The Styx

by Jonathon King

  “Cherry Hill,” said the swarthier one. Italian, Byrne guessed. Scar on his cheek, possibly from a knife cut. His were shifting eyes, working his peripheral vision, expecting someone to come up behind him in a strange place.

  The older one was looking at his mates, Byrne figured he was calculating his own answer. He was displaying an easy, knowledgeable air—strike up conversation with a stranger without a problem, feel them out for something to take advantage of. He’d be the one calling marks in off the street, reeling in the rubes for a game of three-card or into the brothel for a turn. He’d be the one most like Danny.

  “Tenderloin, my friend,” he finally said like he’d pinned a flower in his lapel. “And you?”

  “Gas House District,” Byrne said and then made careful eye contact with each one of the men. It might have been a declaration of battle if the conversation and demarcation of neighborhoods had been taking place on the streets of New York. But the need for piss-marking their territory was absent here on a train to a place called Florida. They all had something in common, an adventure into an unknown where none of them had been before and had no allies.

  “A Pinkerton from the Gas House,” the older one said, looking down at Byrne’s shoes.

  “That obvious?” he said, not bothering to dispute the fact.

  “Them brogans are like a badge, Pinkerton,” he said. “Anybody with a brain on the street knows that, my friend.”

  “That they would, my Tenderloin friend,” Byrne said, straightening out his legs, crossing his ankles out in the aisle and getting comfortable. “So boy’os,” he said. “Tell me about your game.”

  “Don’t tell me a Lower East Side Pinkerton needs a course on three-card Monte,” the smart one said.

  Byrne crinkled up a grin at the side of his face. “Wouldn’t tell you that, my friend. It’s not the card game I’m unfamiliar with,” he said, nodding at the leather briefcases tucked beside each one. “It’s the real estate business.”

  The Italian’s hand was the first to go to his case, almost unconsciously placing his palm across the flap. Byrne guessed him to be the poorest of the lot and most likely to be one of those Harris had said would have borrowed the investment money from his family and friends to make a killing in sunny Florida.

  “I’m not interested in the money, boy’os,” Byrne said, raising his palms toward them. “Only interested in the game.”

  The older one eyed him. “Never trust an Irishman who says he’s not interested in the money,” he said and then let his own grin take a corner of his face.

  “Indeed,” Byrne said and they smiled together and some sort of curbside trust was entered into.

  “The premise ain’t much different from playin’ the streets,” Tenderloin said. “Buy somethin’ from the market down on Watts and then run it up Broadway and sell it as new for a profit before the yuks up there seen it.”

  Byrne nodded. He and Danny had done the same thing as boys, snatching up new cloth their mother had acquired and running it up to a seamstress in mid-Manhattan where they got twice the price.

  “The market for land is brand new and strong as hell down in Florida. The place is near empty, land spreadin’ out like a green jungle and just waitin’ for people to come work it or live on it,” the older one continued.

  “Not much different than north Manhattan Island when your old da, and mine, got to America, right?”

  Byrne started to react to the mention of his “old da” but since the man from the Tenderloin had tossed his own family into the mix, he let it go as an unintended slur.

  “You need money to make money, right, Pinkerton? So you use what money you have and buy up a chunk of land that looks like it’s gonna be in the center of town in due time, and believe me, the times run damn fast down in Florida.

  “My first trip down, Palm Beach was a pimple on me mum’s ass. Now the bloody place has a palace on the shore and it’s spillin’ across the lake to what they’re callin’ West Palm Beach. The county surveyor already wacked the place out into mapped lots and streets while it was still farmland. Sound familiar?”

  Tenderloin nodded to his companion from Bushwick.

  “Just like Brooklyn,” he said.

  “Right-O,” said Tenderloin. “And while the Vanderbilts got the east shore line for their mansions early, the rest of ’em got the Cross Roads.”

  Byrne sat back and watched the trio’s eyes, especially those of the Italian. Were they optimistic boys, or angry ones? He knew that the man he was paid to be guarding was not only considered an oil magnate and a railway magnate, but the phrase “robber baron” had also been used to describe him. Flagler had built his destination hotels down the east coast of Florida at a time when there wasn’t a damn thing south of Jacksonville.

  “Not that you’ve got anything against the ones first in line,” Byrne said, not even attempting to be coy. The man from the Tenderloin began to laugh.

  “Hell no, Pinkerton. We ain’t got nothin’ but admiration for your boss Mr. Flagler back there in car ninety.” He then leaned in conspiratorially. “People bigger’n us been following the old gent around for years, tryin’ to figure where he’s going next so’s they could jump up the price of their land or buy it out before the mighty Flagler arrives.

  “Fact is, the old man did it himself the same way. Promised to take his railroad all the way to Miami, he did. Even the state legislature knew money and progress would follow. They gave him eight thousand acres of right of way for every mile of track the old fella built. He’ll have millions of acres free of charge by the time he’s through.”

  Numbers had never been Byrne’s strong suit, but he was no fool. And he now realized his assessment of the shyster from the Tenderloin district was far too low. The man had done his homework.

  “Don’t matter who’s first,” he said. “There’s plenty of Florida to buy and sell. The railroad and new hotels just make it easier for the pigeons to follow, if you get my drift. No, Pinkerton, we got no quarrel with old Henry, long shall he live.”

  Tenderloin reached into his jacket for a small flask, a gesture followed by the other two, and the tiny mob tossed back a toast.

  “It’s not the likes of us small-timers you’ve got to worry about, Pinkerton,” he said. “It’s the big players like the high falutin’ Mr. Faustus up there in the smoking room you should have your eye on. He’s more of a danger than any of us will ever be. Listenin’ to his Peter Funk sermons on the right way to live will lead ya to doin’ nothing but starvin’ to death while he builds his church on your back.” Tenderloin bobbed his head once, statement served. Conversation ended.

  Byrne had risen then and unconsciously slipped his hand into his pocket where his fingertips found the confederate coin. He wasn’t worried about Faustus quite yet. He’d heard his brother do the carny barker’s routine and the preacher’s harangue and the bait-and-switch patter enough to spot a puller-in. No, Faustus would be one to watch, but right now he figured he’d ingratiated himself enough with these lads to ask his question:

  “So, you boy’os ever run across a man name of Danny Byrne?”

  The three looked again at one another. Admitting to knowing a man who wasn’t present to a Pinkerton was not something any one of them would do lightly. It would be akin to ratting someone out on the streets, and it always stunk of trouble that could come back on you.

  “About my size,” Byrne pressed on. “Bit more red in his hair and a few years older.”

  The one from the Tenderloin studied Byrne’s face with even more intensity than he already had.

  “People change their names down in Florida,” he finally said.

  “Aye, and elsewhere,” Byrne replied and added a grin.

  They all nodded in ascent.

  Byrne tipped his head goodnight to the group.

  “Any time,” said Tenderloin, extending his hand. “Gerald Haney.”

  Byrne took the hand and shook it. “Michael Byrne.”

  “Oh, then it’
s a relative you’re lookin’ for,” the binder boy said, changing his tone a bit, but still wary, like he was gathering his own intelligence.

  “My brother,” Byrne admitted, not knowing why he suddenly felt he’d been too forthcoming.

  “Well then, we’ll keep an eye out,” said Tenderloin and tipped his own chin goodnight.

  Now, from the platform of the caboose, Byrne looked out on the matte of blackness behind them and had the overwhelming feeling that the train he was on was the only living thing in the night, roaring through an uneasy nothingness. It was an odd, sliding community, he thought, filled with people strange and familiar at the same time. When he woke in the morning light he would be in Florida, land of sunshine and honey, he’d been told. But somehow he was building an increasing doubt of that description.

  “Jacksonviiiilllle. Jacksonville!” the voice called out, penetrating Michael Byrne’s head and causing him to jolt up off the lower cot and reach for his baton, which was always tucked beside him. The caboose was empty but for the sunlight streaking in through the side windows. The other train workers were long gone, including Harris, who had the morning shift anyway, but Byrne was still surprised that he had slept through the dawn. He swung his legs over the edge of the cot, and when his feet hit the deck, he felt the purr of the machine beneath him. Through the soles of his feet, he could feel the vibration of the engine, like the deep snore of a large animal, but no movement. They’d come to a full stop, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t awakened.

  He dressed quickly and poured himself a cup of coffee that Harris must have made on the small wood stove. It was still hot, but he found himself looking into the mug, confused by the lack of steam and the new feel of sweat filming on his face. He turned to one of the sliding side windows and found it wide open. Even before he opened the rear door, he noticed the collection of coats still hanging on the hook and then stepped through to the platform. The rail station was relatively small, a single track and two turnouts. He found it curious to see the remnants of another set of tracks running parallel that were smaller in width and definitely of a different gauge. He leaned out over one side and took in the small wooden station building and the plank platform that appeared aged in a way that brought dry bones to mind. He found himself squinting in the too bright light and used one hand to shade his eyes and check the position of the sun. It was barely fifteen degrees up in the sky so it couldn’t have been past nine in the morning, but the orb seemed far too close to be natural. He spotted a handful of workers wheeling a cargo of crates and barrels from a loading dock and noted that all of the men were wearing sleeveless shirts and hats darkly stained with sweat. He found himself again wiping his own damp forehead with the back of his hand and whispered: “Jaysus, it’s hotter than Hades.”

  Byrne was just taking a deep breath of the heated, new-tasting air when he heard Harris calling his name from the interior of the caboose.

  “Rise and shine, lad. You’ve got fifteen minutes to get ready for a bit of a side trip.” They nearly collided at the back door. “Mr. Flagler has decided to take an excursion to Jacksonville Beach with some of his business friends and interested passengers, and you’ll be needin’ to go along.”

  “Right,” said Byrne, starting to cough on the lungful of moist air.

  Harris was smiling.

  “Aye, bit of a new climate for you, boy. But you’ll get used to it. Some folks pay a pretty penny to come down here and breath this stuff, and I’m givin’ you the chance to sample the best of it if you’ll just get your arse in gear.”

  “Right,” Byrne said again, already moving about the cabin, pulling a cake of shaving soap and his sharp knife from the sheath on his calf.

  “Mr. Flagler wants to take a look at just what the new spur he built to the beachfront has bought him,” Harris said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the metal pot. “You’ll be ridin’ a work train over that’s meant to haul in material from the coal and lumber docks. The cars should be empty, but there’s still a gang of state convicts the company leased to do the hard haulin’ and they ain’t exactly a friendly bunch. I don’t want the boss out there without one of us nearby just in case somebody gets pissy, mind you.”

  “Right,” Byrne said a third time, buttoning his shirt and slipping on his suspenders. He rinsed off the knife and slipped it back in the sheath, rolling his pants leg back over it, and then reached for his coat.

  “I wouldn’t suggest takin’ that,” Harris said, that know-it-all grin once again coming to his face.

  Byrne removed the telescoping baton from inside the coat and slipped it down into his hip pocket. As they started out the door Harris stopped, reached up into a baggage rack, brought down a small cloth jockey cap and handed it to Byrne.

  “Only a fool walks around in the Florida sun without a hat, m’boy,” Harris said and continued out the door.

  Byrne noticed the immediate advantage in having a brim to pull down and shade his eyes. He’d never experienced such sunlight: intense, clear and blinding if one didn’t keep it from glancing directly off the face. He scanned the surrounding rail yard. It seemed nearly as busy as that of the Philadelphia stop but in a different manner. Here, building material and supplies were flowing. Flat cars were being stacked with lumber and men wheeled crates up ramps into the adjoining box cars. The heated air was pungent with the odor of sawdust and raw earth and sweat. Byrne was standing near Flagler’s car and stepped closer to number 90 when he heard movement at the door. Without forethought he inadvertently moved into the shade created by the train car and felt the temperature of his exposed skin immediately start to cool. “Only a fool stands in the direct sun when there is shade available,” he whispered under his breath. Harris could have taught him more than just the hat trick.

  When Mr. Flagler finally appeared in the doorway, he was wearing a suit of light wool including a collar shirt and tie and an odd pair of darkly shaded spectacles of the likes Byrne had never seen. Flagler stepped down spryly and began immediately across the station decking headed south. He was, Byrne would soon learn, in business mode, his bearing straight and purposeful, his eyes set straight ahead but still absorbing all around him. Byrne fell in behind the man and shortly realized that, like some kind of pied piper, Flagler began to draw suited men from the offices and doorways, who were seemingly trying to draw his notice or simply gather some of the great man’s luck or brilliance by trailing in his wake. The gathering made Byrne nervous and he slid his hand down in his pocket where he fingered the metal baton. But the group kept their distance, greeting Flagler with good humor and welcomes. They all appeared to know his destination and no one stepped out in front of the man’s path. After crossing thirty yards of limestone rail yard, the entourage approached another set of tracks where an engine with only two cars attached sat waiting. Byrne could see from the grime and soot, with which he was intimately familiar, that this was a working engine and looked odd hauling the clean passenger cars that appeared to have been hastily brought on line for the occasion. Flagler was greeted by a man in a business suit who looked uncomfortable in the getup, and Byrne heard him introduced as the shipping yard manager. Flagler shook the man’s hand in a friendly manner and smiled, the first time Byrne had seen him do so, and the men all round seemed to physically relax. But when the manager motioned for Mr. Flagler to be the first to board the first car, Byrne stepped up to his boss’s side.

  “If I may be allowed, sir?” he said.

  If the railway baron was caught unawares he showed no sign, only coolly raising one white eyebrow before responding:

  “I do not think it necessary, this being my own property, Mr. Byrne. Yet it is your job, I suppose.”

  “Yes, sir,” Byrne said and then clambered up the steps and went swiftly but efficiently through the rail car, eyeing every possible hiding place and corner before returning and then dropping again to Flagler’s side. The man simply raised his eyebrow again in question and then returned Byrne’s nod as affirmation that
it was safe to board. Byrne stood at the door stoically, but carefully memorized the dress and facial features of a dozen men and any lump or pull on their coats or the fabric of hips where gun or knife handles might be concealed as they climbed the stairs. The shipping manager was the last.

  “Is there a reason, young Pinkerton, for such scrutiny?”

  “Mr. Flagler is an important man,” Byrne said dryly.

  “No news in that, Pinkerton. And getting more important by the day I would venture.”

  “Board!” the manager yelled out toward the engineer in typical trainman’s manner and stepped up into the car. Byrne let thirty feet pass and then grabbed the next car’s metal banister and swung himself up onto the entire moving mass.

  From the grated platform at the rear of the short train Byrne watched the city of Jacksonville spread out. Harris had told him the town was the southern terminus of all rail traffic before Flagler. He found it unimpressive—some brick buildings and facades, some stone-paved streets but curiously no street lights. Most of the place was dominated by wooden structures and wagon traffic and the rail yards. As they moved east, the view widened and he realized what was missing. The sunlight was unimpeded. Yes it was hot, he could feel the sweat under his vest move in a single trickle down between his shoulder blades and twice already he’d used the hat Harris had given him to mop his forehead. But he soon realized it was the air itself that seemed to glisten with a purity he had never experienced. The place was absent of the smoky haze that always hung in New York. He had once listened to a watchmaker at McSorely’s talk about being fitted with a new pair of spectacles to correct his deteriorating eyesight. He described the new lenses as creating such “sharp, colorful and detailed vision that it was as if the entire world was reborn.” A couple of the fellows at the bar asked to try them and only winced and became dizzied by the experiment. Now Byrne thought that this present view was what the watchmaker must have experienced. He doubted that anyone could wince at anything so crystal.