“And they’re working together to do…what?” Coleman said. “The Dutchman supplying the muscle to make what happen?”
Renwick fixed Henson with a look. “There are various rumors as to what Davis is after. Some say it’s about a secret cache of Alaskan gold. Others say it was to do with a hunk of precious ore unlike anything heretofore found on Earth.” Renwick hunched a shoulder. “That fueled the idea in a handful of quarters that you and Peary brought more back from the Arctic than those three meteorites. That the fallout between you two was over who would control this…whatever it is.”
Henson was clueless as to such rumors; it wasn’t hard for him to remain blank-faced. But, eager to see what Renwick would say, he responded, “As you said, that’s just gossip. Hell, I’ve encountered people who say we brought back one of them green men of Mars that Tarzan fella wrote about in his yarns.”
“I have heard talk of that nature as well,” Renwick said. “That whatever it is, it is in fact of an extraterrestrial character.”
“If that means out of this world, it sure sounds like it,” Coleman noted.
Duggan said nothing, keeping his own counsel.
Henson had the feeling the industrialist knew about the Daughter, or at least had heard explicitly about it, and probably Davis had too. But how? He hadn’t told Eva then, and they had divorced the following year.
He said, “Back here on Earth, I want to look into this parlay between Davis and Schultz.”
“What’s your angle, Matt?” Coleman asked.
“I’ve got a couple of clients to protect.”
“Who?” Coleman said.
“Daddy Paradise and his daughter.”
Coleman and Duggan cocked their heads at each other.
“I’m betting she’s out of the lollipop stage,” Duggan opined.
“Funny,” he intoned. It had occurred to him that the grab of Destiny Stevenson wasn’t about Daddy Paradise and Queenie St. Clair and the numbers’ profit. Not for Davis, anyway, but that would be a reason he could keep Schultz involved. And he was the wild card.
“Well,” Renwick began, “let me have the kitchen rustle us up some food,” Renwick said, rising.
“Is he on the level?” Henson asked the others after Renwick left.
“You mean can he be trusted?” Coleman replied.
“I guess that’s what I mean. Or part of what I mean. Will he stand by what he professes or is he full of hokum? Go the distance like Garvey no matter who comes after him?”
“Or do you mean like your buddy Daddy Paradise?” the aviatrix quipped.
Henson chuckled. “You gotta get your hands dirty if you want equality, Bessie. Ain’t nobody gonna give it to you freely. We all can’t be angels.”
“I don’t know if that’s cynical or wise,” Duggan noted.
“He’s for real, Matt,” Coleman said. “He knows he’s a child of privilege and rather than gallivant around like a lot of dilettantes interested in the Negro Question or giving money to starving children in India, he knows he has to be about changing things for the long haul. We wouldn’t be here if we thought different,” she finished.
“Among his concerns, he’s been big on supporting anti-lynching laws,” Coleman added. “Not just talk, but providing money and fielding investigators like what the NAACP carried out.”
“Okay, you sold me. He’s on the level.”
Henson tented his fingers and sat back in his seat, considering several options. Overhead a hawk came into view, circling, then going into a dive at an unseen prey beyond the hedges. Possibly he was imaging it, but the explorer had an impression of a stifled cry of a trapped animal floating to them on the wind. He sipped more lemonade. After a lunch that included more discussion about the aims of the Weldon Institute, Henson said his goodbyes and was returned to town by car.
On the drive back, he tried to think how news of the Daughter’s existence might have become known. Moving the rock was a two-man job, at least. He had suggested back then to Ootah that he not use his brother to help, and his friend had assured him he that he didn’t. He’d last seen Ootah in person when he’d been brought to New York about four years ago at the behest of the Clicquot Club Beverage Company as a reunion of sorts.
“Mahri-Pahluk,” Ootah had shouted as Henson rushed over to him at the Brooklyn docks that day.
“Whoop halloo,” Henson had shouted excitedly as both men hugged.
The two had lunch in Chinatown, as Ootah had a fondness for chow mein. They caught up on a lot of things, like Henson’s son. He knew from infrequent letters transcribed by other explorers or Christian missionaries—there was no written language among his son’s people—that Anaukaq had a good life. His stepfather had long ago accepted the boy as his own, as had been related to him from the mother, Akatingwah, in a transcribed letter.
“He’s getting to be quite the young man, Matthew,” his friend told him while putting a mass of chow mein into his mouth. He’d first wound the noodles on a fork. “Yes, I know to use this in public among the kahdonah.” He said, noting his friend’s stare. The word meant white-skinned. Most of the customers in the place were.
“You need to see him. Letters aren’t enough.” His friend’s English had improved markedly since the two had last been together.
“I know. I guess, well, there is the money, but that’s an excuse.”
“Yes, it is. You know how to get there.”
Ootah had not stayed in Moriussaq all this time. He had been visited with a wanderlust
