You Can Be Honest With Me

A quiet morning settled over the harbor that had celebrated all through the night.

The first thing I did upon waking was slip out in light clothes for a run along the docks. I left the men still sleeping off last night's liquor and eased out of the room.

I was coming down the stairs and crossing the lobby when I saw them.

A knot of men stood clustered together, faces serious, deep in conversation. The five smugglers who had worked with Leonard.

Morning run can wait a minute.

I picked up one of the newspapers laid out in the lobby, sat on the sofa with my back to them, and opened it.

It was several days old and in French. I folded it again almost at once and stared out the window instead, ears pricked to the talk behind me. All of it French. Damn it.

I was about to stand when their conversation broke off. Military police were coming into the hotel. Among them was the English-speaking officer who had locked me in the holding cell.

After a short exchange with the smugglers, the officer walked over to me.

"Enjoy the festival last night?"

"Of course. A fine time. Something wrong?"

The officer wrinkled his nose and told me a ship that had been moored at the pier had vanished overnight and still had not returned by morning.

"That isn't even a proper missing-person case. How do you handle something like that?"

"Hard to say. Some of us wonder if they used the festival to slip away. We'll find out once we look into it. Anyway—thanks to you I actually got to enjoy the fireworks. And..."

He apologized for not believing me when I said the war would end.

"Believing that would have been the stranger thing."

The officer gave a faint smile and clapped my shoulder.

"Get some rest. Tell me if anything comes up."

The military police left. The smugglers shot glances at me after watching me speak with the officer.

I had the shape of things well enough. I left them behind and walked out of the hotel.

Beyond the harbor the coastline stretched without end.

The crisp air carried a thick scent of the sea.

"Perfect place for a run."

The island was incomparably cleaner and freer than the crowded, filthy streets of Manhattan. I filled my lungs with the clear air, let it out, and started jogging.

Military police gathered at the pier, the handful of fishermen who lived on the island, all of them waved as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I passed. Every islander I met greeted me with open goodwill.

One of them was especially eager.

About my age. He had spoken to me during last night's festival, and now he fell in right beside me and ran along.

"You hear about the boat that disappeared?"

"About five minutes ago?"

"They say it slipped out of the harbor last night. When the fireworks went off—loaded up the goods and ran."

I played dumb.

"What kind of goods?"

"I told you yesterday. There are people who sell contraband into the States. Hah—hah. One of them, a fellow named Leonard, took the whole lot and bolted."

His breathing grew steadily rougher.

I eased my pace and asked,

"It was his cargo anyway. Why run off with it?"

"Ah—so you haven't heard the talk."

Born and raised on St. Pierre and Miquelon, the young man was something of the island's walking news service.

He knew every dark story and rumor about Armand and Leonard in detail.

"So Leonard, after betraying Armand, is definitely running because he's afraid of revenge."

"And he left the other partners behind?"

"Those men were Armand's people first. Why would Leonard put them on his boat when any of them might turn on him? A traitor always fears being betrayed in turn."

I looked at his face again and asked,

"What did you say your name was?"

"You already forgot? Henri Morazet. Remember it."

Henri made his living fishing the nearby waters with his father. Even so, he spoke solid English and had a quick tongue—signs of ambition that were hard to miss.

The way he had approached me on the night of the festival said the same.

Henri took a keen interest in a young businessman his own age who had come from America, and from the big city of New York no less.

Right now, though, Henri was gasping as if he might collapse.

"Don't push yourself till you drop."

"Hah—hah. It's not that I'm tired. I have to... help my father... so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I should go..."

"Who said anything?"

Henri stopped dead and dragged in ragged breaths.

"Then I'm off. See you around."

I left him behind and resumed my run.

Before long I had left the shoreline and climbed the hill; Sophia's house came into view.

I caught my breath and raised a hand to knock—just as the door swung wide open. Sophia blinked, then fixed me with a sharp stare.

"I was just about to come looking for you. Armand has disappeared. What happened? And something about the house feels wrong..."

I cleaned up the bodies properly—did I leave a trace after all? I scratched my cheek and said,

"Armand will be back in a month."

"Where did he go?"

"Far away. He took a ship and left the island."

"What ship?"

"His own."

Sophia tilted her head, not following.

"Leonard is in the next world."

Sophia's eyes went wide. She covered her mouth with both hands, stunned.

Then her gaze suddenly shifted past my shoulder.

A man was walking toward the house.

Della Villefromoy.

A smuggler who brought goods down from Canada.

Showing up at Sophia's place first thing in the morning could only be about Leonard.

Della glanced between Sophia and me, then spoke carefully.

"Sophia, could I have a word?"

I nodded, and Sophia led him a short distance away.

After a long talk Della left, and Sophia came back to report.

The short version went like this.

Leonard's departure had sent a deep shock through the smugglers. Della had come to make sure Armand was truly returning.

"So I told him Armand will definitely be back in a month. If he isn't... you'll be the one who has to answer for it."

November 14, 1918.

On the ninth day of my stay on St. Pierre and Miquelon, we finally left the harbor.

The commander of the military police, busy preparing to withdraw from the island after the armistice, managed only a brief farewell. With the governor I exchanged nothing more useful than empty talk about the cannery, and that was that.

Just before we parted he regretted not having arranged a meeting with Leonard, and promised next time.

Next time I came, I suspected, he would introduce me to Armand instead.

The six-masted schooner spread her canvas and began her voyage. When St. Pierre and Miquelon had shrunk to a speck on the horizon, Declan looked down at the sea and asked,

"Boss, you think Armand dumped those bodies clean? The night it happened he was shaking like a leaf."

How do you explain the terror of being alone on a dark ship with three corpses?

He could not simply dump them in the waters near the island. Most likely Armand had pushed through the black night until he was well clear of land before he put the bodies over the side.

"He ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠handled it fine, I'm sure."

"Well, they were the bastards who betrayed him and held a gun to his head. If it were me I'd have been smiling when I tossed them."

"That sounds a little insane."

"Hey, that's rich coming from you, Boss."

I pointed at the ocean with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my chin.

"You want to swim the rest of the way?"

"Right! Time to get lunch ready!"

Before we left, the old woman had pressed food on us again.

The sack was stuffed with fresh seafood; next time I came I would have to bring her a gift in return.

Not only the old woman—half the island had pressed food into our hands. We would not have to worry about meals all the way to Manhattan.

Chelsea docks, west side of Manhattan.

A three-story building not far from ILA headquarters—the International Longshoremen's Association.

A man walked into the office of Tanner Smith, the labor slugger who held the Manhattan waterfront unions in his fist.

"Kieran sent you?"

"Yes. He said if I came, you could take care of the ship."

"Hell. Now he's got me doing every kind of chore."

Armand watched Tanner's face with a tight, nervous look.

The vessel had originally been his, but to erase every trace of Leonard the work had to be thorough. Not merely scrubbing away the signs that bodies had been aboard—every piece of the ship's identity had to be rewritten from the keel up.

"Let's see. Oliver! Get in here!"

Tanner leafed through a notebook and called a man over. The fellow named Oliver was so massive Armand had to tilt his head back to take him in.

"Take this man over to Keaton's shipyard. Tell them to give him whatever he wants."

"Got it. Who is he?"

"Someone Kieran sent."

"Ohh."

Oliver looked at Armand with a distant, almost wistful gaze. Helping Tanner had kept him away from the Boss for a long time.

The moment they stepped outside Oliver asked,

"Bo— I mean, Kieran's still on the island, right?"

"He should be on his way to New York by now."

"And the job went smooth?"

"Ah—yes."

Armand nodded carefully.

He did not know the exact nature of their relationship with Kieran, so he could not tell how much it was safe to say.

Until recently the Chelsea docks had thronged with munitions and troop transports.

After the armistice, merchant ships filled the berths instead of warships. Banners that once cheered soldiers fighting for freedom had given way to banners listing the demands of laborers exhausted by wartime overtime.

Not only the waterfront—society as a whole was shedding its wartime skin and returning to ordinary life.

Along the Hudson between Fourteenth and Twenty-third Streets sat any number of shady ship-related outfits.

At one of them, a repair yard, Oliver introduced a man named Keaton O'Brien.

Keaton, balding and in his forties, spread paper and pen with oil-stained fingers and asked,

"So what do you need done?"

"Forged papers, new hull number, full repaint, and a new name cut into her."

"Sounds like you stole the whole boat."

"It was mine to begin with. It got taken from me."

"That so?"

Keaton did not press the point. He asked for hull type and tonnage, wrote down the full specifications, and named a price.

"Ten days minimum. Five hundred dollars. That's the friends-and-family rate for Tanner's people."

At the mention of money Armand looked helplessly up at Oliver.

"Kieran said he would cover the cost."

"Did he? You should've said so sooner."

Oliver exchanged a few words with Keaton; the price dropped to three hundred dollars on the spot.

Armand's face went blank with disbelief, a half-laugh escaping him.

"How long to bring the boat over?"

"About three hours."

"I'll clear a berth right out front. Sail her in bold as you please."

After parting from Oliver, Armand walked toward his ship turning the gang's true nature over in his mind.

They controlled the LES, had deep hooks in the Fulton Fish Market, ran a distribution company called SCL, and moved the waterfront labor sluggers.

Almost certainly the Union.

What remained was the identity of the boss who had braided all those unrelated businesses into a single web.

He's damned aggressive about the smuggling trade.

Armand still had not grasped the enormous change and opportunity Prohibition would bring.

Neither had most others. People guessed vaguely; almost no one acted with certainty. And yet—

What did the Union boss see on St. Pierre and Miquelon?

He had thrown ships and men into solving the troubles of a minor island smuggler without stinting. And the result had been finished with almost frightening cleanliness.

Maybe joining the gang outright would be the smarter play.

He could not know when the Italian outfits would come looking for revenge. Stepping under the Union's shade looked like the wise move if he wanted to survive their threats.

I'll tell him the next time we meet.

Second floor of the townhouse.

Twenty-five days after leaving home, I finally stood at the front door.

Before I even touched the knob, the smell of good food drifted through the crack.

Not the seafood I had eaten until I was sick of it on the ship—meat.

It was dinner hour; someone was cooking. At least the house seemed safe.

I opened the door and a flurry of footsteps came from the living room.

"Big Brotherrrrr!!"

Nothing beats coming home.

Roa, Liam, Mother—and Hazel, mixed in among them as if she belonged there—all came to greet me. In her hands she held a kitchen knife and a whetstone.

"If I can't cook, I can at least do this."

Being worse than Mother was no small feat.

According to Roa, she truly was that bad.

"But her knife-sharpening skill is no joke. Roa thought it was Big Brother!"

Hazel looked pleased, the corner of her mouth lifting in a proud little smile.

After dinner, late at night.

I sat on the living-room sofa reading the paper.

Hazel, having put Roa to bed, quietly opened the bedroom door, came out, and sat down beside me. She stared straight at my face.

"A hundred dollars."

"What?"

"The bounty on your head."

I gave a short laugh and turned back to the paper.

Right there on the lower half of the front page of the New York World I had been reading ran the following notice:

"That's not me."

"You can be honest with me, you know."

"Why?"

Hazel scrubbed her face with both hands and shook her head.

Maybe my question had sounded strange.