is supposed to be about. If a man is willing to work hard, he can make something of himself. He can raise a family in peace and prosperity. There are many good people in Marcy Village who want that. But this rash of fires…it’s got people scared. And when people are scared they do stupid things. They fight. They gamble away the rent money. They whore. They drink and drug.”
“In short, they do everything except the right thing. I get your point, sir. You want Fortune to find this arsonist.”
Fortune cleared his throat slightly. “Actually, Tracy, for various reasons I’ve decided that this caper needs to be handled low profile and on a more personal level. I would like you to handle it, working directly with Mr. Kelly here.”
Tracy blinked in surprise. “Me? By myself?”
“You. By yourself.” Fortune smiled at her over his brandy snifter.
Tracy put down her glass and shook her head in a vehement negative. “I really don’t see what I can do. What Mr. Kelly needs to do is hire a private detective. Or go see Lazarus Gray or some other Sovereign City do-gooder and see if they can help him.”
Kelly frowned slightly, looked back and forth from Tracy to Fortune and back to Tracy. “Mr. McCall assured me that you were the best…uh…woman for the job.”
“Then Mr. McCall misled you.”
Kelly open
ed his mouth to say something else but Fortune beat him to it. “Mr. Kelly, why don’t you take in some sun on my private observation deck while I speak to my cousin. I am sure I can clear up this misunderstanding. Obarr will look after your needs. Please request anything you like.”
Kelly nodded and lifted up out of his seat. Tracy waited until he had left the room before furiously jumping to her feet. “How dare you volunteer me for anything without consulting me first!”
“Sit down and calm down.”
“I will not!” Tracy stamped a foot.
“I said sit.”
Tracy knew that tone of voice well. Fortune had not raised his voice an octave but he had put a different quality in it. A quality that communicated very well that he could and would only tolerate so much. Even from his favorite cousin that he loved as if she were his sister. Tracy sat.
Fortune sighed. He put his snifter down and leaned forward, elbows on knees. He rested his chin on his interlaced fingers. “Why must you make everything so difficult? We stayed in Sovereign City to help people. This is a perfect opportunity to help.”
“But why me? By myself? Why don’t you do it? Or get one of the others to do it?”
“Because if I get involved, the press will report it and this arsonist may go to ground. And then he may never be caught. But if you go investigate undercover, keep a low profile, we may catch this mad dog before he kills any more innocents.”
“Fortune, I appreciate your wanting to help these people, I truly do. But the truth is that their problems are not mine. These are not my people.”
“The color of their skin is the same as ours, Tracy.”
“These people are crude and uneducated. They are ignorant of their history and their lineage. They value the few miserable dollars they are permitted to earn more than they do their dignity. They are content to wallow in degradation and live and die at the capricious whims of the rulers of this misbegotten country who regard them with nothing but contempt. We show our pigs back home more respect. If this is the way they choose to live, fine. But my people do not live that way. My people… our people are in Africa.”
“And we have no obligation at all to help the people here in their journey to find their way? Even you and I were lost once. There were others wiser than we to put our feet straight on the path that has led us to where we are today. And I think that if you were to work with these people, get to know them as people, it would change your attitude about them greatly. That is another reason why I want you to do this for me.”
Tracy stood up again with ramrod straight military precision, holding her hands tightly clasped together at the level of her belly button. She spoke with solemn formality; “If the Arao Onyagin commands me to perform this service for him, then let him do so and his humble servant will gladly obey his wish.”
Fortune got out of his seat and walked over to Tracy. He cupped her chin in his long-fingered hand and lifted her head so that he could directly look in her eyes. “And now you have hurt my feelings. Our relationship has never been based on or measured by my status as you well know. I have never commanded you to do anything for me. I have always asked. And I ask now as your kinsman and as your friend; will you please do this favor for me?”
2.
People in Sovereign City liked to say that even if you took them there blindfolded, they would know they were in Marcy Village just by the smell. But it was more than just that. There was a palpable feel in the air. One could actually feel the despair and hopelessness in the very atmosphere. Marcy Village felt like a labyrinth with narrow streets full of darkness as many of the streetlights did not work. On every corner there was either a streetwalker or dealer seeking customers or groups of hard faced men just hanging out, passing cheap bottles of wine back and forth.
The decent people were all locked up tightly in their tenement apartments behind double and triple bolted doors and there they would stay. If the baby did not have milk, then it was just too bad. Baby would have to do without until morning. Any shopping or visiting or pulling in of drying laundry that hung between the buildings like tired flags would also have to wait until morning. The streets of Marcy Village belonged to the night people. The gangs. The prostitutes. The pimps. The gangsters. The desperate. The damned. They owned the streets from dusk until dawn. And the occasional scream of a victim foolish enough to think that he or she was tough enough, cruel enough to navigate the nighttime streets of Marcy Village reminded the decent people of that.
A ragged street urchin picked his or her way along Reese Street. Due to the gloom of the street, the scarf wrapped around the lower half of the face, and the battered cap pulled down low, it was impossible to tell if the urchin was boy or girl. The poor child was in a desperate way. The urchin had no shoes and had to make do with layers of rags wrapped around the feet and lower legs. More wrapping of rags kept the sleeves of the coat on the arms.
The urchin searched garbage cans for food and found none. The urchin’s course was watched by three men sitting on a stoop in the middle of the block illuminated by one of the few streetlights working. Although it was barely an hour after dark, all three were plainly drunk. They had a Mason jar of genuine South Carolina moonshine and it had only taken a few sips to light them up.
One of the men shouted at the urchin as the slight, small figure slowly walked past them; “Hey, boy! Whatchoo doin’ on this block? Who you know live here?”
The urchin didn’t turn around or slow down, just replied in a muffled voice; “Jus’ tryin’ to find a place to sleep fo’ th’ night, suh. Don’t mean to bother nobody.”
One of the men got up from his seat. “You got money, boy? C’mere and lemme check yo’ pockets.”
“Ain’t got no money, suh.”
“C’mere, I said and let me check them pockets! All I find I keep!” The intoxicated man took another step toward the urchin, reached out a hand.
The urchin stepped back. “Said I ain’t got no money!”
The man cursed, took another step closer.
The urchin’s hand suddenly filled with something shining silver and deadly in the yellow streetlight and the urchin’s voice was now dark and dangerous. “Take one more step forward and die.”
Drunk as he was, the man knew a razor sharp linoleum knife when he saw one. And he knew what one could do in the hands of somebody who knew what to do with it. And from the way the urchin stood, the man was not willing to test him or her. In any case his friends were calling for him to leave the kid alone and come back to the stoop and finish drinking. The man mumbled something and did as he was bid.
Tracy Scott put away her knife with a sigh of relief. Fortune had asked her to keep any killing to a minimum and she had promised she would. But that didn’t mean she intended to let a drunken oaf assault her. And she wouldn’t have killed him in any case. Maybe just cut off a few fingers or lopped off the entire hand to give him something to think about, perhaps.
For three days now Tracy had lived on the streets of Marcy Village. Which considering her training and the rituals she had gone through to achieve the level of physical proficiency she achieved was no real test of her skills at all. Not knowing the neighborhood at all she wanted to get the lay of the land and listen for herself to the voices of the people without them knowing they were being listened to. To say that the last three days had been educational was an understatement. Tracy had seen ignorance and cruelty. Sloth and greed. Crime and selfish waste. But she had also seen good hearted people just trying to get along and make the best of what life had given them. And she respected that.
But she was no closer to getting any information on who the arsonist was or why those buildings had been targeted. Or even if they were targets for some reason. Tracy had taken a few days before hitting the streets and done some homework on the ownership of those three buildings, thinking that maybe they were all owned by the same person. Such was not the case. All three buildings were owned by separate people who apparently had no dealings with each
other, business or personal. Tracy had then dug into the backgrounds of the people that lived in the three buildings, hoping to find some clue there. Still nothing. The buildings all were occupied by families. No real crime activity there with any of them. Oh, the husbands weren’t all gentlemen. One or two of them had girlfriends. Another two or three liked the hooch a little too much. One of them liked to put what little money he got up his nose but he made sure his family was taken care of first. None of them had gambling debts.
Fortune had gotten her the police reports but after a few minutes of reading, Tracy threw them away in disgust. They were pitifully thin on details. That was when Tracy had made the decision to go out on the streets herself, only telling Fortune and her friends what she was going to do and asking Fortune not to tell Reginald Morris Kelly what she was doing. Not knowing exactly where Kelly stood on this, Tracy thought it best to keep him in the dark for now so that she could work with a totally free hand.
And being out there, hunting up information like this made her feel as if she was getting something accomplished on some level. Tracy worked best with her senses, with her emotions. Fortune was a creature of logic, of careful and calculated thought. She often thought that if one opened up his skull they would find a brain constructed of mechanical parts rather than neural tissue. That was not to say that he was not a man of passion. He was. But he would always lead with his brain instead of his heart. Tracy was a creature of instinct who led with her gut. And so far, it had never led her wrong.
Tracy crossed the street, ambled toward Heather Square, a small park inhabited at night by heroin junkies and dealers. Even during the day most people stayed out of the park. She’d slept there last night and had heard some promising banter back and forth among the dealers speculating themselves about the fires. The name of Big Bobby Bookey has been mentioned more than once. Tracy herself seemed to recall that name being spoken of on The Heart of Fortune not long ago. The man was a nefarious Negro criminal in Sovereign City. Perhaps the biggest. He certainly was the worst. Speculation was that Bookey was burning down the houses. But for what reason, nobody knew.
As she crossed the street, Tracy heard something that sounded like a large bag of flour being dropped from a great height. She looked up, looked around, wondering just what that could have been as the streets were for the most part fairly quiet. Then she heard a sound she knew quite well; a muffled explosion. But where-
And then she saw a rosy glow in the night sky, off to her left. Tracy sprinted in the direction of the glow. If it was what she thought it was then she had failed already in her mission. She turned a corner and ran directly into a larger, blockier, beefier body that knocked her right on her backside. She lay there dazed as the man she ran into paused, apparently thinking of stopping to assist her. Someone else leaped right over Tracy and grabbed hold of the man’s arm, shouted; “Let’s go! Let’s go!” The voice was a woman’s!
Another muffled explosion drew Tracy’s attention from them as they ran away from her. She rolled over onto her stomach and got to her hands and knees, drawing in fresh air to replace what had been knocked out of her. By the time she got to her feet, the man and woman were gone. Tracy looked in the direction they had come from as a hellish radiance filled the night and she knew in her gut what that was.
Tracy sprinted two blocks and what she saw made her groan in frustration. A four story walkup, engulfed in bright orange-red flame. Men, women, and children ran from the building, clad in pajamas, nightgowns. People were also pouring out of the buildings on either sides, carrying their possessions as they feared the fire would spread to their buildings.
The flames roared higher, blackening the stonework on the walkup’s façade. Tracy heard no fire engine siren approaching and she yelled at the crowd of onlookers, “Did anyone call the fire department?” The onlookers looked at her as if she were insane. Very few in Marcy Village could afford a telephone.
A throat ripping scream made everybody stop and look up. The fire had not reached the top floor of the building yet and a woman stood on the fire escape, holding the hand of a young boy who looked as stoic as a wooden Indian. The woman screamed again, “Help us! Oh, God, won’t somebody help us?”
Tracy turned to the onlookers. “Come on! Two of you men, come with me!”
Not a one moved a muscle. They had their own families to look out for.
Tracy did not waste another moment. She had never been one to wait on others to take action. She dashed inside the building to the left of the blazing inferno, feeling waves of superhot air washing over her and black ash obscuring her vision. And then she was inside of the building. Open doors were on her left and her right and she went into one apartment, found the bathroom.
She climbed inside the tub and turned on the shower on full. She couldn’t take the time to soak herself as completely as she would have liked but she took thirty precious seconds to get as wet as she could. She left the apartment and galloped up the stairs, taking them three at a time until she gained the roof.
Tracy kicked open the door and sprinted across the rooftop to the burning building. The air was thick with choking, sooty smoke and Tracy squinted, held a dripping wet arm across her mouth and nose.
Tracy leaped the narrow gap between the two buildings and ran to the edge of the roof. The building was one huge torch, so hot that the water soaking Tracy’s legs steamed. She leaned over the edge of the roof, ignoring the gushing flames leaping upwards and the billowing waves of frighteningly black smoke, and stretched out her hands. “Give me the boy!”
Without hesitation, the woman hoisted the boy up, adrenaline giving her the strength of three men, and threw him upwards. Tracy grabbed his outstretched arms and hauled him up on the roof. She turned back to lean over the edge again and reached down once more. “Now you!”
The woman reached upwards. Her fingertips brushed against Tracy’s-
-and then the fire escape, weakened by the intense heat, tore completely away from the building and collapsed. Tracy’s eyes widened in horror as she helplessly watched the woman tumble backwards off of the fire escape into a rising sheet of flame that engulfed her entirely. She managed to scream out two final words. “My son!”
And then she was consumed.
Tracy had no more time. She snatched up the boy and swung him onto her back. “Hang on!” she commanded and ran back across the roof, which crumbled underneath her smoking feet even as she did so. She once again leaped over the narrow gap separating the two buildings, the second one now on fire. Tracy said, “Wrap your legs around my waist! I need my hands free!” The boy immediately obeyed. He had not uttered a word or a sound through this entire time. Which Tracy appreciated. A hysterical child was the last thing she needed to deal with right now.
She made her way down the stairs; orange-red flames gushing from open doors, racing up the walls, eagerly setting ablaze everything in its path. The building itself was so old and so dry it was one big, four story piece of kindling. Tracy kept her head down and her arm across her nose and mouth. It was some help against the smoke even though by now her clothes were bone dry, the water soaking her garments having been turned to steam.
Tracy staggered down the staircase, burning debris falling all around her. The world was fire and smoke and she doggedly kept on going, the boy clinging to her so hard that her ribs and shoulders throbbed. She finally made it to the ground floor and tumbled out of the burning building, the boy rolling free.
Tracy got to her hands and knees, coughing and hacking. She painfully stood up, grabbed up the boy, and ran to safety as the two buildings collapsed upon themselves, sending up great gushing plumes of fire, freshly fueled by rupturing gas lines. Water pipes burst, showering the street and the buildings, dampening the fire somewhat.
Helping hands reached out for Tracy and the boy. She struck them away angrily. “Take your hands off me! Where were your hands when that woman needed them?”
The faces of the crowd were not angry. Or sad. Or rem
orseful. They weren’t anything. Blank, empty faces devoid of anything resembling emotion. Firelight threw mournful shadows over them all.
Tracy took the boy’s hand and walked away from the fiery holocaust. She needed a long, hot bath.