Paul Christopher - The Lucifer Gospel

“You’re a bellboy too?” Hilts asked.

Poitier shrugged. “He gives me the room on the roof, I bring him customers, take them to the airport or into town. Fair trade.” He put down the bags and opened the door with a key that was dangling from the lock with a big number tag on it. Room one. It was in the middle of the row.

“One?”

“Eleven. Other number fell off and Lloyd never replaced it.”

“There’s not eleven rooms in the place.”

“Lloyd’s got a thing about seven and two so he left them out.” He unlocked the door, pushed it open and picked up the bags. They followed him inside. If the outside looked like a Bahamian Psycho, the interior of the room fit right in. It had all the ambience of the Bates Motel. Two rust-stained inset laundry sinks for dishes, a gas camping stove for cooking, a pair of lumpy beds, and a sagging ceiling. Bathroom cubicle in the back with a shower stall. The floor was covered with emerald-green Astroturf. “Pretty good for fifty bucks,” said Poitier. The old air conditioner in the window was sealed with caulk.

“As long as the roof doesn’t fall in,” said Hilts.

“Been that way for years, no reason why it should fall down now.”

Poitier leaned over the nearest bed and switched on the air conditioner. It wheezed into life and made a noise like a Volkswagen heater in the middle of February.

“Enjoy,” said Poitier. He left them alone.

Hilts watched a gecko skitter across the ceiling on gummy little feet that seemed to have suction cups on the toes.

“I like it,” said Finn.

“The gecko?”

“The room.” She sat down on one of the beds. It sagged even lower. She’d seen worse on archaeological digs with her mother in the Yucatan, but not much worse. “It’s homey.”

“That’s one word for it,” Hilts agreed cautiously.

“Hiltons have reservations computers. Data terminals in the rooms. This place doesn’t even have telephones. We can’t call out. No one can call in. Its cheap and it’s safe.”

“I guess.”

“So how do we find out about the Acosta Star?”

“DeVaux’s ship?”

“That burned and sank.”

“That one.” Hilts thought for a moment. “Maybe Lloyd or Sidney know something. They’ve been around since Creamie-pie, after all.”

“I wonder how he got that name,” she said and frowned.

“I hate to think,” answered Hilts. They went outside and back to the boat. The smoke had cleared. Poitier and Lloyd Terco were sitting down and drinking beer, staring at the old car and the swampy inlet beyond. A few ancient-looking conch boats were staggering out into the open water beyond the inlet, fishermen in shorts and wifebeaters like Lloyd’s sitting on the little cabin roofs or crouching by the outboard tillers. Wind blew through the long sawtooth leaves on the palms. You could almost see how it had been before Columbus, a few Carib Indians on the beach, cracking open conchs, stripping out the meat with stone tools, staring out to sea, waiting for genocide to catch them napping.

Hilts and Finn sat down on a bench facing the two men.

Hilts spoke. “Either of you gentlemen know anything about a ship called the Acosta Star?”

There was a short silence. The two men exchanged a look and a shrug. It was Lloyd who answered.

“French in the beginning. Ile de France, I think. Built in 1938 or so. Brand-new and they sunk her in the harbor to keep the Germans from getting her. Dutch after the war. They sold her to the Italians. When me an’ Mr. Tibbs here worked on old St. Georges she was called Bahamian Star for a few years, flyin’ convenience out of Liberia, but then Acosta Lines bought her. Must have been sometime in the late fifties, because they didn’t have her long before she burned and went down in Donna.”

“Donna?”

“Hurricane. Small and nasty.”

“She sank in a hurricane?”

“She caught fire first. Engine room. Got most everyone off and left a skeleton crew to fight the fire. Donna came out of nowhere and she disappeared.”

“Where?” Hilts asked.

“If I knew I wouldn’t have said disappeared.”

“The neighborhood.”

Poitier answered. “Some say the Tongue, some say the channel.”

“The Tongue?” asked Finn.

“Tongue of the Ocean,” explained Lloyd Terco. “Lot of locals just call it Toto. A hole in the water just east of Andros, a hundred miles long and ten thousand feet deep.”

“Other people say Donna swept her farther before she sank. Great Bahamas Bank, Old Bahama Channel offshore from Cuba.”

“What do you think?” Hilts asked.

“Don’t,” said Poitier. “Don’t bother thinking about something had nothing to do with me so long ago.”

“Tuck thinks about it. Talks about it too,” offered Lloyd.

“Tuck?”

“Tucker Noe. He’ll tell you he saw her go down, right in front of his eyes, off Lobos Cay Light, and that’s even farther. Pirates and Cubans and Boomers.”

“Boomers?” asked Hilts.

“Nuclear submarines,” said Poitier.

“Who’s Tucker Noe?” asked Finn.

“Fishing guide. Almost as famous as Bonefish Foley. Between them those two old men bonefished for every president since Lincoln and Ernest Hemingway besides.”

“He’s still alive?” Hilts asked.

“Hemingway? Naw, he long gone.”

Finn smiled as she realized they were ribbing Hilts on purpose and he kept falling for it.

Hilts scowled. “I meant this Tucker Noe.”

“Just barely,” Lloyd said and laughed.

“Can we talk to him?”

“Sure,” said Lloyd. “You can talk but that’s not sayin’ Tuck goin’ to answer.”

Tucker Noe lived on the south coast of New Providence-the hurricane side, where the winds blew up the channel from the south, or curled in from the open sea to the east. Coral Cay Point stuck out like a bony finger into the pale green sea with mangrove on one side and coral bonefish shallows on the other. The point itself was a neat collection of narrow old docks and walkways that were home to three dozen small fishing boats, a sportfisher or two, and Spindrift, once a World War Two minesweeper, then converted into an oceanographic research ship for the University of Florida, and finally turned into a live-aboard salvage and sometime dive boat run by a crew of aging ex-hippies and scuba junkies. Tucker Noe lived in a small shack perched on the end of the Spindrift dock beside a pair of old Texaco pumps and directly in front of his own bonefish boat, an unnamed thirty-two-foot cabin flatboat with a roughly made plank cabin sitting on top of the open deck. A worn canvas awning stretched from the cabin to the transom. The transom itself was fitted with two old-fashioned Evinrude outboards, both with their covers off and the guts of the engines exposed. A very old man was sitting on a plastic-webbed lawn chair under the awning with a homemade plywood table in front of him. The table was painted with checkerboard squares of red and black. A set of homemade chess pieces roughly carved from dark and pale coral were set out on the board. There were only a few pieces in each color left in play. A letter on blue airmail paper lay to one side.

“Idiot,” muttered the old man, a gnarled finger pushing his king forward. “He takes me for a fool?” He glanced at the letter and shook his head in disgust.

“I’ll be damned,” whispered Hilts, staring down at the board as they stepped aboard the old boat. “That’s the Opera House Massacre, or close to it.”

Sidney Poitier made the introductions, then eased his backside down on the boat’s wide gunwale with a sigh.

“You know something about chess, sir?” asked Tucker Noe.

“Some,” Hilts said.