The Laughing Falcon (51 page)

“You gents studying for your anatomy exams?”

One looked away, flustered. Another nervously fiddled with his camera strap. The third was cockier; he dove into the pool, surfacing near her table. “I felt a sudden need to cool off,” he said. “By the way, I’m giving body-surfing lessons at the beach today.”

“I might just take you up on that.”

As he floated off, grinning at his friends, she turned to an inside page, where she read the welcome news that a stouthearted judge in San José, critical of the charges against Slack, was proposing to release him on bail of a hundred colones: about thirty cents. This newspaper was a day old, so the judge’s offer may already have been acted upon. She had passed on a message through Mr. Carazo, his lawyer, that she was at Villas Bongo, so she expected him to call soon.

She felt a hand touch her, and whirled. “Lady Godiva,” said her mother. “I’ve seen shoelaces wider than that.”

Maggie joined her and Woodrow at their table. “This sure beats packing bags of fertilizer from Lenore Feed and Lumber,” he said, gazing at the pool, at the smiling crescent beach behind it. “Ten below, that’s what the mayor of Saskatoon just told me.”

Her parents were running interference for her from press and politicians. Mayor, premier, prime minister, all had been on the phone to Villas Bongo. Among the many reporters who had travelled here to seek and be refused an interview was Ed Creeley. “Chuck’s going to walk — you watch,” he had told her. “Best way to cover up truth is bury the witness; he’s probably snuffed Jericho by now.”

Woodrow informed her the mayor had proclaimed this coming Saturday as Maggie Schneider Day: a downtown parade, a civic banquet, a symbolic key to the city.

“Dad, did you tell him I would go along with that? It’s too camp, I would only be embarrassed. Tell him I’m staying until Slack is out.”

“He got himself sprung,” Woodrow said. “Mayor Hrawchuk saw it on the TV this morning; hundreds at the prison gates to greet him.”

“Including a flock of young ladies, by the way,” said Beverley.

Maggie stayed in the ocean for most of the morning, learning to body surf, enjoying the attentions of three medical students while avoiding Paula d’Annunzio, whom she could see waiting for her at the restaurant. But after Maggie and her friends stretched out in the shade of almond trees, the lawyer made her way down to the sand. There was always a prickly edge to these sessions.

Maggie made introductions. “Paula’s a federal prosecutor, so watch out; she specializes in the innocent.”

D’Annunzio advised the men to go for a swim and stared them coldly into compliance. “Your other college friend, Buho, has surfaced in Havana. I would guess the rest of the bunch are with him.”

“Good for them.”

“Have you heard from Cardinal? We thought he might attempt to seek you out.”

“He hasn’t.”

“Well, we have added his name to the missing. He didn’t check into a hotel room reserved for him.”

“Probably because he didn’t want to be kidnapped back to the U.S.A. Or assassinated by Walker’s Rangers. Tell me honestly, Paula, who’s behind the charges against Slack — Walker’s friends in the CIA? The Ticos don’t want to proceed; they’re totally embarrassed.”

“Will you promise to call me at the embassy if he makes contact?”

“I’ll promise to think about it.”

For the next few days Maggie resisted the temptations of beach and pool, wading instead in paper, entering her ten weeks of
notes into her computer. Creativity was blocked only when Slack Cardinal shambled into her thoughts. Again, she phoned his lawyer. Again, Señor Carazo patiently explained that Slack had yet to make contact with his office; he sounded put out at his client.

Maggie Schneider Day was looming, Beverley fielding increasingly urgent calls. From Saskatoon: “Mayor Hrawchuk again, dear, begging, he’s prostate at your feet.” From the Canadian Embassy: “They’ve got us three seats in first class. You have to decide.”

Maggie stared glumly from her taxi at the frozen landscape. Erratic gusts lifted snow from flat fields, creating white whirlwinds; although the sun was bright in a cloudless sky, the temperature was a glacial fifteen below. She could weather the weather, but would she have the strength tomorrow to survive Maggie Schneider Day?

A celebration at CSKN was also on the agenda for this evening. The station manager, J. A. Wilkie, had been among the welcoming party at the airport and had offered three months’ leave: “Full pay, no problem.”

Her parents had been picked up by Uncle Ralph in his truck; her mother’s home would be brimming with relatives: her three brothers, grandparents, cousins from Regina. A visit to Lake Lenore seemed mandatory; the town was also planning a welcome. After that, she would hide from the world, bury herself in work: she was facing a fall delivery deadline for her book.

The downtown lights were switching on and the traffic rush was beginning. She gazed out at the western sky: cold and brittle slants of yellow light from a sun crawling to the horizon; in Costa Rica it dived. She remembered trying to explain
snow to Tayra; how could that seem such an elusive concept?

From a bridge spanning the South Saskatchewan River, she could see her apartment. How many winter hours had she spent staring from her window at this curling ice-choked river? For year after tedious year, she had impatiently awaited spring break-up, the joyful sound of gnashing, rushing ice. Was there sunshine in Quepos today? Was it raining in Limón?

Unbidden came the image of Slack Cardinal standing at the railing of the canal house, announcing his fairly heavy thing. She had not acted on her urge to embrace him; it was one of those moments not seized that could haunt one forever.

They were to have gone birding. He had promised to show her what was left of beauty.

Eye on the City
was on air but wrapping as she walked into the main studio, where she shook hands and exchanged whispered greetings with co-workers. Behind a huge cake on the set of
The Happy Homemaker Show
was a banner: “Welcome Home, Maggie.” Roland Davidson was summing up today’s headline stories, the lead item being “our very own Maggie Schneider” returning home “after her two-month ordeal in the untamed jungles of Central America.”

He was staring at the prompter, and hadn’t noticed her yet. “Shock waves are buffeting Washington following Senator Chuck Walker’s surprise second-place showing in the New Hampshire primary. And, finally, a five-billion-dollar wheat deal with China has collapsed — hard times ahead for the prairie grain belt.”

Roland turned to Frieda Lisieux. “Well, Frieda, pretty chilly out; we’re still in the dog days of winter.”

She shivered theatrically. “I’ll say. Look for twenty-five below tonight, maybe creeping up to minus ten tomorrow.”

Roland looked at the clock and snipped her off. “Lots of sun, though, so get out there, and …” Catching sight of
Maggie, he stammered, “And, ah, get out to that parade and give Maggie a big Schneider — I mean a welcome. Going to be there, Art?”

“Sure thing, Roland. By the way, I thought the dog days were always in summer.”

“Have a good night, everyone.”

The lights dimmed, and an air of embarrassment settled in. J. A. Wilkie stared uncomfortably at a Chef Boyardee commercial on the monitors; a control room engineer was stifling laughter.

“Give her a big
Schneider?”
Art Wolsely guffawed as he headed to the drinks table.

The studio doors opened and Maggie’s co-workers poured in; Roland hid his chagrin by leading the applause, and then bussed her on the cheek. “I don’t know how many times I’ve said ‘our very own Maggie Schneider’ on the air.”

“Makes me feel like someone’s possession.”

Wilkie made an effusive welcoming speech, and they all raised their glasses to her. Maggie was surrounded by well-wishers, and began to feel smothered.

“Great tan, you look gorgeous.” Frieda Lisieux seized Maggie by the arm. “Let’s hit the powder room.”

As she made her way there, Maggie was feeling slightly woozy – she had drunk more than she ought to – but, miraculously, did not stumble when she caught her feet in a bundle of power cords.

“I want all the dirt,” Frieda said. “Fess up, did you do it with Halcón?”

“It? How do you do an it, Frieda?”

“Come on, you know what I mean. What about the guy who saved your life?”

“I still owe him a big kiss.”

“You
owe
him? Jeez,
I’d
have given him something to remember me by.”

Maggie’s stomach began to heave.

I
t was mid-afternoon of a stifling day when Slack pulled into Panama City in a taxi held together with baling wire. His flight had been depressing, haze rising from slash-and-burn fires, his malaise exacerbated by a pounding head. But he had declined the offers of smiling flight attendants with their drink trolleys. He was quitting forever again today.

He had earned his thick head the hard way, a three-day blowout, maybe four, not counting time in the joint. The guards had been proud to have him, supportive, sneaking him bottles. Once on freeside, he’d hidden in a burg called Piedades, not far from the airport, a well-stocked rental unit, Frank Sierra had secured it for him. This morning, Frank had spirited him to the airport and to his plane.

The jouncing taxi ride caused a literal pain in the butt. This key part of his anatomy had also been the butt of jokes, Ham Bakerfield barely able to restrain his glee during his visits to the keep. Slack had asked about his fee, his signed contract for three hundred thousand dollars. Ham had shook his head sadly, Walker’s cheque hadn’t cleared.

Maybe he should’ve taken his cut at the scene of the crime. But he could stand the hassle, the bounced reward, the Mickey Mouse charges, being served up as the centrepiece of an international charade. What laid him truly low was the silent rebuff
he had received from Maggie Schneider. What a look of despair had come over her as he stammered out his inane confession of love.

She had run off and hidden, a ritzy resort on the Nicoya Peninsula. Two days ago, she’d flown back to Canada, he’d seen her on the news, bundled up, waving to greeters, letting everyone see there’s still beauty in the world.

There wasn’t much of it on this crowded so-called freeway, exhaust fumes fouling the air, the road fenced with billboards to hide the slums. Colonial Panama had been a grand city, cathedrals and palaces, opulent mansions, warehouses of gold, a bustling slave market. Now it looked gutted, greasy repair shops, junkyards, broken pavement.

The squalor and potholes vanished as they entered the banking district. Panama held only two classes, poor thieves and rich thieves, and here was where the latter worked and schemed, Via España, the up-market commercial area with its smart shops and bank towers gleaming in the sun.

He paid off the taxi at the door of one of them, Banco Anglo Colombiano, a shiny new building, glass and brass, an upscale Mafia money laundry. He strode through the wash of cold air, past the armed guards to an information desk, where he was told that Señor Mendez sees no one without an appointment. Halcón’s man in Panama threw heavy weight around here.

“I
have
an appointment.” He had phoned Mendez this morning, a brief, cautious conversation.

The information officer wrote down his name, hunkered over a telephone, hurriedly returned to him, apologized for having seemed rude, and directed him to an elevator.

On the seventeenth floor, he was led through a maze of busy computer stations into a large office with a massive desk, a gentleman in banker’s stripes rising from it with a wide smile and outstretched hand.

“Señor Cardinal, it is with great pleasure I greet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Señor Mendez.”

A warm handshake. “We hope you will retain the funds in this institution, you will not find better rates. Safe and discreet, Mr. Cardinal, that is our motto.”

Slack puzzled over the bank statement Mendez showed him. In the absence of some clerical mistake, it would appear half a million dollars was sitting in an account in his name.

“Our mutual friend was very generous,” Slack said.

Mendez smiled. “My sources tell me the funds were actually wired here by his companion as a small gesture for saving her life.”

“I pray they are well.”

“They are in fine health, enjoying, I believe, a fresh mountain climate.”

“Please pass on my regards to them.”

Slack took a long siesta in a comfortable hotel room, getting up as evening approached, in a more buoyant mood after his encounter with the genial Señor Mendez. He had drawn fifty thousand dollars, and before leaving his room he stuffed it in his belt-bag along with his lock-pick kit.

Downstairs, in the lobby, he bought a newspaper before heading out past the ruins of the ancient city, along Panama Bay, through Chinatown. The sky was paling into darkness by the time he arrived at the nipple-shaped peninsula of San Felipe. This tiny fortified butt of land, Casco Viejo, it was called, the old compound, rewarded an evening’s stroll, narrow streets, post-colonial architecture, cast-iron balconies, a palette of pastel hues.