homes and you stick them in institutions—asylums and orphanages. You can essentially let these go to seed and pocket most of the cash coming out of the Navajo Project farms. I’m doing pretty well so far, right?”
“You’re bluffing” was all Henry could think to say. He focused on his breathing in an effort to keep his temper in check. Things were slipping away at an alarming rate. The fire in the Vaults. The Poles. Bernal. Now this. His mouth was dry. From the stage, the polka band played on, the sound ridiculous. People danced, enjoying themselves.
“Really? Tell you what, why don’t you just speak up when I get something wrong. Does that work? Call my bluff.”
Cheeky son of a bitch. Henry resisted the instinct to hit Frings. Probably kill him with a good punch.
Frings continued, “So after a while, maybe a year or so, you start to get a little dissatisfied. You’re not actually getting all that much money flowing in. Must be something more you can squeeze out of them. So you, or maybe it was Block or Bernal or someone, gets the idea that there are more profitable cash crops that could be grown. Specifically, you can make a hell of a lot more money if they start growing reefer.”
This was the crucial detail that Henry had been waiting for. The other aspects were troublesome, but survivable; a mea culpa and pinning it mostly on the previous mayor. A minor scandal at worst. The dope changed this picture. This was now a major problem, and the consequences for him were no longer just disgrace and resignation. He flashed on a vision of himself in prison garb.
Frings kept talking. “Your boy Smith runs the operation, using some handpicked ginks to make the deliveries, keep people in line. I’m not exactly sure why you only deliver it to the East Side. Why only the Negroes? Because they don’t vote for you? Is reefer only suited for the Negroes—you want to keep it away from us ofays? It doesn’t really matter, to be honest. Smith’s boys bring it into the City and it gets distributed through a network in the Negro community.”
Henry cut him off. “What the fuck are you after, Frings?”
Frings, Henry thought, was like a dog that senses fear, or maybe a shark with blood in the water. Pick your goddamn analogy. His posture became more aggressive.
“This story’s been written. It’s sitting on my editor’s desk. Unless I call by an hour before deadline, it will be run in the morning paper. I think we both understand what this will mean for you.”
“The fuck are you after?” Henry repeated, loud enough that the people closest to them gave quick glances before seeing Henry’s anger and looking away again.
“I want Nora back. If I get her back before deadline, and she’s unhurt, I’ll kill the story. If not, you go down. You want a minute to think about it?”
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
Out in the crisp night air, Smith sobered up. Frings had completely disregarded the warnings about what would happen to that little girlfriend of his. Now Smith was going to get to do what he did best: inflict pain in a way that would encourage Frings to pay better attention. The mayor had been clear: If Frings did not stop investigating, Smith could go off the rails on the girl.
A line of partygoers were waiting for the incoming taxis, so Smith hoofed it down the street, past a line of idling limos whose drivers carried on muted conversations in groups of two or three. It felt good to work off some of the adrenaline. Smith passed the mayor’s Phaeton and saw the driver—couldn’t remember the name—talking to a man with his hat pulled so low that Smith wondered how he could see out from under it. Another man leaned against the back of the car with his back to Smith. Something about him was familiar. But then again, anyone friendly with the mayor’s chauffeur was probably around quite a bit. Smith walked on, though unable to shake the feeling of something about those two men . . .
He flagged down a cab on Buchanan Avenue and had him drive to Feral’s apartment in the Theater District. He had the hack drop him a block from the building and gave him a five, suggesting that he forget about the fare. The cabbie nodded in silent agreement and drove off.
Sidewalk traffic was sparse; the usual theatergoers were at the armory or watching the