The waves lap against the shore. Rhythmic. Soothing. Washing away remorse.
She stands and smiles at the moon. No regrets in life, just lessons learned.
* * * *
Cassie shifts on the hard boards of the chickee’s steps, trying to find a comfortable spot. The campfire embers glow orange, banked for the night. Her hands are wrapped around the last cup of coffee from the pot, the bitter dregs causing her to grimace with each sip.
That boy Koone was sure in a mood today. I thought the threes were bad, but they have nothing on ten. That attitude of his. He used to be so happy out here: bugs and other critters to catch; exploring the swamp; rides in the dugout where he’d disappeared in and out of the mangrove roots sticking tall out of the water; a storybook from town, and a sugar candy. That’s all it took to make him grin. And that grin. So much like Cissy’s. She smiled like that when we were girls. She never got in trouble herself, but that grin could always get me to get into it for her. Her Leroy, now ten—sweet Koone.
Cassie takes another sip, shudders, and tosses the last of the coffee on the ground. Vile stuff. The last cup of really good coffee I had was in the café before Brother Silas showed up. Just Leroy and I sitting there like we belonged, eating cake and drinking good coffee. I guess that was too much to ask, to be able to enjoy a moment like that in town.
What am I going to do about town? And about Leroy. The way he bangs around here already, it won’t be long before he agitates himself right back to Coconut Grove. And then what?
Cassie puts her feet on the closest step, resting her chin on her knees. What he needs is a protector. If I can’t keep him safe, how about that lady that knocked down Mr. Preacher-Man? Fearless and strong. And a woman. She could look after Leroy better than I ever could. She’s close enough to town that Leroy would be happy. Better than stuck out here, anyway.
Cassie smiles at the memory. It couldn’t have been pleasant for him to either look up at a woman from that angle or to be listening to folks laugh at him. His hide always was too thin. She chuckles to herself. Ha. Fell on his butt and then he was the butt of a joke. I gotta remember to tell that one to Leroy.
Leroy. If he goes to town, I’ll be alone out here. Cassie places her hand on her heart. I guess I should feel lucky that at least I have someone that makes it hard to say goodbye.
* * * *
After report, the barn begins to empty, the men off to complete assignments and spread a little mayhem. Zeke and Otis can feel Buford’s eyes follow them up to the front of the room where the Boss is waiting in his chair. Both whip off their hats.
“Well?” he asks.
“We’re in. Doing some odd jobs. Place is going to need a ton of work. It’s a might worse than we thought.”
“I trust it won’t be a long engagement, gentlemen. I doubt she has the stamina or commitment to stick with it once it starts getting tough.”
“What should we do about the rum running, Boss? Once she’s open, she’s going to need booze,” says Zeke.
The Boss sneers. “I thought we’d agreed that she wouldn’t open.”
“Uhm, yeah sure, Boss. But what if she asks?”
The Boss’ hard stare pins Zeke and then slides off to a spot just beyond his shoulder. “A saloon cannot open if the shelves are empty.”
Chapter 18
W ith each cut of a plank and strike of the hammer, Gator Joe’s is reborn. The shed and generator project are done within a week—bonus paid. The next job assigned to Otis and Zeke, leveling out the parking area after a load of gravel was dumped, was done reasonably well, and on time. Edith supplies sandwiches, water, and cash. The projects start getting stroked off the list.
At the end of every day, after they have gone, Edith stares at the roof. It’s a big project for those two. Can I trust they’ll get it done? She’d talked to Harry Budge at the Budge Hardware store in Miami about sending a crew, but the quote including travel that came back took her breath away. She’d bought roof shingles anyway, and stacked them to one side, waiting for joists to be fixed. Harry assured her that the rains wouldn’t start until spring, so there was plenty of time to fix the roof. At least she had an estimate about how long it might take.
“It’s not where I wanted to be, but at least it’s progress,” Edith says, hands on her hips, standing back and admiring the transformed exterior.
The windows sparkle. Edith painted the door blue with the paint she’d bought for her bed. The new generator is chugging along in a lean-to Zeke had constructed on the side of the kitchen porch. It’s keeping the brand-spanking-new refrigerator humming. It took several visits to the electrician before he strolled in, but now lights shine inside Gator’s as well as on the paths outside, up to where she parks the truck, and along the trail to the dock.
The various trips to the hardware and the mercantile may not have yielded much in the way of supplies, but they provide an endless fountain of knowledge about Coconut Grove. Edith learned about other blind tigers, about Miz Saunders’ lumbago, and about the butcher’s habit of overcharging.
She also learned about local rum running. In hushed voices, usually with glances over a shoulder or toward the door, the merchants whispered about the Wharf Rats. Piracy on the high seas is still alive and well, especially if you were a small boat ferrying smuggled liquor from Rum Row to shore. It seems everyone has a story to tell that comes with a warning.
“I had a neighbor that got boarded. Took all his money and, when he gave them sass, dumped him overboard.”
“Wharf Rats are just plain mean. You watch out ‘cause they’re sneaky, too. Just as soon shoot you as take your cargo.”
“I heard tell,” a nervous glance over the shoulder, “they killed a man. The body was never found, swallowed by the sea.”
“My Bill works over at Tuckers. Them Wharf Rats are always swaggering around causing trouble. Drunk and throwing their weight around. Bill tried to quiet ‘em down one night and they took him out back and beat the bejesus out of him. Bedridden for days. And the doctor bills? Don’t even ask.”
Despite the worry over the roof and the warnings about pirates and Wharf Rats, Edith is content. Gator Joe’s is coming together nicely. When she gets frustrated at the pace of the renovations, she imagines opening night with Mae and Anna. Especially Anna Lansky. I’ll show her and that husband of hers a thing or two about vanity projects. They’ll be lined up out the door at Gator Joe’s and halfway to Coconut Grove.
Now, wouldn’t it be something if I wound up as successful as Meyer Lansky. I’ll get Gator Joe’s up and running in tip-top shape and then maybe branch out and buy another saloon. Meyer’s got the Florida casino market sewn up, but I bet I could run a nice little chain of Gator Joe’s. There’s lots of small towns around that would fall below his radar. Yup, I can see it now, me: queen of the blind tigers.
At the end of each workday, when Otis and Zeke have wandered off to wherever they go, Edith slips into her bathing suit and dives off the dock. The swimming stretches out the sore muscles, and the water is cool and refreshing. By the time she swims back to shore she feels clean, rejuvenated, and ready to tackle the next day.
There is something so satisfying to see the yellow lights gleaming through the newly installed windows as she walks back up the path to Gator’s. Invariably, she’ll climb the wide front steps to the veranda where she keeps a piece of paper and a pencil on a string nailed to the front post so that she can jot down another idea or must-have item for the place.
Zeke has proved a slow but capable carpenter. Otis is another story: ornery, difficult, usually sleeping against the porch, barn, or under a tree depending on where the construction to be avoided is. He always seems half-cut as far as Edith can tell, and a few times she has had to send him away as he was staggering, drunk and belligerent. Somehow, they meet every deadline, although a few times it was touch and go and she keeps looking for replacements. She hangs advertisements around town that yellow with time.
But work continues
. She and a girl from town scrub Gator’s to within an inch of its life. There are corners Edith is sure have never seen a mop or broom. The area around the wood stove is particularly bad because mice, nested in the wood box, have made a mess. Newly installed cupboards grace the kitchen—guaranteed mouse-proof according to the carpenter.
Glasses are stacked under the bar, a long mirror with glass shelves hangs over the back counter behind it. Next to the bar, handy from one end, is a second-hand ice cooler. The ice man comes with blocks every couple of days. During the construction, Edith is keeping the cooler stocked with soda pop and beer. The pop languishes.
The tables and chairs in the barroom are repaired, and the chairs given a couple of coats of left-over blue paint. The stuffed alligator has been taken down and given a bath, his glass eyes polished. He has been re-hung with grand ceremony over the bar.
On that special day, Edith stood with her crew and everyone cheered. Even Otis seemed to appreciate the moment.
“Good job, everyone. Just the roof to do and we’re ready for business.”
“Only if nobody wants a drink,” the town girl mutters.
Looking over her meager inventory, Edith agrees. Not much stock, and what is here is pretty vile. Not even Mickey would sell this stuff under his Flying Rot Gut label.
With hands on her hips, Edith turns to Zeke and Otis. “You’re right. The next thing we need to do is stock this bar. The day we met you said you could get me liquor.”
Zeke and Otis share a look.
“Well now, Miz Edith. I’m not sure about that. Stock on Rum Row has been hard to get. Not coming in like it used to,” Zeke says, winking at his brother.
“Yup, that’s the truth, ma’am. Go into any of the blind tigers along the coast here, and you’ll see that they have some beer, but not much else.”
“Surely we can get some, even if we have to buy it from a bootlegger in Miami?”
“Don’t know any city bootleggers, Miz Edith. I wouldn’t know who to ask. You know anyone, Otis?”
“Nope. Wouldn’t want to ask the wrong person and wind up in the sheriff’s cell.”
“What about moonshine? There’s got to be gallons of it in the Everglades.”
“Nope, not much call for moonshine around here.”
Edith clenches her hands into tight fits. “This is just crazy. There isn’t a dry spot in all of Florida. Even the hotel bellhops are bartenders.”
Zeke shrugs. “You just don’t get it, Miz Edith. You’ll not be able to get a drop of illegal hooch anywhere in Coconut Grove.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to bring it in from Miami. The same as I do with everything else around here.”
“Like a woman would know how to go about buying illegal liquor in the city,” Otis says with a smirk.
“I know enough to know that it’s not so much what you know as who you know, and I know people.”
“Who do you know? People in town? On Rum Row? You don’t know nobody, sister,” Zeke says.
“Yeah, leave the thinking to us. Go wipe tables or wash up some glasses or somethin’,” says Otis.
“Enough of that. I’ll ask Reggie to throw a couple of cases of liquor on the truck for me. These shelves will get stocked, with or without your help.”
A knock at the barroom door cuts short the argument as the three turn.
The preacher, Brother Silas, steps hesitantly across the threshold. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Edith’s breath catches. To cover her reaction, she wipes her hands on the apron she’s wearing and shakes his hand. At least he’s not limping or anything. “No, please come in. My men and I were finalizing plans for Gator Joe’s.” Second chances for everything, I guess.
“I wouldn’t want to keep ‘your men’ if they have important work to do elsewhere. Gentlemen?”
“You bet. Miz Edith, Brother Silas,” Zeke says, raising his straw hat at Edith and leaving. Otis mumbles a “Brother Silas,” and scuttles out after his brother.
“I won’t keep you, Sister Edith, as I know how busy you are. You and I possibly got off on the wrong foot that day in front of the café. I just stopped by to welcome you to Coconut Grove and invite you to join our service on Sunday. You can’t miss the church; it’s the only one in town.”
Edith notices that his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you very much, Brother Silas. That’s very kind.”
“Jasper, down at the post office, had mentioned that you’ve recently had some correspondence from a friend in Italy.”
“My, but word does get around town quickly.” Edith keeps a wary eye on him as his gaze prowls around the barroom.
“Yes indeed, although don’t judge Jasper. He knows of my passion for stamp collecting and keeps me posted when a new stamp arrives.” His slight cough signals Edith to pick up on the pun. “If you’re finished with your postcard, and if it’s not an imposition, I would appreciate the opportunity to steam the stamp off. I don’t have one from Italy you see. I’ve some from other countries in Europe, but not from ‘The Boot’. Would that be agreeable to you?”
Edith prickles as the hair on her neck rise. “I’m so sorry, Brother Silas, but I’ve already thrown the postcard away. I wish I’d known. I would have been happy to give it to you for your collection.”
“How unfortunate,” Brother Silas says, taking a step toward Edith, who steps back before catching herself.
“Again, I am sorry,” she says, walking toward the door. “Stamp collecting is such an interesting hobby. Have you been at it long?”
“Since I was a young boy. My parents lived overseas for many years, and it was the one way I could be part of their travels. They’d send regular letters with the most beautiful stamps. I am quite caught up in the world beyond Coconut Grove.”
“You must have missed them terribly,” she says, one hand on the doorknob.
Brother Silas moves toward her in deliberate steps. “Yes, although I was very young when they left. It was my grandmother who raised me. It is unfortunate about the Italian stamp, but I won’t keep you. I trust things are going smoothly?”
“Smooth as silk. We hope to open in a few days.” Despite her hammering heart, Edith looks him square in the eyes and doesn’t miss his startled reaction.
“Open? I’m sorry, but I had heard that you were having difficulties sourcing materials. So you will be re-opening Gator’s?”
“Absolutely. They love my money in Miami. The stores here seem to be chronically understocked.”
“Well, we’re a small village and sometimes have challenges because of it. Best of luck, Sister Edith.”
Edith holds her breath behind a smile and the open door. She lets it out as she firmly closes the door behind him. I must get better locks for both the front and back. I’ll add that to my list.
She breathes slowly to calm her nerves, then heads into the bedroom with its blue bed. Like it always does, the pretty room soothes her. She loves the way the blue picks up on the small cornflowers in the new wallpaper. Covering the bed is a bright yellow quilt she found in a charming store—in Miami.
Across from the bed is a dresser she also bought in Miami and, tucked into the mirror above it, is Maggie’s Italian postcard. Edith snatches it off the mirror and tucks it between two dainty bits of silk underwear in the top drawer.
“What was lost is found,” she says to herself and goes back to the barroom to begin her list of liquor for Reggie.
Chapter 19
F ebruary is a good time to be on the water. Hurricanes are rare. Summer rains are a long ways off. A quarter moon casts dim light. It’s hard to pick out shapes moving across the oily black water of Biscayne Bay. Otis is sprawled at the stern of the Rex, watching Zeke at the wheel. They’re headed back to Gator Joe’s. They’d let Edith browbeat them into heading out to Rum Row to pick up some liquor from the list she’d made for her big-city rum runner, but they’d made sure that it was not top shelf or even bottom shelf. Paint stripper more like.
&nbs
p; “So whadda ya make of the way the Boss is so interested?” Zeke asks over his shoulder.
“Who knows? He’s one weird duck. That’s for sure. I mean, look at the way he’s got us working like a couple of hired hands. We’re supposed to be bloody pirates for jeeze sakes.”
“I dunno. I kinda like it. Like being a regular person. Pa worked odd jobs and did okay.”
“Who wants to be regular? And for sure who wants to be just okay? Give me a few thrills and big rolls of dough any day.”
A searchlight slices the darkness, sweeping the deck and black water. A siren wails. Through the loudspeaker, the picket orders the Rex to heave to and prepare to be boarded by the Coast Guard.
“Where the heck did they come from?” Otis yells. Zeke ignores the order and throws the throttle forward, causing the Rex to lurch. Otis is thrown forward. He grabs one of the lines to steady himself as Zeke swerves again, trying to get out of the blinding glare of the Coast Guard’s searchlight. Hand over hand, Otis crab walks to the front of the boat. He’s almost there when Zeke pushes the throttle again. Otis’ foot catches in a coil of rope on deck. He flails, his hand trying to find a line to hold onto. Zeke turns his head in time to see Otis’ arms spinning like propellers, and watches him fall overboard.
The patrol boat’s screaming siren covers the sound of Otis’ cries for help. The searchlight picks out his head above the water, the waves lifting him up and then rolling over him. His arms wave.
Pow. Pow. Pow. The Coast Guard fires across Rex’s bow.
Zeke yanks hard on the wheel and, slowing the motor, circles back to Otis. The sweep of the searchlight blinds him and he raises his arm to cover his eyes. When it’s passed, he scans the water, trying to see his brother in the inky blackness. The light catches a flash of Otis and then moves off.
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