Tulsa Turning: Tulsa Series, #2

By Norma Jean Lutz

She's determined to get what she wants out of life. When Clarette Fortier is on assignment, the competition had better run for cover. An up-and-coming reporter for a New York newspaper, Clarette is now in Tulsa, hot on the trail of the inside story of the race riots that plagued that city. The year is 1921. When Clarette is not on assignment, she is as determined to find the right man as the inside scoop. Shelby Harland is her current date du jour, a man who knows how to show a girl a good time.

 

Also vying for her time is Erik Torsten, a big handsome Swede. But Clarette is uncomfortable when Erik talks about God and the Bible. Accustomed to finding and printing the truth whatever the cost, Clarette may not foot the bill this time. Her job is in jeopardy, and she's received threats from the Klan. When she looks death in the face, it's time to find out what truly matters in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Norma Jean Lutz
• Release date: Feb 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9780985957100

Book preview

Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

Names: Lutz, Norma Jean, author.

Title: Tulsa turning / Norma Jean Lutz.

Description: Owasso, OK : NUWSLink, Inc., [2017] | Series: The Tulsa series ; #2 | Originally published: Barbour Publishing, 1993.

Identifiers: ISBN 9781947397002 (paperback) | ISBN 9780985957100 (ePub)

Subjects: LCSH: Reporters and reporting—Oklahoma—Tulsa—History—20th century—Fiction. | Race riots—Oklahoma—Tulsa—History—20th century—Fiction. | Man-woman relationships—Oklahoma—Tulsa—History—20th century—Fiction. | Ku Klux Klan (1915- )—Fiction. | Tulsa (Okla.)—Race relations—History—20th century—Fiction. | LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Historical fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3562.U857 T852 2017 (print) | LCC PS3562.U857 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23

Digital: ISBN: 978-0-9859571-0-0

Tulsa Turning originally published by Barbour Publishing, 1993

Copyright © 2017 by NUWSLink, Inc. and Norma Jean Lutz.

Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, NUWSLink, Inc., 8703-R North Owasso Expressway, Ste. 143, Owasso, OK 74055

All of the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Note from The Author

Regarding the Tulsa Series

The 4-title Tulsa Series has had a long and interesting journey. In the late 1990s, I had just completed the last of four contemporary romance novels for Barbour Publishing’s Heartsong line. At that time, I was approached by my editor at Barbour to submit ideas to him for historical fiction.

Because I’ve lived in the Tulsa area for most of my adult life, I knew a little bit about the infamous Tulsa Race Riot of 1921. But honestly, at that time, no one talked much about it. (That later changed as survivors began to speak up.) I knew that that event would serve as the backdrop for my historical, Christian, Tulsa series.

The very same day that my editor asked me for historical fiction ideas, I sat down and wrote out thumbnail sketches for all four titles. He liked the ideas and offered a 4-book contract.

All four, then, were originally published through Barbour’s Heartsong line where they enjoyed immense popularity. (I still have file folders full of fan letters.)

Later, when the idea of eBooks was in its infancy, an independent group offered to publish my series digitally. As often happens in the publishing industry, the whole thing fell apart due to 1) being ahead of the curve regarding digitally-produced books, and 2) poor business management.

And, yes, yet another group purporting to be an independent publisher, also had their hands in the pie. That too fell apart.

Discouraging to say the least.

The Tulsa Series languished until I recently resurrected them and placed them on Amazon’s Kindle. Even with that, little was done to promote the titles.

But this is a new day!

Presently, the four titles are decked out in delightful new covers, plus all will now be available in both print and digitally.

I trust as a reader, you will enjoy these stories as much as I enjoyed researching and writing them.

You can connect with me here:

[e-mail]

http://www.beanovelist.com/

https://www.facebook.com/BeANovelist/

http://www.cleanteenreads.net/

https://www.facebook.com/CleanTeenReadsNet/

Chapter 1

Clarette Fortier stepped from the dim subway kiosk into brilliant May sunshine. Her heels clicked smartly on the New York sidewalk as she threaded her way through the early morning go-to-work crush on Sixth Street. The highest windows on the soaring skyscrapers captured golden glints of sunlight and reflected down into the canyon where she stood waiting for the signal light to change.

A fat bus, bulging with passengers, chugged by leaving a cloud of smelly exhaust. A horse-drawn vegetable vendor clip-clopped along the slow lane. Cabbies shouted at the slower vehicles ahead of them, and blasting horns cut sharply through the air. Clarette felt the throbbing pulse of the city in her feet as she stood there.

Firming her cloche hat down upon her dark bobbed hair, she hurried across with the crowd when the signal switched green.A window dresser in a department store window struggled to set aright a demure blonde mannequin with a boyish figure. The smiling, low-lidded statue was clad in a nifty flapper dress done in pink silk with row upon row of swishing fringes. No doubt the silk had come from one of Clarette's father's warehouses. The pink fringed number was perfect for a night of dancing at the Dixie Club in Harlem. As she stopped for a moment to watch the mannequin secured into place, she was painfully aware of her plain gray suit.

The drab suit was the price she paid for working in the newsroom at the New York American. A price she willingly paid.  

No cutsey leggy numbers in my newsroom, Sid Epstein barked at her the day he hired her. I don't want these hot-headed men ogling over no dame. The thick stogie rolled from one side of his mouth to the other as he talked. They gotta keep their minds on the job. What minds they got.

He looked with reproof at the raspberry crepe she'd worn that day. It was the longest dress hanging in her closet at the time. But Sid had hired her and gave her a chance to be a reporter. With great reservations—but he did give her a chance. She promptly went out and purchased three plain, straight-cut gray suits. She called them her work uniforms. A joke her roommate, Herta, delighted in. On days when Clarette knew she would be out on assignment, she wore her knickerbockers and oxfords. Dear Grandmother Fortier would have fainted dead away if she'd lived to see the day women wore trousers on the street. Clarette, on the other hand, felt that 1921 was an exciting time to be alive.

She turned from the window to continue her walk down Sixth toward Broadway—but not before the window dresser gave her a bold wink. She smiled and winked back, then giggled at the look on his face. She'd not walked far when she saw through the crowd, a lean ginger-colored boy running toward her, his shoe-shine box banging against his side at each step. A man's discarded fedora was mashed on his head, and his long thin legs sprinted expertly through the throng. Shanks was usually at Grand Central this time of morning. Something must be amiss for him to be headed this direction.

Miss Clarie, Miss Clarie, he called when he caught sight of her. I gots one, Miss Clarie. I gots a tip for you. She slowed her pace and moved closer to the buildings where the foot traffic was lighter. Shanks came toward her on a dead run, and she feared for a moment that he'd not stop before he bowled her over. I been looking for you, Miss Clarie. I gots a good one.

He stopped directly in front of her, his brown face shiny from sweat. No telling how far he'd run.

Good morning, Shanks. Aren't you missing the best time for customers at the station?

He nodded and pulled off his hat and clutched it to his heaving chest. Yes'm. But I gots a tip for you.

Clarette never regretted buying breakfast for this boy one morning a few months ago. He'd been a loyal friend ever since. His name, he told her, was Spindle-Shanks. At least that's what everyone called him. She never asked if there was a last name, and she had quickly shortened it to Shanks.

She glanced around to see if any of the other men from the newsroom were in the vicinity. It must be something hot, for you to leave your money-making post.

A raid, they said.

The Feds?

Uh huh. The ones whats been taking shines most every morning and talking all the time about who's next.

She shook her head. Sorry, Shanks. Good try, but a speakeasy raid is old news. There must be a dozen every night.This don't be no jive joint, Miss Clarie. They done got 'em a rum runner. Out there. He pointed a long finger in the general direction of the Atlantic Ocean. Some fella from the islands. They say they been waiting to get him.

You don't say. She pulled out a notebook and pencil from her bag. "Now that would make a great story." She scribbled the name of the pier and a few other details as he described them.

Pulling a coin from her purse she tossed it to him, and he expertly caught it. This won't cover all the shines you missed, but it's the best I can do.

Don't matter, Miss Clarie. I'se glad to help. With a quick nod, he smashed the old fedora on his head, flashed her a bright smile, and disappeared through the crowd.

Jamming the pen and paper back in her bag, she wondered how she could nab this story with no interference. Sid seemed to think she needed a watch dog each time she went out. What she desperately needed was a story all her own. Like this one. She quickened her step as she neared the American office building.

The rumrunner Shanks mentioned must be McDow, the one with the 90-foot schooner who easily did business outside the twenty-five-mile limit. Smaller runners went out to his floating bootlegging store and paid fine prices for the whiskey brought up from Nassau. The Feds must have something new going. Or a trick to get McDow further inland. She wanted to be there when they towed his ship into port.

She breezed through the revolving door of the American building and into the grand marble and brass lobby. Heavy aromas of sausage and pastrami came from the little sandwich shop adjacent to the lobby. Mr. Fabiano waved and nodded to her as she flew past his door.   

The dial above the elevator showed there'd be a wait. Her heart was thudding as she thought how she would present this to Sid.

Say, Fortier. What's the hurry? You were flying down the Sixth so fast, I couldn't catch up.

She looked over to see her co-worker, Hank Maxwell. So don't try, she snipped at him.

He shrugged and glanced up at the dial. Sure seems like a big hurry just to get to work.

I like my work. Hopefully, Hank hadn't seen her chatting with Shanks. She wanted to keep her sources to herself.

She likes her work, he mocked. Mm mm. Such a dedicated little thing. A dame in the newsroom. Cripes. You women get the vote, now you want our jobs.

Clarette wouldn't allow herself to answer. This wasn't how she would make it in the newspaper business—by winning little tiffs with two-bit fellows like Hank Maxwell.

The grate on the elevator door clattered open. Mornin' greeted the elevator operator. The young Negro girl knew most of the newsroom people well enough not to have to ask for floor numbers.

On the eighth floor, Hank pushed ahead of her out of the elevator and into the newsroom, not bothering to hold the door. But she hadn't expected him to. He informed her the day she hired on—if she wanted to work like a man, she'd be treated like a man. It never occurred to his frail mind that she could be a woman and still be a crack reporter. But he'd soon learn.

She went straight to her desk, sat down and pulled papers from the basket to look them over. Although she wanted to rush in and ask Sid for the assignment on the raid, she'd have play it cool to keep Hank from getting suspicious. If he thought for a moment that she had a lead, he'd want right in the middle of it.   She watched him out of the corner of her eye. The moment he moved to the far side of the room and immersed himself in conversation with another reporter, she grabbed the opportunity to slip into Sid's office. She took papers with her just in case Hank was looking.

Sid's answer to a knock, was never, Come in. But always Yeah, what do you want? The first few times she was terrified, but soon learned not to let him intimidate her. She stepped in and closed the door behind her.

Sid, she said, not wasting a breath. I have an inside news tip. Sid's cigar moved in his mouth, but he didn't look up. Her palms felt clammy. He might not believe her. Or he might believe her but not let her take the story. She plunged on. I've learned that McDow's rum-running schooner is being raided this very morning, and that the Coast Guard will be bringing him into port. That is, if there isn't a fight.

As Sid looked up, he hooked the cigar between his fingers. Now where would a nice little lady like you hear a thing like that? His gray eyes studied her under craggy eyebrows.

Can I take the story, Sid?

How reliable is your contact?

Solid. Shanks kept his ears open, and he wouldn't tell her anything that wasn't true. Of that much she was sure.

Even if it's true, they may have to chase McDow all the way back to Nassau to catch him.

Maybe. But maybe they'll surprise him. They have his accomplice in custody in North Carolina, and he doesn't know they have the goods on him. Maybe they'll bring him in quick and easy.

You gotta whole load of scoop don't you, Miss Fortier. He pronounced it Forty-air. Perhaps she should have made up a new name rather than taking her mother's maiden name to use. Something simple and easy, like Jones.

I have enough. She let him think on it a minute. He never offered her a chair. She tried not to shift from one foot to the other. Will you let me take it?

It's a long shot.

You're a gambler. If nothing turns up by noon, I'll get right back here and still have that society article ready for press time. She held her breath.

"I guess I got nothing to lose. Maybe it's a lead the Times don't know about yet."

She didn't answer. It might be an exclusive, but she wasn't certain. Time's wasting, Chief.

He waved the cold cigar at her. Go on. Go sniff it out. If it comes to anything, get up-close photos. If they're any good, we might use them in the rotogravure section of the Sunday magazine.

Yes, sir. Excitement exploded inside her. She turned to the door.Miss Fortier?

Yes?

Better take Maxwell with you. The waterfront's no place for a lady. Even in the daylight.

But Sid...

Get on out of here. Time's wasting.

Her excitement was quickly deflated. She would have rather taken one of the young cub reporters, than Hank Maxwell.

She grabbed her Graflex camera from beneath her desk, along with the bag loaded with boxes of cut film. Hank was at the water cooler. Hank, she called out. All heads turned, including Hank's. She walked toward the door. Grab your hat. Chief wants you to come with me. If she was going to have to put up with him, she'd make it as hard on him as possible.

She could hear him groaning. With a dame? Me? Why me? And the accompanying catcalls from his buddies: Have a good time Maxie. Don't get lost. "All work and no play,