“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.
The first stop he made was at the telegraph office located in the town’s new railroad depot. The office consisted of a single planked window where the dispatcher, ticket seller, weigh master, and telegraph operator where all embodied in the same man, a large and surprisingly friendly man with eyes as bright as blue marbles anxious to help anyone in line, which, when Byrne arrived, numbered zero.
“Uh, yes sir, Mr. Byrne. I can check on that right away sir. Only take a second, sir, if you don’t mind, sir,” the clerk said after collecting the worn telegram Byrne had offered him in the way of introduction. The man spun to collect a shoebox from the wooden table behind him. Byrne could see the wired teletype machine sitting lonely and motionless.
“Any correspondence to this office is kept here and in confidence, sir, as required by the government and reiterated in the training of each and every operator within the system, sir, which in this case would only be me of course,” the clerk said breathlessly, with a smile on his face that had not a hint of cynicism. His fat fingers were flipping through the box in search of a message that Byrne’s telegram had been retrieved, but when the man finally pulled out a sheet and handed it to him, it was only the copy of the message he had originally sent.
coming to meet you in three days…ma is dead…
“No, sir,” the clerk answered to Byrne’s question. “No one has came to collect it sir, and it was received as you can see right there on the date, sir, on the very same day, or close to it anyways, that it was sent from New York City.”
Byrne pinched the paper between his fingers. “Would you know this man, Daniel Byrne, the one to whom the telegram was sent?”
The clerk looked down at the paper as if there might be a photograph there. “Uh, no sir. I don’t believe so. Though they is a lot of folks who come through here, sir,” the clerk said while letting his gaze focus behind Byrne. The juxtaposition of his statement and the empty room seemed to have no ironic effect on the man. “But then I am not required by regulations, nor am I trained, sir, to know on sight each and every person who sends or receives messages, sir.”
Byrne pointed again at his brother’s worn telegram.
“The man I’m speaking of sent that message from your office four weeks ago according to the date.”
The clerk again studied the paper.
“Yes, sir. That would be from here, sir, according to the identifying numbers, sir.”
“But you don’t recall the man who sent it?”
The clerk shook his head.
“Very well, then,” Byrne said, refolding the telegram.
“Was it your daddy?” the clerk said as Byrne turned to leave.
“Excuse me?”
The clerk pointed his finger at the pocket where Byrne had tucked the telegram.
“Ya’ll got the same name.”
“No, it’s my brother,” Byrne answered. He walked away. In strict confidence my ass, he was thinking as he made his way back out onto the street.
Harris of course had been right about the Seminole Hotel, named, Byrne soon found out, after the Indian tribe that now occupied southern areas of the Florida peninsula. It was a four-story structure that towered above the rest of the wooden shops and tents and pole barns that created a wobbly-legged colt o
f a downtown. Byrne could smell the fresh sawn lumber, hear the hammering of nails nearby and practically taste the sun-heated flavor of newness. It was the frontier town he’d read about and heard stories of in those Wild West reenactments along Tin Pan Alley in New York. But this was not the West. This place was called Florida.
“Yes, that’s right, Michael Byrne, with a Y after the B and an E at the end,” he said to the hotel clerk at the check-in desk at the Seminole. “No. No specific length of stay. Might be a day. Might be a week. I’m with Mr. Flagler’s security team. A Pinkerton.”
What the hell, he thought. Since everyone could guess his occupation by looking at his shoes, he may as well use the status and that threat of authority that he and his boys exuded to gain advantage on the streets of New York City.
“Certainly, Mr. Byrne. We do have a fine room available fronting the lake on the fourth floor with a wondrous view of your employer’s island,” the clerk said with a new smile.
“Something on the second floor, if you will,” Byrne said, his tenement background speaking without consideration of his new surroundings.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
The room was spare. The furniture was fine and sturdy and quite possibly newly hewn in hardwood. The floor was of a dark, close-grained pine he didn’t recognize. There was a throw rug in the middle that was brand new. The single bed had a chenille coverlet, and he tossed his duffel onto it and went to the window. Even from the second floor, the Royal Poinciana stood monolithic across the lake. He raised the double-hung casement window, felt the breeze blow in off the water and again took a deep breath of the wondrously new scent of sun-warmed salt air.
He stripped off his coat and shirt and filled the dresser-top wash basin. The china bowl was polished and had a gold leaf band around the rim. It was free of any chips or scratches. He cupped the water in his hands and splashed it up into his eyes and rubbed his face, repeating the gesture three times before picking up a hand towel and wiping himself dry. While dabbing his neck and shoulders he looked up into a face that had a slight stubble of beard and a new sheen of red sunburn on its nose and cheekbones, and in his father’s Irish tone the face whispered: “Jaysus. What the hell are ye doin’ here, Mikey?”
When he returned to the front desk he again used his already established authority to ask a question: “I’m looking for a man who left word he was awaiting me in town. His name is Daniel Byrne. Has he ever registered here?”
The clerk looked up into Byrne’s face.
“A relative?”
“Yes.”
“With the same spelling then?”
“Obviously.”
“I believe I would have recognized it then, sir. I don’t recall anyone using that particular name before. But I’ve only been employed here for the past few months.”
Byrne asked for the names of other hotels in the city; the clerk gave him a list of three.
“Unless of course your relative is on the island, sir.”
“That I can check myself, thank you,” Byrne said. From what he had seen so far of the island, Danny would have indeed had to strike it rich to be ensconced across the lake. Inquiring for dinner he was told that the Midway Plaisance saloon and restaurant on Banyan Street had just received a new brew that had become quite the rage and that they could serve up a fine fresh catch of the day that would provide a taste Mr. Byrne had mostly likely never encountered in his previous life. He’d tipped his cap to the clerk, thanked him, and covered a brief smile. They might have a sun and smell and heat that could not be encountered in New York, he thought, but certainly nothing that couldn’t be presented on a table. The restaurants of the city were unmatched in any corner of the world if, of course, you had the money. He would see about this catch of the day and this supposed new brew.
Byrne rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt two turns to the middle of his forearms and stepped down from the hotel porch to the street. His telescoping wand was in the deep pocket of his trousers, and now he had a mighty ache for a beer. The walk to the saloon took him less than ten minutes during which he was offered: the finest hot bath and shave, the foremost in leather boots, the most affordable and profitable piece of real estate left in the Palm Beach area, and a “trip upstairs mister that will be your slice of heaven on earth.” The blatant bray of merchants and hookers brought on the first fit of nostalgia for his native city he’d felt since arriving. His reaction was the same as if he were home. He ignored the hype and kept his wallet in his front pocket with a light chain attaching it to one of his belt loops. He also registered every face he saw. Danny could not have changed too much in three years time. He would know him from a hundred paces. But he had seen enough to surprise him in the last few days that he was taking no chances.
It was past four in the afternoon when he stepped into the wooden saloon of the Midway. It being the dinner hour the place was near full of men in both work clothes and respectable suits. The smell of fried fish was in the air and that unmistakable scent of fresh hops and barley and yeast that conjured a liquid that would cut the dust from your throat and take the pout off your face.
Byrne shouldered his way to the bar and bought a pint of Anheiser beer that he would later find out was part of the first load of keg beer delivered to the town of West Palm Beach. He took a deep draught, closed his eyes in appreciation, and then worked his way out to the canvas-covered porch area of outside tables. He scanned the gathering, memorizing faces and modes of dress as well as anything sinister attached to belts or stuck down into boots and listened intently to the sound of voices and accents. He heard a familiar tone from one corner and moved to a huge wooden cable spool that was making due for a table top. His three binder boy acquaintances from the train were sitting at the nine, twelve and three o’clock positions of the round top. Byrne picked up one of many wooden crates being used as chairs and took the six o’clock spot.
“Top o’ the day to you, Pinkerton,” the man from the Tenderloin said. He waited until Byrne was settled in his seat. “Please, join us.”
The cynicism was cast as a joke, made even more so by the creamy foam he left dripping from his mustache.
“What brings you slumming here on the west side, Pinkerton?” said the Italian. “Figured you to be settling in the island castle near the boss man.”
“No, I’m just a junior lifeguard, Pauley,” Byrne said, watching the street boys’ eyes for a reaction to the fact that Byrne had gone out of his way to check the train’s passenger manifest and had figured who was who among the small group. Gerald Haney had used the same name on the manifest. The German was Henry, a common Americanization for the name Hienrick. The Italian from Cherry Hill was probably Paulo originally. His face went blank, trying not to react to Byrne’s correct guess, which was a reaction in itself.
“Besides, I don’t think they serve good beer to the champagne crowd over there.” Byrne raised his glass to the group and took another long swallow, gaining his own foam line above his lip.
The group joined him in the toast, and that common thread of young men and drink gained him another tenuous link.
“So, I thought you boy’os were on your way to Miami,” Byrne said. “It must be something more than the arrival of keg beer to keep you from your date with fortune.”
Gerald Haney smiled to his mates and they grinned in return. It seemed a learned response to deflect questions of their questionable business.
“Aye, Pinkerton. Fortune is where you find it,” he said. “And when you hear tell of it on the street, only a fool ignores the call.”
“And the call is?”
Haney drained his glass before answering.
“No more free courses in real estate business, Irish. You’ll have to be buying.”
Byrne acceded to that logic and bought the next two rounds while Haney, with an occasional word from Paul and Henry, told him the word on the street was that Flagler had been buying up even more property on the west side than he already owned. They’
d heard that the entire hotel working class was transferring to the West side of the lake.
“They all got up in mass and moved?” Byrne said, thinking of the stoic face of the black man driving the bicycle carriage. “Sounds like a bit of a phenomenon.”
“Word is that they were burned out,” Paul said. “Accordin’ to those that know, their little village over there called the Styx was set fire in the night and the entire place gutted.” Paul’s chin came out with the statement, proud that he had gleaned information off the street so soon after his arrival. For his trouble he got an immediate glare from Haney.
“The real word is that prices on the island are going to skyrocket,” Haney said quickly. “But the hard part is getting hold of the sellers. They’re already being wined and dined by the gentry. To get ahold of any of those land titles the speculators are going to have to be connected and sharp,” Haney said. “Might be worth stickin’ round for a bit, though. Never know when the trickle down might start. Some guy tradin’ up wants to dump what he already has on the mainland so he can qualify for something on the island.”
He leaned in conspiratorially to Byrne.
“Knowledge is money, boy’o, and since your ear is closer to the rich than ours, keep us in mind should ya hear somethin’ juicy, eh?”
Byrne did not dismiss the possibility. Being noncommittal, he’d learned, kept doors open. Haney was right about one thing, information is what the world ran on, be it business or law enforcement. It was a lesson he’d learned firsthand from Danny. He’d have to build a network if he was going to find his brother and survive in this land of sun and heat and haves and have nots. Eventually the binder boys all rose and bid him farewell. A waiter arrived and asked if he was going to use the table for more than drinking and Byrne asked for a lunch recommendation. In minutes was served the finest tasting fish—called yellowtail snapper—that he’d ever put to fork. He stayed for another forty-five minutes, eating and drinking and recording the faces around him. If he was a smoking man, he’d of lit a cigar. Fine fish and fine beer. What more could a man want while sitting in the sun with money in his pocket? The answer surprised him when it came sidelong out of his head. It was the memory of bright chiffon and a waft of gardenia, a glance of tumbling auburn, a glimpse of china skin and the shine of an emerald eye.
The Styx Page 14
