Friday Harbor, page 23
"I hate to break it to you, Floyd. But no matter how desperate we are to believe otherwise, the world is never simply good and evil or black and white. It's gray. It has always been gray. It will always be gray. And the soldiers and civilians are all just pawns in some gray ruler's gray game."
"I have a feeling that I'll regret asking. But what's the gray ruler's gray game?"
"To get more," Miles said.
"More what?"
"More everything. If the war taught me anything, it's that there are just too many men in this world who have to have more. Always more. It's greed that drives men to take bribes, smuggle booze, murder folks like the Jensens, or lead entire nations into war. It's all just fundamental human nature played out at different magnitudes."
"If it's so fundamental, then how do we have civilized society?"
"Civilized men contain it. Civilized men have self-restraint."
"There you are. See? No reason to despair."
"Unfortunately, Floyd, it's my considered opinion that most men aren't civilized. So, we're probably destined to destroy ourselves."
Floyd forced a smile. "Let's change the subject."
*****
They spent the next two hours comparing stories of playing high school baseball, being pressured by their mothers to find suitable girls to marry before they got too old, and fishing for salmon with their fathers. It turned out they had quite a bit in common.
"Truth be told, I miss my father terribly," Floyd said at one point.
"Me too." Miles raised his glass. "To fathers."
"To fathers," Floyd echoed, eyeballing his own cocktail somewhat uncertainly. They clinked their glasses together. Then Miles took a tiny sip from his while Floyd pretended to do the same.
"Well," Miles said, setting his glass back down. "No sign of Stenersen here. Should we go try that other speakeasy, the Rose Room?"
*****
Halfway along their walk to the Rose Room, they heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire echo across the night from somewhere to their south. Five shots, probably from two different pistols given the sounds. Probably at least two blocks away.
"Sounds like the hooligans are coming out to play," Floyd said. "When the longshoremen get off work, the area south of King Street can get a little bit . . ." He stopped himself as he noticed Miles slowing his pace and staring at a man in a flashy suit walking in the opposite direction on the other side of the street. "What is it?"
Without answering, Miles continued to watch the man.
"You know that fella?" Floyd asked, still getting no response. "Miles? You think we're being followed?"
Miles exhaled. "I think I'm just being paranoid," he said. But he continued to watch the man for another ten or fifteen seconds. "Yes, I think so. Paranoid."
FORTY-TWO
The Rose Room was on the main floor of Seattle's elegant Butler Hotel, barely three blocks from police headquarters. It was a much larger and more refined space than the Bucket of Blood, with ornate chandeliers, mahogany paneling, and plush carpeting. There was fine China and sterling silver on every one of the 100 or so white linen covered tables. A tall glass mirror ran the length of a massive bar that held no apparent liquor bottles but was nevertheless manned by busy, bowtie-wearing bartenders who set up trays of various cocktail glasses—some filled with ice, the others completely empty—and handed them over to tails-wearing servers. On a bandstand in a far corner, next to a busy dancefloor, the world-famous Vic Meyers Orchestra played a jazzy foxtrot Miles recognized but couldn't name.
"Good evening, gentlemen," their server said the very second they sat down. "May we offer you some refreshment this evening?"
"A double Glenfiddich, neat, with a small glass of water on the side, please," Miles said.
"Very good. And for you, sir?"
Floyd had to take half a second to collect himself. "Uh, the same."
"See?" Miles said as the server walked away. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
A minute later, a different server dropped off two empty Scotch dram glasses and two short highball glasses of fresh water. Shortly after that, a busboy arrived with a shallow porcelain tub from which he extracted two brown glass bottles labeled ginger ale. He rolled back a corner of the tablecloth, then set the bottles in concealed holders attached to the side of the table.
"I'm going to take a wild guess that those bottles don't actually contain ginger ale," Floyd said.
"You don't think?" Miles said.
As the busboy disappeared, Miles wondered if they made the bussers serve the alcohol as a way of allocating the risk of arrest to the junior employees.
"This must be what Clark meant when he said the Rose Room hides its real purpose in plain sight," Floyd said.
"A smooth operation," Miles said, uncorking his bottle and pouring a measure of Glenfiddich into his dram glass. "This place does it right. Look, Floyd, they even use the proper tulip dram glass to concentrate the aromas."
"Where did you learn that?"
"I was invited to a New Year's Eve Scotch whiskey tasting by a British Army lieutenant stationed at our supply yard in Neufchâteau. He was from Edinburgh. That's in Scotland."
"I know that Edinburgh is in Scotland," Miles.
"I assume you're a Scotch neophyte."
"Of course I am."
"Just watch what I do. First, raise the glass to the light and give it a gentle swirl, appreciating the warm amber color as you release its vapors into the glass."
Floyd did as he was told.
"Now bring it up to your nose and give it a gentle smell," Miles said. "What do you get?"
"Grain."
"Good. Malted barley, to be specific. Maybe a bit of orchard fruit and honey. I'd say there's something floral too. A highland mountainside covered in blossoming heather. A Scottish glade in the springtime."
"With a dozen Scottish maidens fair, barefoot and dancing the reel?" Floyd said. "You should write advertisements for the Sears Roebuck Catalog."
"Now we set the palate with a small sip that we swish around in the mouth for a moment before swallowing, getting it all over the tongue. The first sip can seem a little hot."
Miles sipped the Scotch. Floyd did not.
"What?" Miles said.
Floyd just shrugged.
"Floyd, this isn't your grandad's bathtub gin. You aren't even going to taste it? At these prices? It's just a sip."
"I'm a police officer. So are you."
"And so was the fella who probably smuggled this Scotch."
"That's his concern."
"Suit yourself. You'll change your mind when you hear my tasting commentary anyway. Speaking of which, the next sip is where the magic happens." He closed his eyes and took another sip. "Oh, glory. Smooth on the tongue. Flowers and spices. A hint of cinnamon."
"You sound like a pastry chef."
Miles's eyes were still closed, his face flushed in ecstasy. "Maybe a little bit of sweetness, a little bit of oak at the end. Yes, oak." He opened his eyes. "Now we add just a drop or two of water to open up the flavor even more, and taste again."
"How long is this going to take?"
"Floyd, I'm telling you, a sip of fine Scotch brings you a little closer to God."
"You don't believe in God."
"This Scotch may change my mind."
His mind drifting back to Miles's troubling comments about the war, instead of a sip, Floyd absentmindedly took a gulp. He nearly choked. He put a clenched fist to his lips as his face turned red. Then he grabbed his water glass and drained it.
"Not like that," Miles said with a grin. "But it's good, right?"
Floyd couldn't yet speak, so he just stared at Miles with angry, watery, bugged out eyes.
"Gentleman," said another server who appeared at their table. "An invitation." He extended a white-gloved hand that held a small silver platter on which a fine, white, card stock envelope lay.
"An invitation to what?" Miles asked.
"I'm just a messenger, sir," the server said, setting the envelope on the table before disappearing into the crowd.
Miles looked at the envelope, then looked at Floyd.
"Are you going to open it?" Floyd asked after clearing his throat, his face still flushed.
Miles did. Inside, calligraphy on a simple white card requested the honor of the presence of Messrs. Miles William Scott and Ashton Donald Floyd for dinner at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Otto W. Stenersen, on Highland Drive, Queen Anne Hill, at 6 o'clock the following evening.
"I guess we can quit looking for Stenersen," Miles said, handing the card to Floyd. "He even knows our middle names."
*****
Disconcerted by Stenersen's dinner invitation, but relieved at being able to call it a night, they rose to go home—Floyd to his mother's house, Miles to the O.K. Hotel. As they did, the Vic Meyers Orchestra stopped in the middle of whatever jazz number they were playing and began a rendition of "How Dry I Am." The song change seemed to initiate a flurry of activity throughout the Rose Room, with every single bartender, server, and busboy grabbing a dish tub and frantically going from table to table, dumping each patron's cocktail. Getting rid of evidence, undoubtedly tipped off about an imminent raid.
Sure enough, as soon as Miles and Floyd exited onto James Street, three cars pulled to the curb and out jumped a dozen slouching and depressed-looking Prohibition agents who formed up around their apparent leader—the only man among them with a determined look on his face—and promptly marched in the front entrance of the Rose Room.
"Did you see that fella who led them in?" Floyd said. "That was Clifford Charles."
"Clark mentioned that name. What's his story again?"
"He's the regional assistant director of the Bureau of Prohibition. Least popular man in Seattle. A zealot."
"He and McCaskill and Eckart should form a sewing circle."
With that, they bade each other goodnight and parted ways. Miles's walk to the O.K. Hotel was uneventful, the city having quieted down. He checked for messages at the front desk, hoping for some sign of life from Marion. There was nothing, so with a heavy sense of emptiness, he climbed the stairwell and fumbled with his key before unlocking the door and stepping into his room. There, Miles stopped in his tracks, stood, and stared. Something was off. Perhaps it was an unnatural quiet, an item out of place, or a scent that hadn't been there before. He couldn't quite say. But he was utterly certain that someone was or had been in his room.
Taking a quick peek under the bed and in the wardrobe to make sure nobody was there to jump him, he began a slow and methodical examination of his things, checking the pockets of his clothing, making sure none of his tickets or documents were missing from his valise. The tickets and torn stubs could give a snoop a rough idea of the timing and general location of his movements, for whatever that was worth. But there'd been nothing in the room that would provide anyone with any material information about the investigation. What troubled him far more was the possibility that someone was keeping an eye on him. Perhaps someone with the Jensens' blood on their hands. Perhaps someone who'd be willing to spill more blood if they decided Miles was a threat.
FORTY-THREE
Strait of Juan de Fuca, British Columbia
(near the U.S.-Canada maritime border)
Seven Days Earlier
After a very long, very rough stretch of time closed off in the secret room, with no visits by the fat Cantonese man and no rice, things got suddenly calmer. We could stand without having to hold a hand against the wall. Soon, the fat man came and opened the hole. He gave us rice and water and told us we were nearing the end of our voyage. His rough, uncaring voice sent a shiver of fear through my body. What new suffering would the end of our voyage bring? What cruel treatment would we face next? Would we die like the girl who hit her head?
He reclosed the hole without waiting to take away the rice bowl and without taking any of the girls. We ate in darkness.
*****
Not long after our meal, the pounding thunder noise that had gone on for what felt like many days finally stopped and we felt the boat lean into a long, gentle turn. Things got quiet and still. Eventually, the fat man came back and told us to follow silently. I checked to make sure Snow was still in my pocket before I stood up. I had to blink my sensitive eyes many times as I climbed out of the hole and into the light of the next room. Weak and dizzy, we stumbled up the many stairs and emerged on the deck of the boat. It was night. I could see in the moonlight that we were in a wide bay. There were lights dotted along the distant shore. The fresh, cool air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and green trees.
We held hands as we were led to the very back of the boat where there were no windows looking down on us. The fat man told us to climb overboard, one at a time, down a heavy net that dangled over the side. I was afraid. It was very dark and I knew there was water below. I did not know how to swim.
One by one, we climbed over the side. When my turn came, I peeked over the edge and saw a very small boat waiting below. As we each climbed down, we were helped aboard by a friendly-faced, pale foreigner. A boy, but a very big and tall one with very round eyes. He silently nodded to each of us as we set foot on his little boat. Like all foreigners, he had an odd smell. Not bad. Just different. He looked nervous, which made me nervous too. Once we were all aboard, he gave a wave to the Cantonese man, pushed off from the big boat with one of his oars, and quietly paddled us out into darkness.
*****
After a lot of paddling by the foreigner, another larger boat appeared out of the darkness ahead of us. It was maybe a fishing boat. If it had lanterns, none of them were lit.
Pulling alongside, the boy tied ropes to the larger boat as an older foreigner—also big and tall, also friendly-faced, but also nervous-looking—came to the side and helped us climb aboard. As on the big boat, we were led below. But this time there was lantern light. This time we were given blankets, cold water so fresh it tasted almost sweet, and large pieces of very chewy, very heavy bread—not made from rice flour—with a yellowish, fatty, salty spread smeared over one side of it. And though they looked nervous, the men smiled at us, shyly, and with respect, before climbing back up to the main deck.
With a noise of pounding thunder like on the big boat, but louder, with a faster pounding rhythm, and with a hum that was not as deep, our new boat began to move. Though I couldn't see outside, it felt like it was going faster and faster. Faster than I had ever moved. Impossibly fast.
*****
Eventually, the thunder noise got quieter and the boat felt as if it slowed down and stopped. Then the thunder noise stopped. The foreigners came down the steps and made hand motions that I think meant they wanted us to stay quiet again. So we chewed on our bread, drank our water, whispered to each other, and waited.
I was still afraid, not knowing what was coming, knowing I was in a strange foreign land, far from home, far from family. But the friendly, shy faces and respectfulness of the foreigners, the fresh water and tasty bread, the cool, fresh air, and finally being out of the stinking, dark, secret room of the big boat had me starting to feel a tiny bit hopeful that maybe, after all the suffering and fear, things were going to be okay.
As I had done so many times since leaving home, and hardly aware that I was doing so, I put my hand into the inner pocket of my tunic to feel the warm, reassuring softness of Snow's fur. I felt my comb there. But as I probed the corners of the pocket, I couldn't find Snow. With growing panic, I felt all around, my hands checking every bit of space. I looked all over my clothes in case she'd climbed out and was hanging on. I patted down my clothing in case she'd crawled into a warm gap or fold. Then, as my heart began to pound, as my breathing began coming in gasps, I looked all around the floor. Snow was gone.
I fell to my knees, put my hands over my face so the other girls wouldn't see, and began to cry. I couldn't stop myself. I knew it was shameful given whatever horrors some of the other girls had been through on the ship. But I loved sweet little Snow. She was my comfort. My link to home.
What would become of her? If she made it off the boat, would she survive in this strange new land? Would she find good things to eat? Would she find a safe and warm place to sleep? If she made it to land, would the foreign mice be kind to her? Welcoming? Would she be able to speak their mouse language? Or would she be an outcast? Would she starve? Would a foreign snake or bird catch and eat her?
I sobbed. Tried to take deep breaths. Dried my eyes. Sobbed more. I'm sure the other girls had by now noticed I was upset. None of them asked me what was wrong. They looked preoccupied with fear. This was understandable. But I was so deeply sad that my own fear, strong as it was, felt suddenly unimportant. I was sure I would sob all night.
Then I heard a faint, low, far away sound that I guessed was more boat thunder noise. Not from our boat. From another. We all heard it at once, then looked at each other with new uncertainty, new dread, as the deep thunder sound slowly grew louder. Whatever it was, it was coming closer.
FORTY-FOUR
The next morning, with nothing to do until their dinner with Stenersen, Miles and Floyd went their separate ways. Floyd returned to police headquarters to take on a backlog of paperwork from his other cases, while Miles rode a trolley out to explore the University of Washington campus that was slowly taking shape on the grounds of the 1909 World's Fair, then visited the new Frederick & Nelson department store downtown to buy his mother a bolt of jade green silk that he pictured her using to make pillows.
As he waited for the clerk to package the silk up, he wandered the main floor out of curiosity as to what was considered fashionable in the big city these days. His eyes were drawn to a dazzling cobalt blue dress of a style similar to the one Marion wore to the Odd Fellows. Hip-length, adorned with blue glass beads, and priced at more than a month's pay for a sheriff. As he stood staring at it, wishing he could afford to buy it for Marion, it occurred to him that she had grown to be so much more than the simple local girl she was when he shipped out for the war. She was educated. She had a taste for fashion. She followed world events, went to jazz clubs, and heaven knew what else. With a cold feeling in his stomach, he wondered if, having spent years out east, she had, on some level, come to view local islanders such as himself as rubes—unlearned, unsophisticated, uninteresting. He wondered if she was secretly appalled by his plain work clothes, his simple life, the indelicate way he played his saxophone.
