Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (18 page)

Maurice lifted a hand and slowly closed his thick fingers into a fist. “Then I'll have to persuade you. And that's liable to make that prissy peacock of a manager downstairs right unhappy again.”

Tom stared at Maurice for a long moment. “All right,” he finally said. “All right. You win. But only,” he shot over his shoulder on his way to the bath, “because I don't want to get us kicked out on our ears.”

The café on Chartres Street was tiny, with tables that were crowded together and a ceiling so low they had to duck to miss the beams. Maurice was dubious about eating orange duck, but the first bite won him over, and by the time he'd finished he'd gone through two complete birds, along with enough rice and gravy for three normal men and a bottle and a half of red wine that the waiter described as “amusingly presumptuous.” “Now for some real drinking,” he announced as he and Tom sauntered back to the street an hour later. “That French wine ain't bad, but it lacks kick.”

Tom heaved a mock sigh. “I suppose I'll have to go along to help you stagger back to the hotel when you've drunk enough whiskey to kill a mule.”

Maurice rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “You know what, Tom? You're just gooder'n anybody. C'mon.” He gave Tom a shove toward the nearest tavern, just down the street. “Let's get movin'. I don't want the rest of the world to get too far ahead of me!”

The Fifth Ace was full of celebrating Kaintocks out for a good time, no holds barred. The air was filled with a constant babel, the harsh smoke of cigars and pipes, and the fumes of whiskey and beer. To judge from the parade of gaudily dressed women and eager men on the narrow stairway at the rear of the room, another business was thriving upstairs. “You ought to feel right at home here,” Tom said as the two shoved their way through the crowd to the bar, where they each claimed a brimming schooner of beer.

Maurice snagged a tumbler of Monongahela rye and downed the fiery liquid in one swallow, then happily licked his lips and sipped his beer chaser. A smile of pure bliss lit his face. “You gotta admit this beats sittin' around that stuffy hotel room.”

“I'm not so sure,” Tom yelled above a sudden uproar of obscenities as a fight broke out behind them. “Let's at least find a place to sit down.”

The one remaining empty table was against the far wall. “I don't want to stay out too long,” Tom said as he rested his tankard on the scarred tabletop. “Come morning, the
Cassandra
will be waiting for us.”

At the mention of the
Cassandra
, a man sitting alone at the next table turned until he was looking directly at them. “
Cassandra?
” he croaked. “You lads from the
Cassandra
?
”

“And what business is it of your'n if we are?” Maurice asked sourly.

The man lifted a knobby finger and pushed his cap back, revealing a pink scalp crossed by a few strands of greasy hair plastered across the gleaming expanse. He was older than either Tom or Maurice, in his late forties, perhaps. The flesh around his eyes was wrinkled by years of sun and salt water, and he sported the veined, protuberant nose of a heavy tippler. His coat and trousers were threadbare, and his shirt was a curious color that once had passed for white. “What business o' mine!” he exclaimed. “Well, they was hirin' for work on the
Cassandra
last night, and the word got around that one o' Jase Paxton's boys and his Kaintockish friend was in a big hurry to take that bad luck schooner to San Sebastian. So I just naturally figgered you was them, if you get my drift.”

“If we are,” Tom said, irked that their destination was known, “where we're bound is our own affair.”

The man wasn't about to be dismissed so easily. “Used to sail for Jase,” he said, hitching his chair around before either Tom or Maurice could protest. “Ran a little brig o' his in and out o' San Sebastian many a time. Reason I mention that,” he went on, his words taking on a confidential tone, “is that I'm needin' a berth pretty bad right now, though how a Christian man and a master o' the seas like ol' Slurry Walls got hisself into this position is beyond my knowin'.”

Maurice was watching the sailor with narrowed eyes. “So you claim to know San Sebastian, eh?”

“Claim?” Slurry echoed. “Claim! Hell's own fire, lad, I know that island and the reefs and currents 'round about it like the back of me own hand.”

“The back of your own head sounds more likely to me,” Tom snorted. “I'd bet you've no more been to San Sebastian than you have to Barataria.”

Slurry leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiringly. “The truth is, I been there, too. Sailed with the renowned Jean Laffite hisself fer two voyages when times was hard in oh-two, though it's nothin' I'm proud of. And as for San Sebastian,” he said, his voice returning to normal, “you can ask me anything you want about it or the whole damn Caribbean. Go ahead. Ask.”

Tom remembered a little about the harbor at San Sebastian, and asked the first question. Slurry responded with a complete description of the main harbor, as well as the cove on the far side of the island, which neither Tom nor Maurice knew about. And then, before they could ask, he added a wealth of information about the reefs and currents in the vicinity of the island, and how a smart man could best evade pursuit, should he be followed.

“You sound as if you might be a good man to have aboard,” Tom admitted when Slurry had finished. “I'll talk to a couple of people tomorrow and let you know. Good enough?”

“I'll drink to that,” Slurry said, raising his mug.

“But not on board,” Tom warned, raising his mug in return. “This is going to be a dry voyage. Dry as a foretops'l in a calm, you hear?”

Slurry grinned and pounded a fist against Tom's shoulder. “I hear,” Slurry acknowledged. “An' don't you fret 'bout my tipplin'. I only indulge myself in port when there's nothin' better to occupy me. You'll see what a dandy job I can do.”

“Whoa!” Tom laughed. “You're not hired yet, remember?”

“Close enough to celebrate,” Slurry whooped. One eyelid dropped in a wink. “Wha'd'ya say, lads? I know a place that's a hell of a lot better than this rattrap. You game for followin' ol' Slurry?”

“Sounds good to me,” Maurice rumbled, finishing off his third beer and tossing a coin to the serving girl.

“Come along, young Paxton,” Slurry said, bouncing up. “You're in for a sight, if you do. You'll see a by-God charmer who dances prettier than anything. She's the loveliest creature these old eyes have ever seen, but she'll carve the man who lays a hand on her. Somethin' strange about her, aye, but damn, she's beautiful. Lord, beautiful.”

“All right, all right. I'm convinced,” Tom said, rising to join Maurice and Slurry. “What's the name of this den of iniquity?”

“Ain't no iniquity,” Slurry said, leading the way to the door. “It's called the Cottonmouth.”

CHAPTER X

Nearer, ever nearer
. The glow intensified in Adriana's mind. Involuntarily, her hands moved to shade her eyes, though there could be no shade from that pinprick of ghostly light that came from within.

The light expanded and became the now-familiar vision of the golden oak tree surrounded by brambles. “Who are you?” she whispered, aware that her voice might banish the vision. “Where do you come from? Why do you plague me? When? When will you reveal yourself?”

Abruptly, the vision vanished, leaving only darkness. Slowly, she opened her eyes to the soft glow of the candle, placed her elbows on the table, and rested her head in her hands. “Who?” she whispered again, consumed by the mystery. “When? How? Why?”

“Adriana? Adriana? Are you there?”

Another hour had passed: it was time to dance again. “Coming, Harriet,” she called, rising wearily from her chair. “Coming. Three minutes.”

The Cottonmouth Tavern appeared to be one notch above the Fifth Ace, but not a large notch. Outside, the threatening figure of a coiled cottonmouth snake was painted on a cracked signboard that hung above the tavern entrance, which was crowded by a continuous procession of revelers. Inside, a tidal wave of noise and aromas—almost painful in its intensity—washed over Tom and Maurice and Slurry as they entered. Slurry took in the room at a single glance and turned to Tom. “Many a seafarin' man in here tonight,” he yelled over the uproar. “If you think your ship needs more hands, 'twould be a good idea to talk to some of these lads.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Tom shouted back noncommittally.

“Right now, you just lead the way to that fine liquor you was talkin' about,” Maurice said, almost literally picking up Slurry and shoving him into the crowd. “I'm ready to do a little howlin'!”

They elbowed and pushed their way through the maze of tables and chairs, around dancers, past two fights, and ended up at last at the bar in front of Zebediah Gibbs's modified perch.

“Hallo there, Zebediah!” Slurry yelled. “'Member me?”

Gibbs stared malevolently down at Slurry, let his eyes slide no more amicably to Tom and Maurice. “I remember you well, Slurry Walls,” he boomed, “and I remember having to throw you into the street more than once. Not to mention the last time you were in and neglected to check your pockets for coins before drinking my liquor.” One hand closed around the handle of his bungstarter, which he tapped menacingly on the shelf. His gaze snapped from Tom to Maurice and back to Slurry again. “So I hope you gents don't take offense when I ask to see the color of your money before you see a drop of my spirits. An understandable precaution, considering the company you're keeping.”

Gibbs's tone was cordial enough, but his eyes were as hard as the bungstarter, which he now slapped into his palm. Tom saw Maurice's hands tighten on the edge of the bar and, sensing trouble, quickly dug a ten-dollar gold piece out of his pocket and tossed it to Gibbs. Zebediah caught the coin, tested the metal with his teeth, and gestured sharply to one of his barmen. “Give these high spenders whatever they want,” he ordered.

A smile that never reached his eyes stretched across Tom's face. “Thanks,” he said, politely but coolly.

The hidden message wasn't lost on Gibbs. The young American wasn't going to take offense this time—but he wanted no further aspersions cast on the character of either himself or his friends. “The first one's on me,” Gibbs added to the barman, conceding the point in a gesture of conciliation as he set aside his bungstarter. “Welcome to the Cottonmouth, boys.”

A free drink freely given didn't often come Slurry's way, and he wasted no time holding up three fingers before Gibbs could change his mind. “Three Cotton-mouths,” he said, beginning to drool in anticipation.

The barman complied by filling three mugs with a combination of Jamaican, Honduran, and the house rum. Into this concoction, he measured a spoonful of pepper juice and a hint of what Slurry explained was snake venom, for “body.” “These'll open your eyes,” the old seaman added as the barkeep topped each drink with a mound of whipped cream, from which the drink got its name.

“Or close them,” Tom said, taking a sip. “Phew!” The rums were flavorful. The pepper juice burned like fire, after which the whipped cream soothed the throat. The so-called venom, whatever it really was, had no taste, but Tom could feel his fingertips going numb.

“Hard to believe this is your first visit to the Cottonmouth,” Slurry said, his glass already half-empty. “I'll lay you a day's wages you've never tasted a drink like this.”

“You'd win,” Tom gasped, watching in awe as Maurice finished his first and, a beatific grin plastered to his face, ordered a second. “My only question,” he said, jerking a thumb in Maurice's direction, “is, who's going to carry him home?”

The answer was drowned in the sudden tattoo of Gibbs's bungstarter beating on the shelf. “Gentlemen!” the bar owner roared. “Gentlemen! Adriana is going to dance!”

In a remarkably short time for a situation that bordered on absolute chaos, the large high-ceilinged room quieted enough for the band to be heard. All around, men scurried for chairs or vantage places along the walls. “Looky there! Looky there!” Slurry said, nudging first Tom and then Maurice with a bony elbow and then pointing to the opposite corner. “It's the Gypsy girl, by God!”

A rhythmic cry of “Adriana, Adriana, Adriana” swelled from the crowd, and as if in response, a figure that could barely be seen in the haze moved along the balcony and stopped at the top of the stairs. Slowly, as she gazed over the crowd, the chanting subsided. Only then did she deign to begin her descent.

“She's the one I told ye about,” Slurry whispered, again jabbing Tom in the ribs. “Aye, she be the one. Just watch her, now!”

Tom didn't hear a word Slurry said. The very word Gypsy had conjured up images of seductive mystery and exotic pleasures that were confirmed by Adriana's every slightest move. She didn't walk, she glided. The slight tinkling of bells accompanied her. Her long purple skirt, the color of the sea before a storm, flowed around her, and her low-cut white blouse strained to conceal the inviting swell of her bosom. Her sultry features were partially hidden by veils of yellow and amethyst-colored silk, diaphanous as clouds. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she gestured and the music stopped, making the silence total.

The air was charged with electricity. The tension, the expectancy that filled the room, were almost palpable. Exuding animal magnetism, Adriana let the suspense build to the breaking point, and then magically broke the spell with a toss of her head and the slow rise of her arms.

Time began again. A sigh of longing and relief swept through the crowd as the musicians began to play. Mesmerized, Tom couldn't take his eyes off Adriana's hands, and was only dimly aware when she moved off the dais and began to work her way toward the center of the room. Kaintocks and sailors stumbled out of her way. A serving girl sitting on a trapper's knee fell to the floor when the trapper stood, swept off his hat, and bowed deeply as Adriana passed him. A moment later, as the tempo of the music suddenly increased, the Gypsy leaped onto the table placed there for her and began to dance.