I stare at the door handle. The car is moving, but not too fast. I could jump out, land on my feet—or close to it—and then run, disappearing into the crowded sidewalks of Kingston Harbour, never to be seen again.
Damn. “Schaefer? I know him.”
“You do?”
“Did you mention my name to him?”
“I told Byron to tell him I might bring a friend, but I wouldn’t think he’d tell him who, because I wasn’t sure you’d come. But you know him?”
“He’s a mobster, Zinzi. A no-good, thieving, killing, gambling, Chicago mobster,” I practically yell, suddenly feeling that I might be losing my mind. “You have heard of them, haven’t you? And Byron’s father is doing business with the mob!”
“I’ve heard of Al Capone, the Chicago syndicate, Johnny Torrio, the Chicago outfit. Mobsters take vacations, too.” She inhales deeply, calming herself. “Fact is, I’m not telling you the whole story. Byron knows this guy is no good. He also knows his own father isn’t a good man, either. They used to be in the rum-running business together during Prohibition. Now, they’re a legal business and making enough money to bring down the labor union before it can catch hold and, as a side project, they’ll destroy what’s left of Accompong.” Her voice quivers, but she isn’t about to cry; she’s just mad as hell.
“This situation would be a funny coincidence, except it’s not funny.”
“My mother would say the ancestors planned it.”
“I can’t meet this man, Zinzi. He’ll kill me dead on the spot.”
“Oh my God. You know himthatwell.”
“I used to work for him.”
She tilts her head. “I had a feeling about you the first time I met you.”
“What was that?”
“You weren’t a college girl, not because you aren’t smart; you’re too smart.” She chuckles weakly, then covers her face with her hands.
I hope she doesn’t start crying, but she’s not a crier. That’s something I knew about her from the beginning—she’s strong-minded, like me.
“You’ll have to stay in the car. I’ll have the driver take you back to the train station. You get home. Private detectives are working for the Tynesdale Estate, and I wouldn’t want you to be added to their list.” She sighs. “I need to think of something. Byron is gonna get himself killed.”
“He has to know Schaefer’s a cheat and a liar. And greedy, too.” I almost slip and mention he hired me to steal Major Thomas’s pocket watch when I notice the limo has stopped.
“Is this where you’re supposed to meet him?”
“Yes.” Zinzi is staring into space and looking trapped.
I think about Jerry Merriweather falling into the sea. “You know, I have a feeling Tony knows I’m here. So, I might as well help you out. See what I can learn from him. Tony won’t harm me in a public place. Besides, your boyfriend gave me a carton of cigarettes.” I mention that last bit to help her feel better about getting me into this pickle. But I truly believe if Tony Schaefer is on the same island as me, he’d find a way to find me sooner or later. Might as well be now. When I’m expecting it.
The Myrtle Bank Hotel is the finest hotel I’ve ever set foot in. It has that breezy island feel I heard some of the ship’s passengers talk about. Every door to every room is open, the wide windows are never shuttered, and everything feels airy andspacious. This must be how Jamaicans design their hotels, with plenty of palm trees, potted plants, gardenias, verandas, porches, balconies, and lots of bamboo and lampshades.
Zinzi guides me through the hotel lobby to the veranda. We draw quite a few stares, not just because of our skin color. We aren’t dressed in fashionable clothes—we’re in our Accompong outfits: riding pants, loose-fitting blouses, and thick-soled boots. Neither of us has on a flowing dress or an oversized straw hat like the other women.
We sit at a small round table, and Zinzi immediately waves off the waiter. Around us, elegant women sip tea or rum punch from frosted glasses. The men smoke thick cigars while the women hold fire-tipped cigarette holders, watching the smoke swirl into the air.’
Zinzi suddenly stands. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where you going?” I ask, not wanting to be left alone with so many people staring, but she doesn’t return to her seat. There’s a worried look in her eyes. “Don’t take too long.”
“I won’t, but Byron needs to be here now. I don’t understand why he’s not,” Zinzi says, worry showing on her face. “I’m gonna have the front desk ring his room.”
I watch her leave, sitting on the edge of my seat, tempted to follow her. She isn’t out of sight for more than a few seconds when he appears.
Tony Schaefer, as always, is immaculately dressed in baggy tan trousers and an open-collared white shirt—except he isn’t wearing a hat. His blond hair, now mostly red, is much longer than the last time I saw him, and his pale skin is almost brown. Looks like he’s been on the island for quite some time.
“I had to see you with my own eyes. Othella Montgomery.”
