Oasis of Night (38 page)

 

 

T
HINGS
WERE
quiet around the Heartache for a while, and as September melted into October, I forgot all about Jonah Octavian. Maybe I'd been tired that night, and maybe I'd been seeing things. Either way, I wasn't going to dwell on it. I was plenty busy with my cafe, and lately we'd had an influx of servicemen, all eager for a decent sandwich and a real cup of American coffee. The war, previously a distant murmur in Europe, had come to Newfoundland, and there were rumors that U-boats patrolled the waters around the island. Early in September, two ore carriers, moving precious nickel from the mines at Bell Island, had been struck and sunk by a submarine that then escaped into the open sea. A full blackout was in effect in St. John's, and between sunset and sunrise, anything that could conceivably cast light was outfitted with shutters. The sky was full of eyes, and in the evenings, the low drone of warplanes could be heard, moving northward to Conception Bay and across the dark expanse of the cold night ocean. It was only a matter of time before the Germans, emboldened by the success of their recent attacks, launched a full-scale offensive.

I was behind the bar one afternoon near the end of October, polishing glasses and tidying the place up a bit. Chris had a doctor's appointment uptown, so I'd given him the afternoon off, with the provision he'd be back in time for the evening rush. There wasn't much of anything going on, and I liked having the place to myself. It gave me time to think. Sometimes, I'd pour myself a cup of coffee and sit at a table near the window with a newspaper. I enjoyed watching the ever-changing flow of traffic: people walking by, mothers with their children, servicemen in their uniforms.

Sergeant Picco's jurisdiction took in the section of Water Street where my cafe stood, and he often came in for a cup of coffee on his break and to see Chris. As far as I knew, the two of them were still an item; they were just discreet about it. Most of their rendezvous took place at Chris's place and sometimes at the cafe, but Picco had a car and sometimes they'd save up their gasoline rations and go for drives in the country. Once I'd come downstairs late and found them saying good night just inside the cafe's front door, kissing passionately and oblivious to everything but each other. I didn't know if Chris was sleeping with him, and I wasn't about to ask, but it sure looked that way. I was glad for Chris, but seeing them together made me positively heartsick. This particular afternoon was cold and cloudy with a chilly wind out of the northeast and the promise of a heavy rain later in the evening. I was half listening to the radio while I worked, and I must have drifted off into some kind of hypnotic state. I didn't hear the door open, and Sergeant Rick Callan had already spoken to me twice before I even noticed he was in the room.

“I said, you look like a man who really enjoys his work.” Callan's Mississippi twang broke into my thoughts, and I started like a man waking from a dream. I had last seen Callan during Jonah Octavian's stint at the construction site at Fort Pepperell, and I guess some part of me expected to see him again.

“Sorry, Sergeant, I didn't hear you come in. What can I get for you?”

He took his hat off and tossed it on the bar before hoisting himself onto a stool. “How about a cup of genuine down-home coffee? You know, the good stuff?”

I kept a small stash of Community coffee hidden behind some boxes in the pantry—Chris brought me a few pounds whenever he got home to New Orleans—and I brewed a pot, poured him a cup, and poured one for myself. “Here you go. On the house.”

He drank it gratefully. “You know, it's next to impossible to get a decent cup of coffee anywhere in this town. Mostly, all they drink is tea.” He made a face, caught my eye, and grinned, and I realized, not for the first time, that he was a very attractive man: strong and solid, with a becoming touch of gray at his temples, and soft, long-lashed brown eyes. Was Sergeant Callan married? Had he ever been married? Perhaps he had a girl here, some pretty, local woman who'd appreciate the company of a lonely American. “Hot tea. I ask 'em for sweet tea, and they don't know what the hell I'm talking about.”

I laughed. “I thought Private Thomas”―the young army clerk who spent his days in Callan's office―”made your coffee.”

His gaze skidded away from mine, and it occurred to me I'd said something I shouldn't have. Callan was wiping down the bar with his hat, moving it back and forth under his hand in a distracted fashion that spoke of great inner turmoil.

“I'm sorry.” I refilled his cup. “It's none of my business.”

He sipped his coffee in silence for a few moments, then shifted on the stool and gazed out the window. “You ever have a really good friend, Jack?”

Sam's face swam before my inner vision. “Sure have.”

“I mean the kind of friend that, man, you'd lay down your life for. The kind of guy who really understands you, without having to even say a word.”

“Yeah.” He was coming to something, and I wanted to let him know it was okay by me. “You know, bartenders are kind of like doctors.”

His head jerked up. “Huh?”

“I'm not allowed to repeat anything you say to me.” I crossed my heart and held up two fingers in a Boy Scout salute. “Honest Injun.”

Callan laughed. “You sure are a crazy one, Jack. Yes, sir, that's for sure.” He sighed. “Private Thomas requested priority reassignment.”

Something about the way he said it made my stomach lurch. “He did, huh? What happened?”

He searched my face. “I did something I shouldn't have done.” Callan pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “He was kind enough not to mention it to the brass. I suppose I should be grateful. He could have… it would have been easy for him to make a lot of trouble for me.”

I laid my hand on the bar, close enough to touch him. “I'm listening.”

“I kissed him.”

A flush of heat bloomed in the center of my chest. I forced my features to stillness. “I see.”

“That don't shock you? You mean to tell me the idea of one man kissing another man don't bother you one bit, Jack?”

I didn't answer. I wasn't about to incriminate myself. Sergeant Callan seemed okay, but I didn't know him and for all I knew, he'd only made up the kissing story. People do strange things.

“Uh-huh.” Callan nodded. “I see. Taking the Fifth, huh? Well, all right.” He pushed the hat away from him. “I came in this morning, and he'd packed up all his stuff. Didn't even leave me a note. Just didn't bother to show up. Didn't bother to tell me, either. Just….” He made a swishing motion with his hand, like shooing flies. “Gone.”

“I'm sorry.” I turned to put on a fresh pot. “Had you known him long?”

Callan laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Long enough. Yeah, I'd known him just long enough to—” He shook his head. “Goddammit.”

“I'm sorry.” Christ, I was repeating myself.

“Just forget I said anything.” He looked like he hadn't slept in days. “Shoulda known better. Anyway, that's not what I came here for. Listen, Jack, there's something you ought to know, and I think maybe you can really help out the Allied cause if you put your mind to it. A man like you, in the position you're in, could be very useful.”

Not this again. I'd already had this, in Cairo, from MacBride's buddies. “I don't think I'm what you're looking for.”

“You ain't heard what I got to say.” He reached across the bar and clasped my wrist, held on. His big hand was warm, a welcome touch against my lonely flesh, and I wondered: what would it be like? Sam and I were definitely through—he'd made that abundantly clear—and maybe it was time to move on. Maybe the best thing to do was find someone else, a friend, someone to fill my off-hours and perhaps warm my bed, if I wanted to take it that far. Rick Callan was free, he was available, he was damn good-looking, and he was as lonely as I was. It would be nice to have someone. It would be nice to have that big, solid body in my bed.

I turned my hand and held on, amused by the sudden flush of surprise in his face. “I'm listening, Rick.”

His thumb stroked the palm of my hand, and his dark eyes burned into me. “Jack… you sure?” His voice, suddenly husky, warmed me. Christ, he was sexy.

I gave him a look. “What time do you knock off?”

“Mmph. Six o'clock. I'll come pick you up. Say, seven-thirty?”

“I'd like that.”

He grinned. “All right.” He straightened, suddenly official again. “Now listen here, boy, what I got to tell you isn't for foreign ears, you mind me?”

“Okay.” I was intrigued.

“We've recently received word the Germans had a spy aboard one of their tin fish. They put him ashore at Quebec.”

I shrugged. “That sounds like it's Quebec's problem.” I wished the French well. So far, they'd had a helluva time this war, or were the Quebecois Canadian? I wasn't really sure. Come to think of it, neither were they.

“No, it's our problem, because the word is there's more of them. All of 'em moving in from Quebec's north shore, down through Labrador, till they get to St. John's.”

The back of my neck prickled. Was this what MacBride's team had been trying to tell me, back in Cairo?
Lieutenant, you can be eminently useful to your country and to this cause
.
Newfoundland is of primary strategic importance to the Allies, as I'm sure you know
. “And when they get here?”

“There's something going on. We dunno what, but there's something. Few of our boys have had their ears to the ground since the start of this whole shindig. Something's gonna happen between now and Christmas.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“You get to hear a lot of stuff. Guy like you, standing behind the bar all day long. Yeah, I bet you hear a lot of talk.”

“You want me to eavesdrop?” This was too good: it was Kevin MacBride all over again.

“You think it's funny, boy? Just how long you been away from the army, anyhow?” His tone snapped me back.

“Sorry.”

Callan huffed out a breath. “Look, Jack. There's innocent people gonna die in this town, maybe a lot of them. Now, you think that's some kind of a joke, we don't got nothing more to say to each other.”

“I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at—Jesus, Rick. It sounds serious.” I refilled our cups.

“It is serious.” He raised the cup to his lips and sipped. “Goddammit, it's as serious as a heart attack.”

I reached out and laid my hand over his. “I'll do what I can. If I hear anything unusual, I'll let you know.”

He relaxed. “Honest?”

I crossed my heart again. “Honest Injun.”

 

 

T
HINGS
WERE
quiet for about half an hour after Callan left, and then the supper crowd began to arrive. Chris came back from his doctor's appointment and got busy helping me in the kitchen. With Dave Chan gone to war, we'd hired a succession of temporary cooks, but none of them worked out. One guy left halfway through his shift with no explanation, and I caught another one skimming from the till. You'd think in a town the size of St. John's, there'd be plenty of guys looking to make a decent dollar, but it seemed most of them were content to hang around in pool halls or on street corners, picking their teeth and testing their wit on the local yokels. Chris had taken over the cooking until we could find somebody but, as good as he was, his culinary efforts tended to be a bit spicy for the locals. Cajun food didn't exactly go over gangbusters, but I had to give him credit for trying. Still, I worried we were losing trade to the plethora of fish-and-chip shops that dotted the local landscape like pimples on a fat man's ass.

I was so busy from five until about six thirty, I hardly lifted my head, and the whole of my view consisted of bottles and glasses. I handed off the latest round of drinks to Anita, one of my waitresses, and turned to dump some ice cubes down the sink. At first all I saw was a white shirt, a dark jacket, and a pair of slender hands, faintly freckled, resting on the bar. “What can I get you, mister?”

“How about a beer, Jack?”

That voice… there was something—Texan? “Jesus. Tex?”

He grinned, the same old grin I'd come to know in Cairo. “How are you, Jack?”

“Tex! My God!” I came out from behind the bar and grabbed him, hauled him into my arms and hugged him until I felt his ribs creak. “It's good to see you. What the hell are you doing on this side of the pond?”

He shrugged. “Well, I don't rightly know an easy way to say this: I got canned. I knocked around Cairo for a while, but there was nothing, so I figured I'd come over here and look you up.” He was momentarily shamefaced. “I was wondering if maybe you might have some part-time work I could do, enough to tide me over until I can find something more permanent.”