After the service, the funeral procession made its slow, mournful passage down Broadway. The Elks Club had paid for the burial, and they’d insisted on a proper good-bye. They walked in front wearing their sashes, Papa Charles leading the way, his hat held to his chest. Behind him, several of Harlem’s best musicians played a mournful dirge on their horns and a choir of women in black dresses sang. A flatbed truck carried Gabe’s coffin through the streets to its temporary resting place at the Merrick Funeral Home. Later, his family would bury him. Reporters ranged along the sidewalks taking notes and pictures, reaching up in the nick of time to remove their hats as the casket passed by. Memphis walked behind the casket with slow, dutiful steps all the way to the funeral home. He hadn’t been inside since his mother’s death, and he couldn’t face going in now.
“I’m just going to get some air,” he explained to Octavia, who patted his cheek, called him poor child, and waved him on. Memphis slipped unnoticed into the throngs of people trying to get a glimpse of the Pentacle Killer’s latest victim. Some were just curious onlookers. Some were angry and shouted at the line of police for answers. Hadn’t they caught the killer? Wasn’t he behind bars? What now? What were they doing to protect the citizens of New York? When would they feel safe again? The police remained silent.
At the corner, Memphis spied the girl from the museum. Weren’t they supposed to be helping to catch this killer? Why hadn’t they caught him yet? Memphis was overcome with anger, and he marched up to Evie O’Neill and tapped her on the shoulder. It took her a second to recognize him.
“It’s you. Mr. Campbell.”
“You know who the killer is yet?”
“Not yet.”
Memphis nodded, his jaw tight.
“Did you… did you know the deceased?” she asked.
“He was my best friend.”
“I’m so very sorry,” she said, and Memphis thought she sounded sorry, too. Not like these reporters, who would say “sorry for your loss” and then follow with a question about whether your best friend was a dope fiend or ask whether you thought jazz music was to blame.
“Memphis!”
At the sound of Theta’s voice, both Evie’s and Memphis’s heads turned. She was running down the street, her stage makeup still on, a coat thrown over her costume. Evie could see the sequins peeking out. Theta gave Evie a quick hug, then turned to Memphis.
“I came as soon as I heard,” she said.