“As a guest,” he added.
“Certainly, sir. My name is Bob Campbell and I will be pleased to assist. This way please.”
He was led to a deep corner of the store, behind piles of boxes and crates that created a semiprivate area with several jackets and trousers and vests hung against a wall and a full-length mirror on one wall.
“My, you are certainly tall and broad shouldered,” the salesman said. “And it is very short notice. But our specialty, Mr. uh?”
“Byrne.”
“Our specialty, Mr. Byrne, is our line of ready-made clothing,” Campbell said, again taking a step back and eyeing him. Byrne thought of the time Harvey Cannon measured him up at the Rockaway Pub before asking him outside for a fight. He’d whipped Harvey’s ass without once taking out his baton.
“I’d say a thirty-eight long might do,” Campbell said and began going through the racks.
In less than forty minutes Byrne had been outfitted with a dark suit of tails with a finely brocaded vest and a monumentally stiff white shirt that made him wince when buttoned against his sunburn. Though Bob Campbell pushed, Byrne declined new shoes, much to Campbell’s chagrin. When the total bill came to forty-two dollars and change, he swallowed hard, decided against the hat that was suggested, and paid. Alterations to take in the waist of the pants and to accommodate Byrne’s unusual request to lengthen the right hand pocket and add a leather sheath to its interior would be completed in an hour. With the remains of Harris’ fifty dollars, he went down to the corner of Banyan and Olive and had two beers and a fillet of yellow tail at J.C. Lauther’s Saloon and Restaurant.
After lunch Byrne picked up his packages and returned to his hotel room. He stripped to his underwear, split open the aloe leaves as the Chinese woman had shown him and used the rest of the balm to again cover his face and neck. Then he raised his window, let the ocean breeze flow in and lay down. Within minutes his dreams came with jumping fish and gang members swinging heavy clubs, of the clean smell of salt air and the stench of running sewage, of the feel of squinting into bright sunlight and doing the same in an effort to see down dark alleys, of the vision of a young prostitute outside of Harry Hill’s concert saloon in the Bowery and that of woman in dazzling white chiffon and bright green eyes who seemed to be watching him through it all. He awoke with a start, positive that he’d overslept. But when he checked his watch it read four fifteen. He laid for a few minutes more, staring at the ceiling, recounting his half dream visits and jumbled recollections. For years his mother had a strange addiction to the palmists and so-called seers who haunted the neighborhoods of the poor in New York. His father called them shysters and purveyors of a fool’s hope and forbade her from spending money on them. She did anyway. She once told Michael that dreams were the windows to the future and that she took her dreams to the seers for interpretation. She saw great things for both him and Danny.
“It’s a world here of democracy, boys,” she would tell them. “No grand marquees or lords keepin’ ya down. Your work and your brains is what you need, and you both have plenty of that.”
At the time Danny was all bravado and spunk, yelping about becoming the “king of the Bowery.” All Byrne could do was answer “Yes, mama.” He thought of her now and his own disparate dreams and what they might mean. Where the hell was Danny? And did Faustus really know the answer to that question?
In twenty minutes he was washed and dressed and polished. The man he saw in the mirror was a version that should have made him uncomfortable but instead let him straighten his shoulders and give himself an uncharacteristic wink. When he passed the clerk downstairs he saw the man’s face brighten, though when he recognized Byrne the look turned sober. As Byrne approached the bridge to the island he actually looked forward to greeting the deputy who’d been scrutinizing the pedestrians the two days previous. But he noted that although the boy collecting a nickel for passing was in place, the lawman was absent.
“What, no one here to go through everyone’s pockets today?” he said to the boy.
“They all went south on a fugitive hunt, sir.”
“A fugitive hunt?” Byrne recalled Harris’s anxiety over unknown threats to Flagler on this night. “What kind of fugitive?”
The boy gave him a look that insinuated there was no way he was giving up valuable information without remuneration. Byrne dug into his pocket for change, dropped the nickel fare in the boy’s hand but pinched a half-dollar piece between his fingers and let it speak for itself.
“That one they been lookin’ for. The niggra lady. The one that killed the man on the island. They done found her in Key West,” the boy said, whispering conspiratorially and holding out his palm. “They say she was dressed in men’s clothes and tried to get aboard a northbound ship.”
“They plan to bring her back here?”
“Damn straight. An if they ever find out who that dead man is, they just might be a lynchin’.”
The boy’s demeanor and language reminded Byrne of young Screechy back in Tompkins Square. He dropped the half dollar in his palm. When it comes to the young and wise, the streets are the streets.
A lynching, Byrne thought, moving on across the bridge. His newfound friends, the binder boys, had spoken of one only days before, and he had no reason to doubt the veracity of their story. How did a place with the architectural splendor and rich sophistication that he was walking to put up with something as crude as a lynching? He’d heard the stories told by the old ones from Dublin of the beheadings and such by the English, but Jaysus, that was ancient times. Public hangings! Across the lake from Mr. Flagler’s golf course!
Halfway across the bridge he gave up the ruminations and took off his new coat and unbuttoned his collar. It may have been early evening but there was still a heat in the air and he was sweating. He would readjust his wardrobe once he got to the other side. Once more he took in the view of the Palm Beach Island, measuring her, memorizing her coastline and the movement of the water beneath him. His attention fell on a dockside gathering of boats and people. A half-dozen men were moving about a centerpiece that he still could not make out. Something large was being raised on some form of block and tackle. The huge object spun and caught the low sun. Thirty steps closer and Byrne recognized the thing as a fish! It was roped at its scythe-like tail and was being raised to hang upside down. The thing was at least ten feet long, a fantastic-looking beast with a long pointed bill that seemed impossibly fragile, as at one point in the hoisting the entire body, at least four hundred pounds, appeared to balance on that sword-like tip. Men gathered as a gang around the suspended fish and it became obvious that a photographer had set up his tripod and was capturing the moment. Closer still, Byrne could see that the men, with the exception of the bandy-legged one dressed in light-colored dungarees and a black-brimmed captain’s hat, were no doubt guests of the hotel with their florid faces and estimable paunches. After the flash of the photography powder, they all shook hands and moved up from the dock, back-slapping and nodding in their accomplishment. The captain and what was later identified to Byrne as a blue marlin were left behind, the fish slowly spinning in the breeze, its color draining in the failing light. Byrne thought of the tarpon, silvered and flashing as Faustus had removed his hook and let it go and the old man’s words: “But would that have made it anymore glorious?”
As he approached the Poinciana’s grand ballroom Byrne was already convinced that he was a poseur and was equally sure that he didn’t give a shit. He knew the minute he walked up the steps to the hotel entrance and caught the same changing smile from the tuxedoed greeter that he got from the clerk at the Seminole. You might pass at a distance, but never up close. The greeter stepped forward. Upon inspection, the employee’s suit was at least two cuts above the forty-dollar variety Byrne felt so proud in: the fabric finer, the lapels silk, the tailoring perfect. But even the high polish he’d given his brogans did not cover their street look. Still, he held a higher power and used it.
“Michae
l Byrne,” he answered to the greeter’s request for an invitation. “Mr. Flagler’s Pinkerton.” The man made a sour face, but passed him through. Security breach, Byrne thought. Anyone could say they were Pinkerton and the boy at the door would wave them in.
He passed through the lobby, purposely not looking up at the grand ceiling like some tourist and then scanned the crowd to find Harris standing near the doors to the ballroom. When Byrne joined him, Harris’ mouth held that grin at the corner of his mouth. He’d read Byrne’s expression.
“I tol ya to lose the shoes, lad. Didn’t I?”
“I’m not one of them and don’t want to be,” Byrne said through his teeth. “Fuck ’em.”
“Aye, now that’s the spirit,” Harris said. “And it’s also the idea of havin’ us here. Nobody who might want to start trouble is going to mistake us for busboys either. And that might be enough deterrent on its own.
“You just use that photographic memory of yours. Mr. Flagler’s true friends and relatives will be near him at the front of the ballroom. I’ve confidence you’ll have them down pat early enough. After that you can spot any strangers.”
“What kind of threat are we talking about, sergeant?” Byrne asked, puzzled. “A bloody assassination?”
Harris chuckled deep in his throat, the sound of an echo in a big wooden barrel.
“No, lad. It’s the pissed off ones we’re watching tonight. Mr. Flagler’s land acquisitions can make him enemies, even those of the higher society and not just those hick farmers at the train sidings.
“In this rarified air, boy, the more money you have, the less you like to lose it.”
Christ, the rich, Byrne sneered.
“Stay on the edges, lad. Use the walls and keep your eyes open. Don’t get caught up in the finery, if you know what I mean.” A trio of middle-aged women floated by in gowns that were low-cut and dragging trains behind.
“Watch for the angry faces. We’ll be fine.”
Harris led the way into the grand ballroom, and once again Byrne had to consciously remember to keep his mouth from gaping open.
The hall was some two hundred feet in length with a soaring ceiling lined around its edges with electric bulbs that highlighted the frescoed painting that adorned it. Romanesque white columns lined the walls for the first fifteen feet up and then large scalloped arches framed a dozen high windows.
The dance floor was a polished parquet wood of the kind Byrne had never seen even though he’d witnessed the ballroom at the Astoria Hotel from the kitchen doors. A cop friend of his had smuggled him into the newly built hotel on Thirty-fourth and Fifth Avenue to meet a girl selling perfume at a boutique inside and they couldn’t help but poke around. But New York’s finest had nothing on this place. The orchestra was at the far end of the hall playing something classic and staid, and though most in attendance were sitting in the straight-backed chairs that lined the dance floor, a few couples were out moving with grace. Byrne could hear the swooshing of the fine dress fabric brushing the elegant wood. He and Harris split up and Byrne moved behind the arched columns to “work the walls.” He was watching the men, most of whom were dressed in black tailcoats with vests made of white pique. Byrne did not have to be reminded that he had been talked into spending extra on the dark brocaded vest he wore and did not look down.
As he moved closer to the front he could see a subtle change in both the finery and the distinct smell of money. The chains on pocket watches became more delicate, the gold metal taking on a shine of higher carat. Stick pins appeared in ascots and four-in-hand ties. An elderly man whom Byrne had scene dancing with aplomb was now carrying a walking stick with an ostentatious silver lion’s head. Finally, at a table nearest the orchestra he spotted Flagler’s shock of white hair. The railway baron was standing in a circle of men who were listening closely to his every utterance. Byrne focused on their faces. Not an angry look in the crowd, although he quickly determined that all of them would be acquiescent to the man’s words even if he were mumbling horse shit. Byrne widened his circle about Flagler, eyeing the corners and the space behind the columns that he himself was using for cover.
His gaze landed on Mr. McAdams, who was also entertaining a gathering of men of means who had found a quieter place far to the left of the orchestra. McAdams was, as seemed to be his practice, leaning into the man beside him, talking directly into the listener’s ear as if the words were only for him. Byrne watched long enough to memorize the listener’s face and then went directly to the nearby seats. If the father was here, where was the daughter?
He scanned the crowd, first the women sitting nearby. Their hands, many in gloves matching their gowns, were in their laps or holding small beaded purses. Most of them were wearing hats ornamented with feathers and ribbon that partially obscured their faces. Byrne was convinced that Miss McAdams would not be wearing a hat. He concentrated next on the dance floor, which was now filling up with couples, the more graceful turning figures and stylish poses to the waltz music, but even the less adventurous moved in soft, reaching, confident steps. He checked the younger women, those with waspish waists and athletic movements, but did not see her. For nearly an hour he moved among the crowd, nodding at those who nodded at him.
He was watching a demonstrative gent with a bulbous nose and a voice like shoveled gravel rattling on about some soldier unit he’d seen in Tampa across the state called “Roosevelt’s Rough Riders” on their way to Cuba. As if on cue the orchestra struck up a quick tempo to drown the man out, and the careful dancers began to leave the floor. With a clearer view across the room Byrne caught sight off a flash of white fabric and a glimpse of red curl and shifted from behind a pillar to see Miss McAdams in the arms of a tall man, both moving fluidly to the new beat. The gent was in a tuxedo that stood out from the rest, with a sharp center crease in the pants and cuffs dusting the tops of a pair of patent leather shoes covered with cream-colored spats. The tune carried the same one, two, three count of the previous waltzes, but at a pace that seemed to energize Miss McAdams while keeping her partner on his toes. Hers was a driving, aggressive and reaching step that seemed utterly confident, while the man worked at keeping up. Others on the dance floor moved from the middle and let the couple take over, and Byrne began to lose out to an obstructed view. Still he watched, catching a blur and a smile, mostly the man’s due to his height or his showmanship, until the final strains when McAdams struck an ending pose that was pure sculpture. It was the first time in Byrne’s life that he wished his feet had rhythm.
Before the next song began the couple exited the floor, several men complimenting McAdams. Her partner trailed behind her and shook every hand offered. They seemed to be coming directly at Byrne, who decided to simply stand his ground. From several feet away he couldn’t tell if McAdams’ cheeks were colored from cosmetics, the blush of unsolicited compliments, or the exertion. Just before she reached him she spun on the heel of one slipper, the train of her dress swishing up onto his own brogans. “Graham,” she said. “Could you fetch me something to drink, you dear. I am absolutely parched.”
“Delighted, Marjory,” the one called Graham said and moved away.
Without hesitation McAdams continued a full rotation and looked directly into Byrne’s eyes.
“And delighted to meet you, sir,” she said, offering her hand. “I am Marjory McAdams.”
Byrne took her fingers and bowed but wouldn’t pretend to kiss them. He’d seen a hundred such scenes during special event details and thought it prissy at best.
“Of that I am fully aware, Miss McAdams,” he said and then added, “Nice dancing.”
She tilted her head, just so, and hesitated. The silence made him uncomfortable. There was a heat coming off her, and she smelled of newly planted oleander, sweet flowers and musk. Up close, her complexion was unblemished. Byrne was fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes off from hers.
“So, do I call you Mr. Pinkerton, sir, as my father does?”
“I would hope not,�
� he said and then realized he still had not dropped her fingers. She slipped the rest of her hand into his without looking down and shook it slightly before letting go.
“Michael Byrne,” he said.
“A pleasure, Mr. Byrne. And do you like the waltz?”
“Very much.”
“And do you dance?”
“No.”
A pout formed on her lips, and even though it was an obvious tease, Byrne couldn’t keep the look from tripping his heart.
“I am simply an observer,” he said, trying to recover.
She smiled. “I’m told that Pinkertons do quite a bit more than observe.”
“I’ve heard that too, Miss McAdams,” he said, enjoying the sparring if it could hold her before him for even a minute more.
“And from the look of your sunburn, your observations have mostly been from outside, Mr. Byrne.”
His hand started to go to his face but he stopped it.
“Boating,” he said, “on the sea.”
He picked up on the instant brightening of her eyes, the green almost magically taking on a bit of blue at the edges of the iris, as if his own recollection of the Gulf Stream color was reflecting there.
“The ocean is one of my favorite things about being here,” she said. “Obviously you are wasting no time enjoying the uniqueness of Florida.”
“Like I said, I’m an observer.”
Now she smiled without teasing, a natural smile, one that he had brought out.
“So you are a boatman. Are you a swimmer as well? An ocean swimmer?”
He thought of the blue again, how he had wanted to simply fall in and let it take him, but he also thought of the taste of the salt when he had seen the ocean for the first time, what, two days ago, three?
“I have managed the East River,” he said, without elaborating that on that single occasion he had fallen in while trying to steal an armload of oysters and was pulled back spitting and gasping by the hand of his brother.
The Styx Page 18
