The Styx

by Jonathon King

“Aye, the man has a vision, Pinkerton,” Haney said.

  “Aye, the man would have to be drunk,” Byrne said.

  “Excellent invitation,” Haney laughed and clapped Byrne on the shoulder. “Don’t mind if we do, aye boy’os. Past lunch time anyway.”

  While Byrne rung out his sleeves and tucked in his shirttails, the four of them walked down to J.C. Lauther’s saloon.

  The saloon was barely a tent with a few hand-hewn wooden tables about. But there was construction in progress on the lot and the beer was cold.

  “So you’re going to Miami hunting property, eh boy’os?” he said after draining half a bottle. The keg beer at the restaurant had been tastier, but Byrne wasn’t going to argue.

  “Word is some rich woman from Ohio name of Tuttle talked Flagler into building the train down to her place, and he’s going to build another hotel,” Haney said. “The Tuttle woman has the south side of the river to herself, but we all know how that works, eh boy’os?”

  “Brooklyn as soon as they built the first bridge over the East River,” said Paul.

  “And bets are that bridge in Miami goes up in a month after Flagler gets there,” Henry said.

  They were all so damned sure of themselves, Byrne thought. Like they had some secret no else had. Like no one was as smart as New Yorkers when it came to finding the angle. They were just like Danny.

  “Well, good luck, gents. Just don’t end up like your friend Bingham,” Byrne said, dropping the name his brother had adopted and waiting for the response.

  There was silence at the table as the trio absorbed the statement. As usual, it was Haney who finally spoke.

  “Bobby Bingham was the fellow stabbed and burned then?”

  “Word is,” Byrne said, using Haney’s favorite attribution for information, “he was a binder boy like the rest of you. But he was working the island.”

  Byrne had no knowledge of Danny’s intention the night he was shot, but he figured these boys, who had always been locked out of the property grab on the island, might respond if challenged.

  “Fucking Bingham!” Paul said. “He wasn’t a businessman. He was a shite thief and a ripper who’d do anything to steal a dollar and your good name along with it.”

  The boys let that one settle, no one speaking up to refute it.

  “So Bobby the con man got it stuck to ’im, eh?” Haney said, watching Byrne’s eyes carefully.

  “Not exactly.” Byrne leaned in and the boys followed suit. Nothing like a good bit of inside information to bring heads together. “Word is he wasn’t stabbed at all. Shot in the throat was the reason for Mr. Bingham’s passing.”

  “And let me guess,” said Haney. “Not by the niggra they’ve got locked up in the jailhouse unless she was dealin’ opium or another bit of nastiness that darlin’ Bobby wanted and wasn’t willing to pay for.”

  Byrne felt a twitch at the corner of his face on that one. Danny might have been many things, but he’d never dealt in the opium and morphine game.

  “Well, whatever the negotiation was about was lost on the dead man’s lips,” Byrne said.

  Again the table went quiet. Bottles were tipped. Questions were formed and unsaid. Byrne waited them out.

  “Did anyone claim Mr. Bingham’s body?” Haney finally asked. “Or his things?”

  “Not as of yet,” Byrne answered.

  “Figures for that son of a whore,” Paul said.

  Byrne’s face tightened this time. The slur was too close to his heart. He’d been able to disguise his reaction to the words against his brother, but he couldn’t hold it together when someone cursed their mother. Everyone at the table could see Byrne’s reaction.

  “I’d of told you before, Pinkerton,” Haney finally said. “But you’ve a family resemblance to the now departed.”

  Haney’s mates looked at Byrne’s face like a magic shroud had suddenly been lifted, their eyes widening at what their leader now knew was true.

  “He was my brother,” Byrne said, looking hard into the face of the one who called Danny a son of a whore.

  “Jaysus. Sorry, mate,” Paul said. “I wouldn’t of…you know.”

  Byrne waved off the apology.

  Again the table went quiet, a moment of silence so to speak. But no one sitting there could put off business for long.

  “Did you see his things then, Mr. Byrne, if that’s the real name?” Haney asked.

  “It’s our real name, yes,” Byrne said. “And yeah, I was at the undertaker’s.” The curiosity hook was out and Haney was biting.

  “Bingham’s, uh, I mean, your brother’s valise? Was it with his effects?”

  “I may have seen a leather pouch, sort of like the ones you fellows have,” Byrne lied. “Why? What would have been in his valise if it was found with him?”

  “Ha! Everything, man. His papers, his identification, his money, promissory notes and any binders he was still holding,” Haney said.

  “He was loose like the rest of us. Stayed in different places, moved from hotel to shack to tent just like everyone else. You don’t leave anything anywhere. You carry everything you have with you just in case you might have to leave on the double, get me?”

  “Got you,” Byrne said. “Perhaps I’ll have to revisit the undertaker and recanvas possessions.”

  “Aye, you’d do better in the sheriff’s office, Mr. Byrne. Just like the roll of money word says was in your poor brother’s mouth. Cox has anything of value that was found over there.”

  Not a man at the table, including Byrne, doubted the statement. He got up, spilled some coins out on the table and prepared to leave.

  “Good luck in Miami, boy’os. I’ve got some polishing to do.”

  Byrne showed up at the appointed dinner with Marjory McAdams and Faustus before the others. Faustus had instructed him to meet at the Dellmore Cottage on the island where “I will speak to Mrs. Moore, the proprietress there and have a suitable meal prepared.”

  There had been no time to have his fancy new suit cleaned and repaired so Byrne made do with the jacket and tried, perhaps in vain, to match it with a clean pair of trousers. He hoped the lighting would be dim.

  Faustus arrived ten minutes past the hour, impeccably dressed. Byrne noticed that his garb was relatively new, versus the frayed version he seen before. His long-tailed coat with a brocaded vest was of a finer fabric and he wore shined and pointed shoes that surely could be used as weapons if aimed toward another man’s lower regions. The two men met on the porch of the Dellmore with the Poinciana in full view and stood in polite silence in a cooling ocean breeze. Mrs. Moore greeted them and offered drinks, which both declined with a sense that clear-headedness might be required for the evening. After several minutes, Byrne decided to let Faustus in on his friends’ concern over a possible valise that may have been in his brother’s possession at the time of his killing.

  “They were certainly honest with you Mr. Byrne,” he said. “The binder boys are notorious for keeping their paperwork nearby. I’m afraid I was too focused on your brother’s wounds and should have asked the undertaker what if any personal effects they may have collected. The fact that his clothing was nearly burned away might have led to that unfortunate dismissal on my part.”

  Byrne wondered if Faustus was nervous presenting himself as a lawyer to someone of Marjory’s high station. That conjecture was quickly abandoned when she arrived fashionably late.

  “Absolutely charmed, my dear,” Faustus said, with a show of the hat and a bow. Byrne was surprised Marjory hadn’t curtsied, the pleasantries were so thick.

  Byrne could not find fault with Faustus’ impression. Marjory had worn a dress of the lightest shade of green that had a remarkable effect with her eye color and at the same time setting off the highlights in her auburn hair. When she turned, the flow of air around her carried a whiff of flowers so delicate that Byrne thought he’d imagined it, and the fading light from the west seemed to catch in the folds of her garments and accentuate the delicacy of her fig
ure. He, too, was charmed.

  Once they were seated at a table in the small hotel’s parlor, Marjory also declined an offer of wine and a consommé Printanier was served.

  “I am quite impressed, Mr. Faustus,” Marjory said. “I was aware of Mrs. Moore’s reputation as a fine cook, but not that she entertained private parties here.”

  “Ah, she is an old friend, Miss McAdams, and it was quite wonderful of her to do this on such short notice. But my understanding from Mr. Byrne is that time is of the essence.”

  Byrne took the first spoonful of soup. Faustus was done with the pleasantries.

  “I have heard bits and pieces so far, but if I am to represent this woman in a legal hearing, I really need as much information as possible,” Faustus said. “So, could you to start from the beginning, Miss McAdams?”

  Marjory’s fingers were entwined, her wrists resting carefully on the table’s edge, her eyes focused, ever so carefully, on Faustus. The old man did not flinch, nor avert his own look as polite custom might demand. Two strong personalities were assessing, were making instant determinations, and were, perhaps, making plans.

  Marjory’s eyes broke first. She picked up her soup spoon and delicately took three small tastes of the consommé. “Very well, sir. On Friday of last week, I was on the southern porch of the Breakers when the maid smelled fire.”

  They talked through the soup and through the croquettes of shrimp, Marjory recalling the trip to the Styx as it blazed, the morning when Shantice Carver came crying out of the woods after her discovery of the body, the accusation by the sheriff and Marjory’s own decision to secret the woman off the island. She made no mention of seeing the banker’s wife coming out of the woods before the fire. They were into the main course of broiled plover when Faustus reminded McAdams that she had committed a crime.

  “Aiding and abetting a fugitive is a punishable act,” he said. “Certainly you know this, and I would have to say it was either foolish or highly commendable on your part.”

  “I believe the girl to be innocent, Mr. Faustus. I also know the reputation of the sheriff,” she said. “He is a racist and a pig.”

  Faustus choked only slightly on a spoon of currant jelly. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

  “Well, that said, can you provide me with the names of those persons who will swear that Miss Carver was at the fair at the time that our Mr. Bingham was shot to death?”

  Byrne snuck a look at Faustus. They had not spoken of whether to use Danny’s real name or whether to reveal his sibling relationship. Faustus had made the decision alone. Byrne was not opposed.

  McAdams took the opportunity to dab at the corners of her own mouth before answering.

  “Yes, I believe I can,” she said without immediately offering up the name of Abby.

  “And these persons would have been attending the fair themselves?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why not you, Miss McAdams?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Why were you not at the fair? My understanding is that you were active in arranging the event in the first place. In fact, I’ve been told that you convinced your father to talk Mr. Flagler into financing the affair. I would think you’d have attended to see how well it was carried off.”

  Byrne, who’d been relegated to the role of observer, one he was quite adept at, listened carefully. Faustus’ voice had not changed in timbre or enunciation. In another man’s mouth, the question could have come off as an accusation. In his it was merely a professional inquiry.

  Marjory blushed slightly. “You are correct. It was something my father and I spoke about several times, giving the workers a sort of holiday, something to lift their spirits.

  “As for attending, I thought it would be an intrusion, akin to the lordly master overseeing the dance of his slaves. It was supposed to be an event for them, not for us.”

  “I see,” Faustus said, dipping his head as if begging her pardon. But his next question had no ring of begging in it.

  “And, if I may, did you know Mr. Bingham? I mean through your travels or when you may have been visiting in West Palm?”

  “The name wasn’t familiar. And I certainly didn’t recognize the man I saw that night.”

  Marjory turned her head away as if the grisly sight was revisiting.

  “Do forgive me, Miss,” Faustus said in reaction.

  Byrne found the crack in McAdams’ usual hardened core curious, but said nothing. Seeing his own brother burned and dead had put a vise around his heart that nearly squeezed him to unconsciousness.

  “I would like to employ your help, Mr. Faustus, as representation for Mizz Carver. I will gladly pay the going rate for a criminal attorney. I believe there is expected to be an arraignment on Friday. Would you be willing?”

  Coffee had arrived, real coffee, and Faustus took a long luxurious sip before answering.

  “It has been several years, but my licensing in the state of Florida is up to date and I shall be willing to aid in Miss Carver’s defense. In fact, if we are allowed to present our findings to the judge on Friday, it is quite possible that the charges will be dropped altogether.

  “I would, however, have to visit with the woman tomorrow, gain her approval, and hear her side of the story.”

  “I’ll be more than pleased to introduce you,” Marjory said, her instant smile lightening the heretofore dark and moody room. “I will of course ask to sit in during your discussions. I mean, I would suppose someone other than a stranger, someone with a woman’s touch, might reassure Mizz Carver of our intentions.”

  Faustus again seemed to hold Marjory’s eyes for an extra few seconds. “We’ll have to see what the sheriff’s policy is on that matter. It is not usual for such discussions to be witnessed by anyone other than a client and their attorney. Privilege, of course. But certainly it is a possibility.”

  With all manners and pleasantries to the host concluded, the dinner broke up. On the porch outside Faustus bid good evening and walked quickly into the night, headed for the bridge to West Palm Beach. Byrne lingered for an uncomfortable minute and was rewarded for his hesitation.

  Marjory was staring up at the sky, her head tilted, her pinned-up hair in danger of unraveling and falling in cascades down her back.

  “Oh, look at the stars, Michael. Isn’t it a gorgeous night?”

  The sound of his first name in her voice struck Byrne mute.

  “Or do you not like the stars?” she said to his silence.

  “Uh, no. I mean absolutely,” he mumbled.

  She took a step toward him, hooked her arm through the crook of his elbow. “Then you will walk me back to my hotel?”

  He knew she was out there, deeper in the water, though her teasing and laughter had abated. Somewhere she was floating, perhaps lying on her back in the motion of the swells, tingling in the warm ocean water while she held that curious smile on her face.

  She was enticing him, luring. He knew this to be true. But he also knew that his reaction to seeing her inexplicably disappear into the beachside bushes and then come running out stark naked and sprint into the ocean was going to override any question of her motives.

  On the walk back from dinner she’d used his first name three times, each one sounding like a wonderful note of music. But they’d walked mostly in silence, she lightly holding his arm and he trying not to show his enthusiasm or nervousness. When they reached the turnoff to the Breakers, she’d pulled him in the opposite direction.

  “It’s much too lovely a night to go in,” she said. “And the beach is beautiful in the moonlight.”

  The moonlit sand made Byrne recall Harris’ tale of once mistaking it as snow. Marjory removed her shoes and they walked near the tide mark, she pointing out the sprinkling lights of phosphorescence being washed up on the shore, he being too thrilled by both the sight of the living organisms’ glow and the fact that she had taken his hand in hers as they moved south.

  Then she’d stopped and stared out at the ocean and th
e beam of moonlight that appeared as a silver arrow to the horizon. “I have to swim. It’s too gorgeous not to swim,” she said and made a break for the bushes. He was still puzzled by her actions when she came bolting from cover, her long legs and torso flashing white in the light and her flowing hair catching and throwing glimmers of red.

  “Come on then, Byrne! Where’s the Irish in you!” she called out, launching herself like a spear into the sea. He watched the hole into which she’d disappeared, no doubt his mouth agape, and then five feet farther out her head appeared and then her arms like an amphibious butterfly’s wing swooped up from her sides, reformed into a point, and without losing forward motion she again speared into the water. She repeated her dolphin-like move three or four more times, growing smaller with each piece of yardage gained and then was gone into the darkness.

  It took him more time than he cared to remove all of his clothes and dump them in a stack and then run in after her. He shivered only once, when the water, perhaps seventy-eight degrees but still well below body temperature, reached his groin, but he copied Marjory’s motion and dove forward. He was not nearly as graceful as she, and after a couple of attempts he stopped and gained his feet on the sandy bottom. Now he knew she was out here, but where? A collection of clouds had moved in front of the moon and the path of light had diminished. He waited until the gauzy gray passed and then spotted her, breast-stroking toward him.

  “My God, isn’t it marvelous,” she said, stopping an arm’s length away. Her auburn hair was slicked back on her head, her face pale on the side where the moonlight struck it. Droplets of water clung to her eyelashes.

  “Yes. I should say it is,” Byrne said, amazed that his voice even worked.

  She spun and jumped high into the air, her arms going up as if trying to slap the moon itself, and exposing herself to where her hips widened slightly from her tiny waist. She disappeared again when she came down and Byrne was left looking around again until she surfaced, directly in front of him, this time closer than an arm’s length. He could feel the wavelets. Both of them were holding their breaths when she moved up against him and her hard nipples brushed his skin. Then her breasts flattened against him as he pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. He moved his lips to hers, and when they touched they were cold and salty until he felt the warmth of air come from inside her mouth. He felt the tip of her tongue flirt at the seam of his own lips, but when he opened them he got a mouthful of salt water and she laughed in her throat and bent back her head to look in his eyes. He felt himself hard against her hips.