The Styx

The Styx Read Free Page B

Book: The Styx Read Free
Author: Jonathon King
Tags: Ebook
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as a sort of sergeant-at-arms on his early trains into Florida.
    “It’s a fire, Mr. Carroll,” Martin said, trying to control his voice. “In the Styx, sir.”
    Carroll turned his massive head to the south and then back on the young man before him.
    “Were you not told that no one was allowed in the Styx tonight, Thomas?” Carroll said and the young man could not meet his eye.
    “Yes, sir. But—”
    “Then why the hell were you out there, son? And why aren’t you over the bridge in town where you could be chasin’ some local young lady at the fair instead of snootin’ around in dark town?”
    “I was taking Joe Shepard’s late shift, sir. But—”
    “But what? You lost a bet to Shepard in a dice game and now you’re trying to add to your mark of stupidity?”
    Young Martin was getting used to being ignored and berated this night and could not take his eyes off the toes of his boots.
    “Don’t worry about some fire in the Styx,” the manager said, easing up on the boy. “It’s none of your concern.”
    “But Mr. Carroll, sir. Miss McAdams and the old house woman, the one in charge of the maids. They’re both out there, sir, and sent me for help.”
    The manager stared at the boy like he was trying to hear the statement with his eyes. Then he cursed once, spun on his heel and banged up the staircase. Before disappearing through the big front doors of the lobby he turned and ordered the young bellman to take the carriage to the livery “and cool that damned horse down before it catches a cold.”
    In the stables Martin shared the story with the livery watchman. Two Negro stable boys repairing harness in a back room overheard the words “Styx” and “fire” and one scrambled through the back stalls and headed on foot to the bridge to the mainland. And thus the news traveled in both directions, to the unofficial governors of Palm Beach and to the families who had paid a terrible price as they ate free ice cream and spun laughing and shrieking on carnival rides, oblivious of their fate.

C HAPTER 3
    E IGHT o’clock on a November night and the alcoholic braying of Jack Brennan was spraying out into the cold air of Manhattan’s Lower East Side: “All hail Detective First Grade Michael Byrne on his bloody retirement from the New York City Pinkertons with all his teeth intact like the smile of a teenage whore whom we should all be so lucky as to meet tonight.”
    “Hooray!”
    Byrne raised his pint, smiled his sheepish smile, which only exacerbated his old friend’s ribald comments, and joined a half-dozen men in downing their ales in a long single draining. The end task was met by the slamming of glasses on the bar of McSorely’s Pub, the shuffling of chair legs on raw wood floors and a call for another round. Byrne looked over the heads of the young men he’d helped train and then commanded. In the dull flickering light of McSorely’s electric lamps they looked an almost civilized bunch. None of them over five foot eight, except for big Jack. None over a hundred and a half pounds. In the dimness you couldn’t see the dirt at their neck collars or the worn seams of their waistcoats and trousers. But their hand-cropped haircuts were all the same, short and sharp. And without looking Byrne knew they all wore polished brogans on their feet, some of them for the first time in their lives wearing proper footwear. The shoes had been provided by the company, of course, and were the same style as those Byrne had on his own feet. The haircuts and boots were requirements of their employment with the Pinkerton security company they all worked for and set them apart from the street thugs and gang mobs. These were boys selected by the keen eyes of company scouts and their connections from the streets. They were a chosen few; perhaps selected because of a light of intelligence in their eyes, maybe because of a sharp, almost feral knack for survival through their wit, maybe because of a natural athleticism that

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