Oasis of Night (11 page)

“No, of course not.” Something occurred to me. “Was this—I mean, have you ever…?”

I couldn't see him, but his voice, when he spoke, was shy and boyish. “This was the first time.”

This knowledge humbled me, and I was quiet for a long time. When I could speak, I reached out and drew his face to mine and kissed him.

“I don't expect anything of ye.” The native brogue—a subtle mixture of English and Irish—was strong in his voice. “I can't let meself get involved with anybody, and not like this. No, sir, not like this. You knows what people are like. They'll talk, and I don't—Norma—I'm all Norma's got. I got to watch myself.”

I hugged him, this strange, prickly young man, and kissed him. “I understand. You don't need to explain yourself.”

I heard him sigh. “You knows why we're in here, don't ye?” He wrapped his arm around my waist and laid his head on my shoulder.

“Octavian?”

“That's part of it. Mind you, that's a big part of it. There's not a lot of Greek people in Newfoundland, Jack—”

“Wait a minute.” I drew my fingers down his face. “You called me Jack, but what am I supposed to call you? Alphonsus?”

I couldn't tell for certain, but I think he was smiling. “Norma calls me Phonse.”

“Would it be all right if I called you Phonse?”

“I suppose—only not when I'm on duty.”

I nodded, grateful he couldn't see my smile. “Of course. Constable Picco all the way.”

“Octavian is Greek. The boys that Johnny Mahoney and Bull Parsons tangled with were Greek. I've seen Octavian down around the waterfront more than once—hanging out on the harbor apron, looking at the boats. I've seen him going on boats and coming off them.”

I understood what he was driving at. “So you think the Greek that knifed Johnny Mahoney is one of Octavian's pals?”

“Yeah, that's what I'm saying. Wouldn't be hard for Octavian to get aboard one of them ships, now, would it?”

“But what about the money? The five hundred dollars? The only reason to plant that money in your house was to make it seem like you were involved in Parsons's escape, and you weren't. So somebody—Octavian, if your hunches are correct—had a reason to make you seem like a dirty cop.”

“Jack.” He reached out and laid his fingers against my mouth. “I'm awful tired.”

I held him in my arms, and maybe we both slept, I don't know. The next thing I knew, someone was standing over me, shining a light in my face, and I was wide awake. “Over here, boys!” The voice belonged to Billy Ricketts. If he thought it strange that Picco and I were lying in each other's embrace, he didn't say anything, and within half an hour, I was safe at home in the Heartache Cafe.

 

 

I
T
WAS
late by the time I finished filling Chris in on what had happened, and business was pretty slow, so I closed up early and told him to go on home. I had a hot shower and made some coffee and went to sit in my office, the back door open to let some air flow through. After what I'd just endured, I wasn't sure I could stand being corked up in an enclosed space. Alphonsus Picco would never know how his presence and the quiet comfort of his body had kept me from going crazy in that cave. Maybe someday I'd get around to telling him.

There was a warm breeze tonight, and through the darkened windows of the Heartache, I could see a thin rind of silvery moon rising over the harbor. There was a pressure in my head and my temples were pounding, but the coffee tasted good, and after a while I rested my head in my hands and tried to relax. Maybe I'd sleep with the windows open tonight, and the bedroom door, and let the sounds of the city lull me to rest.

I sensed his presence before he touched me, his warm hands kneading the tension out of my shoulders, caressing the back of my neck. “I wonder if I might be of some small assistance at this time?” His breath ghosted against my cheek as he leaned down to speak to me, and he smelled of incense and patchouli and salt sea air.

It was all I could do not to turn and wrap my arms around him. “Hello, Sam.”

“Your head hurts?”

“Yeah. I spent a few hours in a cave. I guess you could say it's an occupational hazard.”

His laughter was deep and rich, and it warmed me. “Wherever there is trouble, you are surely to be found?”

“Mmm, something like that.” Perhaps if I kept him talking, he would stay. If he stayed, he might keep touching me. That was what I wanted. “What brings you to the Heartache at this hour?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Jonah Octavian.”

I turned and showed him an exaggerated sad face. “You wound me, Sam. Here I thought this was a social call.”

He patted my shoulders, then came around to face me, moving to lean against my desk. He looked worried, but it didn't detract one iota from his essential attractiveness. He was wearing casual trousers and a dark blue, short-sleeved shirt, open at the neck; it exposed the strong column of his throat and the hollow at its base, dusted with dark hairs. I couldn't stop looking at that tiny patch of skin. I wanted to kiss him there. I wondered what it took to make him cry out, to bring him to completion, and what he looked like, sounded like, at that moment. It must have showed in my face. “Jack, are you quite all right?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, Sam, I'm just fine.” I sipped at my coffee and realized too late that the cup was empty. “Would you, uh—would you like some coffee?”

“I would. Perhaps you would, as well?”

“Come on into the kitchen. I'll put a pot on.” The service light was on over the stove, so I didn't bother to cut on any other lights. I filled the percolator with water and added coffee in the right amount, all the time acutely aware of his presence.

“Your cook keeps this place remarkably clean. I have always found that to be the mark of a satisfied worker.” He leaned against the counter, watching me with those long-lashed brown eyes of his. “Are all your employees so satisfied?”

I hadn't honestly thought about it. “I guess so. Why?”

“I was merely wondering. You seem the type of man that has no trouble giving… satisfaction when it suits him.” His gaze was frank and open and very, very suggestive, and I wondered what he would do if I said to hell with convention and kissed him. He was standing so close, I could feel the heat of his body and smell that damnable cologne he was wearing. He was shorter than me by maybe four or five inches, but there was an unmistakable force just underneath the surface, and he embodied the automatic authority of a man used to being in charge of other men. He had, I was sure of it, known power at some point in his life, and I wondered about his cover story.

“Are you really the assistant to the British Consul?” I fetched some cups down from a shelf above.

The corners of his lips curved up, but he wasn't quite smiling. “Of course.” I got the distinct impression he was humoring me. “Is that not what I told you?”

I leaned my elbow on the counter and gazed into his eyes. It was like gazing into the swirling heart of a newborn star. His lips were soft, not overly full, and sharply defined, and there was a shallow dimple in his chin. A tiny pulse beat in the hollow of his throat. He had, I saw, nicked himself shaving. “Mmm-hmm.”

This time he did smile. “I never really know what it means when an American makes that particular sound.” He reached into his hip pocket and took out his wallet. “Here is my identification card, with my photograph, as you can see. There, it says Samuel Abdelleh Halim. That is my name.” He flipped through to another section. “This woman is my wife. These are my four children: Samuel, Hanbal, Stamos, and Tabia. They live in Cairo with my wife, Tareenah.”

Disappointment settled in my gut like a stone. “Your… wife?” It was ridiculous to feel this way. I had no claim on him.

“Every Moslem man is married as soon as he comes of age to take a wife. Tareenah and I were married when I was twenty and she eighteen. It is the way of our people.” He folded the wallet away. “You seem surprised.”

“No, it's just… you don't seem the type.” The percolator bubbled merrily, and I lifted it onto a tray, along with the cups. I felt compelled to make small talk. Maybe I was trying to cover my disappointment. “Stamos, huh? That's a Greek name.”

“My mother was Greek.” He held my wrist. “Does my being married disturb you, Jack? If I knew it would have this effect, I would not have mentioned it.”

“It's fine.” My face felt frozen, and I had the absurd feeling I might burst into tears any minute. “Let's go sit in the Cafe. It's nice and cool out there with the windows open.”

“Sure, if you like.”

For a while we sat there, drinking coffee and talking of nothing much, which was good, because my mind certainly wasn't on the conversation. I watched his mouth as he talked, and the flutter of his long lashes, and his graceful hands, reaching to pour coffee or add sugar, and I reminded myself that he was married, with four children. “You said you wanted to talk about Jonah Octavian.”

He didn't waste time with preamble. “You believe Jonah Octavian was behind the abduction of Constable Picco and yourself. You also believe he is responsible for the murder of the beggar Johnny Mahoney in front of your cafe.”

“I never thought of him that way.” But the word “beggar” fit Mahoney and all the others like him.

“Forgive me if I offend you. In my country there are a great many beggars, and what we call
baksheesh
boys, always with their hands out, eager to exploit all possible sources. Some consider it an honorable profession.” He tilted his head to the side, regarding me. “What would you have called him?”

“I dunno. A pain in the ass?”

Sam laughed long and hard at this, and I was glad. I liked to see him laugh. It did wonderful things to his lean, tanned face and the sculpted lines of his mouth. “Such colloquialisms! You are a funny man, Jack.” He clasped my forearm and then he was leaning down and our faces were close together in the dark. “Does it really matter that I am married?”

My heartbeat speeded up, thumping double-time in my chest, and maybe I made some little sound in my throat, I don't know for sure. His lips ghosted over mine as the very tip of his tongue slipped into my mouth, and the night and the Cafe swirled into nothing as I gave myself to the kiss. When I opened my eyes, my hands were clenched in the front of his shirt, several of his buttons were undone, and he was breathing heavily, his eyes closed and his long, thick lashes fanned against his cheeks.

He swallowed hard and drew back, and we looked at each other in silence until he broke the gaze to take a hurried sip of his coffee. “I came here to ask you if you might not allow Jonah Octavian his freedom—at least for a little while longer.”

I rubbed the ball of my thumb against his lips. “Why would the British Consulate care about Jonah Octavian?”

“You know I can't tell you that.” He captured my hand in his, drew my thumb into his mouth, and sucked on it.

“Oh, Sam… for the love of God, stop that.”

He disengaged my thumb and drew my index finger briefly into his mouth, sucked it strongly, and the motion of his lips set up an answering pulse deep inside my belly. “Your people are too hasty, Jack. You are always in a hurry.” His mouth hovered over mine, our breaths mingling in the space above my lips. “You do not allow yourself to understand the enormous debt you owe to pleasure, nor the many barriers you have erected against it.” He kissed me again, a slow caress that deepened gradually. “You need to be shown how to love.” He stroked my cheek with a raw tenderness as sublime as it was painful; his long, agile fingers traced the contours of my face till I was drowning in sensation. “
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there
.”

“What is that?” My whisper sounded abnormally loud. “That's from something, isn't it? What is it?”

“An old poet, long dead—a Sufi mystic named Rumi.” He kissed my mouth gently and rose to go. “Good night, Jack.”

“Good night, Sam.”

I stood at the back door of my cafe and watched him disappear into the night, and I thought about old stories of fairies, ghosts, and djinn as his slight figure moved in and out of the pools of pale light cast by streetlamps and the moon.

 

 

S
ERGEANT
R
ICK
Callan was in charge of the building project that would eventually be Fort Pepperrell. He was the sort of guy you think of whenever somebody says “solid.” About my height, but absolutely massive through the chest and shoulders, and with that no-nonsense attitude that is inevitably a feature of military men everywhere. He had an office in a temporary trailer set up at the edge of the building site. A flight of rough wooden stairs led up to a windowless metal door, which in turn opened onto a small room with barely enough space for Callan's desk, his files, and his clerk—a tall, handsome young private named Thomas. Thomas's job seemed to involve all the typing in the world, because the whole time I was there, he never stopped, except to answer the phone and once to direct a nearly wordless query to Callan.