The Styx

by Jonathon King

McAdams raised an eyebrow, whether surprised by his audacity to swim in that putrid river or his stupidity in doing so, he could not tell.

  “Well, perhaps you may join me for a more pleasant bathing hour in the ocean some time, Mr. Byrne. The beach off the Breakers is quite lovely this time of year, and the water temperature should be much more to your liking than the rivers around Manhattan.”

  Byrne was trying to find another word of wit to make the conversation last when the dandy she’d called Graham returned, holding a crystal goblet of clear liquid.

  “Water, Marjory,” he said, though his eyes were on Byrne rather than McAdams.

  “Good evening, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met,” the man said, offering his hand to Byrne.

  “Oh, do forgive me. Mr. Michael Byrne, this is Mr. Graham Foster,” McAdams said.

  Byrne did not like Foster’s shoes. He did not like the crease in Foster’s pants or the silk brocade of his vest. He did not like the smart handshake he gave or the glisten of some kind of pomade in his hair. And over the man’s shoulder, Byrne did not like the look of a hurried and sober conversation between a messenger boy and an older gentleman whom he’d spotted earlier and took for a hotelman, noting that although he greeted the guests and seemed to be well known, he did not participate in the guests conversations and was not necessarily anxious to have Flagler’s ear like the others.

  “Since you are both boatmen,” McAdams was saying, without a hint of fun or sarcasm, “you may have tales to share.”

  Byrne may have let an unconscious grin twitch at the corner of his mouth, but he was no longer paying attention. He watched as the hotelman moved unhurried, but with a purpose, to the other side of the room and pulled Mr. McAdams aside, turning him away from his group and whispering something into his ear. The stoic expression on the men’s faces was what alerted Byrne. They did not crinkle their eyes in even customary pleasure. They did not tighten their jaws in consternation or masked alarm. Their faces simply went blank, passive, and reflexively, internal. Something was up.

  He shifted his eyes back to Foster and Marjory McAdams.

  “A pleasure to meet you sir,” he said, with a slight bow but no handshake.

  “Miss McAdams.” He took her fingers, looked at the lines of question form at her brow. “As you know too well, I’m working. Excuse me,” he said and moved away without another word.

  Byrne moved to the nearest wall and watched Mr. McAdams across the room. The man was extremely cool, carefully holding his new knowledge, working it in his head, looking around as if unhurried and unbothered. He shook a guest’s hand, touched an elderly woman’s forearm just so. And then he moved ever so gentlemanly toward Flagler’s table. Byrne slid to the other side of the column and followed with his eyes. McAdams approached Flagler, but moved behind the white and regal head, and then slipped past. He continued down the line, beyond the seated Cornelius Vanderbilt and his wife and then to a man whom Byrne almost immediately recognized from New York. A businessman, Byrne thought, and then began his own internal way of finding the face inside his mental collection. Uptown? No. During some special occasion when Byrne was a guard? No. It was during a police action, he was sure. The businessman rose, excused himself, and moved off with McAdams to a corner, where they were joined by the hotelman. The way the businessman dipped his head in acquiescence was the tip-off. Such a man of power was not used to subservience and thus when he showed it to McAdams, the moment glared. Byrne was now sure that he had seen him before. It was at a prostitution bust at the Haymarket Dance Hall on Sixth Avenue just south of Thirtieth Street. Byrne had been a simple cop at the time, called in to provide manpower and muscle for the raids that were done for show when the press shook up city hall and the pols needed to look like they were doing something to control the sex trade in the city. The businessman was one of the society types that got caught up in the dragnet one night. Byrne had seen the man take the commanding lieutenant aside and peel off a number of bills into his palm, enabling him to simply walk out onto the street. Since the man was never booked, Byrne did not know his name, but he also never forgot a face.

  Harris was still on the other side of the dance floor.

  “There’s news running round the room,” Byrne said quietly when he got to his sergeant’s side.

  “Indeed,” Harris said, without alarm or question. “It’s not a matter of concern to us, lad.”

  “Care to fill me in? It seems to be of interest to a few in power, including the man sitting next to Mr. Vanderbilt,” Byrne said, nodding toward the Flagler table, where the businessman was now retaking his seat.

  “That’s Birch, a Manhattan real estate man and a banker friend of the lot of them,” Harris said.

  “And the one in the tailless coat on his way out of the room,” Byrne asked, directing Harris’ attention to the hotelman who had first sought out McAdams.

  “That’s Pearson. He’s the hotel manager. Deals with every crisis, big or small.”

  “OK, what’s the crisis?”

  “Not our concern, Mr. Byrne. We are here solely to protect Mr. Flagler.”

  Byrne coughed into his hand and then looked into Harris’ face with a grin meant to match the old Irishman’s now famous tic.

  “And since when did good intelligence and an ear to rumor not serve that cause, Mr. Harris?” Byrne said.

  The sergeant looked pointedly into Byrne’s face, any sign of playfulness on his own completely gone.

  “Go back to work,” he said and then walked away.

  CHAPTER 14

  BYRNE watched Harris disappear into the crowd before he looped around a column and made for the exit. Go back to work indeed, he thought. He’d heard the expression too many times as a cop when he’d noticed the graft of the captains, the politicians on Bowery and the shakedowns by the Tammany crowd. He had no taste for turning his back.

  He went through the lobby and out onto the wide porch entrance, walking at a slow pace, acting unhurried, like a guest seeking a bit of fresh air. If he smoked, he would have taken one out and lit it. Rather he put his hands in his trouser pockets, one touching the baton, the other pinching his fold of money, and made his way down the steps to the driveway apron. When the livery boy looked up, Byrne engaged him.

  “Stunning evening,” he said. The boy was dark-eyed and impossibly skinny. He cut his eyes left and right, making sure the man in the evening clothes was talking to him.

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said, keeping his face forward.

  “Hard to believe anything could ruin the peacefulness of such a night.” Byrne shifted his own gaze toward the boy, making sure he knew to whom the conversation was being directed.

  “Yes, sir,” was again the answer.

  Byrne took his left hand out of his pocket, the fold of bills held loosely within sight.

  “If there were something happening, something unusual being talked about on such a night as this, how much would you think that information might be worth?” he said.

  Now the boy shifted his own gaze, first to the money, then up, furtively, to Byrne’s face.

  “Might be somethin’ like two dollars,” he said, starting at a bit of a higher figure than he might realistically make, leaving room for negotiation, just like any street-smart kid in New York.

  Byrne didn’t have time for negotiation. He peeled off two dollars and put the rest back in his pocket.

  “Word is they bringin’ that whore back to town,” the boy said, looking at the money. “The housewoman that kilt that white man in the Styx. Sheriff Cox done caught her runnin’ and is draggin’ her back to jail.”

  Byrne let the idea settle on him and then handed the boy his money.

  “Tonight?” he said.

  “Boy comin’ in from West Palm says right about now.”

  Byrne looked out on the dark water and could make out a few lights from his own hotel and a few sprinkled north in the city. He thought about the lynching he’d read about in the Jacksonville newspaper and the hanging
of the accused killer of the tax assessor. Harris was probably right. The information was the kind of gossip that would spread fast, even to the group of men inside. Byrne decided he would tuck the knowledge away. It had no relevance to his work. He went back up the stairs and was moving toward the entrance when he saw Marjory McAdams hurrying across the lobby toward him. He fixed his face, trying to look more charming than he was, trying to find something sophisticated to say. She blew past him without recognition. He couldn’t gauge whether the look on her face was a hard anxiety or angry fire, but he watched her pass through the doors and then followed. She skipped down the steps with her dress trailing. There was one of those odd bicycle contraptions waiting. A large black man, athletic and handsome, helped her into the carriage and then moved like silk up onto the seat, stepped on the pedals and started to roll. He looked up once as Byrne hurried down the steps and caught his eyes, held them for an instant with a look that said “Don’t even try to stop her” and then sped off toward the ferry dock.

  Byrne stood frozen for a minute, heard the engine of the ferry grind and pop in the distance, and marched inside to find Harris. His sergeant was now near the front of the room, behind the orchestra, watching Flagler’s table. Byrne went to his side, took his elbow and whispered into his ear.

  “I have to leave.”

  Harris turned only his head, looked into his charg’s eyes and said: “Give me a reason.”

  “Intelligence gathering and a bit of protection.”

  “Protection for who?”

  “The daughter of Mr. Flagler’s acquisitions engineer, his right-hand man, McAdams. I believe she’s gone to the mainland to get involved in a prisoner being brought to the jail, a hotel worker, a Flagler employee if you will.”

  “It’s a rumor,” Harris said. “I’ve already told you isn’t our business.”

  “It’s a rumor flying all over, including to the management of our boss’s hotel,” Byrne said.

  Harris turned away, perhaps assessing all he knew about Byrne, his abilities, his talents and his seriousness.

  “Make sure she’s safe, but bloody damn stay out of the rest of it,” Harris said. “The sheriff is a shite, but we don’t need to antagonize the bastard.” Harris might have only perceived the nod of agreement because when he turned, there was nothing but air behind him.

  Byrne went down the front stairs in two gliding jumps. He had the coat off and the top button of his shirt loosed before he reached the pedestrian bridge. He scanned the lake on the south side for a glimpse of the ferry and saw the lamp it carried far ahead, swinging already into the docks on the other side. His brogans had long been broken in for running the city streets and he lengthened his stride. The moon was still down, the sky above black velvet and sprinkled with stars that afforded little light. Still he ran with a purpose, remembering the feel of the bridge from his walks, aware of keeping his step high to avoid tripping on a raised wooden slat. He focused on a light at the end of the walkway where the boy should still be standing and made his path straight and unwavering.

  He was breathing hard when he got to where the bridge tender was standing. The boy looked him up and down, the sweat-soaked evening shirt, the face red and chest heaving.

  “Someone chase you out, then, sir?”

  Byrne was looking south at the ferry dock. The boat was empty. The passengers, McAdams and the big Negro, were nowhere in sight. He reached into his pocket and brought out a dollar.

  “Take me to the jail,” he said, thrusting the money at the boy.

  The kid looked at the money

  “You’re kidding,” he said, his tone skeptical to an offer to get paid to go where he’d wanted to be all night. Byrne brought out another two dollars and pushed all of it into the boy’s hand.

  “Right. This way,” the kid said, grabbing the cash and leaving his post behind.

  They went west on Clematis, crossed Narcissus where the shops and restaurants were darkened and the street nearly empty. But Byrne could hear music and laughter coming from a block north on Banyan where most of the saloons would still be open and evening drinkers would do what they ultimately did late into the night. The boy seemed more anxious than he was and skipped a few steps ahead. They crossed Olive Street and before they were halfway up the block Byrne could see the flickering glow of torches being held high at the next corner. Closer still he counted nearly a dozen people gathered in the street, keeping their distance from an enclosed, box-like wagon with barred windows high on the sides and a small square in the door to the back.

  “It’s the prison wagon,” the boy said over his shoulder. “They ain’t took her out yet.”

  The jailhouse was a two-story wood framed structure with four small windows set high on the first floor and flanking a slated door. There were three standard windows on the second floor, their panes flickering with reflected firelight. An outside staircase led up along one side. Byrne scanned the crowd. The first person demanding attention was a black-suited man the size of a finely fatted heifer who was planted near the jailhouse door. His hat was clamped on his head like the cover on a teapot. Byrne could not see his eyes, but the man was digging between his thin lips with a toothpick like there was something worthwhile in there. There was an aura about him, perhaps it was the distance that everyone else kept from him or the nonchalance he showed at what was clearly a tense event. Byrne pegged him as the sheriff. At the other side of the door stood the skinny armed deputy who had questioned Byrne at the bridge two days ago. His eyes were down and he was in low conversation with the bulging man. The shadows were such that Byrne could not see his bobbing Adam’s apple. Another man dressed in the same dark utilitarian suit as the others appeared at the top of the staircase. He hurried down, his heels banging on the steps, the sound of gangling keys in his hands. At the plank door he twisted a key in the lock and pushed it open, the entrance now like a black maw in the firelight. Though the wagon could have been stopped just outside the jail door so that the prisoner would endure barely seconds of exposure to the gathering crowd, the sheriff had obviously set the stage for a bit of drama. He got more than he bargained for.

  The key man crossed to the wagon, stepped up to the rear door and unlocked it. When he swung open the hinges and climbed inside, people turned and whispered to one another. An obvious drunk from Banyan Street openly blurted: “They ought to hang the nigger bitch right now.” There was a short silence and then Byrne heard an almost imperceptible thud, something hard against something soft, but when he turned he could see nothing in the shadows. The low sound of violence escaped everyone else’s attention except for the fat sheriff, who cocked his head and also looked briefly out into the darkness but then seemed to disregard it.

  After a few moments the key man backed out of the wagon. At the end of his extended arm came the shackled thin wrists of a smallish Negro woman. Byrne could see that in addition to the handcuffs she was also wearing leg irons. There was a white kerchief tying up her hair and she was wearing a man’s shirt and the same style of pants with the single stripe on the leg that Byrne had seen on the prison work crew at Jacksonville Beach. The key man yanked her toward the jail and she stumbled and went down. The cry that escaped her was small and bird-like and made up of both pain and fear. The key man did not turn his head but continued to drag her across the hard pack.

  “Dear God in heaven,” came an exclamation of anger from the crowd, and for the first time Byrne caught sight of Marjory McAdams marching in from the shadows, her Negro companion rubbing his knuckles and trailing behind her.

  “Must you treat this woman like some kind of animal?” Marjory shouted.

  The key man stopped in his tracks at the sound of an authoritative female voice. Marjory stomped directly to the jailer’s side, gave him a frozen stare and then bent to the woman, touching her hands and then her face and mewing consolations that Byrne could not hear. No one moved at first. The sight of a young woman dressed in high fashion, her flowing ball gown dragging in the dirt, com
ing to the aid of a Negro working girl being hauled into the calaboose on a murder charge stunned them. The heavy man at the jail door seemed the only one not affected. He tipped his hat up as if to better absorb the scene and then motioned to the deputy to intervene, saying something that Byrne could only hear as a low rumble.

  The deputy crossed the distance in three elongated steps and said: “Ma’am, ya’ll gonna have to step back now. This is a official transfer of a prisoner and they ain’t no time for your whinnin’.”

  When the deputy grabbed McAdams’ shoulder Byrne wasn’t sure whether it was his touch or his statement that lit her fuse, but Marjory came bolt upright, the crown of her head barely missing the deputy’s chin and then stared into his face.

  “If you touch me again, sir, I will abandon my duty as a civilized woman and scratch your eyes out.”

  The deputy tucked his chin and pulled back as if he’d been slapped. The entire gathering went quiet for a full beat and then someone at the edge of the darkness guffawed.

  “Ha!”

  The deputy blinked, gathered himself, and raised his free hand over his shoulder while uttering: “Why you prissy, high-fallutin’ bitch I’ll…”

  Three men moved—Byrne and the Negro chauffer with incredibly similar speed and fluidity, and the sheriff with a single step and the forming of the word “STOP!” at the edges of his mouth. Everyone else sucked in their breath.

  The deputy’s face was no more than a foot from Marjory’s and his hand had not yet begun its forward motion when the whooshing sound of a steel whip split the space between their noses. Both sets of eyes went large with the feeling of cut air. The baton instantly retraced its path between them but this time stopped like an immovable girder across the deputy’s raised wrist. His hand would be going no farther.

  The deputy first looked to the Negro, guessing wrongly that he must be responsible. But the chauffeur was staring at Byrne, not believing someone could have been so fast and accurate. Marjory’s eyes followed the gleaming steel shaft from the deputy’s hand to Byrne’s fist and then to his face.