The River to Glory Land

by Janie DeVos

  “Miss Strickland,” Scott said as a smile spread across his tired face, refreshing his whole countenance. It had been a long day for both of us, but at least I had some sleep on the plane. “You are about to meet a woman the likes of whom you’ve never met before. Meet Cleopatra,” he said as he pulled open the door, and ushered me in ahead of him.

  As I stepped into the lamp-lit room, the dark-haired person peered around the man on the desk, and I immediately understood the woman’s moniker. She did look like Cleopatra. Gertrude Lythgoe’s hair and eyes were both as dark as night, with something almost snake-like about the latter. They were hard and fiery, and in their alertness, they seemed to be measuring one’s heat and movements, as well as one’s intentions, and whether they be good or bad. They were hard eyes, as they looked at me, but as soon as she saw Scott standing in the shadows behind me, she smiled, causing her eyes to crinkle into slits.

  “Well, would ya look at the sucker the wind just blew in!” she exclaimed as she rose from her desk and walked toward him. She was dressed in a lovely red silk oriental-style dress, which made her seem that much more exotic, and her black hair was cut in a sleek short bob. Her teeth were large, as were all of her features, and there was the slightest gap between her front two incisors. She was beautiful, but there was a definite toughness about her. She held out her hands to Scott, who took them both, gently shook them and then leaned in and kissed her right cheek. He was obviously as taken by her as I was, though he was far more relaxed than I felt. I couldn’t help but feel that if I sneezed the wrong way, she wouldn’t hesitate to cut my throat. Even though she had done nothing threatening or frightening, I knew it would behoove me to be cautious. This was a woman in a man’s world, and from the looks of things, she was having no trouble keeping up with them—on the contrary. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find out that she was the lead horse in most every race.

  “Cleo,” Scott said, releasing her hands and turning toward me. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Lily Strickland.”

  Again, those eyes measured me up—literally. They ran from my face, down to my saddle shoes and up again. “Well, now,” Cleo said with a wry smile that was almost a sneer. She placed her left hand on her hip while her right firmly grasped my left shoulder and turned me around so that she could evaluate me from all sides. “Is she your latest little Sheba, Monroe, or what?”

  “No, no,” he laughed, glancing over at me. “Just a friend.”

  “How goes it with you?” he asked, obviously hoping to change the subject. “We stopped in Bimini first today and just missed you and McCoy.”

  While flying to Nassau, before I succumbed to sleep, Scott explained that Cleo and Bill McCoy were lovers. The expression, “The real McCoy” had been born because of the premium, undiluted liquor Bill had a reputation for selling. If he told you it was a bottle of Hiram Walker whiskey, you knew it was “the real thing” and had not been watered down. Cleo’s product was just as good and reliable, Scott said. Theirs was a match made in prohibition heaven. That Bill would go to the ends of the earth for the smoldering-eyed lady was no secret. Scott told me that Gertrude was actually born in California to British immigrant parents, but with her dark and exotic looks, she told tall tales of being American Indian, or French, Spanish, and even Russian. “Not Egyptian?” I asked, amused.

  “Oddly enough, not that I’ve heard,” Scott laughed. “She’s one funny bird. And one that’ll cut your heart out as soon as look at you,” he said. I knew he wasn’t kidding. She had the reputation of being a shrewd businesswoman, and a dangerous one, too.

  “Bill and I caught up on old times,” Cleo quipped. “We been like two ships passin’ in the night lately—literally!” she laughed. “We shared a Bimini sunrise and Loretta’s fritters. Lord, that woman knows how to make ’em. I gave her a bottle of my best-aged whiskey for a half dozen of her fritters, and a quart of her conch chowder. I’m trying to convince her to close up shop and open a restaurant here. I even offered to pay to have it built.”

  “And she wouldn’t do it?” Scott looked surprised. I had a feeling very few people said no to Gertrude Lythgoe.

  “Naw. She said she couldn’t leave Sparky behind to tend to himself, and he won’t leave Bimini.” She ran her eyes up and down Scott. “Damn, man, you get prettier with every passing year. What are ya now? Twenty-seven?”

  “Six. Don’t push it, lady. The years are passing fast enough.” He smiled, and then his face grew serious. “Cleo, we need sixty cases of scotch. You got any you can sell me for a good price?”

  “Honey, don’t I always treat ya fair ’n square?”

  “You do, Cleo, and I need ya to do it again and fast,” Scott said frankly.

  “You and your jane here in some kind o’ trouble?” she asked, narrowing her black eyes.

  “In a way, and I’ll tell you all about it later, but right now, we need to score the booze and get out of here—by morning, if you can swing it.”

  “For you, I’ll swing it,” she said earnestly. “I sent a huge shipment off to New Jersey earlier today, but a boat from London came in late this afternoon carrying at least some of a large order I’ve been expecting. I’m not sure what all I’ve got. John still needs to take the inventory,” she said, tossing her head back toward the man who had been sitting on the corner of her desk but had since stepped into a back room. “I’m pretty sure we’ll have what you need, though. I’ll have a couple of our dockhands separate it out for you.”

  “Any chance you can pack ’em as hams?” he asked. I knew that “hams” were six bottles stuffed inside straw-filled burlap bags, arranged to form a triangle and sewn shut. This method took up less room and weren’t as heavy as cases, and the bottles were better protected.

  “They may already be packaged that way,” Gertrude said, “if not, I’ll have the boys repack ’em for ya. I know ya need as little weight as possible goin’ up in that paper bird of yours. Lord, man, when am I ever gonna convince ya to come back down to earth and go to work with me? You need to be transporting the goods the way it should be done, by sea! You know, Monroe, if man was meant to fly, God would have given him wings,” she pointed out, smiling broadly.

  “And if He’d wanted us to travel the seven seas, then He’d have given us gills,” Scott chuckled.

  “This is why I love the man!” she said to me as she placed both hands on either side of his face, then pulled him to her and planted her mouth firmly on his.

  When she pulled back from him, she said, “Have your plane on the beach by dock number three at ten in the morning, and you’ll be back up in the wild blue yonder by ten fifteen.”

  Chapter 29

  Mama Knows Best

  We checked into the single-story, unimposing White Dolphin Guest Cottages. And though it was far less fancy than the Colonial or Graycliff Hotels, it was off the beaten path, where one could lie low if one chose to do so, which we both did. There were a dozen small cottages, and, fortunately, there were several available, so we checked into two that were across a small courtyard from each other. Though I would have felt a little more secure with Scott right next door, I assured him I was absolutely comfortable with the arrangements. Secretly, I was glad he had insisted I carry a firearm. I was in a strange place, with many different types of people, and the rules I lived by in the states, might not always apply in Nassau. Many ruffians roamed the streets, and, without a doubt, many criminals had sought safe refuge in the islands, which could and would hide a man’s worst secrets.

  After dropping off our duffel bags in our rooms, we met up in the small tropical courtyard, which was enclosed with pink and red hibiscus, and deep purple bougainvillea flowering abundantly in large terracotta pots. Though we were exhausted, we needed supper.

  “You look nice,” Scott said, taking in my change of clothing.

  “Thanks.” I smiled, glancing down at the black wide-leg silk pants I’d paired
with a sleeveless cream-colored silk blouse that tied at the side on my waist. “This may be a little fancy, but I was limited in what I could bring from the ship this morning. I wasn’t planning on an island excursion.”

  “No, it’s nice,” he repeated. I noticed he’d changed his shirt from the olive colored canvas he’d been wearing to a light blue denim one, with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms again.

  “So, where to?” I asked as we walked out of the courtyard and on to St. George Street.

  “That all depends: You in the mood for quiet and good, or lively and great?”

  Though quiet sounded wonderful after a long day, great food sounded even better. I was famished.

  “I’ll have to go with lively and great,” I said.

  “Then Mama Minerva’s it is. She’s got the best fried snapper in the islands, and a hot pepper mango salsa that’ll make you beg for mercy at the same time you’re askin’ for more,” he laughed.

  We walked for several blocks, saying very little and thinking a lot. Finally, Scott broke the relative silence. “Miss Strickland, we’re gonna have to decide how we’re gonna get the load to Chick. But there are a couple of things that are bothering me and we’re going to have to really think this thing through before we head out in the morning. We’re both tired tonight, so let’s get an early start in the morning. We’ll get up, get some strong coffee and breakfast, and then figure out how we want to handle everything.”

  “So what you’re telling me is we’re really not going on any tour of the fancy new Star of India ship?” I smiled, glancing over at him on my left. Actually, the ship was in port; we’d flown over it as we were landing just off the beach.

  “Now, Miss Strickland, would I have lied to your father about such a thing? Of course, we’re taking the tour. And as we’re walking along, mesmerized by all of the ship’s bells and whistles, we’re going to figure out how to get your sister out of this mess without getting double-crossed by Chick. The man’s a son of a bitch, to be perfectly blunt about it, but I have a feeling you’re well aware of that.”

  “More than you know, Mr. Monroe. More than you know,” I softly replied.

  Suddenly, Scott grabbed my elbow, stopping me. “Listen, we’re smuggling booze, and we’ve flown from hither to yon today doing it. We’re taking our lives in our hands dealing with some of these no-goods, not to mention the feds. When all of this is finally said ’n done, you and I will have lived more of life in a very short amount of time than I have with some of the people I’ve known for years. Don’t you think it’s time to stop calling me ‘Mr. Monroe’?”

  “All right, Scott.” I smiled at the amusement in his eyes. “But only if you’ll call me ‘Lily.’”

  “That,” he said, smiling at the amusement in my own eyes, “is a given.”

  We resumed our quiet walk, and though I wanted to ask him what was bothering him about the transaction with Chick, I was too tired and hungry to get involved in a conversation that might require some clear thinking. Too much depended on the decisions we made and I needed to be able to think things through carefully. What I needed more than anything at that moment was something cold to drink and hot to eat. Other than a piece of toast and half of a grapefruit at breakfast, and the fritters in Bimini, I had nothing to eat all day.

  I could hear the noise coming from Mama Minerva’s before I could even see the place. The restaurant was on a small side street between Charlotte and Parliament Streets, and once we turned the corner and it came into view, I could see that the place was no more than a large rustic wooden building with a kitchen that looked as if it had been added on to the back. When Scott pulled open the door, the sounds and smells washed over me. It was an island baptism of rhythmic music, seafood and alcohol. Nearly every table was taken, many claimed by drinks and food only as diners danced in a cleared portion of the room directly in front of the band. As the couples on the floor swayed and moved together, I caught glimpses of the instruments being played, including a steel drum, which was simply a round concave piece of metal being struck with a covered mallet. The deep yet tinny sound of it helped to raise the heat of the dancers, as did another deeper-sounding skin-covered drum that a musician struck with his bare hands. A couple of guitars, and even a cowbell keeping rhythm with a thin drumstick, completed the ensemble, and the effect their music was having on the crowd was mesmerizing. Whites danced with blacks, the young danced with the old, and the well dressed swayed with partners wearing nothing more than beachwear. As unusual as the scene may have been anywhere else in the world, it seemed perfectly normal, right, and natural here, as if this scene played out night after night, touching some primitive chord that each person – no matter how different they might seem from each other – shared and understood, even needed.

  “Over here,” Scott said, leaning close to my ear so that I could hear him above the music. Placing his hand in the small of my back, he ushered me over to a table on the side toward the back.

  “I could eat a horse,” Scott said, sliding into the chair to my right.

  “What you drinkin’ tonight?” A tall thin waitress with skin the color of mahogany immediately appeared between us. “Dere’s a special; two calypso punch for da price o’ one.” She looked bored, tired and hot, and as she informed us of the evening’s special, she looked around at the other tables to see who might require her attention next.

  “Well?” Scott looked over at me.

  “As long as it’s cold, deal me in.” I could feel perspiration running down between my breasts. The humidity had to be a hundred percent, and the temperature even higher in the tightly packed restaurant.

  “Do you need a menu, or shall I order for us both?” Scott asked.

  “Go ahead. You know what’s good here.”

  He ordered two plates of snapper smothered in mango pepper salsa, plantains and dirty rice, which was simply rice cooked with chicken giblets, celery, onions and peppers.

  The waitress returned a few minutes later with the calypso punch. The tall frosty glass held a delicious blend of guava, mango and lime juices, which tasted like Heaven in the heat, and the three types of rum were the reason for the “punch” in the drink’s name. It didn’t take long for me to feel slightly light-headed. I just hoped the food got to the table as quickly as the drinks had.

  Just then, the band took a break, and the reduction in the noise level was a relief. Closing my eyes, I laid my head back. It was the first moment I’d had to exhale all day, but the moment didn’t last. I immediately a heard a low, smoky voice say Scott’s name.

  I opened my eyes to see a tiny woman with dark almond-shaped eyes and long black hair with red streaks in it standing behind Scott’s chair. Though she wasn’t young, she was still exotically beautiful, and in her smile was a sensuality that a woman twenty years younger would envy. Scott stood up and hugged her tightly.

  “When I looked t’rough the kitchen window and saw you sittin’ dere, I said, ‘Minerva, wake up! You dreamin’ again!’” She laughed, and her voice was low and sensual.

  “Ah, Minerva, you’re the stuff dreams are made of. Just ask every man in this place.”

  She held him away from her and ran her eyes down the length of him. “You look good, Scotty. Too good for your own good,” she chuckled. Then Minerva turned to me and Scott introduced us.

  “Minerva, this is a friend of mine, Lily Strickland. Lily, this is Minerva Paris, though she’s better known in these parts as ‘Mama Minerva.’”

  “It’s a pleasure meeting you.” I smiled and held out my hand. Minerva took it, laid her other hand on top of it, looked deeply into my eyes and said nothing for a moment, which made me a bit uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure what she was doing, or if I needed to say anything, so I just waited.

  “She an old soul, dis one is,” she said, breaking her eye contact with me and looking down at Scott, who was seated again. “You know each other
before.” She looked back at me. “You good for him,” she said. “Make him feel sometin’.” The way Minerva spoke, it was as if she was repeating something being told to her; as if some inner voice was whispering to her and she was simply relaying what it was she heard. She reminded me of a fortune-teller I’d been to when I visited the circus as a young teenager. The woman had told me I’d lose something of great value before the week was through, which scared me so much that I didn’t want to leave the house. But staying home did me no good. I went into the kitchen four days later and found that my beloved twelve-year-old cat, Jilly, had passed away in the night, curled up in her favorite spot next to the hot water heater. After that, I swore I’d never visit another fortune-teller again, and would just let my future unfold as it would.

  “You straighten her out and then she fly right,” she said to Scotty. Then Minerva blinked and something shifted in her. She smiled at us both as if she’d just returned from some faraway place. “I’ll go check on da food,” she said and then walked away.

  “What’s her story?” I asked as I watched her wind her way around the tables. She moved with such a graceful fluidity that it was almost as if she didn’t have to pick her feet up to walk.

  “She’s an Obeah priestess,” Scott said as he turned back to me after also watching her glide away.

  “That’s a sort of voodoo, isn’t it?” I asked. From other islanders, I’d heard something of the ancient form of religion that had its roots in Africa. “It’s nothing bad, right? I mean as long as you’re not on a practitioner’s bad side.”

  “Right.” Scott nodded. “Minerva’s held in high esteem around here. Getting her to tell you about your past or future usually costs a pretty penny.”

  “Well,” I said, trying to keep things light. “I’d have been glad to let someone else have a free reading tonight. I tend to think all of that is just a lot of mumbo-jumbo.” I knew I sounded a bit arrogant, but, in truth, what Minerva had said had unnerved me.