“Who are we talking about?”
Sam studied the fat actor’s profile.
“He’s already won,” Roscoe said. “And dragging Miss Davies into the mud won’t do a goddamn thing.”
“Thinking like that is the reason this country is a goddamn mess.”
“I don’t follow.”
Moments passed. The big black Arrow rolled on. Sam ran a handkerchief across his sweating face. He felt his breathing slow as he composed himself and smiled at Roscoe.
“How’s your”-Sam pointed to Roscoe’s crotch-“now?”
Roscoe crossed his legs. He turned his eyes back to Sam, face breaking into a grin.
“Every time I see those Vigilant women, I feel like a scared turtle.”
THANKSGIVING MORNING, Sam awoke to the baby crying. He could smell coffee and bacon in the tiny kitchen and hear Jose rummaging around with the groceries and dry goods he’d brought home. He found his watch and his cigarettes, neatly made the Murphy bed and closed it up into the wall. He was still working on the cigarette when he walked into the kitchen, Jose handing him a warm cup and smiling. He kissed Mary Jane on the head. It was cold in the apartment. He owed the landlady for the heat.
“And a turkey, too?”
“A turkey, too,” Sam said, sitting at the rickety table. “Not a bad-looking bird. Bit skinny. Kinda felt sorry for it.”
“How much was this?”
“It’s Thanksgiving,” Sam said. “Rumor has it, we’re supposed to stuff ourselves.”
Sam rubbed his head and yawned, Jose laying the baby in his arms. She cried and cried and he stood and rocked her, walking around the tiny flat and to the window, fogged in the early morning. All of Eddy Street seeming gray and cold.
“Jose, I may have to leave for a spell.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll keep dinner warm.”
“Longer than that. Not today, maybe next week. I may have to take that ship back to Australia. They haven’t located the loot and the Old Man may want me to sail with her.”
“I read The Call last night,” she said, face never changing. “I heard the purser located some of the gold through a dream. I found that odd.”
“So did we,” Sam said. “But the fella we make for it jumped ship yesterday morning and hasn’t been seen since.”
“How much is still missing?”
“Twenty thousand,” Sam said. “I’ll make sure you and the baby have plenty. I can pay up the rent for some time.”
“How?”
“It’d be taken care of. You wouldn’t have to worry for a thing.”
“I never asked for a thing, Sam.”
There were just the sounds in the kitchen for a while and the silence just kind of hung there between them for a long moment, Sam searching for something to say but Jose speaking first.
“I read about Mr. Arbuckle, too,” she said, cooking eggs now, hard-frying them, and browning the toast alongside in the skillet. “Doesn’t look good. His friend Mr. Fishback said that Arbuckle asked him to sneak into the women’s changing room to see Virginia.”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“You want some of those preserves?’
“You bet.”
“Say, you’re good with the kid, Sam. She asleep?”
“Like a baby.”
“Ha.”
“I’ve been doing some thinking about Mr. Arbuckle.”
“You have some theories?”
“I don’t think the autopsy was covering up her being pregnant. I think one of the reasons she came to the city was to get rid of the child.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There’s a doctor,” Sam said. “The one called by Mrs. Delmont to the St.
Francis. I shadowed him sometime back and, among other things, he treats whores.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s an abortionist.”
“Easy enough to find out.”
“But you don’t believe he was protecting Miss Rappe’s virtue when he destroyed her organs.”
“Nope.”
“You believe he was covering for something he botched.”
“Yep.”
“You don’t say much.”
“Nope.”
He smiled.
She laid down his plate of eggs. He slowly, very carefully, passed over the sleeping child to her. She took the handoff with a smile, the kid still dozing.
“That would be a hell of a thing to prove.”
“It’s not my case anymore,” Sam said. “Other men are on it.”
“But you’re still poking around?”
“A fella I think is a good egg asked me to.”
“That simple?”
“Yep.”
“You’re a good egg, Sam.”
Sam didn’t respond.
IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON when Sam stepped foot back on the Sonoma.
A couple of seamen in coveralls painted the deck and smoked cigarettes. He recognized one of them from the days before and gave him a short wave and hello, looking for the first officer, McManus or Captain Trask, but was told that both of ’em had gone ashore to meet with their families. Sam was headed back down, stepping onto a staircase leading belowdecks, back to the engine room and the hidden vent shaft, when he heard his name called.
He turned.
Tom Reagan stood there looking down on him. He wore a black slicker and black fedora and motioned for Sam to come on back up. “We need to talk.”
Sam followed him.
The wind on deck was a cold bastard. He lit a cigarette for warmth. Tom did the same.
“Hell of a place to be on Thanksgiving.”
Sam nodded.
“I think that gold is long gone,” Tom said. “How ’bout you?”
Sam nodded.
Tom smiled at him and it was a knowing smile. Sam shuffled on his feet a bit.
“’ Course it wouldn’t take much to hide a coin here or there. A man could fill up his pockets and walk right out.”
Sam studied Tom’s face, his granite features pinching, taking a draw on the cigarette. Those small eyes in that bullet head squinted at Sam.
“I guess that’s right.”
“Something’s not sitting well with me, Sam.”
Sam watching him. He waited.
“I don’t like when someone isn’t straight with me. I like ’em to be honest.
I like to lay out the truth, plain and unvarnished, for all the world to see. I don’t like cheaters. Even when I wrestled back in school, I knew the rules and played ’em straight.”
“Get on with it,” Sam said.
“Now, hold on. I need you to listen to me. ’Cause I’m not even sure what to do about this.”
Sam’s heart started to race. He took in a breath of cold air and dropped his hands into his pockets. He could smell the paint fumes from the deck ahead of them and it was making him nauseated. He grabbed the edge of the railing and felt it was slick with paint, which he wiped off on his clean handkerchief.
“Goddamnit.”
“I like you, Sam,” Tom said. “I think you’re a straight shooter and I respect that. I want to give you a fair chance.”
Sam nodded. “How’d you know?”
“Something’s been wrong from the start. You can’t blame a person for cheating, but this… this is something else altogether. Makes me ill.”
“Tom-”
“Hold on,” Tom said, putting up his meaty paw. “Hold on. Hear me out.
I don’t want a word of this coming back to me. You hear me?”
Sam nodded.
“Arbuckle is being crucified,” Tom said. “Brady knows he’s innocent.”
“What?”
“There’s more,” Tom said. “But I need you to figure some stuff out on your own.”
Sam took a deep breath, wiping more paint from his fingers. The sun was behind Tom and it was weak and white through the clouds. The men painting the deck whistled while Sam found his footing. He lit another cigarette and began to walk side by side with Tom.
“You’re okay, Tom.”
“You look sick.”
“I’m okay now.”
“So what do we do?”
“What can you tell me about Rumwell?”
“You don’t fool around, do you? You go straight to it.”
Sam shrugged.
“So you know?”