Carnal Hours

perhaps the flowers) that seemed hers; otherwise, this was strictly servants’ quarters, albeit pleasant enough.

She bid me sit at the round table, and I did, while she got us our tea. A paperbacked book was spread open there, saving her place: The Good Earth by Pearl Buck.

“It’s about China,” she said, as she served me a small cup of tea and put a plate of fritters before me.

“Really?” I said. I picked up one of the fritters. “Conch, again?”

She smiled as she sat and poured herself a cup. “Banana. Bet you’ve had your fill of conch.”

“Not yet. Hey, these are good.”

“Thank you. Mr. Heller…”

“Don’t you think it’s time we started using first names?”

She looked into her tea; her smile seemed shy, now. “I would like that, Nathan.”

“I’m glad, Marjorie. But you can make it Nate, if you like. That’s what my friends call me.”

“I think I like the sound of Nathan better. It has more music.”

That was a new one, too.

“Marjorie, I know you didn’t work that night….”

“The night Sir Harry was killed? I did work till ten. Sir Harry and Mr. Christie, they were playin’ Chinese checkers when I left.”

“But Samuel was working…he was the night watchman.”

She nodded. “Him and a boy named Jim.”

“The police haven’t talked to them, you know.”

She nodded again. “I know. Samuel and Jim, they took off.”

“I had the impression Samuel had been working for Sir Harry for some time, was a trusted employee….”

“He is. Or he was.” She shrugged. “He took off.”

I wondered how hard the police were trying to find Samuel. If they were trying to find him. But I sure as hell wanted a word with him.

“Marjorie-does Samuel have family or friends you could check with?”

“Yes. Friends in Nassau…family’s on Eleuthera.”

“Could you help me locate him?”

Her sigh was barely audible; she seemed reluctant. “If Samuel doesn’t want to be found, he must have a reason….”

“Exactly. I need to talk to him. What he saw the night of the murder may clear this whole thing up.”

Now she nodded, her brow knit. “I will try.”

“What about the boy named Jim?”

“Him I didn’t know too well. He was hired more recent, to guard some building materials. They’re putting up a new building at the country club, you know.”

“Could you track him down for me, too?”

“I’ll do better lookin’ for Samuel. You got to remember, Nathan, workers in these islands come and go, gettin’ work and pay by the day or even the hour.”

“But you will try.”

“I will try. I might hear things you wouldn’t.”

“I should think. That’s why I need your help.”

Her brow wrinkled. “In fact…”

“Yes?”

“There’s a rumor I been hearin’. About Lyford Cay.”

She pronounced “Cay” in the Bahamian manner: key.

“What’s Lyford Cay?” I asked.

“The west tip of New Providence-it sticks out, like an island. But it’s not an island, it’s more like…” She searched for the word, then smiled as she found it in the dictionary of her mind. “…a peninsula. Very beautiful-verdant. But it’s bein’ developed, you know.”

“Developed?”

“For houses for rich folks. Right now it’s just palm trees, beaches and plots of land they cleared, but they say, one day, there will be electric lights and phones and plumbin’ and fancy houses.”

“And whose project is this?” I asked, knowing.

“Why, Mr. Christie’s, of course.”

“Tell me about the rumor, Marjorie.”

“There’s a dock there, and a caretaker. Lyford Cay is private property.”

“I see.”

“But there’s no fence or gate yet. You can still drive right in there. Anyway, the caretaker is a local man named Arthur.”

“Colored?”

“Yes. The rumor I’ve been hearin’ is that the night of the killin’, after midnight sometime, Arthur saw a boat pull up to the dock with some white men in it. A car was waitin’ for ’em.”

“That’s an interesting rumor, all right.”

“I know Arthur. He goes to the same church as me-Wesley Church, in Grant’s Town. Or anyway, his sister does. I spoke with her, and she says her brother hasn’t talked to the police about this.”

I leaned forward. “Would he talk to you?”

“I think so. I talked to his sister this afternoon-she’s in housekeepin’ at the B.C.-and she said I could probably find him at Weary Willie’s this evening.”

“Weary Willie’s?”

“It’s a bar, over the hill.”

I stood. “Take me there.”

“Over the hill” was more than directions: it was what the area was called, south of where Government House stood on its ridge, looking the other way; in the virtual backyard of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor’s plantation- house domicile, the thatch-roofed shacks of blacks crawled up the hill like shambling invaders who would never quite make it to the top.

As the land leveled out, the houses became more substantial, but the flickering of candlelight in windows with shutters, but no glass, indicated the lack of electricity on the far side of the hill. There were no streetlights to guide a pilgrim’s progress on these dark streets littered with roadside ice stands (closed at the moment), sheltered by trees of avocado and silk cotton; but the moonlight showed off the sorrowful gaiety of the clustered houses of Grant’s Town, doused as they were with blue and red and green and pink.

I wasn’t scared, but I had the same white man’s uneasiness I experienced in Chicago whenever I ventured into Bronzeville on the South Side.

“It’s just up here,” Marjorie said, pointing, “on the right. See that fenced-off place?”

“Yeah.”

I pulled the Chevy up in front of an unpainted wooden structure with a thatch roof; over the saloon-style swinging doors a rustic-looking wooden sign bore the hand-carved words “Weary Willie’s.” There were no other cars around, but the open windows leaked laughter and babble and the general sound of people drinking.

“It is okay for a white man to go in there?”

“It’s fine,” she said, with a reassuring smile. “Tourists come here all the time-look closer at the sign.”

I looked up. Beneath “Weary Willie’s” it said: “A Glimpse of Africa in the Bahamas.”

Only there were no tourists inside, just black faces, with the whites of their eyes large and displeased at the sight of me, or maybe the sight of me with Marjorie. Day laborers in sweaty tattered clothing stood at the bar having bottles of that exotic tropical brew known as Schlitz. The round uncovered tables in this kerosene-lamp-lit, wood-and-wicker world were mostly empty, but a native man and a voluptuous, almost heavy native woman were huddled over their drinks at one, in a mating ritual that knew no race. Against the far wall, which had two African- style spears crossed on it, sat an angularly handsome, jet-black young man in a loose white shirt and tan pants and no shoes. He recognized Marjorie and she nodded and we went over to him.

“May we sit, Arthur?” Marjorie asked.

He half-rose, gestured nervously. “Go on.”