Oasis of Night

by J. S. Cook

  “Something I can get for you?”

  “I… came to see your bartender, Mr. DuBois.”

  I noticed the small package under his arm. “You brought him a present.”

  Picco’s gaze was full of anguish. Clearly he was torn between doing the right thing and doing the human thing. “What happened to Mr. DuBois’s lady friend wasn’t his fault. He must be feeling horrible right now.” He thrust the parcel at me like he was afraid it might explode. “Please give this to him when he comes in.” He made to turn away, but I caught his arm.

  “Sergeant, I wanted to thank you for your help. I’m afraid I haven’t been as… polite to you as I could have been, other circumstances notwithstanding.”

  He understood immediately what I meant, and a slight smile curved his lips. He blushed and ducked his head. “If you ever tell anybody about that, I’ll kill you.”

  I crossed my heart and hoped to die. “You’re a good cop, Picco—a real good cop—and as you know, I tend to get into scrapes. I’m hoping I can call on you to help me out sometime.”

  He fixed me with a glance. “You heard about Ricketts?”

  “Yeah.”

  He sucked in his breath and made the tutting noise that, around here, is shorthand for acute disapproval. “He was taking money from Octavian. Octavian and Ricketts had that money delivered to my house to try and make me look bad.”

  “That diverted suspicion away from Ricketts and onto you.”

  “Yes. Once Octavian had Ricketts where he wanted him, he needed to get me out of the way for a while—so Octavian’s men hauled me off the street and stuffed me in that cave over on the Southside.”

  I gave him the benefit of my biggest grin. “Yeah… that cave.”

  “I meant what I said.” He narrowed his eyes, and his accent was suddenly very strong. “I’ll kill ye. I’ll break your fuckin’ legs, I will.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Take it easy, Picco.” Something occurred to me. “So Octavian turned on Julie Fayre, is that it?”

  “I don’t know. Octavian almost certainly had something to do with Johnny Mahoney’s murder. I think him and Parsons got too close to that Greek ship down there in the harbor. Octavian was probably bringing something in here, but he couldn’t offload whatever it was with Mahoney and Parsons hanging around all the time, so he stuck a knife in Johnny Mahoney—or paid someone to do it. Lots of people around here are hard up for a dollar.”

  “So Octavian, Ricketts, and Julie Fayre were probably splitting the Fort Pepperrell money three ways. Octavian’s company didn’t bother to bid on the project because it was easier to have a dummy corporation—or a stand-in like Fayre Construction—do it, and he could control matters behind the scenes.”

  Picco nodded. “You’re not half bad at this, Stoyles. What I mean is, you got a brain. You ever think about being a police officer?”

  I waved it off. “There’s more to this—Octavian, the Greek ship, Johnny Mahoney, Fort Pepperrell—it all points to something more than just skimming money off various construction projects. Julie killed Ken Cartwright to shut him up about the site problems—that meant more money for Octavian and his buddies. She poisoned me and was coming after Chris because we caught on to her, and she couldn’t have that. But what else is Octavian doing? There’s more to this—that Greek ship, for one thing.”

  “Stamos, huh? That’s a Greek name.”

  “My mother was Greek.”

  I knew why Sam Halim had disappeared. Consular attaché, my ass.

  I must have looked like I was having some kind of seizure or something, because Picco grabbed my forearm. “Hey! You all right?”

  “Phonse, you’re a goddamn genius.” I grabbed him by the shoulders and planted one on him, right there in the middle of the Cafe.

  THE YOUNG lady behind the counter at Western Union was pretty, polite, and seemed genuinely interested in helping me when I explained what I wanted to do. “But, Mr. Stoyles, sir, what if there’s no one by that name to receive your cable? You’ll have wasted your money.”

  “Oh, someone will receive it,” I said. “They’re the police, right? They’re always looking for information.”

  “All right, Mr. Stoyles, if that’s what you want.” She handed me the message form. “Write your message here.”

  I knew exactly what I wanted to say, just two words: I KNOW.

  I paid the lady and walked away smiling.

  WHEN I got back to my cafe, the lunch rush was in full swing and Dave was busy in the kitchen. I had given Chris the day off, but Anita and Janice were busy serving customers, and my other bartender—a silent Dutchman named Piet—was busy mixing drinks.

  Anita unloaded a tray of sandwiches and Cokes to a table in the corner and came over. “Jack, there’s a fellow over there waiting to see you.” She nodded at a thin, somber-looking gent in a pale gray suit. “He says he’s from the government.”

  Great. Tax trouble was all I needed. I went over and introduced myself and offered him a drink, hoping to lessen the blow—but he wasn’t from the tax department. He was from the museum.

  He offered me a thin, dry hand to shake. “Morris Blount, Mr. Stoyles. I’m from the Newfoundland Museum. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

  “Uh, sure. Step into my office.” I showed him to a chair and shut the door. “So, what am I in for? Did I steal something from one of the exhibits?”

  He gazed at me, expressionless and flat-eyed, and I felt like a minnow right before it’s eaten by a shark. “Last week we were moving one of our exhibits, and we found something that doesn’t belong.” He reached into his briefcase and brought out a small wooden box. He placed the box on my desk and opened it to reveal a little bowl, about as large in diameter as the palm of a man’s hand and seemingly carved out of a single piece of speckled, gray-and-pink stone. “This is a diorite bowl, Mr. Stoyles. It is Egyptian, late third dynasty, and was unearthed in an area about two kilometers south of the Giza Plateau, near Cairo.” He lifted it out reverently and laid it on my desk.

  “Pretty.” I didn’t dare touch it. I had an idea how much a thing like that was worth, and I was terrified I’d break it. “So this was in… your museum?”

  “Correct, and that is not all.” He reached again into his briefcase and brought out a plain manila envelope, the contents of which he dumped onto my desk: a slip of folded paper, a book of matches from the Heartache Cafe….

  …and the gold cartouche given to me by Sam Halim.

  “I don’t understand.” If ever you have cause to question me—now, or in the coming days—remember that I am your friend.

  “The bowl was located at the rear of our exhibit dealing with the early peoples—the Thule, the Dorset Eskimo—on a ledge that is normally inaccessible to museum visitors.” Blount folded his hands and regarded me quizzically. “Why someone should leave an ancient Egyptian artifact in such a place is, frankly, inconceivable, but it was the addition of the items which you now hold in your hands that puzzles us the most.”

  “The gold cartouche was a gift from a… dear friend.” There. I give you a cartouche of your own…. “I guess he left the book of matches too. I’ll be honest, Mr. Blount. I don’t have any idea where the bowl comes into it.”

  He gestured at me. “A thread, Mr. Stoyles.”

  “Huh?” I glanced down at my shirt, thinking maybe I had a button loose. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you familiar with the legend of the Minotaur?”

  “Yeah—Greek or something, isn’t it?” My mother was Greek…. Stamos is a Greek name….

  “When the Athenian hero Theseus went into the labyrinth to fight the Minotaur, the goddess Ariadne gave him a ball of string.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Blount’s lips tightened. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn he was fighting off a smile. “So he might find his way back.”

  I sat there staring at him while the clock above my desk counted off the moments. “A ball of string.” I reached
out and touched the bowl with just the tips of my fingers, and found it cool and smooth.

  “Diorite is an extremely hard stone, Mr. Stoyles, and very difficult to work with, but ancient artisans recognized its innate beauty. Even the most unpromising chunk of diorite could be shaped into something beautiful, something… useful.” He placed the bowl back into its protective box and handed the box to me. “There you are, Mr. Stoyles.” He rose to go.

  “Wait just a minute! You just said this was—you said this was valuable—and now you’re just gonna leave it here?”

  Blount put on his hat. “Unfortunately, Mr. Stoyles, the museum does not have the financial resources to send someone to Cairo, and yet the bowl must be returned to its rightful owner.” He fished an old-fashioned pocket watch out of his vest and peered at it. “Oh dear, I must be going. Mr. Stoyles, thank you, and if ever I can be of any service to you, please don’t hesitate to call. I’ll just show myself out.”

  He slipped past me and was out the back door, moving faster than a guy like him ought to. I went after him, but I was too slow. He had vanished, probably into any one of the narrow laneways that crisscrossed this part of the city.

  I went back to my office and got on the horn to the museum. “Look here, some guy called Mr. Blount just left a valuable piece of Egyptian… uh… stuff here. I can’t be responsible for everything that people leave in my cafe, so you better send somebody to come and pick it up, okay?”

  The young man at the other end of the phone seemed genuinely puzzled. “Mr. Blount, did you say?”

  “Yeah, Blount—skinny guy with a light suit and a briefcase.”

  “Would you mind waiting for a moment, Mr. Stoyles?”

  There was a thump as he laid the phone down and the sound of people talking in the background and things being moved around on the desk. I waited for five minutes, then ten, and I was just about to hang up when there was a click—and the low hum of the dial tone filled my ear. When I called back, the line was busy. It was busy every time I called, and I spent the better part of the afternoon calling. It was nearly six when I remembered the slip of paper Blount had given me. I fished it out of my pocket and looked at it.

  There were two words, printed in block letters, in black ink: I KNOW.

  I understood what I had to do.

  Chapter 10

  IT TOOK a few days to tie things up around the Heartache. I called my local suppliers and advised them that all deliveries would go to Chris and that he would be responsible for ordering and for taking possession of whatever the Heartache needed to keep going in my absence.

  I got hold of Frankie Missalo and explained about Julie, and I asked him if he’d keep an eye on Chris, sort of look out for him.

  “You sure this is what you want to do, Jack? Egypt’s neutral, but maybe you don’t want to be heading out into the unknown like this. Case you haven’t heard, there’s a war on.”

  “I know there’s a war on.” I pretended to sock him in the jaw—it was an old joke between the two of us—and he laughed. “It’s just something I have to do, Frankie—you know?”

  He laughed. “Is it a dame?”

  “No. No, it’s not a dame… it’s a little stone bowl, actually.”

  Frankie looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “A bowl.” He shook his head. “I never could figure you out, Jack, but hey, if it makes you happy….” He stuck out his hand and I took it. “Send me a postcard with the pyramids on it, huh?”

  “Thanks, Frankie. You’ll, uh….” Chris was tidying up behind the bar so I lowered my voice. “You’ll keep an eye on him?”

  “Till you get back.” He tilted his head and peered at me. “You are coming back, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, Frankie. I’m coming back.” I walked him to the door and waved good-bye as he ran to catch his bus. It was late afternoon and the Heartache was empty of customers. The radio was playing softly, and dust motes spun in the stray shafts of sunlight shining through the plate glass windows at the front. Everything was as it should be. Leaving was going to be so strange—it seemed like I’d just arrived here five minutes ago—but at the same time, it felt right, like something I had to do.

  My suitcases were packed and the diorite bowl was resting in its wooden box, wrapped in several layers of cloth for the long overseas voyage. I had purchased a flat gold chain from a local jeweler and had the cartouche Sam had given me mounted on it like a pendant. I wore it inside my clothes, the gold warming to my skin, and whenever I was alone, I’d pull it out and smooth the inscription between my fingertips, remembering. He’d been so formal that day, but there was a kindness underneath the affectation of ceremony.

  It is inappropriate to refuse a gift….

  Things had fallen into place for me almost from the start—at least as far as this trip was concerned. When I’d explained things to Chris, he had immediately volunteered to look after the Cafe while I was gone, and urged me to get started as soon as possible. Frankie Missalo had turned up one afternoon with twenty bucks he owed me, and as soon as he heard the story of Sam, the museum, and the diorite bowl, offered to find me a seat on a military flight—something that’s only ever done for really important people, ambassadors and politicians and other high-ranking officials. My passport was updated, and the special visas I needed to enter the country were pushed through much faster than I would have ever thought possible. I was going to Egypt.

  I was actually going to Egypt.

  “JACK? GOT a minute?” Chris poked his head around the door of my apartment, his jacket in one hand.

  “Sure, Chris. Come on in.” I cast around for somewhere to sit. My suitcases, some of them still open, were laid across every available flat surface, and the various maps and guidebooks I had been staring at for days were scattered everywhere. “Sit down, if you can find a place.”

  “Jack, I just wanted to say good-bye and wish you a good trip.” He stuck his hand out, but I dragged him into a hug. “I’m gonna miss you.” He pressed his face into my shoulder and hugged me hard. “Place won’t be the same without you.”

  “I’ll be back.” I pulled away a bit and looked at him. He’d lost weight in recent days, and his eyes were shadowed with dark circles, probably from lack of sleep. “I asked Frankie Missalo to look in on you while I’m gone.” He opened his mouth to protest, but I interrupted. “Humor me, Chris. Huh?”

  “Sure, Jack.” There was a noise from downstairs, and a voice calling his name. “I gotta go.”

  I looked out over the banister and down into the Cafe. Alphonsus Picco was standing by the bar, waiting for Chris. He looked as nervous as a bridegroom. “Picco, huh?”

  Chris was blushing and I was glad. Goddammit, I wanted him to be happy. I wanted us all to be happy. “Yeah. He, uh… well, after that whole thing with Julie, I….”

  “No need to explain.”

  “I really like him. He really likes me. We just go for walks and stuff. We talk.”

  I grinned. “You kissed him yet?”

  “Yeah.” He wouldn’t look at me.

  “Is he a good kisser?”

  “Jack!”

  “Okay, okay….” I made a gesture of surrender. “You’re happy, I’m happy.”

  “Jack, don’t spread it around, okay? He’s a cop. It could cause trouble if people knew.”

  “I’ll be as silent as the grave.” I shook his hand. “Take care of the Heartache till I get back, huh? And Chris?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  I watched him go down the stairs and out the door with Alphonsus Picco, and I’ll admit I felt a little bit sad—but I always get that way when things change, even if the change is for the better. When it comes to the past—especially my own—it’s like I have selective amnesia.

  I checked my suitcases and closed them up, and laid my passport and my visas on the table where I’d find them as I went out the door. I wound my watch and set my alarm for six in the morning and turned out all the lights in my apartme
nt.

  It was nearly midnight when the telephone rang, and I’d been asleep for about half an hour. I groped for the light, turned it on, and jiggled the receiver off the hook. “Yeah?”

  “Hello, Jack. Did I wake you?” His voice was as warm and rich as I remembered.

  “Sam. Sam, where are you?” I clutched the receiver till my knuckles hurt. “Where are you calling from?”

  “I am in Cairo.” A long sigh, and silence before he spoke again. “Something curious has happened to me, Jack. I’m afraid I don’t remember anything. I don’t remember how I got here, or why I came.” He began to weep, and the sound of it nearly broke my heart.

  I clutched the phone as if I could will myself to him through the wires.

  “Hold on, Sam. Just hold on. I’ll be there in the morning.”

  Valley of the Dead

  Chapter 1

  AUGUST, 1942, and the sun was just rising over the Nile when we arrived in Cairo. I’d slept most of the way over, lulled into insensibility by the droning of the big plane’s engines, waking only once when a grinning blond kid in an Air Corps uniform offered me a hot cup of coffee. I didn’t know what Frankie Missalo had told them, but none of the other guys spoke to or even looked at me. Maybe they figured I was on some covert spying mission, trying to slip into Egypt on the QT or something. Either way, I was grateful for the quiet and the chance to catch up on my sleep, but every time my eyes closed, I ended up dreaming about Sam.

  You ever have one of those ordinary days when it seems like nothing interesting is going to happen to you? I mean the sort of day where you just disappear into your work until the whole world goes away? Sam Halim walked into my life that way, on a day so ordinary it could have been any one of a thousand others. By the time he walked back out, I was hooked, brother, but good.

  I’d been in agony ever since the day he’d disappeared from Newfoundland. It was hard to believe he’d only been missing for two weeks. When I’d heard his voice on the telephone the night before I left, it was all I could do to hold on. I’ll be there in the morning, I’d told him. We were pushing it with everything we had, to fly from Newfoundland to North Africa in just one night, but that didn’t matter to me. They could burn the engines out, just as long as I made it into Cairo in one piece.