Free Black Orchid Blues by Persia Walker Page B

about blacks and whites and how ne’er the twain shall meet. It’s in the Bible, don’t you know?” He rubbed his eyes and shook his head in disgust.
    For a moment, we both fell silent. Then my gaze drifted back to Blackie’s file. I was usually good at reading documents upside down, but the type was too small and my eyes too tired.
    “What’re you guys thinking?” I asked.
    “You know I can’t tell you that.”
    “Come on, give me something. I’ve got to keep the story moving. And given the pressure you’re under, so do you.”
    “Keep it moving, huh?” He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe it’s me who should be asking: What have you been up to? What have you found out?”
    I smiled. “Don’t you think I’d tell you if I’d found out anything, anything useful?”
    He guffawed. “Hell no! Of course you wouldn’t. I like you, Lanie, but I know how you are, how you all are. When it comes to you guys, what’s yours is yours and what’s mine is yours.”
    “Do I hear the pot calling the kettle black?”
    “But seriously, Lanie, what’ve you got?”
    “Who says I’ve got anything?”
    “You always got something. Every cop knows that. You always got something.”
    I paused, then leaned on his desk and said, “Okay, supposing you’re right. Maybe I turned over a rock and found a worm or two, maybe even got a name. Why should I share it with you before I share it with Sam?”
    He shrugged. “Cause I’m the cop who can put you in jail for obstruction and withholding evidence?”
    I nearly burst out laughing. “Wrong answer.”
    “It’s always fun talking to you, Lanie.”
    I glanced at my watch. The clock was working its way well past two. “Time for me to take my leave, kind sir.” I got up to go. “Get some sleep, Blackie. That’s what I’m going to do.”
    “Back to that big empty house of yours, huh?”
    “It’s not empty to me.”
    “Full of memories, right?”
    “Good memories.”
    He sighed. “You’re too young for that to be enough.”

C HAPTER 13
    I t was long past Christmas. That was my first thought upon seeing the paper-wrapped parcel. It had been left leaning against my front door, illuminated by the spill of light from the lamps overhead.
    Big things come in small packages . That was my second thought, and it caused a ripple of anxiety.
    The rectangular package was about eight inches long, five inches wide, and maybe two deep. The sender had wrapped it in plain brown paper and secured it with yellow twine. When I picked it up, I found that it was hard and the contents had heft. It smelled strongly of cigars.
    A mistaken delivery?
    Maybe. There was no way to tell: The wrappings were blank. There was no address—not mine, not the sender’s. Nothing. Just wrapping as plain as plain could be.
    I turned it over gingerly and gave it a little shake. I had a fleeting thought that it might be a bomb. Schhwwwuush. Something shifted softly inside.
    I tucked the parcel under one arm and went inside. I left it on a side table in the vestibule with my purse and hung up my coats, the one I’d worn and the one I’d retrieved from the Cinnamon Club. Then I took the package into the parlor and sank down on the sofa. I couldn’t undo the knot in the twine, so I went downstairs to the kitchen, fetched a butcher knife, and slit the string. The paper fell away to reveal a wood cigar box.
    Hmmm.
    La Imperial Habana was etched into the top cover. A strip of olive-green labeling that wrapped around the edges bore the words Grandfrabrica de Tabacos , 1925 . A washed-out Henry Clay tax stamp appeared on the lower right-hand corner.
    I lifted the lid. A heavier smell of old cigars—and of something else, something slightly foul—wafted out. The protective separation paper that would’ve normally covered the cigars was still in there. A white envelope lay on top. The envelope was ordinary; you could get one like it at any stationary store.
    The good news was that it was addressed; the bad news was