Chapter Fifteen #2
Daisy carefully set down the tray of lime rickeys and offered one to Albert.
The glass was sweating when he took it from her, his fingers heavy with rings.
He wore a suit checkered in wide windowpanes and a bowler hat, and tonight he had a cane that Jack had not noticed him carrying before.
Jack eyed it, watching Albert shuffle the cards, and noticed with a quick side glance that Cora was, too.
He could tell by the way she was pretending not to pay attention, her head cocked the same way it used to be when she was listening for the guards.
“Thanks, little lass,” Albert said. His voice was slightly too loud, and he fumbled with the top of his cane, unscrewing the carved silver handle to take out his own hidden flask.
He tipped it generously into his lime rickey.
“Byrd’s always got maids cute as a bug’s ear. What’s he serving us tonight?”
“You’re in luck,” Daisy said, her voice clear and strong, but Jack could see the slightest shake in her fingers. “A treat. Roast ringneck pheasant.”
Albert leaned in closer to her with a grin. “But is the treat what’s on the tray, or what’s holding it?”
Gilham gave a half laugh and the banker, Hanson, snorted. They both turned away, as if to pretend they hadn’t heard. Perhaps they thought if they didn’t encourage Albert, he would stop.
Beau Remington rose, running a hand through his hair, but stopped short of saying anything.
These men, Jack thought. Powerful enough to lead a country’s industries like admirals, yet unwilling to stand up to a friend to cause a ripple at a dinner party.
The powerful, always silently acquiescing while the innocent were targeted.
For some reason, the thought that it could have been Cora angered him even more.
He felt an old rage stirring in his throat.
William Morton half-heartedly tried to step in. “Care to play whist tonight, Albert?” he asked. “Or billiards?”
Daisy saw an opening and attempted to flee, but Mr. Boyle took her arm. “Wait, now, don’t rush off just yet,” he insisted. He placed his hand on her back, but too low. She stopped suddenly and swallowed, her face paling.
Then she appeared to steel her small frame to take it.
“Byrd’s been a good friend of mine for a long time,” Mr. Boyle said. “And he’s always so generous to share what’s his.” And then, in case she didn’t catch his meaning, Mr. Boyle moved his hand a degree lower.
Jack stepped forward, clearing his throat.
“Albert, old boy,” he said, reaching up to loosen his tie.
“I don’t think that’s the game here.” His voice sank into a twang of a midwestern accent now, and he was careful that even when he was angry, the long-buried Boston didn’t resurface. “So step off, now. You follow?”
Mr. Boyle sneered, but it seemed more in confusion than anything, as though he were unused to being confronted.
He began to turn away, but instantly Jack was beside him.
He managed to remove Albert’s cane, whip a porcelain coffee cup from Daisy’s tray, and push it into Mr. Boyle’s hands in one smooth motion.
“Drink up and let’s take a little walk and at least pretend one of us is a gentleman. ”
Mr. Boyle guffawed. “Like I haven’t seen you sneaking out at night yourself—” he began warningly, but Jack gave him a distinctly ungentle shove past Daisy.
He had at least a half-foot’s height on Albert, and he rose to the fullness of it to ensure that there was no room for argument.
“Here you go, old chap,” he said firmly, with two sharp raps on Albert’s back, and began to steer him toward the main house.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cora move into place, offering coffees and jerky to smooth over the disturbance.
“Night’s just getting started,” she said, smiling winsomely at the men while she poured coffee into their cups.
It was a smile that was curated: warm and maternal rather than flirtatious.
The humidity from the night was making the small hairs curl at the nape of her neck and at her temples.
“Need a little caffeine and a bit of luck,” she said, handing Beau Remington a piece of jerky.
Jack was surprised by the jolt he felt when Beau smiled at Cora, and she flushed.
He was in a foul mood when he turned back to Albert.
“What the hell is this?” Albert asked. “Get your hands off me.”
Jack ignored him and kept him moving. He barely saw Albert in front of him now.
Instead, he pictured his father. His heart had given out not long before Jack’s escape, likely not helped by the trial and the sentencing of his two sons.
Jack hadn’t even been present at the funeral of the man who had taught him how to ride a bicycle and make a chair.
How to shave the beginnings of the mustache Jack had only barely been able to grow when he was thrown in Pelican.
His father had raised him to give a woman flowers, to take his hat off in her presence and carry her luggage up the stairs.
That your wife could be the best friend you ever had.
Men like Albert, like Truman, didn’t even know what they had.
They could be truly known by someone else and they refused it.
He yearned for what they threw away like scraps.
For thirteen years, he hadn’t let anyone get too close.
Not because he didn’t want to. But because it wouldn’t have been fair.
He hadn’t been perfect. He had been lonely over the years, and had sought his own comfort. But he never let anyone in deep enough to approach love. Breaking a heart was a worse thing than stealing a piece of art, in his opinion. Art didn’t breathe and cry.
He took Albert’s arm with enough strength to ensure that the man would comply and led him through the front door of the main house. “Where’s your room, old chap?”
Albert said, “Listen, Cotter, is that your name?” His speech was slurring, but Jack could hear the warning just beneath it. “You clearly don’t understand how things work—”
“I may be a newer friend of Truman’s, but I happen to know that the two things he hates are messy drunks and people abusing his employees. So I’m escorting you to your room to sleep it off.”
It was hard for Jack to believe that he was defending Truman Byrd’s character, the man who had played such a part in his own demise. He asked the butler for help finding Albert’s room and then gave Albert a firm push inside.
The old fury curled up in him like smoke.
Albert sniggered and said “Truman is going to hear about this. And we’ll see who is left standing in the morning.”
“Yeah, you and Truman go way back, do you?” Jack said. He deposited Albert on the bed.
“I’ve been friends with him since before he had anything. That’s called loyalty. So if you think you can just waltz in here on your first damn day and start playing gatekeeper—” Albert spat. “Truman is going to kick you out on your ass.”
“Albert, I didn’t take you for the charitable type.” Jack folded his arms, blocking the door in a subtly menacing way. “What did you see in Truman before anyone else did?”
Albert laughed.
Jack fished out a cigarette and offered it to him.
“Oh, you want to make nice now?” Albert said. But he took it. “You met him playing cards in Reno, didn’t you? Had to be in on a dark circuit in order to get an invite there.” Albert cocked his eyebrow and leered.
Jack gave a nod. That was true. You had to have some sort of reputation with the men running those underground card games before they would let you in. He knew that Albert was in deep himself.
“Then you know,” Albert continued. “At those tables, it’s not how much money you have. It’s what you’re willing to do.” He looked at Jack. “What were you willing to do, Mr. High-and-Mighty?” He laughed again, and sucked on his cigarette.
Jack leaned in close to his face, close enough for Albert to draw back, and said in a deathly quiet voice: “Touch one of those maids again and you can find out.”
Albert dropped his cigarette on the bedspread and gave a slurred grunt.
Jack swore and picked it up before it could set the room on fire, and by the time he had stubbed it out in the ashtray Albert had rolled over and passed out.
After reluctantly checking to make sure Albert was still breathing, Jack took the well-timed opportunity to snoop.
He rifled through Albert’s bureau and briefcase, then bent to look under the bed and behind the hanging tapestries.
Above the four-poster bed was a magnificent gold-plated ceiling boasting interlaced patterns of shields and pendants.
The center panel was an eagle with wings spread and talons out.
In the closet, he could still smell Albert’s heady cologne, and there were empty liquor bottles and wrappers of candy strewn on the floor amongst Albert’s discarded clothes.
Albert’s question crawled on his skin. What were you willing to do?
Jack thought of the night in the old stone tavern in Chicago.
The Moss Duck, so called because the roof leaked so that the rainwater came in through the roof and clung to the stone walls, turning them a mucky green like a stagnant pond.
But it was nestled in a back alley where the cops never seemed eager to venture; the drinks were strong and good; and the owner left them alone. And he served killer au jus sandwiches.
Getting involved in the underground, and, by association, with the mafia, had been like wooing a serrated knife.
He had bided his time, listening carefully.
He had learned who talked among the small-time crooks, and made sure to pay them extra attention.
It was the trickiest work he’d ever done, weaving the next layer of a web and moving ever closer to its center.
The only thing trickier had been planning his escape from Pelican.