The River to Glory Land

by Janie DeVos

  I thought about asking Neil if he could loan me at least part of the money, but things were too complicated with him as it was. Now that he was separated from Laura, I could get in way over my head with him. I knew we shared feelings for each other, but what did that mean exactly? What did I expect to happen? And what did I want to happen? I could honestly say I just didn’t know. What I did know was that borrowing a great deal of money from him was going to keep me indebted to him for a long, long time. It could turn into a really terrible situation if we tried to have a relationship with each other, but ended up wanting to go our separate ways. No, I didn’t want to make things more complicated than they already were.

  I lay back on the grass while still dangling my legs in the water and looked up at the clouds as they streamed by. One large fat white cumulous cloud seemed to sit atop another funnel-shaped cloud, making it look like a vanilla ice cream cone. Another looked like the profile of an old hag. I wondered if the clouds took on shapes like that if one was flying among them. If seeing them up close and—.

  Suddenly, I sat up. I knew exactly what I needed to do, and whose help I needed to do it. Quickly pulling my legs out of the river and grabbing my shoes, I rushed back to the car and then retraced the route I had taken over to the park. Instead of going all the way across the County Causeway, I turned off onto Watson Island, and made a beeline toward a hangar with the blowing palm tree logo painted on its side.

  Chapter 23

  Off Avenue B

  “Well, if you don’t have his number, can you at least tell me where he lives?” I impatiently asked a set of grease-coated work boots sticking out from underneath one of Chalk’s Ocean Air seaplanes. Scott’s plane was there, but he wasn’t, and so far, Chalk’s mechanic hadn’t been the least bit helpful.

  Suddenly, he came sliding out on his creeper with half of a well-chewed cigar jammed in the right side of his mouth. “Lady,” he said as he pulled the cigar out and stood up. He looked exasperated. “The last thing I need is to have one of Scott’s little dolls comin’ around here wantin’ to know where he lives so that she can either catch him in the act, or maybe involve herself in the act with him.” He was dressed in dark tan overalls that were equally as grease-stained as his shoes were. His hands—one of which was holding the cigar he’d had in his mouth and was likely to put back in his mouth again—were absolutely filthy.

  “Listen, mister,” I said, planting my hands on my hips, narrowing my eyes and leaning in toward him. “I’ve had a morning that makes me want to pick up that pair of pliers lying on the floor and twist your nose until you’re screamin’ for your mama. All I’m asking for is Scott Monroe’s address, not your opinion about why you think I need it. So…” I took a calming breath, “I’ll ask you nicely one more time. Where does he live?”

  “He’s at the Johnson Apartments, off Avenue B. That’s all I know,” the man said quickly.

  “That’s all I need,” I replied, and left.

  I found a parking spot on the street about a block down from the Johnson apartment building. As I walked down the sidewalk toward the large rectangular white structure, I counted seven stories and noticed that each apartment had a large bay window and concrete balcony. The building was fairly new looking, and certainly handsome, but unpretentious.

  I walked up onto the expansive front porch, which ran the entire length of the building, and noticed a long residents’ directory just to the left of the front doors. Running my finger down the list of names and coordinating apartment numbers, I found Scott’s name listed in apartment 6-B. I immediately walked through the front doors into a handsomely appointed lobby. Looking around, I found the elevator off to the left and within two minutes’ time, I was standing at Scott’s front door with my hand poised to knock. But I lowered it. Stepping away from it, I put my hands on my hips and took a couple of deep breaths before stepping back up to the door and giving it several sharp raps. I knocked again a minute later. When there was still no response, I turned to leave. Suddenly, I heard the door open behind me and there stood a half-naked Scott Monroe, clad only in white sailor-style pants and a silver St. Christopher’s medal hanging from a chain around his neck. His left arm was casually raised up on the edge of the open door and his eyebrows were raised in question. He was obviously just as surprised at seeing me as I was at seeing him half dressed.

  “Well, Miss Strickland,” he said in a low deep voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure of finding you at my threshold?”

  Lord, he annoyed me to no end! But I tried not to let it show.

  “’Afternoon, Mr. Monroe. I’m sorry I didn’t call before coming, but I was told you don’t have a phone.”

  “Actually, I do, but I’m pretty selective about who has the number. Won’t you come in?” he asked, stepping out of the doorway. I hesitated for only a second before walking out of the tidy hallway and into an apartment that looked like the ’26 hurricane had just swept through it.

  It wasn’t that the apartment wasn’t handsome. On the contrary, from what I could see of it, it was filled with beautiful pieces of artwork, including a large amber-colored Depression glass vase sitting in the middle of a Mission-style coffee table in the center of the open living area. Taking a quick glance around, I saw that most of the furniture in the small apartment was Mission style, in a medium shade of oak. Because of the simple, sleek lines that defined the Mission style, it worked perfectly. There were two chairs facing each other at each end of a mixed-wood rectangular coffee table. The frames of the chairs were oak, the seats a rich, oxblood leather. Facing the coffee table, as well as the French doors beyond, which led out to a small balcony, was a large leather couch, upholstered in the same shade of leather. All of the pieces sat atop a beautiful oriental area rug that was predominantly a rich red, with accents of black and cream woven within it. Off to my left was an eat-in kitchen, with a small table and four chairs. To my right was a small hallway, which, I assumed, must lead to at least one bedroom, as well as a bathroom. Along the wall that divided the sleeping space from the living space was a bank of black and white photographs of numerous subjects, including interesting landscapes, and modern skyscrapers. Since many were taken from the air, I wondered if Scott shot them. There was one of a runabout speeding away from the camera through Biscayne Bay. Though it was taken from a distance, and only the back of the driver was visible, it looked as though the person had dark hair, and the boat looked like one that Daddy had built. There was another picture of a beautiful brunette, but this one was taken much closer to the subject. In the photo, she was bending over, smelling a bouquet of light-colored roses. From what I could see of her, she looked a lot like the woman I had seen with Scott at the bar in our hotel on the day of the races.

  Not wanting to stare, I pulled my eyes away from the photo and back to his living room. His place certainly had all of the right ingredients to make it a beautiful apartment, but almost every piece of furniture had clothing and other miscellaneous items strewn over it.

  Seeing a look of disapproval on my face, Scott said, “Forgive the mess. My lady has been gone for the last nine days, and, well…things have gotten a little messy around here.”

  I almost told him that was the understatement of the year, but held my tongue. The last thing I needed to do was insult him and end up booted out of the joint. Suddenly, it hit me what he had just said; ‘My lady has been gone…’

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I simply looked back at the pictures and said, “Did you take all those?”

  “Yeah,” Scott replied, following my gaze to the photographs. “Most all of them. It’s become a little hobby, I guess you could say.”

  “They’re nice,” I said, looking back at him. And then there was silence as he waited for me to tell him why I had showed up unannounced at his apartment.

  “You want a beer?” he asked as he walked into the kitchen.

  “Uh…I guess I better not,�
�� I said, and then changed my mind. I figured that drinking a beer with him would buy me some time to explain why I was there. Besides, I could definitely use a drink after my confrontation with Chick.

  Scott took two bottles from the refrigerator, then popped the top and handed me mine through a large pass-through in the wall dividing the kitchen from the living room. Where I was, on the living room side, were two stools, which turned the pass-through counter into a bar of sorts. I sat down on one of the stools and took a good swig of the ice-cold beer. It tasted good. The day had turned into a hot one, and even though there was ample ventilation in the apartment with the French doors open, I was still very warm.

  Scott leaned in on the bar from his side, causing his St. Christopher’s medal to swing back and forth before it finally settled down on his bare, very tan and well-muscled chest. I caught myself staring and as I self-consciously pulled my eyes away, I glanced up to see if he’d caught me. From the amused smiled on his face, I was quite sure he had.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, suddenly looking serious and getting right to the point. His heavy-lidded green eyes seemed to be looking into me, as if measuring me up. I noticed that they were brighter in the natural lighting that flooded into the room, but they still had that intriguing dark green ring around the light green of the iris. There was no doubt about it; the man had unnerving eyes.

  “Olivia—my sister,” I replied, finally pulling myself back to the matter at hand, “has gotten herself into trouble.”

  “Go on,” he said slowly, looking rather perplexed as to why that should matter to him.

  “It seems she’s been the middle man in a smuggling operation cooked up by the Doxley brothers and Chick Belvedere, which has made some people really upset.”

  Scott’s brows furrowed. “Like who?”

  “Like Buddy DeMario,” I replied.

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  I could see that he was curious now, but in a detached sort of way, as if he was overhearing some juicy gossip in the barbershop, which, from the looks of it, he didn’t visit as often as the day’s style dictated. His light brown hair hung in slight waves to the top of his shoulders—his tanned, bare shoulders.

  “Look, Mr. Monroe.” It was time I got down to business and told him exactly what had happened and what I needed from him to fix it. “DeMario’s thugs beat my sister to a pulp, and left her for dead. I found her at my family’s home on Key Biscayne, and if I hadn’t come when I did, I don’t know how long she would have lain there without getting help. If she’d been hurt any worse, it would have been lights out for her.

  “The thing is,” I continued, “those men stole a hundred and twenty cases of liquor from her; sixty of rum and sixty of scotch.”

  “You mean a hundred and twenty cases from Chick,” Scott corrected.

  “Exactly.” I nodded. “And therein lies our problem. He paid $7,000 for those cases, but said the street value is worth over $90,000. He wants either that full amount returned to him, or the booze. Olivia doesn’t have that kind of money, and wouldn’t if she worked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week until the year 1940. Lord knows I don’t have it. Chick’s given me less than a week to make restitution, and if I don’t, he threatened to kill my sister.”

  I saw Scott’s eyes flash for an instant. And just for that instant, I could see what the man looked like when he was angry. But it was only for the briefest second.

  “What about your parents? Or your grandparents?” he asked. “Couldn’t they help you? I don’t know your mother and grandmother like I do your father and grandfather, but I know they’d do whatever they could to straighten all this out.”

  “Both my parents and grandparents have loans on their businesses, and they’re just starting to make some headway after the fallout from the hurricane and embargo. If they know what’s going on, they’ll do whatever they need to do to bail my sister out – at a high cost to themselves. Neither Olivia nor I want them involved. They can’t know about this!” I could hear the emotion in my voice rising, and evidently Scott could, too, for the look on his face changed from one of interest to an expression of alarm.

  “Hey, there, woman, take it easy. Take a couple of breaths and a swig or two of that beer there.”

  I took a good pull on my beer and then assured him I was okay. I didn’t want him to think I was some weepy, weak woman, but I’d been on the verge of being exactly that. I pulled myself together.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m tired and frustrated, not to mention worried to death.

  “This morning, I went by the import/export office,” I continued. “And the Doxleys have vacated the premises. Gone like two thieves in the middle of the night.” I half-smiled.

  “That’s puttin’ it mildly,” Scott muttered disgustedly before taking a swig of his beer. “But it doesn’t surprise me,” he added. “Go on.”

  Encouraged by the fact that he wanted to know more, I took the bull by the horns. “Listen, Mr. Monroe, you and Chick are associates of sorts, aren’t you? Couldn’t you talk to him? See if there isn’t some kind of payment plan he could work out with us at a much reduced rate? After all, my sister isn’t really at fault here. But she’s the one who got stuck holdin’ the bag. If Chick wants to go after anyone, he should go after Buddy, and then those cowardly Doxley boys.” I was working myself up again, so I took another sip of beer and a couple of deep breaths.

  “First of all, Miss Strickland,” Scott said, tossing his now-empty beer bottle in an open trashcan next to the refrigerator. “Chick and I are not associates, or friends, or anything,” he firmly stated.

  “Yes, but I’ve seen y’all—at the Biltmore Hotel,” I said, slightly confused. “If you aren’t ‘anything,’ as you put it, then why have I seen you two together on more than one occasion?”

  “Because I have run liquor for him in the past and the man won’t give up trying to get me to run for him again. Just like Albert Doxley used to do. Remember? We ran into you at the Lemon Tree? You were with your sister, and I guess your friend,” he said, referring to Francine.

  “That’s right!” I said. It had slipped my mind. “That’s right,” I repeated. “Albert wanted to talk to you and you said you were flying out in about an hour.”

  “Right,” Scott said, opening the fridge and pulling out another beer. “You okay?” he asked, noticing my nearly empty beer and tipping the fresh bottle toward me.

  “One’s enough,” I replied. “Thanks.”

  “I was on my way to Havana.” Scott picked up the conversation again. “And Albert wanted some rum brought in. As I told him that night, and I’ll tell you this morning: I don’t do that anymore.” I started to speak, but he held up his finger, stopping me. “Look, Miss Strickland. I had a few real close calls with the border patrol. Not to mention a couple of times when some not-so-nice customers tried to double-cross me. Smuggling is a dirty business—a lucrative one, I’ll give you that—but a dirty one, nonetheless. As soon as I could get out of it, I did. I made just enough money to pay off my plane and put some away to expand the business, which brings me to another point,” Scott said, interrupting himself. “If you do get someone to fly in that stock for you, where’re you getting the seven grand to buy it with?”

  “Well, I have a little put away – maybe thirteen hundred or so,” I answered honestly. “And I’m going to see what my sister can scrape together. If we still can’t put the money together, I guess she can sell her car or something – and I have a pair of emerald earrings I could sell, too.”

  “That’s still not going to be enough. What about the good doctor?” he asked as his eyes bored into mine.

  “I don’t want to ask him,” I replied softly, looking down. “He’s already done a lot.”

  “I see,” Scott said, pushing himself away from the pass-through bar. He walked around to my side.

  “
Miss Strickland, I’m afraid I can’t help you with this. I’m sorry.” He suddenly seemed a little colder, a little more distant. It was almost as though he’d turned the “Open” sign in a shop window to the “Closed” side, and I knew without his even saying it that it was time for me to leave.

  “Won’t you reconsider, Mr. Monroe? I’m sure I could repay you over time. Is there some dollar figure that might make you change your mind?” I asked, suddenly feeling quite desperate, though I forced my voice to stay calm and steady.

  “No, Miss Strickland. There isn’t. And I won’t change my mind. Frankly, the business you and your sister have gotten yourselves into is none of my business. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get showered and then get to work. I’m flying some folks to Nassau this afternoon, and I’m runnin’ short on time now.”

  I opened my mouth to say something but then shut it. I had a feeling that there was no point in arguing with the man. He seemed like a real straight shooter who meant what he said. I sensed he wouldn’t have any patience for those didn’t do the same.

  I picked up my purse from the leather couch where I’d left it. “Mr. Monroe…if you should change your mind, I’ll be working on the Full House tomorrow. You can’t reach me there, of course. And you can’t call my parents’ house. But if I had your number—”

  “I won’t be changing my mind,” he said firmly, cutting me off. Then he headed for the front door to see me out. As I walked toward the door that he held open for me, I happened to glance back up at the row of photographs on his wall, and there, hanging among the photos of different people was one that I hadn’t noticed before. It was a close up of me standing on the open top deck of the Full House, holding a glass of wine in one hand, with my head tilted ever so slightly back as I laughed with someone. I couldn’t tell who that person was. All I could see was the sleeve of what looked like a man’s suit. Most likely, it was one of our passengers. Startled, I started to say something, but when I looked back at Scott, I knew it wasn’t the time to ask him when he had taken it, and if had he used a long-range lens from his plane. The “Closed” sign was in the window, and the curtains were pulled.