Chapter 36
OTHELLA
Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country, Week Seven
It’s dinnertime at Momma Hazel’s, and ladies’ night with Vivian Jean, Katherine, Zinzi, and me. Robbie is finishing a paper on the giant swallowtail butterfly, while Tully has set up a darkroom in Colonel Rowe’s main house and is developing his photography.
I look forward to a night of gossip, rum, and picking over my dinner plate, searching for something I can swallow.
I’ve gotten so good at it that no one notices I scarcely eat anything other than sweet potatoes, and only if they haven’t been dipped in the stew.
My other treat is the hard bread, but only as long as it hasn’t been sprinkled with pepper sauce.
After we finish dinner and clean up, Zinzi takes me aside. “How would you like to come to Kingston with me tomorrow?”
I’m surprised by the invitation, but more so by my reaction. “Everyone else turned you down, huh?” I say playfully, because I don’t know if I want to go.
“I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t want your company,” she replies.
“I’m supposed to go with Katherine to a town meeting in the morning, and then Robbie and I are heading to the market in Maggotty for supplies.”
She looks at me sideways, but she’s not mad. “I checked with everyone and they agreed, it’s okay with them if you want to go. In other words, it’s up to you.”
I couldn’t believe I was hesitating, but I think I’ve grown attached to the Cockpit, Robbie, Vivian Jean, Tully, and Katherine. I might miss something important if I’m not around.
On the other hand, I only caught a glimpse of Kingston, a Jamaican city, rushing from the SS Talamanca to the train station on the day we docked.
This time, I might be able to listen to some live Jamaican music that’s not a ritual.
Maybe go to a nightclub. Maybe some restaurants serve steak and mashed white potatoes.
Real food, not mashed leafy vegetables, yams, and saltfish with peppers that burn my mouth. “I’d love to go.”
Kingston Harbour and Myrtle Bank Hotel, Kingston
We had to ride the beasts again, but I had done quite well the first time with the mules, and this time is no different. In fact, the journey is the same, except that when we arrive at Kingston station, there’s a limousine waiting for us.
“This is nice,” I say as I slide into the back seat next to Zinzi. “So, what do you have planned for the day? Is there any chance we can go shopping? Robbie gave me a few dollars to spend.”
But small talk doesn’t seem to be on Zinzi’s agenda. “I didn’t tell you everything last night, and it’s bothering me.” Zinzi lets out a sigh and then a shudder. “Let me tell you the truth.”
“Okay.”
“You remember my friend Byron, who visited me a few weeks back?”
“Of course. He gave me a carton of smokes.”
“He’s trying to stop his father, the plantation owner, from taxing our rum in the Cockpit, which is also a way to get under Byron’s skin about the labor union movement.”
I shrug, because this part of the gossip I don’t pay much attention to. It just doesn’t interest me. “Okay,” I say, watching the scenery.
“Othella, look at me.”
Suddenly, Zinzi sounds very serious, and I face her, doing as I am told.
“I need your help. Byron’s father has some business partners, Americans, and one of them is promising to help us change his father’s mind about the movement and the tax on Accompong’s rum.
This man is from Chicago and wants to meet me.
He doesn’t quite trust Byron, and this meeting will prove he’s trustworthy.
I’m pretty good at judging people, but my approach is to ask them a thousand questions, and this man is not the type to ask too many questions.
Everyone says that the way your mind works, always picking up on the small details, you’ll be able to tell Byron and me what kind of man this fellow from Chicago, your hometown, is.
We know better than to trust him, but I think you can help us. ”
My chest tightens when I hear business partner, let alone hometown.
“A man from Chicago?” I say hoarsely. “Major Thomas? Vivian Jean’s father?”
Zinzi shakes her head. “No. Vivian Jean’s father has nothing to do with this. Byron put the man’s name in the telegram he sent me the other day.”
We hit a bump in the road, and Zinzi places a hand on the seat in front of us. Then she swallows and says, “His name is Tony Schaefer.”
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 him that well.”
“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 and spacious.
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.”
My lungs are empty.
“Alive and well, I see,” he says, grinning.
“How else could I be?”
“And still with that slippery tongue.” He chuckles. “Where’s my pocket watch?”
“Didn’t Jerry give it to you?”
“I ain’t seen that boy in almost two months. Far as I know, he might be dead.”
His remark is enough to freeze the blood in my veins. He knows Jerry’s dead. How he knows, I have no clue. “Maybe he is. Maybe he’s not. I haven’t seen him since Chicago.”
He sits in the chair beside me. “Girl, you’re lyin.’
“The only way you’d know I’m lyin’ is if you’ve seen Jerry and he told you otherwise.”
“Could be. Could be.” He laughs. “Let’s not discuss either of the Merriweather boys. They’ve served their purpose.”
Tony leans his elbows on the table, his gaze fixed on my face.
“You should be shaking in your boots. Why aren’t you scared?
Or maybe that’s your problem—you’re not smart enough to be afraid.
” He bites his lower lip, eyes still locked on me.
“I love how you always look as pretty as a picture and just as clueless at the same time.” Scooting his chair, he closes the distance between us and adds, “You’re just a scared little girl pretending to be tough.
” He retrieves a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket.
“A man fell overboard on the ship you took to Jamaica.”
Oh Christ. “Yeah, I heard there was a stowaway on the Talamanca. But I didn’t know him.”
“You sure? I was thinking it was Jerry who was the stowaway who drowned.”
My mouth dries. I force a confident smile despite the dread gnawing at my bones.
“Don’t look so glum, sugar,” Tony says, still grinning and showing off his sparkling white teeth that seem like fake pearls and diamonds. “I ordered you a gin and tonic. I bet you haven’t had one in a while.”
I gaze at my hands, delicate and slender fingers capable of creating beautiful drawings, digging holes in the earth, and examining insects and plant parts without causing harm—the skilled hands of the queen of the fingersmiths.
“No, thank you, Tony,” I respond. “I don’t need a gin and tonic, but I could use a smoke.”