Saffire (10 page)

“Which makes me curious why such knowledge would be important to a cowboy who won't be here long.”

“I'm doing a favor for a friend.”

“Does your friend have business interests in the canal?” Harding leaned back in his chair. “Or possible business interests?”

“Where I'm from, friends help each other without needing a reason except for the friendship. If this was a business trip, then it wouldn't be about a friend. It would be an employer.”

Harding sipped at his gin and tonic. “Ask your questions. I'll probably learn as much from what you ask as you would tell me about yourself.”

I wiped the condensation from my glass of tonic. “Tell me, if you can, about a man named Ezequiel Sandoval. I understand he is a close friend of William Nelson Cromwell.”

Harding and Waldschmidt exchanged glances.

“First,” Harding said, “let me point out that in some places in Panama, that could be a dangerous question for an Americano to ask. Are you sure you want to continue this conversation?”

“I'm here, aren't I?”

Harding gave a slow nod. “Very well. Panama truly is a small country. The fact that you ask so openly after my warning is either a reasonable coincidence or a remarkable bluff and you are involved at a level that I would be eager to know, considering my involvement in a very public fight against Roosevelt's libel suit and Cromwell's cronyism.”

“Go with coincidence,” I said. “I arrived in Colón this morning, and I hope to go back across the isthmus as soon as possible to catch a steamer back to New York. I'd like to know who Ezequiel Sandoval is.”

“Ah,” Harding said. “Here's why I could believe that your interest in Señor Sandoval is also coincidence. There are perhaps fifteen families who matter in Panama, and he is the patriarch of one of them. Mr. Waldschmidt and I are waiting for his daughter and her escort, so if your questioning is a coincidence, it's a one-in-fifteen happenstance. That doesn't stretch credence too far.”

Harding turned to Waldschmidt. “What do you think, Mr. Waldschmidt? Coincidence? Or something deeper? After all, you do love this type of intrigue, don't you?”

“The wealthy get bored so easily,” Waldschmidt said. “I live for intrigue.”

Harding said, “I suggest, Mr. Holt, that you and I have lunch tomorrow. Just the two of us. Would that suit you? You can find me by asking at the
Star & Herald.
”

“I hope to be gone by tomorrow.”

“Unfortunate.” Harding gave a nod to the front of the dining room, where Stefan was escorting two men and a woman. “Because it looks like our time here is over. Our guests have arrived. As promised, Miguel Vasquez from the
Star & Herald
is delivering Señor Sandoval's daughter, Raquel, and her fiancé, Raoul Amador.”

“Amador,” Waldschmidt whispered to me, a sense of awe in his voice. “Amador!”

“Of course, Amador.” For my own amusement, I added the same sense of awe.

I was interested, however. Here were two who would know Saffire's mother.

Waldschmidt stayed in a theatrical whisper. “He is the son of Dr. Manuel Amador Guerrero, who headed the revolution that broke Panama from Colombia! And there are whispers of more intrigue, since many of the other families are so unhappy with the Americans.”

“Fascinating,” I said in a return whisper.

The German apparently didn't understand sarcasm, for he continued as if he believed I was hungry for more. “And Raquel, the only child in the Sandoval family, is almost militant in her support of women's suffrage. She fully believes she can force Panama to give women the vote within a decade. It's the last subject you want her to start upon at a dinner. Yah?”

“Yah.”

Then the guests arrived.

I
rose with Harding and Waldschmidt to greet the newcomers, conscious that conversations had stopped around them.

Vasquez was a tiny man with a round face beaded with sweat, dressed in a crumpled white linen suit, who swayed as if he had already been drinking. I tried to shove aside an image of the man fully drunk, dressed as a baby, in the arms of a large woman singing lullabies. If Saffire knew about this proclivity, so did many others. So the drop in conversations was certainly not because of respect for Vasquez.

The other two who approached, however, seemed like royalty in both dress and posture.

Raoul Amador was tall in comparison to his countrymen. Midthirties, hawk-like face with all the proper edges of handsomeness. Long, flowing hair, perfectly barbered—a direct contrast to my hair, hacked by myself in front of a mirror. Amador's attire was impeccable, fitted across broad shoulders and a trim waistline.

As for Raquel Sandoval, who had her left arm linked in Raoul's right elbow, she looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. My instant judgment was that in all the years traveling to countless cities and countries as a roughrider in the world's most famous Wild West show, I had not seen a woman of more stunning beauty.

Later that night, with clarity that would make it difficult for me to find sleep, I'd remember the sheen of the hair falling to her shoulders, the slight parting of her lips in a smile that showed a gleam of teeth, the curve of her nose, the lift of her eyebrows, the smoldering darkness of her eyes, the complexion of perfect skin. And I would remember the mischief in her eyes as she glanced at me, a dance of expression that suggested she did not take herself with the same seriousness that the world placed upon her because of her beauty.

“Ma'am.” I'd played poker. I knew not to betray the surge of adrenalin that came with cards that would sweep a game.

“Mr. Holt is a cowboy,” Waldschmidt said to the three new guests. “A real cowboy! Yah? From Buffalo Bill's show. A shooting of buffalos, scalping from Indians. That kind of cowboy! He should join us for dinner, yah?”

We all were standing.

Raquel's eyebrow lifted a fraction in the awkward moment that followed Waldschmidt's exuberance.

“Of course,” Raoul Amador said. “He would be welcome to join us. We'll send Stefan to get him a jacket and a tie. I'd hate for him to be embarrassed by the stares at how he dressed for this establishment.”

I smiled. I didn't know why Amador would immediately think I was enough of a threat to make such an open insult, but it was amusing. On the other hand, Amador seemed like a snake of a man who would fight with a knife.

“Please.” Harding spoke quickly to break the extended silence of Amador smiling coldly back at me. “Let's all sit.”

I complied only because it would have been rude to give my forthcoming refusal from a standing position. It left me at the portion of the table without a place setting. I'd pulled my hat from the nearby chair onto my lap beneath the table.

“Yes, please join us.” Raquel's voice was as beautiful and melodic as I'd expected. “Now that you are seated, I don't see the need for a jacket or tie.”

She placed a hand on my forearm. I caught the glance that Amador gave to her hand, then to my arm, and saw the man's brief flinch. I enjoyed seeing that. The man's challenge had been far from subtle, and my general response to a bully was to wade in closer, not back away.

“I was in London during the Jubilee to learn about the suffrage movement in Britain,” Raquel said to me. Her accent betrayed the fact that English was not her first language, but she spoke it without flaw. “I was at the Buffalo Bill show when Queen Victoria sat in attendance. It was a magnificent show. I wish I could recall seeing you among the cowboys. Buffalo are such huge beasts; I believed all of you would be killed as you rode among them. I would like to hear more about it, if you don't mind.”

Saffire was inside the swinging kitchen door, waiting. If I stayed at this table, she'd have to keep on waiting. For hours.

“Mr. Holt had a question about your father,” Harding told Raquel. “Perhaps you could explain the situation for him?”

“My father?”

I caught some of her fragrance from the heat of her body.

“It would be best,” Amador said, “if any discussion tonight did not involve Ezequiel Sandoval.”

“And it would be best”—Raquel met Amador's gaze—“if I made decisions for myself.”

It was crazy to take the satisfaction that I did at Raquel's not-so-subtle irritation. Even more so to read into it anything about her relationship with a man who exuded his arrogance like cologne.

I inclined my head to Raquel. “I met a girl today at the administration building in Culebra. She told me that her mother has gone missing. I understand that Mr. Sandoval takes a special interest in the girl and—”

“We have no interest in talking about personal affairs with a stranger from a far country.” Amador made no effort to conceal his dismissive tone. “I suppose if you knew local matters better, you'd understand how disreputable this is for you, but since you are not of our country or our station, I suppose your ignorance can be overlooked.”

Another snake smile from Amador.

It took a moment to control my tone. “I apologize, but much as I appreciate the dinner invitation, I'm not in a position to stay.” I would not force Saffire to play the role of servant girl, out of sight and out of mind. I'd find out more about Ezequiel Sandoval at the next place, I was sure, and I didn't trust myself to stay long in Raquel's presence. Years and years and years had passed since a woman had had an impact on my emotions. If I reacted to those emotions, I would probably embarrass myself in front of a woman who would put me out of her mind as soon as I left her presence. “I hope you'll excuse me.”

“Of course.” Harding nodded to me.

I was standing now, my right hand on the back of my chair, my left hand holding my cowboy hat. I caught Amador's masked sneer, as if he believed I was a lesser man for rough clothing and lack of money, and believed that I believed it too and was making an escape. I thought of Raquel's irritation at Amador's attempt to command the conversation.

She
might forget me, but I was going to make sure that Amador did not.

“By the way,” I said to Raquel, still leaning on the chair. “I always enjoyed my time in London. Such a progressive city and such a progressive country and such a wonderful attitude toward the rights of women. My hope and guess is that because of suffrage there, the women will be able to vote within the decade. It makes me wonder how long it will take for the rest of the world to follow those footsteps of justice and bravery.”

Waldschmidt made a sound like he was coughing a hairball. Amador turned a stony expression toward the far wall. And Raquel gave me a warm smile with those perfectly curving lips.

All told, three perfect reactions.

“Ma'am.” I gave her a gentle salute as a metaphorical tip of my hat and walked away.

L
ater, in the dark of early morning, listening to the skittering of cockroaches as a captive in a squalid shack somewhere on the hillside above the Pacific, I would have hours to look back and try to understand the barroom brawl at the Coconut that put me in that place.

The blame rested on the shoulders of a diminutive man named Odalis Corillo, who had pushed a drunk off a barstool beside me and then climbed up to sit. Odalis pivoted toward me with his legs dangling above the dirt floor and introduced himself as a mayoral candidate beyond compare and declared that if he did not win the election, any hope of justice in the world would vanish.

Two hours earlier, Saffire had led me into Cacao Grove, a tumultuous ten square blocks of hotels, Chinese lottery shops, restaurants, dance halls, brothels, and saloons. Jammed with peddlers making way between carriages and horses, in this place, Saffire explained, the sound of gunshots would not disturb the serenity of bartenders polishing glasses. We went directly into the Coconut, one of dozens of drinking establishments. The dirt floor was no surprise to me, nor was the smell of stale beer and tobacco, nor the mixture of Panamanians and American laborers of all colors, singing bawdy songs in all pitches and notes. Had I been dressed for the National, I would have been sought out for a fight within minutes. But working men recognize other working men, and I blended in easily, even with Saffire staying close to my side and ensuring that the bartender delivered exactly what I ordered at the price that all the locals would be charged.

I spent the first two hours laughing at jokes delivered in broken English that I half understood, doing such a good job that soon enough the jokes were delivered to me in Spanish with much pantomime, and I'd laughed equally hard at those stories. I was impressed that the men respected Saffire's presence and ensured the jokes and stories were suitable for young ears.

After the displaced drunk had stumbled away, muttering curses, Odalis Corillo demanded that “Señor Vaquero Americano” buy him a beer for the privilege of listening to him answer any and all questions that Señor Vaquero Americano might have about Panama City in general, and about Ezequiel Sandoval in specific. I found it curious that Odalis mentioned Ezequiel Sandoval without prompting, for until the little man's arrival, not once had I mentioned the name or made inquiries about local politics. That's because upon first entering the Coconut, I decided it might serve my purposes better to be the jolly, large Americano happy to buy lager for anyone willing to sit with me in conversation. I wanted tongues to be well loosened by that beer before I began my questions.

The lager arrived for Odalis Corillo. Lemp's lager. Locally made, and warm. I had tasted worse.

As Odalis took his first gulps, lamplight threw shadows across his face, and his thick mustache threw shadows over his mouth. After tossing back far more than I guessed a little man could drink at one time without breath, Odalis used the end of his sleeve to dab at his mustache. For all the man's loose shirt revealed, I couldn't tell if he had a body of roped muscle or layers of fat.

“
Gracias,
Señor Vaquero Americano.” Odalis's gruff voice seemed odd for such a small figure, as if he deliberately projected sounds from a harsh part of his throat to make up for his lack of size.

“He is calling you ‘Mr. Cowboy American,' ” Saffire explained. She had just returned to me.

Odalis frowned. “I did not assume the girl was part of our conversation.”

“I am his guide,” Saffire said. “Don't ask him to contribute money for your campaigning.”

“This is so?” Odalis asked.

I shrugged. “With her in this city, I feel very safe.”

“I will not speak freely in front of her.”

Saffire wagged a finger at him. “Don't pretend you don't know me.”

Odalis squinted a closer look. “Oh. It's you.”

“And I will be very curious to hear what you intend to tell Mr. Holt about my tito,” Saffire said.

“Some things should not be discussed in front of children,” Odalis said. “Such as why Raquel Sandoval reached me with a note this evening and told me to search for the vaquero Americano.”

Saffire shook her head. “You can't trust Odalis. He is not what he appears to be.”

The man glared at Saffire. Her words hardly registered with me, though.

Raquel had sent someone to look for me?

I shrugged again, this time for Saffire's benefit. “A few minutes alone. I should be able to survive.”

Saffire breathed hard through her nostrils, a small dragon filled with fire, glaring first at me, then at Odalis. But finally she moved away to a different corner of the bar. I followed her with my eyes, worried about leaving her alone in this rough crowd. She found a chair in the corner and sat, arms crossed and back rigid. Nearby a man in a shambles of an old raincoat nursed a beer beneath the brim of his hat, as though he hated the world.

“Mayor?” I said. “When is the election?”

Odalis snorted. “Election? Hah. You mean the stuffing of the ballot box. I told you, there is no hope of justice in this world. But if I can secure the bribes necessary, perhaps in a month I will be mayor. Then, let me tell you, Panama City will never be the same.”

Odalis left the remainder of his beer untouched. I had been sipping at my one beer all evening, determined to keep a clear head. “Raquel sent you?”

“I am to answer your questions but to also find out the reason for your interest in her father.” Odalis leaned forward. “But why the rush to discuss these matters? A much more enjoyable subject is the señorita. She is something to behold, wouldn't you agree?”

I merely gave Odalis a level gaze, choosing not to dignify his leer with any kind of answer.

“You already have a woman? An evening or two with Raquel would not interest you?”

I didn't dignify that either.

“But even if you did have a woman”—Odalis rubbed his chin—“why would it matter when you are here in Panama? Who is there to know what you do in our fine city with our fine women?” Odalis's leers were getting tedious.

I pinned him with a bland look. “Tomorrow, I'm traveling home to be with my daughter. I'm afraid your fine women will have to make do with someone else.”

Odalis laughed. “I would be delighted to take your place. A man like me, I can make women weep with joy and—”

“The local politics. How about you tell me one beer's worth?”

“You are a serious man, it appears.”

“One who can afford to buy you a beer.”

“In that case, I will tell you it has been only a matter of years since Panama, once a province of Colombia, won independence by a revolution. I'm sure you're aware of that.”

“Backed by American naval ships that refused to let Colombian soldiers into the harbor. And the hills and jungle to the south were impossible for Colombian troops to cross, so that was all that was needed to defeat the local police.”

“It was a little more complicated than that,” Odalis said. “But you only want one beer's worth, so let me say that the Panamanian joy at American help in cutting loose from Colombia has soured after discovering the price we must pay for our so-called independence. Some families have grown richer because of it, including Señor Sandoval. Yet there are rumblings of rebellion among the next generation, who are impatient to take on the mantle of power in this small country. There has been talk among the younger aristocrats that Panama now needs to rebel against the Americans. Señor Sandoval's opposition to such talk has made him unpopular with that generation.”

“Including Amador?”

“Especially Amador, who sees himself as the next president of this republic. Why is it you have interest in Señor Sandoval?

“Easy enough to answer. It is the reason I stated at the hotel. I met Saffire in Culebra today. She asked me to help look for her mother.”

“But she did not give you what you needed to know about Señor Sandoval?”

“Only her perspective. As you said, she is a child.”

Odalis snorted. “That one? Give her ten years and she will run this city. She is everywhere and knows everybody.”

“Somehow, I did get that impression.”

When Winona was a toddler, I had an internal alarm that went off every thirty seconds if I did not know where she was. As she grew older, the internal alarm remained, but the interval lengthened. Now, at the ranch, I could go a decent time before reassuring myself of her location.

Though I could not explain it, I felt the same internal alarm about Saffire in the Coconut. Anyplace else, she would be old enough that I wouldn't have to worry about the equivalent of her falling in a water trough, something I'd constantly worried about when Winona was a toddler. But this wasn't anyplace else. I'd shuddered when letting Saffire step inside the Coconut with me.

I glanced at Saffire to confirm she was fine and, thus assured, turned my attention back to Odalis. “I have been told that her mother ran away with an American after stealing jewelry from Cromwell. Saffire insists that cannot be true, but the National Police won't help her look. Nor will the Zone police.”

“It is true. Señor Sandoval is a man of much influence. He is embarrassed that one of his servants behaved in such a manner. Perhaps had he not found a letter from the girl's mother, he might have looked for an alternate explanation, if only to preserve his own honor. As it is, however, he wants this forgotten as soon as possible.”

I turned my head again. The man with the shambles of a coat had disappeared, but Saffire had not moved from the chair. Nor had she relaxed her crossed arms or shifted her angry gaze from Odalis. I smiled inwardly. The man who one day married her would be a fool to ever upset her.

“Yet,” I said, “Saffire appears weekly at the administration building in Culebra to ask for help from the Americans. Señor Sandoval doesn't appear to have much influence over the girl's attempts to find her mother.”

“What is he to do, short of have her imprisoned or worse? His influence is money and power. Neither matters to Saffire. And it is well known that he has affection for the girl, as she was raised in his household from birth.”

“It seems more than that. She calls him
tito.
”

“I'm sure you've noticed by now that the girl lays claim with impunity to anything she wants. Señor Sandoval is very kind to his employees. Saffire has benefited.”

I didn't have a chance to comment because two men strode to Odalis and pushed him off the stool, taking his mug and dumping the remainder of his beer on his head.