I have little love for casinos, at least the latter day variety, but when in Rome… So I showered off the day's grime, dressed, and headed down to catch a cab to the strip. The doorman, unctuous, asked if I'd found my friend's address alright with his directions, and then hailed a taxi, his hand out bragging the whole time. I was feeling generous and Dean Martin, so I laid a hundred on him as I climbed into the cab. For one night, I was going to be an old time swinger, and leave worries about webs of intrigue and murder and lunatic relatives until the morning.
After the first couple of casinos, I was a star. The way I was dropping cash without blinking, and by my scruffy look, everyone eventually assumed I was Hollywood slumming, and hung at my elbow. I lost a month's salary at the craps table, won back half at blackjack, and drank whatever they put in front of me. It was Disneyland, with animatronics and out-of-work actors in goofy costumes, but if you squinted just right it was still Vegas.
I was at a roulette wheel in a casino whose name I'd missed, when someone put their hand on my shoulder and spun me around. I panicked, all swagger lost, remembering the trail of corpses that had led me this far. I was having trouble deciding on cowering in fear or coming up swinging when I looked into a face that was almost as familiar as my own.
"Amador?" I said.
"I've been looking all over for you," he answered, his face grim. "We've got to get you out of here."
I started to mouth a response, but was just too baffled – and maybe a little drunk – to even think straight. Amador got me to my feet, and taking my elbow led me away. The waitresses and pit bosses frowned at my back as we passed. The gravy train was leaving the station, and they'd have to make do with what I'd left behind.
When I finally sobered up, we were back in my hotel room, me lying sprawled on the bed and Amador trying to force a cup of coffee into my hands.
"Where did you come from?" I said, sipping the coffee and immediately regretting it. Wherever Amador had found the stuff, the people there must have been happy to get rid of it.
"You drink too much," Amador answered, loosening his tie and falling into a chair. "Always have."
"Tan's right," I said. "You are a prig."
Amador looked wounded for a moment, and then it passed.
"Maybe," he confessed, "but just think if it hadn't been me found you reeling at that table. Suppose it had been the guys who got Marconi. I could have slipped a knife in your ribs and been gone before anyone had noticed what happened."
"You were going to stab me?" I asked, still not up to full speed.
"No," he answered, "but I could begin to reconsider." With that, he finally broke a smile and was the Crooked Lover all over again.
He didn't look all that different than he had when we were kids. Still slim, with a dancer's figure and a bullfighter's build, with the right accent Amador could have gone far in Hollywood. As it was, he was probably the sharpest looking data processor the feds had on the payrolls.
"You lost the goatee," I observed.
"Nah, I still know where it is," he answered. "On the chins of half the guys working with computers these days. It's like a part of the uniform, and you know how I always felt about uniforms."
"Hey, you're the cop, not me."
"I'm not a cop," he shot back, sounding hurt, "it's just that when I decided to sell out, the FBI was the highest bidder."
"Lucky them."
I rubbed at my temples, and against my better judgment took another stab at the coffee. It was worse the second time round, but I was feeling more alert and starting to think straight.
"What the hell are you doing in Vegas?" I finally asked. "When we talked this morning, I thought you were still in Houston."
"I was," Amador replied, "but after we hung up I started to do more digging on this Marconi guy. He was mixed up in some bad business, Finch, more than your run of the mill job. Around noon, I was called to the office of the Regional Director. The big wheel, the head G-man, and he wanted to know what I was doing sniffing around the Marconi case."
"Marconi case?" I parroted. "He had a case?"
"So it seems. Turns out that the feds had been after him for a while, after he turned up in routine surveillance of some of the bureau's most popular people."
"Who? The mob?" I considered telling him about what I'd found on the ledger sheet, but decided to wait and hear what he had to say first.
"I don't think it's the mob, but they wouldn't tell me who it really was," Amador answered. "I'm not authorized for that information, insufficient security clearance they said. But they did tell me that these people were bad news, and from all indications it was them who had done Marconi in."
"'Done Marconi in'?" I mocked. "You've been watching too many movies."
"Maybe you haven't been watching enough," Amador said, bristling. "You've been spending too much time writing articles about movie stars and pop singers, and you've forgotten what these kinds of people are like. I tried to get you at home as soon as I left the Director's office, but you'd already left. I took some personal time off work and caught the next flight out. I've been hitting all the bars and casinos looking for you since I arrived."
"Why?"
"To warn you," he answered. "You've got to let this one go. You keep picking at it, something bad's going to happen. These kinds of people don't like to be picked."
"I'll take my chances," I said evenly, sitting up straight. "I always have." I was starting to get a little uncomfortable, and was glad I hadn't yet mentioned the money.
"Alright," Amador relented, spreading his hands wide, "it's your funeral. But remember this. If you get it in the neck this time, I won't be able to help you."
Amador got up from the chair, crossed the room, and opened the door. He paused in the doorway and, not looking back, repeated, "I won't be able to help you." Then he closed the door, and was gone.
I was jittery from the cheap coffee for the rest of the night, and I couldn't concentrate on the televi sion. It was all true crime documentaries and mob movies, and I found I just wasn't in the mood. Fetching a bucket of ice from around the corner and coaxing a couple of cans of Pepsi from the machine, I set up at the table and stared at the walls. I was sobering up for the fourth time in as many days, and was beginning to think maybe Amador had been right about my drinking. I was usually only concerned with covering the tab, or getting some other sucker to pick up the check, but the sharp pain in my side told me that my kidneys were beginning to lobby for the minority position. Amador was gone, and I hadn't even told him what I'd learned.
After a while the wall started to get boring, and a quick scan of the television showed it just as bloody as ever, so I cut open my grandfather's box again, feeling like a junkie scrambling for a fix, and pulled out the next sheaf of papers from the stack. This one was typewritten, with scribbled notes in pencil in the margin, and seemed to be transcribed from a book. Filling a glass with ice and then pouring cola on top, I propped my feet up on the bed and started to read.
"An Evening at Rest"
(An excerpt from The Buccaneers of America:
A true account of the most remarkable as
saults committed of late years upon the
coasts of the West Indies by the Buccaneers
of Jamaica and Tortuga (both
English and French), by John Esquemeling,
Dutch, 1705)
Chapter 1
IN WHICH THE BLACK HAND RETURNS TO HIS HOME AT THE PALM, AND SHARES A
DRINK WITH HIS DOUBLE
The Island of Mano, situated to the North and West of that famous island called Hispaniola, near the Continent thereof and in the latitude of twenty degrees and forty minutes, served as it had for some years prior as the secret retreat of the Black Hand and his crew. The Spaniards, who first set eyes on the island, named it La Isla del Mano, from the shape of its mass, which in some manner resembles an outstretched hand, or in the Spanish tongue una mano. The island is circumscribed by a number of inlets and coves, the pr
otrusions and demi-peninsulas describing each having the look of fingers. The country is very mountainous, and full of rocks, and thus of the five principle points of access, only one is in any wise hospitable. This one is situated between the masses most closely resembling the thumb and forefinger of a man's hand, and as such the only welcome port and settlement on the island is to be found on the geologic analogue of that fleshy part of a human extremity.
At the outermost points of those two masses, called in a natural way the Thumb and the Finger, there are posted ever-vigilant guards, their gaze, and their two and twenty cannon and firearms, always trained at the sea beyond. The men, and in times of distress women, who occupy those porticoes are called by their mates Nails, in a hardly surprising happenstance.
Through this well-guarded entrance sailed the sturdy Rover, her crew well-ready to reach their Port of Call. At her helm stood the Buccaneer of note himself, the Black Hand, his steady grip steering the ship to harbor. The settlement thereto, in a manner which begins to betray the somewhat limited imagination of the inhabitants, was named the Palm. Though her more wistful denizens claimed the name derived from the cacao-nut trees which grew in profusion around the whole of the island, those with more sober judgment were quick to argue that there was no other reason than the main (or La Main, which they spoke in emphatic Gallic tones, so as to make clear their clever wits).
The Rover pulled to at the dock, and while tossing fastening lines back and forth, the crew on the deck of her and their mates already on shore hallooed their greetings, and hurled their jibes, back and forth. They seemed, for all the world, a collection of long-separated siblings, brought together at last for holiday feast. When the lines were made secure, and the ship finally brought to rest, the crew disembarked, making for their homes or taverns with a raucous glee, arm-inarm with their bosom friends from the shore.
The Black Hand himself, the master and architect of the entire enterprise, was the last to leave the ship, and leapt with an easy grace from her side to the sturdy dock. Then, without a word to any of those in attendance, he made his way through the narrow streets to the high place whereupon sat his home.
A short time later, the Nails watched with careful eyes as another ship, another Rover, a mate to the first, also made its way through the Thumb and Finger to settle in at the harbor. If they thought it a matter of note to see the repeat of the previous circumstances, instant by instant, they made no sign of it. Again the ship was made fast at the dock, again the crew was greeted warmly by their comrades already ashore, and again disembarked with a merry glee. Again the Black Hand was the last to leave the ship, and again made his way through the narrow street, a mute shadow upon the darkened streets.
This second Black Hand, mirror image to the first, reached the high house in just the same fashion as the first, opening the sturdy door and stepping inside into the gloom. A dim figure, he made his way through the darkened house, up a narrow flight of stairs, to a closed door on the top landing. This door he heaved open, and slipped into the bright room beyond.
Inside was an air of warm conviviality, with heavy woven rugs upon the floor, a cheerful fire burning in a corner brassier, and a solemn-looking hound asleep against a far wall. In the middle of the room was set a wide table, with highbacked, wide-armed chairs on either side. On the center of the table was set a carafe, and a pair of glasses, both full of a wine the color of dark velvet. At one of the chairs sat a figure dressed all in black, his booted feet propped on the edge of the table, a merry grin splitting his face.
Welcome home, sibling, he offered. Do join me in a drink.
At that, the figure before him removed the hat from its head, and down came tumbling downy tresses of a golden hue. Off came the cloth mask covering the face from eyes to chin, and there stood before him a woman of striking beauty, a latter-day Aphrodite.
I see no reason why I should not, brother, she spoke in honey tones. After all, I would say that I have earned it.
Chapter 2
IN WHICH A TOAST IS DRUNK, AND MUCH IS MADE CLEAR
The striking woman, now unmasked, seated herself across from the man she called brother, and watched as he poured her glass full from the carafe. Then, with graceful movements, he propelled the glass into her grasp, and then lifted up his own.
A toast, he announced.
To what, pray, dear Richard? the woman asked.
Why, dear Jane, he answered, to that which is always toasted on the occasions of our reunion. He moved the glass's rim to a fraction from his lip. To our dear mother.
To that fair lady, the sister seconded, bringing her own glass to her full red lips. May her health long prevail.
Both drew long draughts of the heavy wine, and then pulled the glasses from their lips.
Now, added the sister, it is to me to offer the counter-toast.
As is expected, the brother answered.
To the memory of our departed father, she toasted, raising her glass in salute to the portrait of the man that hung above the door-frame.
To that remembrance, the brother amended. Ever may it be green.
Again each drew a long draught, draining the glasses to the dregs. Then with a flourish each slammed the glass down onto the pitted table top, and regarded the other with a broad smile.
It has been too long, sister, the man observed. Too long by half.
Almost a full year, by my reckoning, the woman agreed, since last we two met. Would that things were other than they are, and that we two could ship together. But that is not in our stars, brother, nor in the commission laid upon us by our departed father.
What no one beyond the walls of that room knew, not even their own hand-picked crews, was that the two they knew individually as the Black Hand, and whom each served with a loyalty even unto death, were not the first to carry that name, and that each had in fact received the name and their solemn duties as their only inheritance from their lost father. Most inhabitants of the township of Palm, both those who stayed ashore and those who had berths on either of the twin Rovers, knew that more than one body carried as their own the aspect of the Black Hand. What none guessed, however, was that one was a woman, and the other her brother.
The siblings' father, the late Arthur Taylor, originally of Liverpool, had taken on the name and guise of the Buccaneer Black Hand while they two were both in swaddling clothes, and had sallied forth for long years, carrying the torch of justice out onto the high seas. His targets, both kings' navies and freebooters alike, were relieved of their ill-gotten gain at a cutlass's point, and their cargoes of slaves or chained oarsmen were given their liberty, to live their lives as their maker had intended, free and without hindrance. When, in the fullness of time, Arthur Taylor was upon his deathbed, he lay on his two children, now most grown, the onus of taking up the torch of justice in their own hands, and carrying on the struggle he had begun. Each, he instructed, was to carry on as though he were the father embodied, and, from behind the mask which villains sailing the world's wide seas feared, fight against tyranny so long as their limbs had the strength. To the world at large the Black Hand would seem in fact a ghost, appearing one instant in the Carribe, the next at the Cliffs of Dover; and none would suspect that each was not the original, so complete would be the deception.
The task laid upon them was a demanding one, and there was little time for the comforts of home and hearth, but on the rare occasions that each was moored at the dock of Mano, they would share what little familial happiness was afforded them.
But enough of this, said the sister, reaching for the carafe to refill both their glasses. We profit nothing recounting that which cannot be changed. I'm sure your adventures have numbered many in the long months since last we sat here at home, you and I, and I would hear of your exploits.
The brother took the proffered glass, and studied the gently swirling liquid in the flickering fire's light. His brow furrowed, and he sat in contemplation for a long moment.
Very well, sister, he finally spo
ke, though I fear there's little of adventure in the tale, I shall tell you what chanced this summer passed, when my Rover put to shore on an unknown island some thousand leagues from here.
Chapter 3
IN WHICH RICHARD RELATES HIS ADVENTURES OF LATE
We had been sailing some weeks without sight of land, the brother continued, and our stores of food and water in desperate need of replenishing. There was some concern among the crew that our provisions might not hold out, and that we would be found adrift years hence, a ghost ship, haunted by the hungry souls of her crew. There was talk of an albatross sighted and killed the spring before, and of diverse other offenses given the gods of the sea over the course of our journey. But the bos'n, a pious fellow, would have no such blaspheming, and set to reading his holy book aloud daily, while perched atop the main deck, pronouncing that the Lord God had commanded us to have no other gods before Him. The bulk of the crew, though, as superstitious as their fellows the world 'round, were often heard to comment that they had no quarrel with gods before the Lord Almighty, but had qualms about offending any and all which might be coming after him.
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