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It didn’t help that Ginny offered her no sympathy. Instead, she smacked her forehead with a sand-stained hand. “Marti, Marti, what am I going to do with you?”
This time, Martina didn’t try to hide her annoyance. “He’s the boss, Ginny. He makes the rules. We follow them.”
“Rules are for people who don’t have good reasons to break them.” Ginny’s hands expertly cupped sand into her mold, and Martina had a foolish hope that she’d given up, until she turned back, face animated. “Listen, here’s what you’ve gotta do. There’s a pay phone down Mayfair Street by the bus stop. You’ve seen it?”
Martina nodded, and Ginny dug deep into the pocket of her overalls and pressed some coins into her hand. “Wait a while, then pretend you’re going to the privy. Instead, sprint down there for all you’re worth and make that call as fast as you can.”
“W-what? I can’t.”
“Sure you can,” Ginny said soothingly, as if that would calm Martina’s suddenly racing heartbeat. “I’ll cover for you. Spin some story about how you stumbled off sick to your stomach if someone notices you’ve been gone awhile. No one wants vomit in the core room.”
She never meant for anyone to have to lie for her. “No, I can’t do it. I’ll wait until midnight and call Avis. Or the police. Or—”
Ginny looked at her sternly, gesturing with the steel rod she should have been packing into the sand. “Martina, this is your moment. If you wait, who knows what could happen?”
It was that question and its answer that found Martina out on the street in the charcoal gray sky. Almost dark enough that Patrick and his crew could slip out early for their secret mission, and all of this would be for nothing.
No, don’t think of that.
To fill her mind as she ran, she hummed the melancholy song her mother had sung to her before they came to America, when the streets were filled with rioters and they both knew Papa might not come home. Named after the same moon that gave her just enough light to see the sidewalk in front of her.
“O crescent of a waning moon, you that shine on the deserted waters.”
The soles of her shoes were thin enough that she could feel each rock that she kicked aside, but she didn’t stop. How far down the street was the phone booth? How much time had passed?
“O waning crescent, what harvest of dreams wavers in your pale glow down here!”
There. The narrow wooden shack stood at the intersection,and she tugged the door open, leaning against the side for a moment, trying to catch her breath.
“No song, no cry, no sound goes through the vast silence.”
Not tonight. Tonight she would break the silence.
Once she clicked in the coins from Ginny, the operator cheerily inquired and connected, and soon she was telling Avis about the potential smuggling in quick, exhausted bursts.
The pause at the end was so long that Martina feared the call had dropped, until Avis spoke. “You mean that some fisherman has gathered extra fuel to sell to the Nazis?”
Martina judged her tone. Shocked but not skeptical. Avis, unlike Mr. Devons, believed her.
“Yes. Russell works for the coast guard, doesn’t he?”
“In a way, but...”
“He must get someone to inspect Derby’s landing, early this morning, before the boats go out.” Already, it had taken far too long to answer Avis’s confused questions. “I have to go. Only please, make sure they do something. Soon.”
“Did you hear the fellow’s name? This captain?”
Martina stared blankly out at the night. She hadn’t admitted that the man was her husband, just that she’d overhead a fisherman hinting at a second fuel tank and a coming profit. She could still claim she didn’t know his name.
But if it helped them find him...
“Patrick Quinn.” She flinched, her eyes shut. “Write it down.”
“I’ve been writing all of this down.” Saints be praised for Avis and her ever-present notebook. “And his ship?”
Why had she never thought to find that out? “I don’t know. Only that it’s a fishing trawler moored just outside of town. That’s all I know, Avis, I swear it. And I have to go.”
“Wait. Russell will want to speak to you directly—”
