Saffire

by Sigmund Brouwer

  I picked up my pace.

  The hack was farther down the road, smoking a cigarette. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Saffire had sent him there.

  “You followed me here?” I asked her.

  “I was in the villa.” Her voice seemed subdued, matching the droop of her shoulders. “I come and go as I please. Señor Vaquero Americano, this was not a good thing that you did, visiting like this.”

  “To look for your mother,” I said. “I want a conversation with your tito. Tell me how I can meet with him.”

  “That will not be possible. He is not in the city, but at his ranch.”

  “Then I will take you there.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Please go back to your hotel and then back to your country. I do not wish for you to look for my mother.”

  I examined her face.

  Arms still crossed, she lifted her chin.

  I gentled my tone. “We are alone. No one will hear this conversation. Why have you changed your mind?”

  “This is for you.” She handed me the package. Before I could open it, she spun and ran back to the villa.

  I watched until she was gone. What had caused her change in attitude? I studied the package—it was about the size and weight of a book. It was The Virginian, the copy that I had signed in pencil for her. All the pencil markings had been erased.

  I looked back at the villa, as if there would be an explanation forthcoming from the shuttered windows.

  Whatever the reason, she had effectively absolved me of any responsibility to her.

  Well, that was that. I’d done all I could—for the man who’d sent me to Panama, for Goethals, for my pride after the torture, and for Saffire. In the morning, I could, in good conscience, begin my journey home armed with a bank draft to save my ranch from foreclosure and the intent to live a quiet life with my daughter.

  A knock at the door woke me from restless sleep. I heard a rasping of paper—someone had slid a note under the door.

  I ignored it.

  From Goethals himself at the top, to Miskimon, Waldschmidt, and even Saffire, I was tired of webs of intrigue. Panama, either as a colony of Spain or a province of Colombia or as a newly independent country, had existed for those hundreds of years, with those pirates and gold runners and plantation owners all leaving ghosts of their interwoven desires and sins and ambitions across the land. I came from a dry and desolate land where men solved their disputes in barroom brawls.

  I closed my eyes and tried to fall back to sleep.

  I had no success.

  With a sigh, I padded across the luxurious suite and found the note. Back home, I would have had to light an oil lamp to read it. Here, with modern comforts, it would simply take the flick of a light switch.

  Was someone outside the hotel, watching, waiting for a glow from the window to tell them I had read the note? My first impulse was to go ahead, not caring whether I was observed.

  My second impulse was deception—an impulse that showed I had already fallen into the web. Still, caution might serve me better, so I moved into the windowless bathroom of the suite. Then, just before flicking on the light, I put a towel on the floor at the door to hide the light.

  Such was the power of the memory of the electric shock that had been applied to my body by hooded men.

  The note was simple: Please come down to the sea wall, where the avenue Federico Boyo meets the waters.

  Avenue Federico Boyo was a main thoroughfare, easy enough to find. I checked my watch. Already an hour past midnight.

  I should ignore the note. If someone wanted to talk to me, the daylight hours should suffice. At the least, the person should have the courtesy to sign the note.

  Practicality told me to get back into bed. The core of Panama City was a haven for pickpockets, prostitutes, con artists, and all the other desperate creatures of the night. Besides, I had already been dragged down once by an undercurrent. Why risk it again? Perhaps the National Police had decided to ensure I was alone in a place where I could be snatched back into a hut high in the hills.

  Yet one simple word I could not ignore: please.

  I began a convolution of looped thoughts. While adding please was not what one would expect on a deceptive note from National Police thugs, perhaps it was an artful attempt to fool me. Yet anyone who would try that kind of manipulation was intelligent enough to find other ways to successfully ambush me, so ignoring this note might lead to another attempt.

  I only had five hours left before checking out of the hotel. Safe in this suite, what harm could befall me? So why not remain in this haven?

  On the other hand, did I want to be like the fearful elderly woman, locked behind a door, startled at any noise in the night? And did this fearfulness prove that my moments in front of a generator with a clip to each ear had diminished me more than I wanted to admit?

  Should I respond to the note to show I was not afraid? Doing so would counter the advice from the pudgy policeman, putting my pride above the need to protect my daughter by ensuring she would have a father’s presence as she grew to be a woman.

  All the mental blathering made me weary. And irritated at myself.

  I put on my clothes and my boots and my hat and stepped outside the door. I wished my revolver was not in my valise, but with me instead.

  Warm, humid air and the scent of jasmine embraced me as I walked across the plaza. It was quiet, and when I reached the other side, I stayed in the center of the street. When I rounded the next corner, grateful for moonlight with enough intensity to throw shadows, a small figure stepped out of the alley.

  “Señor Vaquero Americano!”

  Odalis Corillo, the candidate for mayor. While I recognized him, I did not relax. Was anyone in Panama who they appeared to be?

  I stopped and waited, maintaining my position in the center of the street.

  Odalis hurried to me. “Come, come.” He took me by the elbow, leading me back toward the alley. “I’d rather we were not seen together.”

  “I’m happy here.” I removed his hand from my elbow. “How about telling me why our conversation can’t wait until morning?”

  “You leave in the morning. When would we have the opportunity?”

  I could have pursued how he knew my travel plans, but webs are essentially strands of a connected labyrinth. Learning how he knew still might not get me to the center—discovering who really plucked at all the webs.

  “Odalis, I’m tired and I need my sleep. Give me a reason why I shouldn’t turn around instead of going to the sea wall.”

  “First, let me thank you for saving me from a beating. You are a wonderful man and will always have my gratitude.”

  An idle part of my brain recalled Waldschmidt’s words: “Watch the mayoral candidate closely and see if you can figure out his secret. He is not much of a man. Some secrets are delicious, and it is all I can do to keep that one to myself.”

  “Odalis, if you truly are grateful, find Saffire and donate some money to her efforts to feed the street children.”

  “Yes! Yes!” He tried to pull me toward the alley again.

  “I’m tired and I need my sleep. Why shouldn’t I just go back to the hotel?”

  “First—”

  “You already said that.”

  “This first is in regard to the note,” he said with some dignity. “The sea wall is not our destination. That was only for anyone else who might read it and try to spy on you.”

  “Or in case I wanted to send others to follow me?”

  “Of course, of course. Now you are thinking like one of us.”

  I suspect it was intended as a compliment, but I didn’t take it as such. “Odalis, I’ll say this for the third time. I’m tired and need my sleep—”

  “It’s Raquel Sandoval. She wishes to meet with you.”

  I did not like it that Odalis had chosen to take me into the darkness of an alley.

  “No,” I said, one pace into the alley. It smelled of cat urine and ro
tting fruit.

  “It’s much shorter,” he answered.

  And a fine place to ambush someone. What, after all, did I know about Odalis? There were too many places for someone to step out, too easy to get trapped if someone guarded both entrances while we were halfway through.

  “No point in arguing,” I told Odalis.

  “Excellent.”

  By then, he was already speaking to my back, for I had turned back onto the street, the lighted entrance of the hotel behind us a reassuring landmark. In that movement, I caught a flash of motion among shadows at a storefront halfway between me and the hotel, so discreet I wondered if I had imagined it.

  Had someone been following? Was the promise of a meeting with Raquel just a way to lure me into danger?

  A more cautious man would have simply made a determined stride back to the hotel. But I could not resist the temptation to see Raquel, even though I would be out of this country before the next day’s sunset. So it was more than impulse that led me to the storefront—it was the need to know whether this was a trap or if I could believe Raquel actually wanted to spend time with me.

  I tempered that lack of caution, however, for I was not armed. So I crossed the street. If someone was in a doorway, distance would protect me from a knife. As for a pistol, it took a good shot to hit a man at forty or fifty feet. And anyway, had a follower wanted to shoot me, I wouldn’t be safe anywhere tonight.

  “Señor Holt,” Odalis called in a low voice, hurrying to stay with my long strides. “This way!”

  I ignored him as I walked on the opposite sidewalk, and I was proven correct about the motion of shadow when I saw someone in the doorway.

  Should I confront our follower? The decision was taken away from me as I heard a sprinkle against brick and realized whoever it was had decided to urinate, his back toward me. The sound carried clearly in the quiet of the night.

  When it stopped, the person staggered out of the doorway and began singing in a low voice. Spanish.

  By then, Odalis reached me.

  “I thought he’d followed us,” I said.

  “Bum,” Odalis sneered, even though the man was too far away to hear. “Drunk.” He took my arm. “If you don’t want the alley, we’ll do it your way then. But I can protect you anywhere in the city. You have nothing to fear, Señor Holt.”

  Her chosen spot was not where Avenue Federico Boyo ended at the sea wall but farther south, at a small peninsula with a beach hidden by palm trees. Odalis withdrew to a discreet distance, leaving Raquel and me alone on the narrow strip of sand at the water’s edge, but I was aware of his scrutiny.

  I had my hat off and in my hand. I could smell her perfume in wisps that were like tendrils in the fresh salt tang around us.

  “I was hoping we might chat,” I said. “Thank you for sending the children into the hut.”

  “No, forgive me, instead. I was the one who sent Odalis to talk with you last night, and I fear that’s what drew the National Police.”

  I gave that thought. “Will you explain why?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s talk then about Saffire’s mother. I’ve met the girl, you know. It appears there is no one to help her.”

  “That would involve speaking about my father, which is not something I wish to do either. Indeed, I speak to you with some reluctance, Mr. Holt, and I don’t wish to keep you long.”

  “It was somewhat unkind that you chose this time of night for it. It’s not a convenient walk back to the hotel, which is a lot of effort for a short conversation.”

  I couldn’t help myself. This was a feeble attempt at self-defense, for the same dizziness I’d felt upon meeting her was betraying me now.

  “It is this very inconvenience that I hope might keep you from disappearing as you have done almost immediately each time we’ve met, Mr. Holt.”

  “How about just Holt? James was my father’s name, and his father’s name as well. James Junior never set well with him, nor with me. Somewhere along the way, people just got accustomed to calling me Holt. I would be fine if you dropped the mister.”

  Tiny birds—in the Dakotas, I thought of them as sandpipers—ran up and down the sand, flashes of white in the light of the moon. The tide had recently retreated, and the sand was wet and packed.

  “Not curious about the reason for my reluctance?” She paused. “Holt?”

  “I can give you an answer that would irritate you.”

  “Try me,” she said.

  “Your reluctance is based on the impropriety of an unescorted woman engaging in conversation with a man at this time of night.”

  “Yes, that answer does irritate me,” she said. “How did you guess it would?

  “I believe a woman who stands for suffrage is a woman who doesn’t like being told what to do. Or being judged for her actions when men in the same situation are not.”

  “So this is an issue because I am of the gentler sex?”

  At the tinge of anger in her words, I snorted. “It’s my observation that women are much tougher than men. You are oversensitive. I believe few people of either gender like being told what to do.”

  I was rewarded with light laughter.

  “Fair enough. Are you chauvinistic enough to believe in this day and age that a conversation between the two of us is improper under these circumstances?”

  “For the sake of propriety, I assure you that I will fend off all but the most persistent of your advances.”

  “My advances?” She stepped back, her anger more than a tinge.

  “Because you are clearly sensitive to assumptions about gender, I didn’t want to offend you by suggesting we should expect the man in this situation to attempt something improper. After all, you’re the one who lured me here to be alone with you this late at night.”

  “Lured? Lured? If I don’t laugh, it’s because I’m doing my best to not be angry right now.”

  This was fun. Better her off balance than me. And I think she was accustomed to keeping men off balance. “Then I apologize. I’ve been told you shot your first husband. I think I’ll do my best not to offend you until I know whether it’s true.”

  She remained silent. I moved closer to the grass. I didn’t want my boots to get soaked with salt water.

  She followed.

  “Waldschmidt?” she asked. Then turned it into a statement. “Waldschmidt. He loves to gossip almost as much as Odalis.”

  “Yes. I learned this from Waldschmidt.”

  “My former husband threatened to whip me. He told me it was a man’s right to be master over his wife. As if I were some kind of beast of burden. I grabbed a pistol and told him it was a woman’s right to defend herself. The story is overblown, however. I was aiming at his foot and only hit his big toe. Not surprisingly, when I aimed higher and threatened to shoot again, he dropped the whip and didn’t resist the idea of divorce.”

  “Waldschmidt told me you shot him dead.”

  “My husband was very much alive and astounded. Waldschmidt lies because Waldschmidt loves intrigue.”

  “I don’t, but I will point out that this seems to be going rather well, given your stated reluctance to engage in conversation.”

  “The logical thing for you to do is ask me why I have that reluctance.”

  “And give you the satisfaction of making me the supplicant when you are the one who initiated this rendezvous?”

  The breeze was capricious. One moment it would bring her perfume, and the next, snatch it away. Dizzy as she made me, I felt an impunity. Since we would never meet again, what did I have to lose?

  “I had illusions that you were a gentleman of sorts, despite your cavalier attitude toward your appearance. Such a comment suggests otherwise.”

  I had no hesitation in my answer. “If you believe a gentleman’s character is based on clothing, then congratulations on your engagement to Mr. Amador.”

  She giggled. “Did you just say that?”

  “Petty, I agree. But it was a satisfying remark,
at least from my perspective.”

  “Well, he is one of the reasons I’m here.”

  “Ah, so he suggested we meet me in the moonlight, on a beach, beneath palm trees? I’m surprised. He struck me as the possessive type.”

  She was silent again, waiting perhaps to see if I had anything to add to my statement. But when she spoke, I realized it was a silence to gather her thoughts. “I doubt he would approve of the time and location of this conversation, but I am my own woman.”

  My resulting silence was of the former, and I was rewarded as she continued.

  “My fiancé is among those who suggested I should be the one to learn more about you. The group consensus was that you might not be guarded around a woman. No one wanted to say it, but you do have a chivalrous air. What I found interesting was that none of the men wanted to state the obvious, which was that there is something dangerous about you too. Except for Mr. Miskimon. At lunch today, Odalis managed to convince Mr. Miskimon to betray the fact that you have a knife scar on your shoulder from a Sioux warrior. Mr. Waldschmidt nearly brayed his delight and begged for more stories, but that was all that Mr. Miskimon revealed about you to us.”

  “I’m surprised he said that much. Mr. Miskimon, much as I might not like him, strikes me as a very discreet man.”

  Raquel laughed. “Poor Mr. Miskimon is like a cat on hot coals around Odalis. Odalis and I share a secret that I think you would find amusing.”

  “You have no reason to trust me with a secret, but I am curious.”

  “Does that make you a supplicant?”

  “Not curious enough to ask.”

  More of her laughter. It was addicting.

  “Let’s trade secrets. You tell me the story about the Sioux warrior, and I’ll tell you about Odalis. I promise it will be worth your while. What harm could there be in exchanging confidences?”

  “How about instead you explain your reluctance to speak to me. You’ve already admitted that you’ve been sent by the group.”

  “It is based on the group assumption that I should use womanly wiles to learn about you, something I resented. So while I agreed that I would ask you our questions, I’ve decided, without group permission, not to try to hide behind coquettish conversation and instead be blunt and explain that I am asking it on behalf of the group. Why are you in Panama asking about my father?”