The Styx (32 page)

“Now there’s an enterprising Pinkerton, lads,” came a voice from over Byrne’s shoulder. He turned to see the binder boys lined up behind him in their scruffy suits, all with shit-eating grins on their faces. Byrne turned back to the work, hiding a grin of his own.

“So the old man is headin’ out again, eh?” said the voice again. Haney, the talker as usual. “Where’s he goin,’ Michael? Miami?”

“Can’t say for sure,” Byrne lied.

“Might give us a leg up, my friend. Money goes where Flagler goes, ya know. Might be some property he’s been scoutin’ down the tip of the peninsula. Some say the old coot’s thinking about takin’ the train down the islands to Key West.”

The outlandish statement brought a guffaw of incredulity from Haney’s mates. Byrne picked up a bucket of fresh water and splashed the side of the train.

“Isn’t that a bit daft, even for Flagler?” Byrne said, picking up the second bucket. “No one takes a train across the ocean, Haney. Even him.”

“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 figure. 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.