The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(33)

Around ten, the man called up from the pier, and I showed him aboard with a thin veneer of civility. He gave Slate a self-assured nod as he entered the captain’s quarters and took the chair I offered. Then he smoothed the lapels of his frock coat. “Captain Slate. At last. And your daughter, is she Miss Slate, or Miss Song?”

Any pretense of cordiality fell away from Slate’s face. “If you know her mother’s name, I’m sure you know we never had the chance to marry. What do I call you?”

The man’s smile only widened; perhaps he had noticed, as I had, that the captain had not asked his name. “You may call me Mr. D.”

Slate wasted no more time. “Miss Song tells me you have a business proposition for us.”

“Ah, yes.” Mr. D folded his hands neatly and waited. After a few moments of silence, he shifted slightly. “It is for your ears only.”

“I never hide anything from her,” Slate lied.

“Unusual,” Mr. D said. “Although perhaps the unusual should not be unexpected. As it is vital to the gentlemen I represent that everything be done in utmost confidence, let me impress upon the both of you the importance of confidentiality, by showing what’s at stake.”

He took a thick square of paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it with excruciating slowness. “This is a copy of a map of Honolulu, showing the downtown area and the harbor.”

“A copy?” Slate said.

“I did not think it wise to take the original out into the world. What if I had been waylaid? By brigands?” Mr. D was smiling, but I caught his meaning. “On it are marked several locations of note,” he continued. “Including the more interesting, ah . . .” His eyes flickered up to me, then back down. “The more interesting bars, brothels, and opium dens. It was inked in November of 1868.”

“Let me see it.” And there it was, the energy of the strummed string, the coiling of the great cat before the spring. Slate remained in his chair, but barely.

“Of course.” Mr. D laid the paper on the desk between them, smoothing it with a graceful motion.

The captain stood, stooping over the desk, exploring the page. “It’s not dated,” he said immediately.

“I can assure you it’s authentic.”

Without lifting his head, Slate glanced up at him, letting his smile show.

“The date can be inferred from the depiction of the city. You’ll note that a popular place for tourists and locals alike had, very temporarily, a change of name. Joss’s Shop had become . . .” He placed one delicate finger down on a point on the map; Slate’s eyes followed, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Hapai Hale?”

“Apparently there was a woman working there whose condition was quite the talk among the regulars.” By the look on Slate’s face, Mr. D must have been talking about my mother. “You know how the locals are, always jabbering. Shortly after, tourists started calling it the Happy House, not knowing the meaning of the word hapai. It’s quaint, but the natives are charming about such things.”

I looked from Mr. D to Slate. I didn’t know the meaning of hapai either. Slate pressed his fist to his mouth, as if kissing the tattoos on his knuckles. “It is . . . suspiciously specific,” he said after a long pause. “Where did you acquire it?”

“It belongs to one of my colleagues,” Mr. D said. “His brother was the artist.”

“I’d like to speak with the brother.”

“Tragically, he passed away years ago.”

“Oh?”

“Drowned in the bay. Drunk, I believe. The black sheep of his family. You may imagine, a man who would map the dens of vice would frequent them as well. I was the executor of his will, and it was in the performance of that duty that I noticed the map, and of course our mutual friend told me you would want the original.”

“How fortuitous,” Slate said.

Mr. D spread his hands and then clasped them. “Who can say what force throws us all together? But we are now bound by a mutual interest, which is what brings me here today.”

“Yes.” Slate narrowed his eyes. “Your price.” He gazed at the map; the longing was plain on his face. “Name it.”

Mr. D nodded, as though he had never expected any other answer. “It’s quite reasonable, I assure you. My colleagues and I, in exchange for this map, all we want is . . . well . . . money.”

The word turned Slate’s head. “Money?”

I frowned. I’d been worried after Mr. D’s mention of unusual skills and extraordinary tales, but money? Money was . . . well, not easy. But maybe Slate already had enough at Bishop Bank. Perhaps my father’s fears—and his threats—had been for nothing. The captain leaned back in his chair. “How much?”

“I must remind you, this must be kept in complete confidence, or—”

“Yeah. Yes.” Slate took a deep breath. “We are already in agreement.”

Mr. D laced his fingers. “For this map, my colleagues and I require nine hundred thousand dollars.”

My jaw dropped, and Slate raised one eyebrow. “Nine hundred thousand?” he said, his voice so steady even I could barely hear the shock. “That’s a—a princely sum.”

“Almost kingly,” Mr. D said with a smug look.