Authors: Koko Brown
Tookie
groaned. No amount of coaching would turn Wilma into a headliner
overnight. Feeling the noose tightening around her
throat
T
ookie asked,
“
So,
you’re
leaving the Follies?”
Not knowing she held the
show’s future in her hands, Celeste
shrugged.
“I don’t know what tomorrow brings.” She held her
hands out to Mollie and Delilah. Tweedledum and Tweedledee fell in
line like sycophants. “One thing I am certain of is the bottle
of Jack in my hotel room and how it should be savored with good
friends.”
Tookie let them go.
With her leverage now
deceased, she could no more stop Celeste intent on a bender than she
could stop a runaway locomotive.
CHAPTER TWO
Two days later and shortly
after midnight, Celeste
Newsome
arrived at
Penn Station via B&O’s Capital Limited. No longer having
roots in New York, she settled in with her cousin Trudy who
maintained a flat in the same Brooklyn
neighborhood
they’d grown up
in
as kids.
If left up to her, Celeste
would’ve dug a hole in an empty lot, thrown her father in an
ole pine box and be done with it.
But
as
a respected pillar of the community, she guessed her father deserved
better than that. Thankfully,
her
father’s attorney had taken care of all the arrangements.
All
that was required of her was
paying
her respects.
Considering she had little
respect for Cecil “The Reverend” Newsome, Celeste arrived
at Friday’s wake a couple of hours late and thirty minutes shy
of closing. Despite having a liver of steel, a testament to the pint
of gin she guzzled down beforehand, Celeste couldn’t stomach a
throng of well-wishers, heralding her with stories of her father’s
generosity and compassion.
She already knew every
winter he bought shoes for the homeless. That he helped open a
community soup kitchen shortly after the stock market crashed. And
every
Christmas Eve he
allowed
the
neighborhood
children to take as much candy as they could carry.
Over the years, she remained
apprised of all his saintly exploits from her cousin Trudy. A
self-avowed drag king
,
they co-shared her father’s condemnation. So it was a great
relief, the very same cousin
walked
beside her
.
Per her father’s
request, his wake was held at Kelly Funeral Home, while the actual
funeral was scheduled the following morning at Abyssinian Baptist
Church.
Nestled in the small bedroom
community of Bedford-Stuyvesant, Kelly’s was unique in that it
was the only mortuary in the entire borough that performed burials
for coloreds.
In spite of the present
economy, business kept chugging away. So much, her father’s
wake had been the fourth one held
today
.
“
I’m fully aware
this wasn’t a coincidence,” Trudy whispered as they
walked down the aisle
,
e
ach footfall
echo
ing
through
the viewing room
.
“
Can’t get
anything past…”
Celeste steps slowed
.
F
ramed
by a pair of stain
ed
glass windows and more flowers than she could count,
her
father’s casket loomed large and solitary like an island on to
itself. Celeste lingered at the first pew.
“
He…he
l−l−looks like he’s sleeping
,
”
she
whispered taking in his charcoal su
it
and
the
Bible rest
ing
in his hands. Despite appearing two shades darker and
a
balding
pate
, her
daddy looked exactly the same.
Celeste
squeezed her eyes shut.
She
’d
swore
she
wouldn’t break down
.
H
er resolve
missed the telegram and essentially
fell
like a stack of dominoes. Her vision blurred with tears and each
subsequent breath became more and more difficult. Accepting Trudy’s
supporting arm, Celeste
slid
into
the
pew.
“
I feel so stupid,”
Celeste hiccupped through a watershed of tears.
“
Why
?
B
ecause you’re
being human and not some hard-hearted Hannah?” Trudy reached
into her suit jacket, pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her.
“He might have been an ornery cuss, but he’s still your
daddy.”
“
Too bad he forgot.”
Celeste dabbed at the tear rolling down her cheek. “What kind
of father nicknames his only child Jezebel?”
Trudy opened her mouth
.
H
er
expression clouded and she
abandoned
her pep talk. Celeste mentally shrugged.
Hard
arguing with the cold, hard truth
.
Celeste wiped away her tears
and moved to the edge of her seat. She almost stood up when
a
petite, nattily dressed man with a gold ‘STAFF’ pin
fastened to his lapel suddenly appeared in front of her.
“
On behalf of the
owner, welcome to Kelly Funeral Home. Are you family, friends or
acquaintances of Mr. Cecil Newsome?”
“
Family,” Trudy
replied. “I’m his niece and this is his daughter
Celeste.”
At the mention of Celeste’s
name, the man’s bushy eyebrows jumped skyward. Smiling, he
reached inside his suit jacket and retrieved a white calling card.
“
We’re so glad
his family finally showed up. I’ve only seen friends and
acquaintances thus far.”
H
e
look
ed
at the card
and
a pang of guilt sliced through her.
“
Mr. Earl
y
Percy, your father’s solicitor, was here. He waited around an
hour or so, but he
left
for another engagement
.
Before
leaving, he left his
contact
information.
”
He held out the card. “
Your
father’s estate has taken care of all the funeral arraignments.
However, there are some final details of your father’s will
,
which
need
ironing
out
.”
In an act of politeness,
Celeste took the calling card from him and slipped it into her
clutch. Even from the grave, her father wasn’t finished with
her.
“
If you ladies would
excuse me, we have another well-wisher.” Celeste followed the
undertaker’s gaze to the bullet she’d almost dodged.
“
Obviously
lost and looking
for directions
.
”
Celeste
silently
agreed with her cousin’s observation
as
her
gaze
traveled
over the egg and butter man standing at the rear of the
parlor
.
Unusually tall and broad shouldered,
the
man’s
dark
suit poured over him like a second skin, attesting to the garment’s
high quality.
At the undertaker’s
approach, he quickly removed his fedora. Used to white men with money
in her line of business—she’d been courted by quite a few
and even
entertained
a proposal from
an Italian duke—Celeste dismissed him.
Shane Brennan extended his
hand to the undertaker hustling toward him. Instead of clasping his
hand, the other man stopped short and latched his hands onto the
lapels of his coat jacket.
Not
surprised by
the man’s
rather
cold greeting,
Shane
dropped
his hand.
“
Was the amount
wrong?”
Confused, Shane just stared
down at the man. Not much of a talker, he allowed other
s
to monopolize the conversation. They usually hung themselves that
way.
The undertaker stepped
forward. “Your man came by earlier in the day and picked up the
week’s dues. If the amount
’
s
wrong, you
should
talk with
Mr.
Kelly.”
Shane
stiffened.
The
mention of dues clarified the mystery. The man assumed he was a
hatchet man. The automatic association and the underworld’s
unwavering proliferation even into the black community filled him
with distaste.
So much so, he replied with more veracity than he’d intended.
“I’m
here for the viewing
,”
he corrected, setting the man straight
.
“
I
knew Mr. Newsome.”
Again, Shane wasn’t
surprised the other man’s eyes widened in shock. “Friend
of the family?”
“
You could say that,”
Shane supplied, but nothing more. The extent of his relationship
with Cecil Newsome wasn’t any of this man’s business.
The undertaker eyed him up
and down, but then stepped aside. “If you’re really here
to offer condolences, Mr. Newsome’s daughter and niece are
sitting up front.” He palmed a pocket watch and eyed it. “We
close in ten minutes.”
Shane nodded in
acknowledgement as he passed. He could accomplish what he’d
come to do in less than five. Too bad the man in the casket would
haunt him for far longer.
“
I better make
tracks.” Trudy gathered up her topcoat as she stood up. “I
have a late set at Café Society
.”
“
I should probably
call it a night as well.” Celeste sighed heavily
as she pinched her brow, temporarily staving off a pounding headache
.
“Tomorrow
is going to be a long day.”
But she
didn’t move
or
collect her
belongings
.
Funny, she’d dragged her feet all afternoon and now she didn’t
want to leave.
Sensing her predicament,
Trudy sat back down and enfolded one of Celeste’s hands with
hers. “I know there’s a funeral in the morning, but how
about you come with me and paint the town red? Most of the old
players from the Plantation Inn migrated to Café Society as
well. It’ll be like a reunion.”
Normally, Celeste would’ve
taken her cousin up on her offer. Hooch, men and good times were her
personal kryptonite. And if
she
added in
free
cover
to New
York’s first integrated night club her offer became beyond
mighty tempting.
Still, Celeste couldn’t
dredge up any of the usual excitement a night on the town generally
incited. Somehow seeing tangible proof of her daddy’s death
had quenched her personal demons. Well, for now at least.
“
I’
ll
pass, Tru. What I really need right now is a good night’s
sleep.”
Celeste expected at least
one more protest. In the past, her cousin would never let her get off
so easy. But Trudy no longer seemed interested in dragging her across
town. Something or rather someone else had captured her attention.
Her curiosity piqued, Celeste swivelled around.
The egg and butter man
hadn’t left after all. Instead, he strode down the funeral
parlor’s center aisle and right up to her father’s
casket. While he paid his respects, Celeste studied him.
Standing well over six feet,
he was athletically built with arms that strained the jacket sleeves
of his tailored navy blue suit. He possessed a deep tan and
dark
brown hair
clipped
high on the sides and back.
His profile was classic yet
broken up by a crooked nose
,
which
kept him from being perfect. Big as you please, he oozed a rugged
confidence that would make a lesser man think twice about crossing
his path and a woman beat herself up for dismissing him.