Barry tossed the Southport Jewel's file into his "out" box, and then took a good stretch as he leaned back in his chair. He was near the end of his long day and the thought of his wife's chicken fried steak was on his mind.
"With the Yankee. Sure was. They wanted to know about the Southport Jewel ."
Ed plopped into one of the metal chairs. "The 'Jewel ? Again? For a long gone vessel, it's sure getting attention. Of all kinds, huh? First that one here a couple days ago, now these two?"
Barry yawned, gave the back of his fresh haircut a quick scratch, and then called toward the office door to his secretary: "I'm about done in here, Rose, how 'bout you?"
She called back, "I am, Mr. B."
"Okay, sugar, you go on, then, when you ready." Returning to Ed, he said dryly, "Yeah, been a regular United Nations tromping through. Probably on account of the Jewel's curse."
Ed grinned. "When that kind of jag gets started, it does bring out the cuckoos, don't it? Welp ..." He slapped his knees with purpose and got to his feet. "Just came by to tell you we found a slipway for the Olivia. She's secure and her crew's already off looking for a place to get drunk."
Barry chuckled as he left his desk. "Here, I'll walk out with you ..." He let Ed pass through the door first, then closed it behind them.
Ed asked, "Those two asking about the 'Jewel ... did they learn about her from that other one that was in here a day or so ago?"
"Didn't seem like it. But, anyway, I didn't ask. What I did was make it clear I don't appreciate their kind sniffing around the docks, and I said I wouldn't put up with them asking the stevedores any questions. Damned if I'll go through that, again .. stirring a bunch of superstition back up. Anyway, once I told them she'd been re-christened and sold off, they lost interest and asked about a puddle jumper for hire. Sent them looking for that Yankee kid Avery. Say .. you got supper plans? My wife's fixing her special chicken fried steak ..."
* * *
Max and David had learned things of interest while talking with the port director, but nothing really helpful. To their surprise, Lloyd Stonehill's vessel hadn't been a Liberty or Victory Class ship left over from the war. The Southport Jewel had been nothing more than a 100 foot diesel mail boat, purchased in Puerto Rico. Stonehill's Merchant Marine history had led them to a faulty assumption. It appeared he opted for lighter duty after his service.
The Southport Jewel was supposed to have arrived in Morehead City to begin shipping mail bags and other supplies to the Northern Bahamas. Whether Stonehill had intended to crew on the new route or had only hired on to bring her to port, Max and David would probably never know. But they did know that what should have been a routine stopover in the Dominican Republic had changed both Stonehill's fate and that of the Southport Jewel for the worse.
From the start, the port director gave Max and David the bare-bones facts and not much else. And when they had mentioned the talk on the dock about the boat being cursed, the director became gruff. He wouldn't tolerate the subject. Because of the rumors, no one in Morehead City would crew the Southport Jewel ; which meant her owner had to take a loss and sell her months after buying her. He'd had to hire a captain from another city to sail her to Wilmington.
This didn't mean the trip to Morehead City was a bust. Max and David needed to make sure there were no loose ends before finding their way to the Dominican Republic and that's what they had done.
With the day nearly gone, they were walking down a private pier north of the Morehead City Port. They were on their way to see the pilot-for-hire that the port director had recommended. At its end a sleek metal single-prop water plane was tied, bobbing gently on her pontoons. She had handsome sky-blue accents against - wouldn't you know it , Max thought- glowing silver skin. The fellow kneeling on the port wing with his upper half dipped into the cockpit presented Max and David with a bony half-moon.
"Hello ...!" David called and the guy struggled up to look at them over his shoulder.
"Daddy-O," he said in a lazy voice. He dropped a ratchet into the cockpit and climbed off the wing.
"Are you Avery Gillis?"
"Only to jims not in the know."
He sauntered over as he pulled a bandanna from his sagging short pants and wiped his face, his bare chest and then his hands. He was younger than he first appeared, in his early or mid twenties, with a shaggy shock of white-blond hair. What looked like white jaw stubble from a distance turned out to be a narrow band of beard the same color as his hair. They shook hands as Max and David introduced themselves with their latest aliases.
"We understand you're for hire," Max said. "We need to go south."
He wasn't sure Gillis had heard him. The kid fixed a gaze on David that was somehow both passive and intense. "Say, man. Are you a real Indian?"
"As opposed to a fake one?" David replied dryly.
Gillis tilted his head and smiled slowly. He held out his hand again to David, shaking more firmly this time. "Cool," he drawled, "cool. Good to meet you, man." He offered his hand to Max again. "Cool to meet you both."
"So," David said. "Are you for hire?"
"Where you need to go, jack?"
"Pretty far," Max said. "We'll need you over the course of several days. You available, Mr. Gillis?"
Gillis's eyes lit up. "Nix the Mr. Gillis, that's my old man. Jims in the know, they call me Mezz. So, where to?"
"The Dominican Republic."
Mezz spun out a long, low whistle. "Hell, dad, I thought you're talking Miami or Nassau."
"Is it a problem?" David asked.
"Doing it in a few days, it is. We're gonna have to island hop aaaall the way down the Bahamas. Weather forecasts aren't reliable more than two or three days out, plus other island imponderables. So no can do on a time guarantee. Gotta level with you. My bird and me's not flown farther south than Great Exuma. And fuel's gonna cost a whole lotta grease for this one. Listen, dads, I'm all for it, but you're gonna get there a lot cheaper by boat."
"A lot slower, too," Max said.
"You in a hurry?"
"We're on a time schedule, yeah."
"Mother Nature thinks Father Time's a drag."
Max and David didn't say anything.
"But, hey, we'll do it your way, you're the paying customers." Mezz ambled past them, heading toward a little house on the shore end of the dock. "Why don't you step into my office, as those of your years are fond of saying? We'll talk palm grease, I'll put a heavy side on the box and educate you to a new beat. Unless maybe you already dig jazz ..."
Max cocked his head toward David as they followed. "Did you understand anything he just said?"
* * *
Cleaned up, Mezz wasn't much better dressed than he had been yesterday, bare-chested in his work clothes. He was in a Fruit-of-the-Loom tee-shirt, a clean pair of shorts and was sockless in a pair of Keds, waiting for them beside his "beautiful bird." Most of his pride, it seemed, went into his modest little house, his dock and -most of all- his airplane the Mellow Wren .
And what the hell was he wearing on his head? Max smiled. Oh, to be twenty-five again . He couldn't resist: "I thought your nick-name was Mezz, not Frenchy."
Mezz smirked as he sauntered down the dock to take Max and David's suitcases. "And just when I didn't figure you as a clyde, man. This is the new thing, the cat's meow in the Big Apple. You'll be spying many more one day, when beat's the scene across the nation."
"I didn't understand a single word you just said," Max replied.
"Simple English, jack, but in a heavy, new form." Mezz stowed the suitcases, then turned around, snatched the beret from his head and put it on Max. "This'll put you in the scene, dad ... ehhh ...maybe not."
David chuckled as Mezz took his beret back, then said to Max, "Speaking of heavy, we've got one more thing to bring on board."
They started back up the dock toward the taxi and Mezz followed.
"It's okay, Mezz, we've got it," Max said, assuming the kid wouldn't need more than that to focus on
lighter duty; maybe rearranging the luggage or what-have-you.
Instead he kept following them. The cabbie was winding up the length of rope he'd used to keep the over-stuffed boot tied down. David reached in to heave the weapons trunk half-way out and before Max could move, the kid was maneuvering the handle out of David's hands.
"Honest, Mezz, we've got this one," Max said, more firmly this time.
"Neigho, pops, Mrs.Gillis didn't raise a lazy jim. Just grab the slack at the other end."
The three of them hauled the trunk the rest of the way out while the cabbie got back behind the wheel. David grabbed the other handle, threw a wary glance toward Max, and they headed toward the airplane.
"Ow, jack! What're you hauling in this coffin ..?"
"Equipment for our business," Max said, following behind.
Mezz stopped cold, set down his end and turned to them, his face grave. "I'll say this plain, so you hear me clear. I'll turn on to a thing or two, a little hooch or a touch of tea-smoke now and then, but if you're holding big, my bird don't fly."
"I thought you just said you'd speak plainly," David said, lowering his end of the trunk.
"Drugs, man! Or bootleg or guns, either, while we're on the subject. Not on my plane."
"Kid, when was the last time you've heard of somebody smuggling contraband out of the U.S.?" Max retorted.
Mezz repeated, "My bird don't fly."
"We're not smugglers," David said.
"Not on my watch, you're not, and that's bible, you dig? I don't want the G-men clipping Mellow Wren's wings. She's all I got."
The trick to these situations was to not hesitate. Max dug in his pocket and tossed Mezz a small key. "Open 'er up."
Mezz didn't hesitate either. He knelt on one knee, fit the key in the lock and tossed the lid back. He smirked up at them as if he couldn't believe they'd be so foolish. " Clothes ?" He pushed back the layer of clothing to reveal a couple of disassembled tripods and some weighty camera equipment.
But to Max's amazement (and, admittedly, admiration) this still didn't satisfy. Mezz yanked out the equipment, ran his hands along the inner lining and found his way into the false bottom. He pulled it up and lost his smirk with an "ohh ... man ..." as he gazed at the bars of silver laying there, planted there for occasions just like this one. The question was, would he realize there was a second false bottom, where the silver arsenal and the weapons lay?
David's tone was firm with mock irritation. "Just as we told you, Mezz," he said. "We're corporate researchers. And when we travel to remote places, bribes are a part of the business. Silver opens more doors than currency. But you seeing this doesn't change anything, Mezz. We can't discuss our job with you."
Mezz was quiet a moment, staring at them hard. "Straight up, dads, me to you. If this coffin comes back light on loot and heavy on bootleg, then you lose your ticket home. Mr. and Mrs. Gillis won't be seeing their son's mug on the post office wall, you dig? They fronted this biz and I'm not gonna turn around and kick 'em for that love."
"You have our word," Max said. "That's not what that silver's for."
Mezz took a long moment, still eyeing them, before putting everything back in its place. "Research must be risky business, dads, if you gotta carry all this palm grease ..."
"We're comfortable with our risks."
"I spy now that I should've upped my price."
Max and David's silence was stony. Mezz gave them a final long look before getting to his feet. "No, we're mellow, dads. The price we already shook on is righteous. I am a shrewd judge of character. Even with all this cloak and dagger, my gut says you're cool."
You're a better judge of character than we are , Max thought. He wouldn't underestimate the kid again.
Mezz rose, looking determined if a little wary. "So let's load this coffin, dads. We're wasting daylight."
Chapter Eight
Two Miles from the Town of Imbert
República Dominicana
Spring, 1950
Midday. Second Quarter Moon.
Max had to hand it to Mezz. In spite of the wild ride, the kid wasn't going to let him get the better of their debate:
"Naw, man," Mezz yelled over the radio as it blared one local wailer after another. His eyes flitted between Max and what he could see of the road. "It's not like I don't give Yardbird Parker and Dizzy their propers. And I dig that you even know who they are, even if you don't feel 'em. But I weep, pops, to hear you say Glenn Miller is jazz!"
Max raised his voice over the music, too. "As far as I'm concerned, he's my kind of jazz."
Every time their driver careened around a blind corner, Mezz looked ready to claw the cracked leather off the old Packard's arm rest. He was sitting with Max in the back seat and, from time to time he tore his stare from the road and looked at Max. But he could only do it in short bursts.
"How can you say that after I educated you about the righteous Mr. Davis?"" Him ? I can't believe that guy talked somebody into recording him. He can't even keep a tune going without losing where he was in it."
Max sensed the next curve coming and splayed his legs for support. David, sight-seeing from his open window up front, swayed like an old salt at sea. Mezz went wild-eyed and grabbed the arm rest again with both hands.
"Holy crap! Who taught this Clyde to drive ..."
"We warned you to stay in Santiago ," David called back, his face still into the wind.
Mezz ignored him and went back to the debate, "Davis is a genius of a gabriel who can pull growls out of a trumpet like you've never heard before ... I just hope I live to hear more after this wild truck ..."
"Y'know," Max replied, "you keep calling this so-called movement of yours 'beat,' but the music you listen to sure as hell doesn't have any."
"C'mon, pops! After five days of us all island hoppin' in the Mellow Wren , have we still nothing more in common than a love of guzzlin' Caribbean brew?"
David looked over his shoulder and shouted his two cents. "If we drank all the beer in the West Indies, Mezz, it wouldn't make jazz of any kind sound good."
"Hell, you're a Classical man," Max shot back, waving David off. "Nothing made after 1900 sounds good to you."
"If either of you really liked a good beat," David replied, "you'd get yourselves to a pow-wow ..."
" Permiso, se?ores. " Ricardo, the driver, snapped off the radio. " Aquí est á Imbert ."
The little town came into view and Mezz glanced heavenward before slumping back. "I give the Man Upstairs all due proper."
The Packard braked and was powdered by its own dusty backwash. Max, David and Mezz emerged and, immediately, all eyes were on them. In a land of compact people with cinnamon complexions, the three of them stood out.
Imbert was a speck against the hill country sprawling at the feet of the Cordillera Central: the mountain range that bisected the lush little Caribbean nation. Like the bustling city of Santiago, Imbert was a valley town set beside a river. But Santiago' s Rio Yoque del Norte spilled into a large, sparkling lake that could support a robust metropolis. Both Imbert and its river were more remote and much more humble.
"Damn," Mezz said, looking around. "How can countryside pretty as a beat queen stow away such an ugly town."
"It's not ugly, son," David said, "It's just poor."
"It's filthy, jack."
"Is it? Take another look."
The wooden sidewalks were warped, the plaster walls patchy and faded and the windows were glassless, with only plank shutters for security. But the streets were free of trash and the walkways swept. The women wore tidy ponytails, the men's jaws were clean shaven, their mustaches trimmed. The children were barefoot, but every one of them had hair that was trimmed and clean.
The town, like most settled by the early Spaniards, had been planned around a square -the plaza central - that sat before a church. In this case the little Catholic church was stucco-ed and white-washed, a modest one-story with a cross at its pinnacle and its bronze bell free-standing next t
o the front door. The plaza -a simple grassy knoll with a few shade trees- was hemmed in on two sides: the crossroads to its west and south, and a kind of narrow service road on the east.
The main street ran north-south, and there were a few buildings on either side of it. But the bulk of them clustered around the plaza. All in all there weren't more than about a dozen buildings, roofed with corrugated tin.
Ricardo had stopped in front of a storefront with the faded word comida painted over the open door and two small wooden tables set to either side of it on the walkway. It was the closest thing to a café in the town. As the driver helped them lift the luggage out of the trunk, he was swamped by people trying to haggle a price to be taken to Santiago. He made his deals, crammed ten people into the Packard, cranked up the radio again and waved adios as he sped away.
Max looked around, looked at the little store and said, "So .. let's have a cerveza ."
They set the luggage and trunk against the wall by one of the tables, and the man who had been staring at them from the doorway came over quickly.
" Buenas Tardes ," Max greeted. " ¿Usted habla Inglés? "
" Buenas, se?or. No, lo siento "
" No hay problema, se?or. Mi espa?ol es adecuado ."
" ¿Puedo ayudarle? "
" Si, cerveza, por favor "
" ¿Grande o peque ? a? "
Max thought about it. " Una grande, por favor "
The proprietor nodded, introduced himself as Antony and disappeared back into the store.
"That's hincty and rude of you, pops," Mezz groused, "talking Spanish in front of me when I don't understand a word."
"We've hardly understood a word you've said since we met you," Max replied. "Like 'hincty.' What the hell does that mean?"
"It means you're being snooty, man."
"All he did," David said, "was check to see if we could speak English with the man -which we can't- then order some beer. It's doubtful we're going to find many who speak English here. And we've got work to do. We can't stop and translate for you every time we talk to someone."
Mezz was petulant. "Ever since we trucked out of Santiago, you two've been acting like you don't want me around .."
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