She nodded, as if to say, “You’re quite right.” I was stupid to mention my profession to her; as far as she’d known, I was just some business associate of her employer’s.
We sat in awkward silence for a minute or so, and I ate, and looked out at the vast sea. Somewhere, across it, Mussolini’s government was toppling, and Cologne was trying to recover from a visit by a thousand Allied bombers. Back home Charlie Chaplin had attracted near as much attention just by marrying teenage Oona O’Neill in the middle of his latest paternity suit.
But it all seemed abstract, it all seemed to be happening in some other world, when you sat in the Bahamas and studied the sea-a sea that men were dying on right now, most likely, even as I finished my turtle soup.
“Delicious lunch,” I said, touching the napkin to my lips. “The fritters were good, too.”
“Just heated up. Cook fried ’em last night. They’re better fresh.”
“What’s ‘conk’?”
“You spell it c-o-n-c-h. The meat from a pretty pink shell the tourists buy.”
“Oh-sure. Well, any way you spell it, the fritters are tasty.”
She grinned. “You’ll be eatin’ a lot of conch while you’re here, Mr. Heller.”
She wouldn’t let me help her with the dishes, but I walked her into the kitchen and said, almost whispered, “Please don’t mention that I’m a detective…to anyone.”
“Mr. Heller,” she said warmly, “you’re a nice man. I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want me to.”
Our eyes locked, and there was a moment between us-a man/woman moment, that transcended culture and time and taboo-but it was just a moment, and we both looked away, embarrassed.
“I best take you to Sir Harry, now.”
She did.
Oakes was in a medium-size room with a fireplace, oriental rug and tall windows that looked out on the ocean; a billiards table took up much of the floor space. On the walls here and there, stuffed big-game fish and mounted wild-game heads were mute observers.
Looking like a sight gag in his plaid shirt, jodhpurs and riding boots-I was reminded of Harpo dressed as a jockey in A Day at the Races-Sir Harry was standing bowlegged, leaning on a bending cue as he spoke to a rather disheveled-looking little man sucking desperately on a cigarette.
Both were frowning; perhaps we’d interrupted an argument.
But Sir Harry smiled tightly, seeing us, and said, “Ah! My guest. Have a decent lunch?”
“Swell,” I said. “Turtle soup and conch fritters.”
He laughed shortly. “We’ll make a Bahamian out of you by nightfall, Heller. Marjorie, fetch me my checkbook.”
“Yes, Sir Harry.”
Miss Bristol left, and Sir Harry gestured to his diminutive but muscular-looking friend, who was so tanned I wondered if he might be mulatto.
“Meet the real baron of Nassau, Mr. Heller-Harold G. Christie. Best damn pard an old prospector ever had.”
So much for interrupting an argument.
Christie was fiftyish, nearly bald, with an egg-shaped head and shaggy, sandy eyebrows over piercing money-green eyes. He was homely as a toad: face seamed, nose bulbous, chin weak; his light-weight white suit looked slept-in, his dark tie hastily knotted.
This was the real baron of Nassau?
“This is Nathan Heller,” Oakes told his friend. “He’s a detective from Chicago I hired for some personal business.”
Christie’s eyes widened momentarily as he flashed Oakes a wary look. “A detective? Why, Harry?”
Sir Harry sniggered; put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s personal, Harold. You have a personal life. I have a personal life.”
Christie frowned up at Oakes, then turned to me and smiled in a surprisingly engaging way; the toad could become a prince when he switched on the charm.
“Welcome to Nassau, Mr. Heller,” he said. His voice was mellow. “Though why you’d come to the Isles of June in July is a mystery even to a Bahamas booster like me.”
“If you want that mystery solved, Harold,” Sir Harry said, “you’ll have to hire your own goddamn detective.”
What was going on here? Was Oakes goading his pal?
But Christie only kept smiling, albeit in the strained way of the underling whose boss has just made a joke at his expense. He crushed his cigarette out in an ashtray on the edge of the billiards table and immediately lighted up another.
“Nate, if you’re not careful, Harold here will have you in a villa on the oceanfront before supper.”
“You’re in the real-estate business, Mr. Christie?”
Christie smiled, blew out smoke and was about to answer when Oakes interrupted. “Saying Harold is in the real-estate business is akin to saying Hitler’s in the land-grab business.”
That comparison made Christie wince, but Sir Harry bellowed on.
“Few years back, Harold buttonholed me in London, talked me into coming to New Providence, and then managed to sell me half the goddamn place.” Oakes snorted a laugh. “Do you know why Mr. Christie here is the most influential man in these islands? And I’m counting our little friend the Duke of Windsor, too, mind you. Harold understands that the basic asset of these islands is land…not for mining or crops, mind you: but for selling to rich goddamn fools like me. Ah! Here’s Marjorie….”
She was bringing his checkbook; he put down the pool cue and went with her to a small table by a lamp with a silk shade.
Christie said, very softly, “You’ll have to forgive Harry. Talkativeness is among his worst vices.”
“And tact is not among his chief virtues.”
“Hardly,” Christie said, and chuckled, and sucked in smoke.
“Nate!” Oakes called, waving at me. “I’ll see you out….”
“Pleasure meeting you, sir,” I told Christie.
“Likewise,” he said pleasantly, and nodded.
Oakes slipped an arm around my shoulder as we walked, handing me a ten-thousand-dollar check that glistened with wet ink. Miss Bristol had gone on ahead to open the door; our conversation remained private.
“That’s thirty-four days, approximately,” he said, “at your three-hundred-dollar-a-day rate…counting today, which was a flat thousand.”
“Did you want me to start today?”
“Hell, yes! You’ll find de Marigny at the Yacht Club. He’s racing there this afternoon. This card will get you in anywhere.”
It was a small white card that simply said, “The bearer is my personal guest” signed “Sir Harry Oakes, Bart.”
“I’ll need de Marigny’s photo….”
Sir Harry waved that off. “Just ask somebody to point him out. He’s a tall horsy-looking frog, skinny as a plank. He’s grown a goddamn devil beard, too. You can’t miss the son of a bitch. Look for his yacht.” Harry’s thin upper lip curled in disgust. “It’s called the Concubine.”
“It would be,” I said.
Miss Bristol had the door open for us. We walked out under the balcony’s overhang, toward the garage, the young woman following at a respectful distance. There was a breeze now, Bahamas balmy, but the humidity remained oppressive.
“You’re to check in with me every day, by phone. Miss Bristol will give you the number.”
I glanced back at her and she smiled. God, I loved her smile.
He was squeezing my shoulder, getting my attention back. “I’ve a car for you…it’s rented in your name. Nassau and New Providence road maps in the glove box with a list of pertinent addresses-de Marigny’s house, his business interests.”
I nodded. These rich guys were efficient.
He swung open the garage door. “But for Christ’s sake, remember to stay on the wrong goddamn side of the road!”
“You mean on the left.”
“Right,” Sir Harry said.
The car was a dark-blue 1939 four-door Buick, big as a tank, which is what it handled like; not the best vehicle for a shadow job, and it was unnerving, heading back down Bay Street into town, staying on the left-hand side of the road. The occasional bicycle gave me a start, and the tropical scenery, burning with color, remained a distraction.