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“You know why. My son was on board that ship.”
“I don’t care about your private affairs, Daven.” I couldn’t see the scene, but it sounded as though the man was now pacing the room. “All I know is that you wasted a whole ship that could’ve been carrying an extra hundred or two.”
I ran through our voyages in my mind. He might’ve been talking about any of them. Countless times in my teenage years I’d joined my father with his fleet ships across the Atlantic. I didn’t know what made this one any different. Nor what made this trip as wasteful as this man claimed.
“I used that ship to carry the textiles and dyes. There wouldn’t have been room.”
“You lie, Tiburón.” The man chuckled, but there wasn’t humor in his voice. “You can keep it up if you must, but I wouldn’t if I were you. Remember the cost of keeping secrets.”
“Don’t speak of Mary Ann, not in my own house.” My father’s voice was rising, trembling as he held back an anger I’d only seen unleashed once. I wondered what my mother’s name had to do with any of this.
The man with him snickered once more, and the sound of a slap like a pat on the back followed. “I didn’t mention her name. You did.” There was a pause. Even from my hiding space far away from them under the bed, the air was thick with tension before he spoke again. “Just hold your tongue like you always do and we’ll all get along fine.”
The creak of the door and the lock in place of the knob reached my ears before I’d heard my father sit down. The man had left. I couldn’t see him, but I could imagine my father well enough. He was distraught, in the wooden kitchen chair, rubbing his face with both hands in frustration.
The sound of his hand slamming down on the table startled me, and I held my breath as I listened for his footsteps. He was up, walking around now. And then a rattling of something metal. He was unlocking the door to his room.
Once I heard him close the door and the sound of footsteps ceased, I let myself breathe again and crawled quickly out from under the bed and toward the house entrance. I’d be back later to find out what that conversation was about, and why it included my mother. And I’d be back to unlock that door. But for now, I just had to stay out of the way.
15
Fly-by-Night
Milo
As I wandered the streets, keeping to the shadows, my heart weighed heavy in my chest. What secrets could my father have been keeping? He was by no means a perfect man, but he was always just, fair, and hardworking. That man he spoke with, he seemed to speak with such confidence. But I knew my father.
The distant sound of thunder called my attention. The horizon was darkening, not only with the oncoming evening, but also with storm clouds on their way inland. I’d have to find a place to rest for the night. There was no more time for searching, and certainly not in a tropical storm. I’d planned to sleep in one of my father’s ships at port, but that was no longer an option for tonight when the waves would soon be rioting. I reached into the leather pouch I’d taken along with the clothing from my attacker.
Thank God.
There was still a small handful of coins remaining. Enough to afford some lodging and maybe a warm meal for the night. As sorrow trickled across me, I added to my internal prayers that Katrina was somehow protected and safe. Her friends, too, of course, but most of all, she had to be all right.
I turned to put the dark sky to my back and began my walk toward one of the rougher streets of Nassau. I paid no mind to the drunken sailors brawling and cursing at one another in the alleyways, nor to the women calling to me through painted lips and sways as I passed.
Tugging at my hood, I entered The Salty Crow. Its weathered wooden sign swung in the coming wind as heavy raindrops started their descent.
“A room, please.” I placed the coins on the bar counter, my head low. Codface wasn’t around that I could see.
“I’ve got one left upstairs. Watch for the roof leaking in this storm.” The bartender gestured to the staircase in the corner leading to the second floor above.
“I’d say a leaky roof trumps total lack of shelter.”
“That it does, stranger.” The bartender wiped his hands, took the coins and then pulled a pint out from behind the counter. “Something to warm ye?”
I nodded. “Aye.”
The rum would do me good. I scooped up the pint no sooner than he’d placed it in front of me. I drank down the potent liquid, savoring every sting on the way down. But it wasn’t enough to quell my empty stomach. I asked for a meal and tore into the flounder and chicken set before me. But a vaguely familiar laugh from behind made my stomach churn, and suddenly the food tasted quite foul in my mouth. That laugh was the same I’d heard in my father’s house.
I turned to see a group of gamblers. The laughing man was ruddy and large—not overweight, but oversized. His bones must’ve been steel poles, and he carried the weight of his brawny flesh like armor. His laughter mixed with the thunder outside as he tossed the dice at his table surrounded by others small in stature in comparison. It was him.
The things he said to my father resonated in my mind, and though I knew better, I approached him. “You trade with Daven?” I uttered, careful not to sound wavering by masking my question as a statement.
“Who wants to know?” The man looked up, his voice like iron against a grindstone. I noted his missing hand, replaced with a hook as sharp as a scythe, as he peered up at me through hollow golden-brown eyes.
“I’m here on business. And Daven is my middleman of sorts. No one else. I must see to it that there is no breach of contract.”
“That doesn’t sound like it involves me,” the man growled, returning his focus to his gambling game. “Whatever lines he’s crossed with you don’t concern me.”
