For her part, Amber finally left the Andes as the dock workers were long back from their lunch. Walking along the deck from her cabin, she was one of the last passengers to leave the ship. Behind her, a thin colored man in a white porter’s coat and black cap struggled to carry all of her luggage. First Officer Holtz and the bursar Smiley stood near the gangplank as Amber left. Holtz held out his hand for her as she stepped onto the wooden steps leading to the dock. She heard one of her leather bags drop onto the deck behind her and she turned to see the German officer curse the black man. While she did not understand most of the words, she could tell he was livid.
Smiley laughed at the porter’s situation as he awkwardly tried to pick up the bag.
“I’d need me blackface on to be that clumsy,” the Englishman mocked the effort while the First Officer glared at the porter.
Amber felt a flash of anger rise at the worker’s abuse. However, she remained silent as she carefully made her way down the rest of the gangplank to the dock.
On the pier, she told the man to put her bags down near closed doors of the nearby warehouse and then thanked him for his help, giving him a large tip.
“Thank ya, ma’am. I’m right sorry for your trouble.”
His accent was from the Caribbean, and he smiled at her for the tip before quickly hurrying back to the ship. Strangely, it dawned on her that the blatant prejudice the man experienced was cruel. She noticed the hostile looks he received from Holtz and Smiley. Amber wondered how he could put up with it. A vague feeling of anger swept over, but her thoughts couldn’t reconcile the reason. It was like a deeply buried unease wanted to push out of her.
Amber’s thoughts went back to other similar instances she witnessed on the cruise. She heard offensive comments about different ethnicities being casually discussed. It was like the Nazis she heard about on the radio sat at the table, convinced of their superior ways. She recognized the hypocrisy of those with money who were only a couple of generations from their immigrant roots. However, the woman forced herself to suppress her emotions. While Amber held the internal belief in the prejudice’s stupidity, she did nothing to speak against it. She knew she was the real hypocrite. However, the woman believed she had bigger problems to tackle.
Events overtook the line of thoughts as Amber looked around for a taxi. Her head swam from exhaustion, and she wanted to sit down. The Boston Harbor police sergeant had learned of her association with Warren Baker. After intensely questioning her for over an hour, she finally grew angry. Amber threatened to take the matter to O’Malley’s superiors, even mentioning her father. She saw a curious expression cross his face. However, he said nothing more and told her she could leave the ship, apparently convinced of her story. Amber omitted her time in the cargo hold. For obvious reasons, the woman didn’t mention Warren going to her cabin until morning. Amid the hodgepodge of activities and her search for a taxi, a man approached her.
“Miss Fane?” A man asked with a heavy Italian accent.
His heavily lined face looked sympathetic, and he tipped his hat politely, revealing his black hair.
“Yes?” she replied carefully.
“He’s a right, you’re a cute girl,” he said with an enormous grin. “I’ve already got your trunks from the ship in my cab.”
He quickly picked up her bag, starting down the dock.
“Wait, what are you talking about? Who’s right?” She hurried after the man.
“The man waiting for you, of course,” the cabbie said as he continued walking. He moved quickly, while skillfully avoiding the dockworkers navigating their power lifts and small carts. Amber scrambled in her high heels to keep up with him.
They passed beyond the maze of steel girders and beams which provided the base for the large overhead cranes. Between the line of cranes and the massive brick structures that made up the warehouse, a narrow road followed the wharf back to land. Parked behind several stacked pallets of tobacco was a yellow DeSoto.
“That’s a my cab, lady. I take you anywhere,” he said happily. “The fella wasn’t sure of the address, but he’s a big tipper.”
With some hesitation, Amber opened the rear door. At first, she didn’t recognize the man inside. Then she realized it was Warren Baker. Dressed in a dark gray wool overcoat and wearing a Greek sailor’s cap, the escapee looked terribly out of place. Any other time, she would have laughed at the ridiculous sight. Instead, she hesitated, swiftly glancing around while the cab driver put her luggage in the trunk.
“Get in!” He ordered. “No one followed you. I watched.”
Amber slowly got into the vehicle, unsure of her plans now. A cloud crossed her face as she closed the door.
“460 Laverne Terrace,” Warren told the driver after the man slid in behind the wheel. The driver nodded, then glanced back.
“Are you sure about that address?” The older man asked him. “There’s no Laverne Terrace in Boston.”
“What do you mean? That must be correct,” Warren argued.
“Listen, I’va worked this city for over 15 years. No name of Laverne Terrace in Boston,” the driver told them empathetically.
“Never mind, driver,” Amber suddenly interjected. “We want to go to 16 Briarcliff Lane.”
Warren leaned closer.
“I need to find this address,” he whispered. “It’s a clue.”
“You need a bath first,” Amber whispered back before she slid away from him. She tried to keep the nausea down from his odor while opening the window.
“You stink, and you’re dripping water all over the car,” she told him. “Besides, you look like a fool with that coat and hat on.”
Warren glanced at his damp clothes, and immediately he rolled down the window.
“Sorry,” Warren said to the driver, who shrugged.
He noticed the driver opened his window as they pulled away from their spot. The breeze coming through the windows helped with the smell and also muffled their voices.
“Relax, it’s my apartment,” she told him. “You can clean up there. Obviously, you went into the water, but I don’t know how you got out without being seen by all—how did you?”
She quickly glanced at the driver, who seemed uninterested in their conversation.
“What happened?” she asked quietly.
Warren explained everything he went through to get off the ship as they drove through the city. He kept stopping his story when it appeared their driver might be listening.
“The worst part was trying to get swim through the water around all the ships,” he said. “You don’t want to know what’s in that bay. That damn place needs the EPA right now.”
“Keep your voice down. What is an EPA?” Amber looked confused.
“Never mind, I was just ranting,” he caught himself.
“Anyway, I swam down past the next ship and found a place where nobody was around. Everybody took off for lunch, so I could get out of the harbor behind some crates. I swapped clothes I found while walking around the dock. Then, I waited for you. I saw them letting the passengers leave. I figured they must have been really giving you the third degree since you were the last one off. What did you tell them?”
Amber stiffened.
“Nothing. But they think you did it,” she confirmed. “You don’t have any friends on that boat. Where did you find the taxi?”
“He was at the end of the pier on a break. I paid him some cash up front to wait.” He pulled out a wet notebook from out of his coat. Opening it, he looked at the address again. “I don’t understand what this means. It must have something to do with this.”
Amber looked at the writing.
“I don’t understand. Is that yours?”
“Yeah,” he replied, thinking.
“Well, don’t you remember?” she asked. “Maybe it’s the address in another town? One of your girlfriends?”
Her tone hardened slightly, but he missed it.
“No, I don’t remember, but I’m sure it’s a clue. That’s what I was trying to find out in the cargo area. I figured there would be more information on the trunks they had in my name.”
He asked Amber about the police integration, and she told him about their interest in the trunk and cargo area as well. The conversation stopped when they arrived at the brownstone building. After they had exited the cab, Warren watched the driver unload the bags from the trunk. As he gazed at the work, the man realized his driver’s accent followed the same tropes about new immigrants in the old films. Shaking his head while he cursed the era’s writers for their narrowminded worldview, he gave the man a wet ten spot.
“Just forget you came to this address if anyone asks you,” Warren said.
The cabbie smiled at the money.
“I donna remember nothing about the docks, the cute woman, and the stinky passenger today.”
