The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(11)

He released us but made no move to pick up the briefcase. I nudged it with my foot. “It’s empty, then? You bid everything you had?”

“Nixie,” he said, with mock disappointment. He swung the briefcase up and set it on a trash can. “Nixie, Nixie, Nixie! Did you think I wouldn’t be able to keep a little something back?” He flipped open the latches and revealed a thick stack of bundled twenties. “See? Your mother taught me how to haggle!” He was in a very good mood, then, to mention my mother. His eyes were bright with manic excitement. How long would it last?

“Jesus, Dad,” I said as people stared. “Someone will rob you.”

The captain laughed. “Yeah.” He jerked his chin toward Kash. “Him.” He grabbed the wad of bills and split off a handful. “You know what? Here. This is for you, this is for you. . . .” He stuffed twenties into our fists without counting them. “And the rest is for Bee and Rotgut.”

I held the money in both hands. It must have been nearly five hundred dollars. “Does this mean we have shore leave?”

Slate stopped in the process of unknotting his tie. “Shore leave? What for?”

“To spend this.” I grinned at Kash. It was only a brief reprieve, but it was something. “There’s an exhibit opening this weekend at the Met about the Book of the Dead. Or a talk tomorrow night about pre-Christianity in Armenia that—”

“Oh, Nixie, no.” The captain shook his head and threw his tie into the briefcase. “There’s no time for all that. We’re leaving in the morning.”

“Well, how about a bookstore then? Just for the afternoon.”

“We’ve still got to manage the deliveries. But if you see something quick between here and the ship—”

I stared at him, the money crumpling in my clenched fist, although it wasn’t about the money, really; the one thing I could never buy was more time. “Forget it,” I said, shoving the worthless bills into my bag. The newspaper Kash had given me was more valuable. “Let’s just go.”

The euphoria in his eyes dimmed, but only for a moment. “Eager to be under way? That’s my girl!” The cheer in his voice was forced, but he hugged me, with both arms, and lifted me up off the ground.

“Dad!” But I let myself hold him too, as tightly as I could.

He let me down, staring at me for a moment, his eyes brimming. Then he made a beeline over to a man selling roasted nuts out of a cart. He bought half a dozen bags, dumping one into his mouth and chewing fiercely while stuffing the others into the pockets of his suit.

Christie’s sent the map to the ship by car. When the sleek Lincoln rolled up to the docks that evening, Slate, who had been pacing on deck like a cat in a cage, went entirely still. Bee signed the release form, and she and Kashmir carried the crate up to his cabin, all while Slate watched, nothing moving but his eyes. Only when they set it down outside the door did he spring into motion and tug the crate inside, letting the door swing shut behind him.

I winced when the door slammed, but the silence of his absence seemed louder still. It shouldn’t have; since our embrace on the sidewalk I’d seen him slipping away into his head, into his plans for tomorrow and all the rest of the future, grand dreams of what might come from his newest treasure map. But perhaps naive hope runs in my blood. Bee cleared her throat; I’d been staring at the closed door.

She came over to stand beside me as I leaned on the rail, and side by side we watched the western sun wash the towers of Manhattan. “This is the better view,” she said. Her voice was soft, a raspy whisper because of the scar that lay like a noose around her throat.

“Agreed.” The city shone across the river, a temptation all its own, but it might as well have been an ocean away. “I just wish we had more time here.”

“Us too. Ayen loves the lights,” she said. “But I love the bull.”

“The brass bull? On Wall Street?”

“Yes. He reminds me of my song bull, although he grazes on a different green.” I laughed, and she tapped the cowbell at her belt. “Sometimes I miss my herd.”

“Does Ayen?”

Bee grinned, and the scars on her cheeks—like rows of pearls—curved with particular mischief. “She misses the dancing. She says there’s a warehouse party in Red Hook tonight. House music. What is house music? She tried to explain, but I’ve never heard anyone play a house.” Bee shook her head dramatically, but she winked at me.

I couldn’t help but smile back. Bee was Na’ath, from a tribe in Northern Africa where cattle were both kith and currency. Ayen was her wife who’d been killed years ago, before Bee had come to the ship. But in accordance with their beliefs about death, Ayen was still with her, doing those little annoying things ghost wives do, like make you drop your breakfast or trip over a coil of rope. Or bother you about going to warehouse parties in Brooklyn. “Admit it, you would take her to the party if we weren’t sailing at dawn.”

“The worst part is, she already knows it.”

“Well. There’s not much dancing on the ship, I suppose.” My eyes returned to the captain’s door. “Do you wish you could go back?”

“Back where?”

“To Sudan. To before Ayen died.”

“Such an odd idea. We were already there.” She stroked the necklace of her scar. “He does not think before he acts. Would you like me to burn it?”