“My name is Dodie Wyatt.”
“Well, Miss Wyatt, where does this Mama Keel of yours keep herself?”
“Inland a way, behind the trees. She was there at the fire last night.”
“Lots of people were at the fire last night.”
She could feel an undercurrent in his voice but she didn’t know what it meant or what to make of it. She cast a glance up at his profile, his high forehead hidden behind the tangle of thick brown hair, the hollow of his cheek in shadow under his deep-set eyes. A dusting of sand etched on one eyebrow.
“Mr. Hudson.”
He swung round to look at her. Maybe he heard some undercurrent in her voice too.
“Tell me where you come from.”
“From the United States,” he said without the usual pride in the statement that most Americans seemed to take in it. “From Chicago.”
“It must be cold there in winter.”
“Cold enough to freeze the thoughts in your head.”
“And are you on holiday here?”
He laughed, a loose easy sound. She liked his laugh. It was the only time he let control slip through his fingers.
“Hell no! Do I look like a guy who comes on vacation to the Bahamas? I’m not in the forces, if you’re wondering, because I had tuberculosis as a child and one of my lungs is a mess. No, I’m here working.”
Nothing more. No explanation. What kind of work? But she didn’t ask. She was aware of barriers within him and she didn’t push against them. She knew only too well that barriers were what held a person together, the scaffolding of daily life.
“Are you thinking of staying long?”
He looked out at the vast world of blue that was the sea and the sky all rolled into one, and drew a breath through his teeth as if to taste the scent of it.
“I would like to stay longer,” he said. “Even if it’s just to make sure you’re all right after this disaster. You’ll need to find another house.”
He kept walking, as though his words were slight, unimportant things, but Dodie felt the pull of them, like gravity, drawing her to him.
“Don’t stay,” she said.
He stopped to look at her and wrapped a fist into the cotton of her sodden dress, holding on to her. “Why not?”
“Because I’m bad luck. Two nights ago I helped a man who was wounded. He died and the next day my house burned down. I think I’m in trouble. I’m warning you that it could be dangerous to be around me, Mr. Hudson.”
His eyes locked on hers and the hairs rose on her forearms.
“Call me Flynn,” he said, and then added with a smile, “I’ll stay.”
A pulse started up in her throat.
* * *
They ate potato-and-squash fritters fried outdoors by Mama Keel under a darkening star-studded sky, along with strips of fresh conch fished out of a rocky cove farther along the coast.
“It won’t bite you none.” Mama Keel chuckled at Flynn as he regarded the rubbery conch flesh on his plate with caution.
Around them on a scrubby stretch of dirt, children of all colors, shapes, and sizes tumbled like puppies. One small girl called Rosa picked up a garlicky strip of conch from his plate and dropped it into her own wide-open mouth. “See? It’s real good.”
Flynn regarded the child as if he seriously expected her to drop down dead, and when she didn’t, he fed the rest of his shellfish to the thin-ribbed hound that skulked under the house. The way his hand ran soothingly along the animal’s flank told Dodie he’d spent more time around dogs than around children.
“You done good, I hear, Mr. Hudson. Clearing up our Dodie’s shack like that,” Mama Keel commented.
He lit one of his rolled cigarettes and nodded respectfully to the tall black woman. He tipped back his head and stared up at the night sky as if he’d never seen anything like it before. It soared over them, tar black and embedded with what looked like a million chips of glass. Moths and other winged insects were blundering in close, drawn by the light of the fire, and somewhere off in the trees a shrill hissing scream made Flynn jump.
Mama Keel chuckled. “That there’s just a bitty old barn owl.”
“Is that a fact? We don’t get none too many of those round the backstreets of Chicago.” He drew on his cigarette, spat out a shred of tobacco, and said, “I hear you done good yourself, Mama Keel, in caring for that wounded man Dodie found.”
“I didn’t do nothin’. Just gave her some ointments to ease his pain. She done the carin’ herself, but got herself in bad with the police over it.”
He switched his gaze to Dodie. “How bad?”
“Nothing much.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.” Dodie jumped to her feet. “I’ll put the children to bed, Mama.”
She hurried out of reach of the conversation. But with one infant on her hip and little Rosa clinging to her skirt, she paused in the doorway when she heard Mama Keel stretch out in her creaky rocking chair under the stars and say, “How about you hand me one of them smokes of yours, Mr. Hudson, and tell me what in the good Lord’s name you doin’ in these parts?”
“I was hired to do a job.”
“What kinda job?”
“Can’t tell you straight out, Mama, but it’s a job that means I have to poke my nose in places where people don’t want it poked.”
Dodie heard Mama exhale smoke from her cigarette and the whine of mosquitoes grew louder.
“You know, Mr. Hudson,” the black woman said, “when I meet a smart man like you whose head is just buzzin’ with thoughts, sometimes I wonder what they are, but most of the time I just want to smack them out of his head before he does harm with them.”
Dodie heard Flynn’s chuckle of amusement as the evening’s darkness settled around them as warmly as a blanket.
* * *
“What house? She don’t need no house. She can stay here.”
“Mama, she’s not a child. She needs a place of her own.”
“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,” Dodie told them. “Whose house is it?”
“It belongs to a man who has gone to work in Miami for a spell,” Flynn said. They were sitting around the table, the three of them. “I heard of it when I was looking for somewhere for myself.”
“So where you livin’?” Mama Keel asked.
“I’m lodging in a room over on the other side of town.”
“So it’s a shack,” Dodie said, “this place you’re talking about.”
“Yep. It’s not much. But it’s empty and it’s free. You could take a look at it now, if you want.”
“Why now?” Mama demanded. “It’s dark outside. Tomorrow is time enough.”
“Today is my day off, Mama,” Dodie pointed out. “I’m working tomorrow.” She turned to Flynn. “Where is it?”
“In Bain Town.”
Dodie and Mama Keel looked at each other.
“That’s a black district,” Mama said, shaking her head. “She don’t belong in no black district.”
“I figured”—Flynn turned toward Dodie—“if you’re in trouble, no one is going to come looking for you there.”
“Trouble?” Mama Keel snatched her clay pipe from her mouth. “What trouble?”
* * *
The shack had a tin roof and was tiny. But it boasted a lock on the door, curtains over the windows, and the roof looked sound. It was empty except for a stained mattress on the floor and a faded ruby-red armchair whose gray horsehair stuffing was emerging through its skin like an old man’s whiskers. The room was spotlessly clean and in one corner stood a brand-new galvanized bucket, clearly the work of Flynn.
Why are you doing this for me?
But the words didn’t reach her lips. Whatever his answer might be, she didn’t want to hear it. His kindness warmed cold places inside h
er where shadows fretted against each other and she didn’t want to lose that warmth. Whatever his answer, it would change things. She wanted to believe it was just a coincidence that he happened to be passing last night and saw the flames. Nothing more than chance that brought Flynn Hudson into her life.
She knew she would have to ask him questions, of course she did. About his life. About why he was on the island. Maybe even about whether he knew Morrell. She would ask them, she promised herself that. But not yet.
She said simply, “Thank you, Flynn.”
In the flickering light of the candle the contours of his face seemed to shift, unwilling to be pinned down, and as if he could read what was in her mind he kept his eyes well guarded. Their expression was polite and warm, but that was as far as it went. Yet when he lifted her hand and placed a heavy old-fashioned iron key on her palm, his fingers lingered against hers, as though reluctant to give back her hand. He inclined his head so close she could smell the sea salt in his hair.
“Sleep well, Miss Wyatt,” he said, and left.
From Mama Keel Dodie had brought a pair of clean though threadbare sheets, two candles, and her freshly laundered waitressing uniform. But when she lay down on the mattress she could hear the night’s silence breathing within the room and the words “Sleep well” humming inside her head. Without the sound of waves she couldn’t sleep.
* * *
Dodie opened her eyes. The edge of dawn was nudging its way around the thin curtains and curling up on the floor like a ginger tomcat. For a while she lay there, listening to the unfamiliar noises in the street outside—the creak of a cart, the insolent bray of a donkey, the swish of a broom, and a woman’s voice quietly crooning a hymn. Life in Bain Town started early. Most of its residents worked as servants in the city, so had to get their own chores done at the crack of dawn before heading into downtown Nassau to spend their days doing white man’s chores.
Quickly she dressed in her uniform and unlocked the door. A standpipe farther down the street had a group of women already gathered around it, but they all stopped and inspected Dodie with round surprised eyes. She smiled at them and raised a hand in greeting but no one responded except a child.
She had to be at work at eleven o’clock for a twelve-hour shift, but first she had something to do. As she hurried down the dusty road, a cockerel crowed to announce that the sun had stopped dragging its feet and had painted the sky blood red.
Chapter 21
Flynn
“Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing here?” Sir Harry Oakes demanded. “I thought you’d cleared off and left the island.”
“No,” Flynn answered softly. “I’m still here.”
Flynn remained in deep shadow while the early-morning sun came slinking around the side of the villa. By day it was a cheerful place of red tiles, latticework, flawless lawns, and a long balcony draped in the fragrance of bougainvillea, but at this hour, veiled in semidarkness, it exuded a different smell that was masked by the flowers when they opened up. It was the stink of money. Money and secrets. Flynn knew that smell like he knew the smell of his own breath.
Beyond the luxury property’s perimeter the green swathes of Cable Beach Country Club and Golf Course had yet to wake up, but the broad-chested man in front of Flynn had already descended the outside staircase of his sprawling white-shuttered home and inhaled the new day with relish. Even in his work boots and khaki shorts, Sir Harry Oakes cut an impressive figure. Heavy-featured and well muscled, he had the look of a man who had wrenched gold from the land with his bare hands and thought nothing of it. He was about to set off on a stroll of inspection of his Westbourne estate before the staff arrived.
“What’s on your mind?” Oakes demanded.
“Johnnie Morrell is dead.”
“Jesus Christ, Hudson, I know. I heard that already. Poor bastard.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“The dumb jerk should have watched out for himself better.”
“He had other things on his mind that night.”
“So what do you expect?” Oakes challenged. “You want me to wear sackcloth and ashes or something for the guy?”
Oakes was breathing heavily. Flynn had dealt most of his life with men like Oakes, guys who liked to talk with their fists. The Chicago rackets were full of mobsters with more brawn than brain; that’s why they needed him. Thinking was something he was good at. He’d seen men shot through the heart because they believed a bullet or a knife or a broken bottle held all the answers. Hell, they’d forgotten that you have to keep dancing the dance, weaving the web, shuffling the cards, if you want to wake up each day without a hole in your head.
“I want you to know I’m staying around for a bit.”
“Not too long, Hudson. You’ve got to tell that shit Meyer Lansky in Miami that I’m not doing no deals. Tell him to stay out of my way, to keep his boys off my turf. You got that? I’m not having the mob hanging around Nassau.” The line of his jaw set firm, his shoulders hunched.
Flynn kept one eye on the fists. You never knew with Oakes. Some days he was like a bull looking for a red rag. “Okay, I’ll do that. But he won’t like being told, you can bet your next buck on that.”
“That’s your problem.”
“You’re the one with a problem, Sir Harry.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? What’s your beef now?”
“Johnnie Morrell is my beef. The small matter of how a knife found its way into his guts.”
Oakes didn’t flinch. If anything, those fists of his quieted down, but his gaze shifted to somewhere over Flynn’s shoulder.
“Morrell was a fool,” Oakes said, “to let anyone get so close. The police are saying it was local unrest, that some resentful guy—probably drunk—waylaid him and—”
“Do the police know that Morrell was here that night?”
Oakes gave a hard smile and didn’t even bother to answer the question. Somewhere in the distance a motor throbbed. Sounded like a boat engine.
“When he left here, did you have him followed?” Flynn asked.
“No.”
A silence slid onto the damp grass between them. Flynn let it lie there.
“What are you implying?”
“Morrell came to see you that night and immediately afterward he died,” Flynn pointed out.
“A coincidence.”
“One hell of a coincidence.”
He went for Flynn. Not bad speed for a man in his sixties. Must have been good when he was younger, but too much gold in his boots had made him slow. Ten years earlier he might have caught Flynn with the punch he threw, but Flynn swayed back on his heels and the blow thumped nothing but air. Oakes growled and looked around, searching for the two security guards who patrolled his property, but Flynn knew they were sneaking a smoke under the tamarind tree over on the far side of the estate, well out of sight of their employer.
“Get out of here, Hudson,” Oakes snapped. “You’re annoying me.” When Flynn didn’t move, he swung back toward the house.
Flynn let him get as far as the door. “The gold is missing.”
Oakes froze. At that exact moment a great white egret drifted overhead through the darkness, heading toward the marsh lakes that sprawled over the western end of the island. Flynn glanced up and looked away quickly. Dammit, it felt like a bad omen.
Oakes’s gaze locked on Flynn. “Find it.”
“I’ll find it,” Flynn said. “On one condition.”
Oakes snorted. “You’re not in a position to lay down conditions.”
“On condition that you keep the police off the girl’s back.”
“What girl?”
“You know what girl.”
“It’s your own fucking people you need to worry about. Meyer Lansky doesn’t like loose ends. That girl is a loose end.”
�
�I can take care of that.”
Oakes studied him in the dim light while Flynn lit a cigarette. The thing about Oakes was that he was his own man, he didn’t play by anybody else’s rules. He was a crass individual who possessed a bulldozer mentality, but at the same time he was a generous man. And now he was facing down the mob alone.
Christ, Flynn had to admire the guy. Oakes had guts. That counted for something in his book. But Oakes was getting his nose put out of joint not only by the mob and the likes of Lansky, but by the arrival of the military as well. The war had come to the Bahamas with a vengeance, and Oakes was not top dog anymore. Even he could not control the might of the military. They had swept on to the island and shifted the balance of power in their favor, so that men like Oakes and the Bay Street Boys had to watch their step.
Without another word Flynn started to move away across the lawn, the tip of his cigarette drifting like a firefly in the darkness.
“I’ll speak to Colonel Lindop about the girl.”
Oakes’s words hung in the cool air, and somewhere close by, the boom of the surf could be heard nudging the island awake.
Chapter 22
Dodie
Dodie opened the gates of Bradenham House and walked straight in. No sounds, no lights, just the purr of silence in her ears. She had not expected it to be so easy. No padlock on the wrought-iron gates and no guard to deter her. The Sanfords seemed to believe in the inherent decency of Bahamians rather than in overnight locks.
Dodie closed the gates quietly behind her, but this time she had no intention of knocking on the front door, where the maid could inspect her from head to toe like she was something the cat had sicked up on the doorstep. This time, while the morning light was still hampered by a thin veil of darkness, she slid under the pine trees that lined the property and moved across the grass on silent feet to the rear of the house.
The garden was huge and the air was heavily scented by the blooms that grew in such profusion. Dodie took up a position behind a camellia bush that gave her a good view of the house, and the stillness was only broken by the chirruping call of a pair of bananaquits that flew to a branch of the poinciana tree and flashed their bright yellow bellies at each other.
The Far Side of the Sun Page 12
