The Styx (19 page)

The first stop he made was at the telegraph office located in the town’s new railroad depot. The office consisted of a single planked window where the dispatcher, ticket seller, weigh master, and telegraph operator where all embodied in the same man, a large and surprisingly friendly man with eyes as bright as blue marbles anxious to help anyone in line, which, when Byrne arrived, numbered zero.

“Uh, yes sir, Mr. Byrne. I can check on that right away sir. Only take a second, sir, if you don’t mind, sir,” the clerk said after collecting the worn telegram Byrne had offered him in the way of introduction. The man spun to collect a shoebox from the wooden table behind him. Byrne could see the wired teletype machine sitting lonely and motionless.

“Any correspondence to this office is kept here and in confidence, sir, as required by the government and reiterated in the training of each and every operator within the system, sir, which in this case would only be me of course,” the clerk said breathlessly, with a smile on his face that had not a hint of cynicism. His fat fingers were flipping through the box in search of a message that Byrne’s telegram had been retrieved, but when the man finally pulled out a sheet and handed it to him, it was only the copy of the message he had originally sent.

coming to meet you in three days…ma is dead…

“No, sir,” the clerk answered to Byrne’s question. “No one has came to collect it sir, and it was received as you can see right there on the date, sir, on the very same day, or close to it anyways, that it was sent from New York City.”

Byrne pinched the paper between his fingers. “Would you know this man, Daniel Byrne, the one to whom the telegram was sent?”

The clerk looked down at the paper as if there might be a photograph there. “Uh, no sir. I don’t believe so. Though they is a lot of folks who come through here, sir,” the clerk said while letting his gaze focus behind Byrne. The juxtaposition of his statement and the empty room seemed to have no ironic effect on the man. “But then I am not required by regulations, nor am I trained, sir, to know on sight each and every person who sends or receives messages, sir.”

Byrne pointed again at his brother’s worn telegram.

“The man I’m speaking of sent that message from your office four weeks ago according to the date.”

The clerk again studied the paper.

“Yes, sir. That would be from here, sir, according to the identifying numbers, sir.”

“But you don’t recall the man who sent it?”

The clerk shook his head.

“Very well, then,” Byrne said, refolding the telegram.

“Was it your daddy?” the clerk said as Byrne turned to leave.

“Excuse me?”

The clerk pointed his finger at the pocket where Byrne had tucked the telegram.

“Ya’ll got the same name.”

“No, it’s my brother,” Byrne answered. He walked away. In strict confidence my ass, he was thinking as he made his way back out onto the street.

Harris of course had been right about the Seminole Hotel, named, Byrne soon found out, after the Indian tribe that now occupied southern areas of the Florida peninsula. It was a four-story structure that towered above the rest of the wooden shops and tents and pole barns that created a wobbly-legged colt of a downtown. Byrne could smell the fresh sawn lumber, hear the hammering of nails nearby and practically taste the sun-heated flavor of newness. It was the frontier town he’d read about and heard stories of in those Wild West reenactments along Tin Pan Alley in New York. But this was not the West. This place was called Florida.

“Yes, that’s right, Michael Byrne, with a Y after the B and an E at the end,” he said to the hotel clerk at the check-in desk at the Seminole. “No. No specific length of stay. Might be a day. Might be a week. I’m with Mr. Flagler’s security team. A Pinkerton.”

What the hell, he thought. Since everyone could guess his occupation by looking at his shoes, he may as well use the status and that threat of authority that he and his boys exuded to gain advantage on the streets of New York City.

“Certainly, Mr. Byrne. We do have a fine room available fronting the lake on the fourth floor with a wondrous view of your employer’s island,” the clerk said with a new smile.

“Something on the second floor, if you will,” Byrne said, his tenement background speaking without consideration of his new surroundings.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

The room was spare. The furniture was fine and sturdy and quite possibly newly hewn in hardwood. The floor was of a dark, close-grained pine he didn’t recognize. There was a throw rug in the middle that was brand new. The single bed had a chenille coverlet, and he tossed his duffel onto it and went to the window. Even from the second floor, the Royal Poinciana stood monolithic across the lake. He raised the double-hung casement window, felt the breeze blow in off the water and again took a deep breath of the wondrously new scent of sun-warmed salt air.

He stripped off his coat and shirt and filled the dresser-top wash basin. The china bowl was polished and had a gold leaf band around the rim. It was free of any chips or scratches. He cupped the water in his hands and splashed it up into his eyes and rubbed his face, repeating the gesture three times before picking up a hand towel and wiping himself dry. While dabbing his neck and shoulders he looked up into a face that had a slight stubble of beard and a new sheen of red sunburn on its nose and cheekbones, and in his father’s Irish tone the face whispered: “Jaysus. What the hell are ye doin’ here, Mikey?”

When he returned to the front desk he again used his already established authority to ask a question: “I’m looking for a man who left word he was awaiting me in town. His name is Daniel Byrne. Has he ever registered here?”

The clerk looked up into Byrne’s face.

“A relative?”

“Yes.”

“With the same spelling then?”

“Obviously.”

“I believe I would have recognized it then, sir. I don’t recall anyone using that particular name before. But I’ve only been employed here for the past few months.”

Byrne asked for the names of other hotels in the city; the clerk gave him a list of three.

“Unless of course your relative is on the island, sir.”

“That I can check myself, thank you,” Byrne said. From what he had seen so far of the island, Danny would have indeed had to strike it rich to be ensconced across the lake. Inquiring for dinner he was told that the Midway Plaisance saloon and restaurant on Banyan Street had just received a new brew that had become quite the rage and that they could serve up a fine fresh catch of the day that would provide a taste Mr. Byrne had mostly likely never encountered in his previous life. He’d tipped his cap to the clerk, thanked him, and covered a brief smile. They might have a sun and smell and heat that could not be encountered in New York, he thought, but certainly nothing that couldn’t be presented on a table. The restaurants of the city were unmatched in any corner of the world if, of course, you had the money. He would see about this catch of the day and this supposed new brew.

Byrne rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt two turns to the middle of his forearms and stepped down from the hotel porch to the street. His telescoping wand was in the deep pocket of his trousers, and now he had a mighty ache for a beer. The walk to the saloon took him less than ten minutes during which he was offered: the finest hot bath and shave, the foremost in leather boots, the most affordable and profitable piece of real estate left in the Palm Beach area, and a “trip upstairs mister that will be your slice of heaven on earth.” The blatant bray of merchants and hookers brought on the first fit of nostalgia for his native city he’d felt since arriving. His reaction was the same as if he were home. He ignored the hype and kept his wallet in his front pocket with a light chain attaching it to one of his belt loops. He also registered every face he saw. Danny could not have changed too much in three years time. He would know him from a hundred paces. But he had seen enough to surprise him in the last few days that he was taking no chances.

It was past four in the afternoon when he stepped into the wooden saloon of the Midway. It being the dinner hour the place was near full of men in both work clothes and respectable suits. The smell of fried fish was in the air and that unmistakable scent of fresh hops and barley and yeast that conjured a liquid that would cut the dust from your throat and take the pout off your face.

Byrne shouldered his way to the bar and bought a pint of Anheiser beer that he would later find out was part of the first load of keg beer delivered to the town of West Palm Beach. He took a deep draught, closed his eyes in appreciation, and then worked his way out to the canvas-covered porch area of outside tables. He scanned the gathering, memorizing faces and modes of dress as well as anything sinister attached to belts or stuck down into boots and listened intently to the sound of voices and accents. He heard a familiar tone from one corner and moved to a huge wooden cable spool that was making due for a table top. His three binder boy acquaintances from the train were sitting at the nine, twelve and three o’clock positions of the round top. Byrne picked up one of many wooden crates being used as chairs and took the six o’clock spot.

“Top o’ the day to you, Pinkerton,” the man from the Tenderloin said. He waited until Byrne was settled in his seat. “Please, join us.”

The cynicism was cast as a joke, made even more so by the creamy foam he left dripping from his mustache.

“What brings you slumming here on the west side, Pinkerton?” said the Italian. “Figured you to be settling in the island castle near the boss man.”

“No, I’m just a junior lifeguard, Pauley,” Byrne said, watching the street boys’ eyes for a reaction to the fact that Byrne had gone out of his way to check the train’s passenger manifest and had figured who was who among the small group. Gerald Haney had used the same name on the manifest. The German was Henry, a common Americanization for the name Hienrick. The Italian from Cherry Hill was probably Paulo originally. His face went blank, trying not to react to Byrne’s correct guess, which was a reaction in itself.

“Besides, I don’t think they serve good beer to the champagne crowd over there.” Byrne raised his glass to the group and took another long swallow, gaining his own foam line above his lip.

The group joined him in the toast, and that common thread of young men and drink gained him another tenuous link.

“So, I thought you boy’os were on your way to Miami,” Byrne said. “It must be something more than the arrival of keg beer to keep you from your date with fortune.”

Gerald Haney smiled to his mates and they grinned in return. It seemed a learned response to deflect questions of their questionable business.

“Aye, Pinkerton. Fortune is where you find it,” he said. “And when you hear tell of it on the street, only a fool ignores the call.”

“And the call is?”

Haney drained his glass before answering.

“No more free courses in real estate business, Irish. You’ll have to be buying.”

Byrne acceded to that logic and bought the next two rounds while Haney, with an occasional word from Paul and Henry, told him the word on the street was that Flagler had been buying up even more property on the west side than he already owned. They’d heard that the entire hotel working class was transferring to the West side of the lake.

“They all got up in mass and moved?” Byrne said, thinking of the stoic face of the black man driving the bicycle carriage. “Sounds like a bit of a phenomenon.”

“Word is that they were burned out,” Paul said. “Accordin’ to those that know, their little village over there called the Styx was set fire in the night and the entire place gutted.” Paul’s chin came out with the statement, proud that he had gleaned information off the street so soon after his arrival. For his trouble he got an immediate glare from Haney.

“The real word is that prices on the island are going to skyrocket,” Haney said quickly. “But the hard part is getting hold of the sellers. They’re already being wined and dined by the gentry. To get ahold of any of those land titles the speculators are going to have to be connected and sharp,” Haney said. “Might be worth stickin’ round for a bit, though. Never know when the trickle down might start. Some guy tradin’ up wants to dump what he already has on the mainland so he can qualify for something on the island.”