The Styx (18 page)

Even from the slight elevation of ten feet over sea level, the greenness of the place washed over Byrne. The coastal shrubs, the hotel’s manicured lawns in the distance, all ringed by aqua-colored water that itself seemed to take on a tinge of green. He could smell the salt again, the air filling by the minute with that tang, the bite that was no longer the fish monger’s scent, but one all its own, simmering in the heat and carried by fresh wind.

Byrne watched what from a distance had looked like rag-topped stakes become sentries with plumed hats and then morph into impossibly straight-trunked and smooth-skinned royal palm trees with filigreed blades sprouting like fans at their heads. As the train eased off the bridge at the island end and slowed next to the hotel’s southern entryway, Byrne picked up the strains of music. It was a joyful, welcoming tune he could not name, but it had the same effect of making him grin and did the same to those people gathering to greet the new arrivals. When the cars came to a hissing stop, he could see an eight-piece band tucked under a garden trellis. He jumped down off the iron stairs and smartly gained position at the door to Flagler’s car as instructed.

There were some thirty people in the crowd. Byrne swept his eyes and assessed them: moneyed was the first impression, men in clean summer suits, most of light colored shades, all wearing banded boaters or white fedoras. The women were to a one draped in long dresses of white that were near blinding in the bright sun and they too were in hats of wide brim and varying shapes. Byrne’s second impression was that despite seeking this extraordinary Florida sun, they had all gauzed their skin from its touch: the hats, the long sleeves, the veils.

He saw no darkness, no slouch or averted look, no movement at the edges of the group that smelled of predation. Despite the hats, the men were all openly showing their faces, smiles and grins abounded. The music stopped, spontaneous clapping began, and Byrne turned to see Harris at the foot of the steps to number 90 and Mrs. Flagler standing for a second of adoration at the top. She was dressed in the same manner as the women awaiting her, and Harris offered his meaty hand as balance as she stepped into the graces and greetings of her own endearing flock. The respectful ovation continued as Flagler appeared, he too in a straw boater, but now in an impeccable light woolen suit that seemed far too business-like for the occasion. He had already donned the darkened eyeglasses that shielded his eyes from the bright light, and stepped down unaided after graciously tipping his hat to the gathering.

Byrne followed as unobtrusively as possible to the inner circle. Harris had done the same. And so too had Mr. McAdams, Flagler’s second-in-command. He took up a position immediately to Flagler’s left—either bathing in his boss’s greetings and adoration, or protecting him? Byrne watched the hands of those who reached out to shake hands with the patrician, tracked anyone whose fingers might go to the inside of a jacket as they approached, anyone whose eyes were down first and rose only at the last minute. The music started again as the group moved toward the hotel, the entourage stopping only long enough for a kiss to Mrs. Flagler’s cheek by another white-draped woman or a pleasant bow by an apparent friend or business acquaintance of her husband. Harris was just giving Byrne an eye-rolling high sign when both of them snapped their heads forward at a completely unexpected yelping of a dog. The shoulders ahead seemed to turn at odd angles and hat brims tipped downward, Byrne pick up the movement at ground level of a white object that was moving quickly through the forest of legs in a more or less direct line to the man he was supposed to protect. His wand was already out in his hand and he flicked it out to its length and in his peripheral vision he sensed Flagler begin to bend at the waist as if doubling over. Byrne began to step into the void that seemed to be naturally forming in front of the old man before he got his first full view of the white dog and heard Flagler say in the loudest and most emotional statement since he’d met the man: “Delos!” The white dog leapt into his master’s waiting arms, licked the old man’s chin and engendered the only smile that Byrne would ever see on Flagler’s face. Byrne retracted the baton and tried to slip it back into his coat unnoticed.

The procession continued up the steps and into the south portico of the hotel, Harris stopped at some unseen boundary and turned to his proégé, giving him the sign again that their responsibility was finished. Byrne nearly banged shoulders with Mr. McAdams.

“Interesting walking stick,” McAdams said, looking into Byrne’s eyes with a mixture of interest and mirth and then down to the coat pocket where the baton was now secreted. “But I assure you, young Pinkerton that if you had broken the neck of Mr. Flagler’s favorite living thing, it would have been the last act of protection you would have performed on this island.”

Byrne looked unblinking into McAdams’ face. The man was twenty years his elder, nearly his height, had flecks of gray in his hair and the scent of eau de toilet rose from his collar in the heat. But there were also sharp creases at the corners of his eyes. The lines made him look distinguished, or perhaps deeply tired. His words had not come off as an attempt to put Byrne in his place. That would have been a tone with which Byrne had long ago become familiar when in the company of the higher class. He considered a rejoinder, perhaps a comment that if his reflexes were so poor that he couldn’t check his first reaction, he truly wouldn’t deserve the position of protection. But he simply said, “Yes sir.”

He took a step backward then two more when a flurry of soft white fabric and a high-pitched song of “Father! Father!” seemed to push him out of the way.

Later, Byrne’s sense of it would be as a cloud of bright chiffon and a waft of gardenia, a glance of tumbling auburn and a glimpse of china skin. The enveloping hug between McAdams and this sudden woman was equal parts strong, athletic, loving and dear.

“Oh, father. I did miss you so.”

Byrne saw the thin waist, outlined by the pull of her dress under her father’s arms. He saw the hard knot of muscled calf as she stood on tiptoe. He saw the kiss she blessed to her father’s cheek and he saw the eye, green as an emerald, which caught and seemed to both notice and acknowledge him over her father’s shoulder.

“Eyes right, boy!”

Harris was at Byrne’s sleeve, pulling him back toward the train.

“Out of your league, lad. Out of your class. And out of your head if you think for a second more of the daughter of Mr. McAdams.”

Byrne blinked and turned his attention to the hands before him as Harris was flipping through a roll of money, counting out twenty dollars and then placing it in Byrne’s palm.

“That’s a week’s pay, Mr. Byrne, for services rendered and more to be expected,” Harris said. “Get your things out of the train car. It’ll cost you a nickel to walk the bridge back to the other side. Over in town I would recommend the Seminole Hotel, corner of Banyan and Narcissus. Can’t miss it. It’s the biggest damn building on the mainland. I’ll come and get you there when you’re needed.

“And I’d warn you of spendin’ time on saloon alley if it would make any difference. They’re a tough bunch of rail workers out there on a weekend night. But I’ll figure you know how to comport yourself in such an environment.”

Within minutes Byrne had his duffel containing everything he owned in hand and was walking back along the rails toward the bridge to the mainland—walking, not exactly with purpose. For some reason he kept looking back at the grand hotel, over his shoulder at first, then in an almost sidestepping crab-walk, unable to stop staring at the glow of the place, the unusual set and rustle of the long-bodied palm trees. Was he looking for another glimpse of the girl in the brilliant white dress? Or trying to set this new fairyland in the proper context of his new life? It had always been his way to assess a place — a neighborhood, a row of residences, a beer hall, a tenement alleyway. Who belonged there and who didn’t. Where was the danger mostly likely to lie? Where were the escape routes? There was something here that made him wary other than its setting and smell and air of opulence. He’d known the feeling from being in the moneyed center of New York City, the feeling of not belonging and always watching it as an outsider. But this was different, and his sense was that he was both fascinated by the island and too suspicious to turn his back on it. The other thought was that this was the kind of place his brother Danny would see as an opportunity, a target and a mark.

“Pardon, sir! Pardon!”

Byrne spun at the call and was met by the sight of a contraption that was half bicycle and half wickered lounge chair rolling toward him. A black man was up on the seat, calling out for his attention, while an elderly white couple was in the settee looking out in blissful comfort. The gentleman tipped his hat to Byrne, and he returned the greeting. The driver’s face was as unreadable as a pewter plate. Byrne stepped aside to let them pass and then watched the back of the skinny black man’s shoulders and the sway of his hips as he peddled the carriage away toward the hotel at a pace and rhythm he might be able to keep up for the rest of his life.

At the lake a swing gate on the bridge was mounted by a boy not more than ten years of age who was collecting five cents to use the pedestrian walkway to the mainland. Byrne flipped the boy a nickel and started the six-hundred-foot trek across water. Again the opaque quality of the water captured him, but he also found himself using the handrail more often than his natural athleticism would usually need. He was an urban lad, not used to being on or above water, a new experience was throwing him off his game. He would need to master it, he thought, especially if he was going to spend time in this place where water was such a dominant feature.Nearing the end of the bridge he slowed his pace. A knot of people was stopped, perhaps a dozen men, women and a couple of children, waiting on the walkway while some form of inspection went on. He noted they were all Negros, dressed cleanly, in the way of domestic workers, and carrying a variety of satchels and bags and duffels not unlike his own. The impression was that they were a group traveling or moving, but from where? The island? He stopped and took a place next to the last man, who nodded quickly up the line as if indicating Byrne should pass them by. Byrne stayed where he was. He watched the process and noted that some official was taking little time in dismissing the men and children but more thoroughly questioning the women. The man was tall and lanky and scarecrow looking, with bony shoulders and a gaunt face. At one point he reached out a long finger and lifted the chin of a woman who had seemed not to want to look into his eyes.

“Your name, woman?” Byrne heard the official say.

“Lila Jane Struthers,” the woman replied in a voice not defiant, but proud of the words spoken.

“Mizz Struthers. Do you know the woman called Shantice Carver? And don’t lie to me now cause I been lied to too many times today.”

“I know her sir, yes sir,” the woman said. “But she work the maids’ side sir an I work the laundry.”

“Have you seen this Shantice today?”

“No, sir. Lots of days go by I don’t see her.”

“When was the last time you did see her?”

“I believe I seen her over here sir on the night of the carnival,” the woman said, and this time Byrne did pick up the taste of defiance in her voice.

“I guess ya’ll following the party line today, eh Mizz Struthers? What? You all got together and decided what to tell the sheriff’s office before you even got asked?”

“I don’t know nothin’ about no party, sir,” the woman said. “An this the only line I been in today.”

The inspector made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat and moved his attention to an elderly man. Byrne took a new assessment of the scarecrow, concentrated on the man’s eyes, the line of his nose, the set of his feet for balance and another, longer look at the man’s hands to determine their strength. Was his thin build deceiving? How quick would he be to deliver a blow, or avoid one? Did all the sheriff’s men wear such black coats? And what exactly did the insignia on his lapel badge say? The official dismissed the old man and moved down to Byrne, took in the length of him from eyes to feet.

“No reason for you to wait, sir. Move on.”

Byrne didn’t move. From this close distance he could read the letters stamped into the man’s badge: “Deputy Sheriff.”

“Do I gather that there is some kind of search being performed?” Byrne said, turning his language level up a notch for the fellow. “A woman, I presume?”

The deputy’s assessment of Byrne stopped for an additional second at his feet.

“Not to be concerned, sir. Strictly a local matter.”

“Would that be local as on the island, deputy?” Byrne said. “And would the matter have anything to do with the train?”

The deputy stepped in close to Byrne, turning his head away from the workers.

“It’s a matter of a Negro prostitute shankin’ some poor bastard over in the island backwoods, sir,” the deputy said. “Not something that the Pinkertons need be bothered with.”

Byrne stepped back thinking: I’ve got to do something about these shoes. It’s like wearing a bloody sign across my forehead.