Saffire

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Sioux warrior,” I said.

  “I didn’t ask,” Miskimon answered.

  I kept a firm grip on my towel at my waist and returned to the bathroom, shutting the door and turning the lock on it, hoping the click was audible to Miskimon.

  I returned to my shaving, then paused, razor in hand. I nearly opened the door again to warn Miskimon not to eat any of the breakfast or drink any of my coffee. That’s what I would have done if the situation were reversed—helped myself to the food. But I realized Miskimon wouldn’t stoop to that kind of juvenile pettiness.

  When I finished shaving, I considered whether to try to ease myself into the hot water. It would give me pleasure to make the fastidious man outside wait for as long as I could endure the soak. I’d even make him listen to some bawdy songs while I lathered and splashed.

  But a quick dip of my fingers into the bathwater told me I’d have to wait too long for it to cool enough to be bearable. If only I’d been smart enough to bring my breakfast tray into the bathroom. Now my choices were to step outside again or wait until the water cooled.

  I looked into the mirror to wipe away all traces of lather, put on a bathrobe, cinched the waistband, and stepped outside.

  Miskimon was standing in the center of the suite, hands behind his back, with a military squareness to his shoulders.

  “I was afraid you’d still be here.” I moved past Miskimon to the far edge of the suite, where the breakfast tray had been set on a small round dining table. The suite had more area than my ranch house. I’d have to make sure I put that description in my journal for Winona.

  The events of the evening before? Definitely not.

  I took the coffeepot and poured a cup. I almost offered a cup to Miskimon, but I was too angry at the man.

  I walked to the window that overlooked the balcony and sipped my coffee as I stared at the Pacific, my back to my visitor.

  He said, “Normally I find it distasteful to mix metaphors.”

  What? I turned. The day before, I’d felt tolerant of the prissy man. No longer. “I expect you find most things in this world distasteful.”

  Miskimon pointed at the bed and all the new clothes that had been laid out for me. “This makes it obvious that for someone who seems to prefer living like a lone wolf, after a rough night, you certainly know how to land on your feet like an alley cat. You really expect the ICC to pay for all this?”

  “I’m in no mood to talk to you, let alone respond to some kind of implied scorn. I presume you have a reason for illegally entering a private room in a private hotel?”

  “There is the fact that you have requested that the hotel bill the ICC for all charges, which makes it a room I have full rights to enter.”

  “If the ICC doesn’t cover the bill, I know a newspaper person who’d find the backstory interesting.”

  “You’re going to play it that way?”

  “Already have. Thought that billing it to you and Goethals would get you here plenty fast. And look, it did.”

  “Where were you last night?” Miskimon said.

  “More important, where were you?” I had no problem matching his scorn and anger. “The true alley cat here is the one who went slinking away when the real trouble arrived.”

  “Hardly. Real trouble is an unarmed man against another with a pistol and yet another with a knife. Let me try to recall if someone like that was there to rescue you last night in such a situation. Give me a moment. Ah. Yes. That would have been me. Keeping in the spirit of metaphors, let’s examine if alley cats ever show much gratitude to those who help them.”

  “Gratitude? It doesn’t take much effort to knock a man out from behind or to hit another man twice when his arms are pinned to the wall. Am I supposed to thank you for that? Or for spying on me?”

  “Odalis at least did his best to protect the girl. Saffire. The one who worships you. Try to recall the girl. You simply disappeared and let the police arrest both of them.”

  I went back to the coffeepot because that would keep me from trying to strangle Miskimon. I spoke as I walked, making an effort to sound casual. “That just shows the extent of your commitment to any real fight. Had you stuck around, you would have learned a little more.”

  “Where were you throughout the night? Were you able to put the revolver to good use?”

  I poured coffee. The roast of the beans was excellent. I should have expected that. I was surrounded by lush plantations. Whatever coffee made it to the desolation of the Dakotas certainly wasn’t like this.

  “The revolver,” Miskimon said. “Is it in the bathroom?”

  “You searched my suite. Then concluded I didn’t have it in the bathroom. Not many gunfights where I’m from involve cowboys throwing towels at each other.”

  “Where did you leave it?”

  “You know it’s in Culebra, in the valise that I gave you for safekeeping.” I paused. “The valise is safe? Tell me you didn’t find a way to be incompetent about that too. It is safe, right?”

  “In the Zone, at least away from the construction sites, safety is not an issue. I meant the revolver that was used to threaten you last night before—”

  “—before you so boldly snuck up behind a man and dropped him with a mighty blow from a wine bottle? No, I don’t have that revolver.”

  “It might have told us something about the person who sent those two.”

  I took a few steps toward him. “I had a lot of time last night to wonder about that. Time to wonder why you’d decided not to bother to watch my back after my arrest. I wondered why, right after the fight, you were so quick to ask if anyone knew those men.”

  “They first punched Odalis. Not you.”

  “So you’re trying to get answers because you were there last night to protect him? Strange coincidence, then, that I was in the same place as Odalis.”

  Miskimon pulled out a handkerchief and removed his glasses and polished them.

  As he put the glasses back on with his customary flick, I said, “If you want to know about my night, how about you tell me first how and why you disappeared. It would have been helpful for you to stick around after sending me out with questions about Ezequiel Sandoval. Questions that I’m guessing you expected would put my head into the jaws of a lion.”

  Miskimon gave me a long, long stare. Then he stepped closer and made no secret that he was examining my face. We were barely two feet apart. I lifted my coffee cup and slurped, guessing that it would irritate the man. His eyes moved to my ears. I resisted the urge to rub the small fresh scabs on my ear lobes.

  Miskimon stepped back. “So. You met the lion.”

  “Not a lion, but the lion? I’m not in a mood to answer where I was last night. Whatever you know about all this is a lot more than I know. And you knew a lot more than I did when you put me on the train yesterday afternoon.”

  “What happened last night? This is important.”

  “I went for a long leisurely stroll. I composed poetry. Studied the stars. What did you do when the National Police arrived right after the fight?”

  “Avoiding arrest took no effort, as you might guess. All it took to blend in was wearing that hideous coat. I threw it under a table. It was no sacrifice to lose it as I went out of the bathroom window.”

  “Difficult, isn’t it, being a slave to fashion? Where I come from, other things are more important. Like sticking with a fight when your partner is in trouble. Not that you and I are, or ever will be, partners.”

  Miskimon seemed oddly subdued. “I didn’t want to get arrested. It would have been politically embarrassing, and it would have led to questions that would have reflected badly on Colonel Goethals.”

  If Miskimon’s anger toward me was lessening, the opposite was happening with mine toward him. I set my cup down on the table to keep from striking out at the man. “If only I could come up with an animal metaphor capable of conveying the scorn your excuse deserves. No wait. Give me a moment. Ah. Yes. I’ll give you a hint. It has no legs and it
slithers. Let’s go with that animal metaphor.”

  I wanted Miskimon to lash back. I wanted a roaring shouting match. The night before, I’d humiliated myself with my fear.

  I’d discovered I was a lesser man than I believed myself to be.

  “I’m sorry,” Miskimon said. “Sorry to you. Last night at the Coconut when the National Police arrived, as I weighed those factors, I also made the evaluation that if I was arrested with you, then I wouldn’t be in a position to bail you out of the jail. I thought you would be safe in jail, like Odalis was with Saffire. While I was there within the half hour, I wasn’t allowed to reach a judge until early morning to bail them out. The rest of the night, I spent looking for you. I apologize I wasn’t there to prevent whatever happened to you.”

  So he accepted that I had a right to be angry. Normally, that would have appeased me. But I still wanted that shouting match. “Convenient that you couldn’t find me then. Yet now, when the most danger you face is tripping on a carpet, you magically appear? Hang on, I have the answer. Because the ICC is concerned about a hotel bill.”

  “An hour ago, when the hotel called the administration office to confirm whether we would be responsible for the charges, I first assumed that your night had been much easier than mine. I was wrong.”

  If that was true, the man didn’t deserve my continued anger.

  “I’m tired of this,” I said. “I’m just plain tired. I want to take a bath. Then sleep for a few hours. How about you go your way and I go mine? Later today, I’ll find you in Culebra. We can have a civilized discussion then.”

  “If I can believe you accept my apology. Had I known or guessed the lion was ready to spring so quickly, I wouldn’t have been complacent. You fought a man with a knife to defend Odalis, and I am forced to admire that. Believe me that I am sincere in my apology. Not that I intend any kind of partnership with you.”

  After a long silence of my own to evaluate Miskimon, I guessed that this admission and apology had not been easy for him.

  “I was glad you were there when you were,” I conceded. “Best way to handle a man with a revolver is to hit him in the side of his head from behind.” I extended my hand.

  Miskimon blinked.

  I held out my hand for another few seconds, but Miskimon didn’t take it to shake on the mutual apologies.

  “We do come from different places.” I couldn’t rekindle any anger at the snub. I was just tired and wanted to be alone. “I’d be fine if you left now.”

  Miskimon blinked again and opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. He squared his shoulders once more. “I don’t see that we’ll need to meet again in Culebra. Colonel Goethals no longer requires anything of you. Stop at the administration office and ask for his secretary to give you your valise. I’ll arrange a ticket for you on the steamer that leaves at noon tomorrow. Stay here tonight and check out in the morning.”

  “Suddenly not so curious about the two men in the bar and who sent them?”

  “It would be best if we went our separate ways.”

  “Sure. Make sure the door doesn’t hit you on the way out.”

  That gave Miskimon some of his previous attitude. “First, I’ll need the police badge.”

  And his tone brought me back to a degree of irritation. “Let me guess. You couldn’t find it in my room or my valise yesterday afternoon, after you put me on the train and searched all my items for yourself because you didn’t trust the report of the detective on the steamer? And you didn’t find it in here during your search while I was running water in the bathroom?”

  “I am thorough. I have no choice.”

  “I trust you did not open my journal in the valise.” I didn’t want Miskimon to know anything of my personal life.

  “I won’t dignify that question with an answer. I’d like the police badge. I don’t know why you’d take it out of the Zone. It’s worthless metal here.”

  “I lost it last night.” I was angry enough again to be petty. The badge was now in my boot beside the bathtub. “When you find the guys who started the fight in the bar, why don’t you ask them if they know where it went?”

  “I understand your irritation, but petulance doesn’t become you.”

  “Anything else before you go, Mr. Miskimon?” I enunciated the mister and the Miskimon with exact formality and caught enough of a flicker on Miskimon’s face to know he understood the full use of his name had been meant as an insult.

  “No.”

  “Then I have hot water waiting for me. For some reason, I feel the need to be cleansed. Why don’t you find your own way out.”

  I didn’t wait for an answer and walked the length of the suite to go into the bathroom.

  When I came out to dress after a half hour in the bathwater, I found my cowboy hat on the bed.

  I had been promised I would find the Panama Star & Herald building only a few blocks away, between the hotel and the Pacific. And so I did. Easily. The walk from the hotel, directly into a sea breeze that cooled the sweat on my face, took a matter of minutes. The building looked squat, a square two-story with a second-floor balcony all the way around.

  Even from the street, I heard the clatter of typewriters. The Panama Star & Herald was the only English newspaper in the city and did a wonderful business, I had been told.

  Inside, it seemed as much a whirlwind of movement as I’d glimpsed of the dig at Culebra. I finally had to grab a man’s elbow to stop him long enough to ask a question. The answer was to go to a street café, and it came with a point in the general direction.

  I found Earl Harding there, at one of the three tables on the sidewalk, protected by an awning. He had a cup of coffee, an egg dish smeared with red spices, and a newspaper folded to keep it stiff enough to read with one hand.

  “Cowboy,” he said as I sat across from him without an invitation. “Rough night?”

  Who in Panama City didn’t know I had been rough-handled by the National Police? “I’ve had worse.”

  “You’re buying breakfast.” He raised a hand and made a little circle with his index finger.

  A waiter immediately delivered coffee. I took a grateful sip.

  “Read the rag?” He tapped the folded paper on the edge of the table before setting it down. “Big week for Teddy.”

  “The Great White Fleet,” I said.

  Roosevelt believed that America’s naval power was crucial to its future. That was how he’d sold the United States on the Panama Canal. In ’98, during the Spanish-American War, the US Pacific Fleet had to travel around South America to reach Cuba, barely arriving in time for crucial military action. Roosevelt argued that the canal was for the navy to protect American interests, that in a future crisis, a canal would make for speedy travel. He was correct, of course. The navy that controlled the canal essentially controlled the western Atlantic and the eastern Pacific, up and down all the Americas.

  The Great White Fleet was another bold Roosevelt action. He’d dispatched sixteen of the US Navy battleships from the Atlantic Fleet to go on what he called a goodwill tour of the world. No one was fooled. It was an open exhibition of American might, and with hulls painted white, with red, white, and blue banners on the bows, the ships had earned their nickname. Just last week, the Suez Canal had been closed to all traffic except the fleet, generating headlines and editorial opinions.

  “Roosevelt.” Harding grimaced. “What a blow-hard. ‘Speak softly and carry a big stick’? He hasn’t spoken a soft word in his life.”

  He waited, probably to see if I would disagree with him. I just sipped my coffee.

  “Anyway,” Harding said, “that’s old news. Don’t know how we ran this business before the telegraph. First, on Saturday, Colombia finally voted to recognize Panama’s independence. That should make Teddy happy. Except the day before, back in the States, the House of Representatives just voted to have him censured. Win some, lose some.”

  “Censured? I didn’t read that in the paper today.”

&nb
sp; “The Star & Herald tends not to be critical. At least when it comes to Roosevelt. They wouldn’t dream of publishing the story. Without the canal, this place is just another backwater town.”

  “Censured,” I repeated. “Roosevelt?”

  “I find that so ironic. Apparently the fine elected men of the House are a tiny bit upset that in his annual address to Congress last year, Roosevelt stated that there were criminals in the legislative branch.”

  Harding used the edge of his fork as a knife and cut into the egg. He took a bite that was delicate for a tall man, chewed slowly, swallowed, and chased it with coffee, then gave me a tight smile.

  “It’s what provides a living for me. All those elected criminals and their friends. As I explained last night, the World has sent me down here on an all-expense-paid vacation to dig into Cromwell’s dealings on the isthmus. But I’m finding as little as I found in Paris. Cromwell’s got too much influence. That’s what you’re buying me breakfast for, right? An angle on Cromwell?”

  When I didn’t respond, he pointed at my ears. “Odalis is a wonderful gossip. It’s not a huge stretch to guess that when you indiscriminately asked about Ezequiel Sandoval, Cromwell would learn immediately and feel like you were asking about him. Last night’s political lesson wasn’t enough?”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Yet here you are, asking questions of the one person in Panama whom Cromwell is certain to be watching as closely as he watches every outgoing penny from his bank account.”

  “Haven’t asked you any questions,” I said.

  “I expect them, though. Why else would you be here?”

  “To poke a stick in the eye of whoever played with my ears last night.”

  Harding looked at me for long moments, as if reevaluating me. “I like surprises, and this is a nice surprise. We don’t have to talk about a single thing of value, and you’ve already used me and squeezed me dry because we’ll have been seen together talking, and it will be assumed you have given me information that I can use. Or that you asked indiscreet questions. I have to admire that kind of sneakiness.”