Oasis of Night

by J. S. Cook

  “Stoyles. Jack Stoyles. I was in the cab your brother was driving.”

  “Ah.” The muscles of his face flexed, drawing up the corners of the mouth while the rest of his face remained utterly still. It was a chilling spectacle. “I am glad you were not killed, as Rocky was.”

  “Yeah, well, so am I. That’s not what bothers me, though.”

  “Oh?” He drifted closer. “What bothers you?”

  Time to drop the bomb. “I think someone hired your brother to kill me.”

  “Mm.” His expression didn’t change. “That is rather a strong accusation.”

  “You have an interesting accent for someone from Gambo. I’ve never heard a Newfoundland accent that sounds like yours.”

  “Hmph.” It might have been laughter. “I have been working overseas for many years.”

  “Is that so? Sounds Turkish to me… or maybe it’s Greek.”

  “How interesting.”

  “So if you are Greek….” I left it hanging. “You know, you remind me of a picture I saw recently. You familiar with a guy named Picco?”

  “Mr. Stoyles.” The smile came and went. “Is there a purpose to your visit? Apart from pointless accusations, I mean.”

  “Listen, I’m not interested in your brother. There’s nothing I can do about him. What I am interested in is who hired him.”

  He laid a cold, reptilian hand on my shoulder; it was all I could do not to shrug it off. “Mr. Stoyles, I cannot condone what my brother did, but I think he has paid for his crimes.” He gazed deeply into my eyes. “You, on the other hand….”

  “Hey, wait just a minute!” I shoved his arm down. “Your brother almost killed me, and I think maybe you know something about it.”

  “That may be.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “A few evenings ago, a man came to see my brother.” A dark red easy chair, piled high with dirty laundry, stood nearby; he shoved the clothes onto the floor, folded himself into the chair, and lit a cigarette. “My brother didn’t want me in the room, so I went out for a walk along the waterfront.” He drew on the cigarette till the end glowed bright red.

  “Did your brother say what the man’s name was?”

  “Mm. I don’t recall.” He sighed. “He was about your height, perhaps a man of middle years, but extremely well-groomed, manicured fingernails, fine clothes. He had curling dark hair going gray at the sides, and he spoke with some sort of European accent. He told my brother he had been involved in the construction industry for many years.”

  Construction. Yeah, it sounded like Octavian all right, right down to the manicured fingernails. I didn’t need him to tell me anything else; I could put the pieces together just fine. “Thanks.” I did my best not to sound sarcastic. “You’ve been a lot of help.”

  He made a noncommittal noise and waved the cigarette at me. “I hope so, Mr. Stoyles. You can show yourself out?”

  I threaded my way back through the mess and found the front door without too much trouble. Mrs. Cahill was nowhere to be seen, but I couldn’t feel too sorry about that. I was too busy wondering how the hell Jonah Octavian had managed to rise from the dead.

  I SPENT an hour in the public library on Duckworth Street, paging through recent newspapers. The Daily News had a small piece on the front page, as well as an obit—Local businessman Jonah Octavian murdered overseas—but declined to elaborate. The Evening Telegram coverage featured a small, black-bordered box on the lower right-hand side of the front page, but said mostly the same thing. A thorough search of the obituaries revealed nothing more than the usual: Octavian had died in Egypt, presumably murdered, burial had already taken place, Mr. Octavian is survived by his brother Nicholas.

  Whose last name, I knew, wasn’t Power. This put a whole new slant on things—but the effects of my impromptu swim in the harbor had begun to reassert themselves, so I left the library and headed down the hill to Water Street and the Heartache Cafe. The walk was only about a block, but by the time I made it through the front door, I was weak and sweaty. Tex and Anita were cleaning up after the lunch crowd; they both hurried over when they saw me, and Anita fetched me a hot cup of coffee, which tasted like ambrosia. “Do you guys think you can hold things together? I’d like to go upstairs and lie down for a little while.”

  “You shouldn’t be up going around.” Anita looked like she was about to cry. “You almost died, and me and Janice thought you were after drowning in the harbor, and here you are, dragging yourself all over God’s half-acre and for what, I don’t know.” She pressed the hem of her apron to her eyes.

  “Aw, come on, now.” I pulled her into my lap; she was no bigger than a minute. “I’m fine. You can’t kill me with a meat axe—just ask Tex. Isn’t that right, Tex?”

  He made a face. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Anita bounded up off my lap, swatting at me. “Go ’way, you foolish bugger. I got work to do. Go on up and lie down. I’ll bring you up a plate of supper now the once.”

  “Uh, Jack?” Tex drew me aside. “Take a look out the window, there.”

  I glanced toward the front of the cafe. “Guy across the street, in the dark overcoat and hat?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The man in question was standing near the corner of Water Street and Bishop’s Cove. He wasn’t real tall, but carried himself with authority. He was walking up and down, stopping now and then to glance toward the Heartache. The dark coat was obviously camouflage, as was the hat pulled low over his face. “Watching us?”

  “Sure looks that way.”

  “Never mind!” Anita tugged at my arm. “You’re not well. You should be up lying in the bed, never mind what buddy across the street is doing. Sure, he could be anybody.” She pushed me toward the stairs. “Go on, now. If anything happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

  I did as she told me—Anita might be little, but she’s fierce—and anyway, I felt like I’d been dragged behind a barge. I undressed and got into bed but sleeping was hard, and every time I closed my eyes I could see water flooding into the car. I was drifting in that in-between place that isn’t sleep and isn’t quite wakefulness, and I kept trying to open the car door, but no matter how much I tugged on the handle, it wouldn’t let go. This action was repeated a dozen times over: my hands reaching for the handle, trying and failing to open the door, and then sinking back with the dull acceptance that this was it. I would die here. And then the darkness parted and a pair of hands reached down, as if from a long way off, and I was moving through the murky water, floating upward as if pulled on a string. My head broke the surface, and I was dazed but alive, and looking up into a face I knew as well as I knew my own.

  I sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath, and suddenly I knew what I was seeing wasn’t a dream. Standing over my bed in the uncertain light of a late October afternoon was the sickly smiling face of Jonah Octavian. I shoved the covers off me and surged toward him, and just then, I felt a sharp prick at the side of my neck and the unmistakable sensation of falling. I fumbled with suddenly uncoordinated hands for the gun in my night table. I managed to get the gun out and squeezed off three rounds but Octavian was already gone, fleeing down the stairs toward the cafe. “Get him!” I scrambled to the door and started after him but crumpled, and I fell as blackness filled my world and everything—the gun, the stairs, Octavian and me—went away.

  Chapter 13

  IT WAS morning when I opened my eyes, and I was alone in my room with the tentative October sunlight slipping through the gaps in the venetian blinds. Had my experience been merely a bad dream, or had Jonah Octavian actually risen from the dead? No, it was too fantastical to be true and anyway, what could he hope to gain from it? There was a war on, for chrissakes. We didn’t need to manufacture bogeymen.

  I’d decided to go back to sleep when the phone rang. “Stoyles, Heartache Cafe.”

  “Is yer awake? I didn’t mean to get you out of bed.” The voice, believe it or not, was Mrs. Cahill, she of the boarding house, the holy pictures, and the filthy
carpets. The clock on my nightstand said it was a little after ten.

  “What is it, Mrs. Cahill?”

  “That feller you was asking about, Rocky Power.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “His brother left here last night and never even bothered to pay me.”

  “Mrs. Cahill, don’t you think that’s a matter for the police?”

  “Never mind that. I heard him talking on the phone. They were talking about you, because I heard him mention your name three or four times.” She paused, and I could hear the crackling sound of paper being unfolded. “I wrote it down. He said you were going to queer the works unless they did something about you. I don’t know what that means, but I figured I’d tell you anyway.”

  I was suddenly and absurdly grateful. “Mrs. Cahill, thank you. I really appreciate this.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, my son. Listen, now: you don’t know anybody who’s looking for a room to rent, do you?”

  I shaved and dressed as quickly as I could and caught a cab to Fort Townsend. If I knew Picco, he’d been at his desk since daybreak. Driving east on Water Street, I noticed the same man who’d been watching me the night before, still standing at the corner. I wondered if he’d stay put or follow me to the police station. Picco wasn’t in yet, but he was expected, so I waited in his office. There was a stack of folders on his desk, and I spent some time paging through them. They were the usual stuff: police records of drunken fights, break-and-enters, car accidents, and then I saw something that made me stop short: a folder with my name on it. The contents were mostly what you’d expect: a photograph of me, pictures of the Heartache, copies of business permits and my liquor license, but nestled in the middle of the folder was something altogether different. Oh, I’d seen telegrams before—but why Kevin MacBride of the Long Range Desert Group was in contact with Alphonsus Picco was anybody’s guess. The telegram was cryptic enough, but that didn’t surprise me. It contained maybe ten words: MIDDLE DECEMBER -- STOP -- GET BARN DANCE STARTED -- STOP -- STOYLES KEY

  “Having a good read, are you?” Picco stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Despite his rancorous tone, he seemed to be in good spirits.

  “Been to see Chris?”

  “I have.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s well.” Picco reached across and took the telegram from me. “He should be out of hospital by the end of the week. It’s amazing, really, considering his injuries.” He seemed to be insinuating that, if Chris meant anything to me, I’d have gone to visit him.

  “I’m glad he’s on the mend. I’d hate to lose him. He’s been a good friend to me.”

  “Stoyles, is there something you want? Or are you just here to torment me?”

  “What does this mean?” I indicated the telegram. “What ‘barn dance’? Picco, what do you know about this?”

  “That is official police business, which means it’s none of yours.”

  “Official police business?” I sneered. “You even know what that means, Picco? I’ve been nearly killed, and then last night, I wake up and guess who’s standing over me? Jonah Octavian.” I pressed my hand to the side of my neck. “He did something to me, shot something into me, some kind of drug. My guess is a blow dart, something like that.” It was too much like what had happened to Pasha Nubar in Cairo to be merely coincidence.

  “A blow dart.” Picco nodded. “So now we are in a Tarzan film?”

  I’d had about as much as I could take. “Goddammit, Phonse! I almost drown in the harbor and then Octavian’s in my bedroom. Somebody’s trying to kill me! And there’s some guy in a dark overcoat who keeps following me. I saw him outside the Heartache the other day. Five’ll get you ten he’s out there now.”

  “Outside… in the street?” Picco got up to look. “That man out there?” He pointed. Dark Overcoat was standing at a bus stop, looking the other way.

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  Picco smiled—it was genuine, which surprised me. “Calm down, my son. He’s one of ours. After you went into the harbor, I figured you could stand some watching.”

  “Oh.” I digested this for a moment. “Yeah. I didn’t think of that.”

  “I expect you say that a lot. Look, Stoyles, go on home out of it. Or go over and see Chris. Just stay out of my way.”

  “What about the telegram? What ‘barn dance’ is he talking about? Is there something going on I should be aware of? I mean, apart from crazy cab drivers and Octavian’s younger brother.”

  “Never mind the telegram.” Picco looked distinctly uncomfortable and made a show of being suddenly busy. “Let us handle it from here, all right? You stay out of it, and the quicker we can get this cleared up. And by the by, don’t get any ideas about playing cop. I’m watching you, Stoyles. You set one foot wrong and I’ll be all over you. Mind I’m telling you.”

  “Yeah, you’re all the same, every one of you. You don’t give a damn.” I slammed out of there and caught a cab over to St. Clare’s hospital. Chris was sitting up in bed reading the newspaper when I arrived; I leaned in and hugged him.

  “You look terrible, Jack.” He held on to my hand. “Phonse told me about the cab smash-up. Jeez.”

  I filled him in on what had happened, especially the part about the man in the photograph, and the blow dart. For some reason, Chris seemed to find the whole thing funny. “Jack—stop—don’t make me laugh. I’m busting my stitches here.” Sensing I wasn’t nearly as amused, he immediately sobered. “Look, you almost getting killed isn’t funny. But honestly, Jack, don’t you ever ask yourself why you seem to get into these scrapes? You’re like one of those fancy metal detectors that can pick up coins underground.” He grinned at me, and my anger evaporated. It should be illegal for a grown man to have dimples like Chris’s.

  “Keep laughing,” I said. “You realize, of course, I’m docking your pay for every day you spend in here?”

  He stretched his arms in front of him and leaned back in the bed. “Dock away, brother. I’m living the high life here.” He gazed at me. “Uh… Phonse said they never caught the guys… the ones who did this.” He gestured at his bandaged torso. “It kinda makes me wonder.” His features were pinched with anxiety. “Jack, do you think….”

  “Anybody tries it, I’ll kill ’em with my bare hands.” I cupped his cheek in my palm. “You got my word, Chris.”

  “Jack….” He sighed. “Okay, this is gonna sound crazy, but I figure you and me are friends, so I’m gonna say it anyway.”

  We were a bit more than friends, Chris and I. I remembered the dark days earlier this summer, when Chris’s girlfriend, Julie Fayre, had been executed for murder, and I had taken him to bed. “Okay.”

  “The night it happened, when those guys stabbed me…. I was pretty shaken up when the ambulance brought me in. The doc says I lost a lot of blood and I dunno, maybe I wasn’t thinking straight.” He took a deep breath. “Anyhow. After I came out of surgery I wasn’t feeling too good. Maybe it was the anesthetic or something.”

  My heart sped up, thundering in my chest. “Yeah?”

  “This is gonna sound crazy but… I coulda sworn there was somebody in the room.”

  I let out my breath in a whoosh. “What did they look like?”

  Chris shook his head. “I couldn’t get a good look at him. It was a man, maybe half a head shorter than you. He wasn’t a doctor, I know that much. This guy was wearing a dark suit, and he had a foreign accent. I couldn’t really place it. He was saying something to me, but I don’t remember much.”

  My skin prickled. “Was he Greek, maybe?”

  “Maybe.” He laid one hand across his bandaged waist. “Think it was one of the guys who stabbed me?”

  “Chris, at this point I’m not sure of anything.” I patted his shoulder. “I’m gonna get back to the Heartache.”

  It was heading for noon by the time I left Chris, and too close to the lunchtime rush for me to get any further with the whole Octavian thing. The usual crowd—school teache
rs, bus drivers, government workers—had begun to filter in when I made it back to my cafe, and against Anita’s protests, I grabbed an apron and got busy. Tex was up to his eyeballs in the kitchen, and I didn’t feel like leaving the two girls to handle all the traffic.

  Anita seemed to take my presence as a personal affront and wasted no time in telling me what she thought. “I think it’s shocking. You’re a sick man, Jack. You should be up lying in that bed, not down here scoating your guts out.”

  “Scoating my guts out?” The local idiom never failed to amuse me; this was the weirdest saying yet. “Is that good or bad?”

  Anita paused to pick up a tray of drinks. “Alls I’m saying is, you shouldn’t be out of bed.”

  The girls seemed to have most of the tables covered, so I spent my time behind the bar, mixing drinks. Around half past one, the crowd started to slack off, and I was able to catch my breath and pour myself a cup of coffee. I had just turned around to replace the pot when I caught sight of someone in the big bar mirror. He was standing with his back to me, so all I could see was his head and the dark overcoat he wore, but something about that figure, the set of the shoulders, was disquieting. My breath seemed to come hard in my lungs, and the cafe began to get dim around the edges. He turned around, and I was looking at Jonah Octavian.

  “Tex! Get him. Don’t let him—he’s—stop him!” I stumbled back, crashing into a row of half-empty glasses, knocking them to the floor. I reached out, instinctively grabbing for a handhold but came up with a lot of air. Octavian pushed past three women and was out the front door, disappearing into the street. I scrambled to my feet and took out after him, but it was too late. He’d vanished like a puff of smoke.