“Ever come here? To Nicaragua?”
I casually looked away. “No.”
“How’d you get to Bimini?”
“When I left, I wandered some. Eventually, I found myself on a shrimp boat headed for Bimini, where I gutted a hurricane shack and began working with an old man to make specialized wooden skiffs. We built about two a year.”
“You work with wood?”
A nod. “I do seem to possess some talent there.”
“Well, aren’t you just a Renaissance man.”
“Not too sure about that.” I wasn’t comfortable talking about me, so I tried to speed the conversation along. “From there, I began guiding people fishing for—”
“You’re also a fishing guide?”
“It’s not too difficult in Bimini. The fish are rather predictable.”
“You’re starting to get interesting.”
“I met my current business partner when he came to fish. He told me his family owned an import business, and if I ever wanted or needed a job, he’d put me to work. So Colin put me in charge of import logistics and transport. Primarily acquisition and delivery.”
“Wow, listen to you with the big words.” She was smiling now. “What did you import?”
“Primarily wine and spirits. Lately, he’s been moving into olive oil.”
“Ever been married?”
“No.”
“Why?” She smiled. Playing with me. Growing more comfortable. “You seem likable enough. You wear deodorant, trim your fingernails, not too much stuff hanging from your teeth.”
I rubbed my front teeth on my shirt. “Can we talk about you a while?”
“But you were just starting to get interesting.”
“I’m afraid the interesting part is over.”
“And your friend, Zaul?”
There was more to her question. “What about him?”
“What kind of kid is he?”
“He’s had a cell phone and a credit card since he could crawl. His parents have, admittedly, enabled him so he knows next to nothing about responsibility. He’s also grown up around the überwealthy and social elite so he has a skewed view of reality.”
“Sounds like a bad recipe.”
I pointed at San Cristóbal smoking in the distance. “Yep.”
“Why’d he come here?”
“I’m not sure, other than they own a home in Costa Rica and he knows the surf.”
“Why’d they send you? Why not his dad?”
“You sure do ask a lot of questions.”
She smiled. Beautiful white teeth that filtered laughter with nothing to hold it down. The tension here was to satisfy her without giving up too much or getting too close to the truth. “When he left, his sister, Maria, was in the hospital. He feels responsible for her being there. He thinks his parents feel that way, too.”
“Is he?”
“Ultimately, no. But that’s why I’m here, because his father wouldn’t be able to convince him of that.”
“Can you?”
A shrug. “Don’t know, but my chances are better than Colin’s. If anyone has Zaul’s ear, it’s me, but that’s a big if.”
“One more question?”
“Sure. You seem to be on a roll.”
I had a feeling she’d been baiting me, asking me a bunch of questions until she got to the one that mattered—the one she’d been wanting to ask me for a few days. Her eyes told me this was it. “When you find him, how do you know he’s going to let you take him home?”
It was a good question and I’d been asking it myself. “I don’t.”
Her eyes didn’t change. “And yet you’re here anyway.”
It was a question posed as a statement. “Yes.”
“What motivates a man to do something when he knows he’s got almost zero chance of succeeding?”
I answered, hoping she accepted it. “I love the kid.” She did not.
“I bet his dad does, too.” She paused. Considering me. “If I knew you better, I’d say there was something you’re not telling me.”
She was a good reader of people, and she was reading me like a book. There was a tenderness to her that drew me. More than that, I liked being known, and for the first time in my life, I was known by another. I’m not saying I liked what she knew about me, not proud of the bits and pieces, but somehow she was standing inside my skin and yet I didn’t experience shame at her reflection. I feigned. “Have to try.”
I don’t know if I satisfied her or gave rise to more questions, but for the rest of the ride back, she eyed me, studying my face and saying nothing more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
We returned to the casa in time to pick up Isabella from school. Paulo and I quickly loaded up and returned to the well, where he patted me on the back and once again dropped me in the hole with a smile that spoke volumes. Before I kicked my feet loose, suspending myself over the hole, a crowd had gathered. Kids. Old folks. And it’d grown. Paulo said, “Word spread. Gringo digging Alejandro’s well.”
I worked through the afternoon, robotically filling buckets and driving the hammer down into the mud and rock as deeply as I could in such a tight space with limited swing arc. My headlamp was growing dim. As was I. Between the sugarcane, the heat, and this well, I was tired.
Around dinner—or to be more honest when I couldn’t lift that hammer one more time—I tugged twice and Paulo lifted me to the top, where he patted me on the back approvingly. It’d been a good day. I’d dug another twelve feet.
After dinner, Paulo gave me the information I’d requested and even told me he’d been able to secure my seat at the table. I didn’t speak with Paulina before I left, knowing that her look of disapproval would affect my ability.
I arrived in León forty-five minutes later and hunted around until I found the restaurant where the game was played. La Playa was an upscale restaurant in León. White tablecloths. Waiters with starched shirts. The works. The restaurant had a private room around back entered via a staircase. I parked the bike just below the stairs and noticed Colin’s HiLux parked in the shadows along the fence. I climbed the steps and a young man in a suit and sunglasses, which he didn’t need at 9:00 p.m., stepped in front of me. He pointed around front and said nothing. I said, “Poker? Card game?” and pointed to the door behind him.
“Su nombre?”
“Charlie.”
He held out a hand and said, “Five grand.”
I placed $5,000 in his hand.
He nodded approvingly and moved aside. I stepped into the smoke-filled room to find seven men sitting in a circle around a large table. Two scantily clad women were serving drinks while a third sat on the lap of the most puffed-up man in the place. Apparently the foreman. High off his win from the week prior, he had returned the conquering hero. I didn’t know anything about his ability to play, and even less about his ability to cheat, but I knew his arrogance was my asset. I was here because I wanted two things: information about Zaul and Colin’s truck.
Being the “new guy” and speaking little Spanish, the crowd of regulars nodded at me and spoke in Spanish—solely. I was ripe for the picking and they, a pack of wolves, smelled fresh meat.
I played dumb, lost early, and fit the description of “ignorant gringo” to a T. The liquor flowed, laughter ensued, and for three hours, I lost several thousand dollars. As did many of the other players. No one at the table was an especially good cardplayer, but the foreman was an exceptionally good cheater—which meant they were going to lose anyway.
A few hours in, the foreman was rolling in chips and the three “girls” were taking turns either sitting on his lap or rubbing his shoulders. One by one, and with some help from me that he didn’t realize, the table dwindled. One of the men turned out to be the chief of police. Another was the mayor. By midnight, we were down to three players. The foreman, myself, and the restaurant owner, who was the biggest loser of the night and too stupid or prideful for his own good.
Pretty soon,
I realized they were speaking about me and, I felt, making a comparison between me and another player. Presumably Zaul. If I had envisioned obtaining any information, I was misled. They spoke about as much English as I spoke Spanish. But the truck was still in play.
At 1:00 a.m., I quit losing chips, put the restaurant owner against the ropes, and took everything he had in three hands. The foreman watched me out of the corner of his eye, but he’d had so many drinks by this time that I knew he was foggy. And while the number of players at the table had dwindled, no one had gone home. Each had lost some or all of $5,000, so no one was eager to get home. That meant that we at the table had an audience of eleven other people. The dealer. Six other players. The three girls. And the guard. When I finished with the restaurant owner, the foreman switched to water and asked for a cold rag.
By 2:00 a.m., we were even, and by 2:30 a.m., he was swimming in doubt. I had twice as many chips, and he was sweating despite the air-conditioning. Close to 3:00 a.m., I shoved; he went all in and my straight beat him on the river when the dealer dropped a king.
Beaten, embarrassed, and broke, his eyes narrowed and he cussed me. I smiled—which only made him more angry, which was exactly what I was hoping. I needed him mad if he was going to risk that truck.
I cashed in my chips with the dealer, placed a thick wad of cash in my pocket, and stood as if to leave, paying him absolutely no attention whatsoever. When I did, he sat back, slammed down an empty glass, and spoke loud enough for the room to hear. I didn’t understand what he said, but every eye in the place was looking at me. He said it a second time. This time louder. “Doble o nada.”
While I had a pretty good idea what he was saying, I shrugged as though I did not. “No hablo español.”
The guard stepped forward. “Double or nothing.”
I laughed mockingly, keeping my eye on the foreman. “With what?” I patted my pocket. The message was clear. I had his money.
The foreman, looking to save face and praying for one more lucky hand, which he was not going to get, stared around the room, making sure he had everyone’s attention, and then with great machismo, reached into his pocket and dropped the truck keys on the table. That was his version of throwing down the gauntlet.
And it accomplished exactly what he wanted—it got everyone’s attention. One by one, they inched their chairs closer to the table. All eyes on me.
I shrugged, as if I didn’t know what vehicle the keys fit. To suggest that I hadn’t heard the story. That his fame hadn’t reached me.
I pointed at the keys and then shook my head at the parking lot as if I didn’t know. The foreman waved off the guard, who propped open the door, descended the steps, and cranked the HiLux. When he returned, I said, “What’s it worth?”
He looked at my pocket. “All.”
Actually, it wasn’t, but I didn’t argue with him. I wanted the stakes higher because I was not only about to take his truck, I was going to take his reputation—and consequently, his power.
I also had a feeling that he’d paid off the dealer. Too many hands had gone his way. That meant that the flop, turn, and river would “tell” me what hand they’d predetermined to play.
When the dealer set to deal, I waved a hand and said, “No.” Then I turned to the owner and said, “You deal?”
I knew he wasn’t happy with me, but he wasn’t happy with the foreman either so his deal would be as fair as any. A vein popped out on the foreman’s temple, throbbing like a balloon, but wanting to save face, he backed off.
Because the bets were already made, there was no reason to check, push, or raise. We knew what was at risk. Everyone around the table knew. The owner dealt us two cards apiece. Then he laid down the flop, a king of diamonds, followed by a pause. Then the turn, a four of spades, followed by an even longer pause. Finally, he laid down the river—an ace of hearts. Sweat was dripping off the foreman’s dark eyebrows. Seeing the third card, the foreman smiled, showing stained teeth and bloodshot eyes. It had been a long night and it was about to get longer. Breathing easier, he sat back and lit a cigar, drawing deeply and filling the air around us in a haze of smoke. As there was no need to bluff, I knew he had to be sitting, at least, on a pair of aces.
Lucky.
The dealer asked to see our hands, and the foreman slowly laid down a seven of hearts and an ace—giving my ugly friend a pair of aces.
Very lucky. Also predictable.
I kept my eyes on the foreman because I wanted to see his reaction. Even on a rigged Tuesday night game.
When I laid down my cards—king, ace—he turned ashen and began spitting venom at me because two pair beats one every day. I couldn’t understand the curse words coming out of his mouth, but I had a feeling he was cursing not only me, but the five or six generations behind me.
I hefted the keys in my hand—giving him one last look—and then slid them into my pocket. Spittle had gathered in the corner of his mouth. I had not taken time to count it, but having started with eight people at $5,000 each meant I had $40,000 cash in my pocket. Wanting to add insult to injury, I removed the fat wad from my pocket and counted out $10,000—my $5,000 and the foreman’s $5,000. This got everyone’s attention in the room, but what really got their attention was when I handed $30,000 to the restaurant owner and told him to “give it back to everyone but him.” Interestingly, everyone’s English improved miraculously, and they understood me well enough to know exactly what I’d said.
The foreman stood, slammed his drink glass against the wall, and stormed out—without any of the girls. I think his good thing had just come to an end and he knew it. I wasn’t naive enough to think I’d just made a roomful of friends but they certainly weren’t my enemies, and I’ll bet if I’d wanted dinner right then, the owner of the restaurant would have cooked it for me.
* * *
When I pulled in behind the house with the bike tied down in the truck bed and parked next to the chicken coop, I stepped out and a weary shadow appeared from next to the mango tree. It was Paulina. She’d been sitting in a plastic chair, leaning against the tree. She pushed the hair out of her eyes and flipped it a couple of times, tying it in a knot. “I guess you won.”
“Yes.”
She ran her fingers along the sides of the truck. “The foreman was there?”
I nodded.
“Did you shame him?”
I paused. “Yes.”
She stepped closer. “Badly?”
I tilted my head side to side. “That’s one way to put it.”
“That may not bode well for the people that work for him.” One of the things I’d grown to appreciate about Paulina in the short time that I’d known her was her fierce protection of those she loved. “Were others there?”
“The owner of the restaurant where we played, the chief of police, and the mayor, to name a few.”
She shook her head. “Charlie, people know you’re here.” She looked exasperated. “You stick out. People like the foreman will take out on us what you inflict on him. There are ripple effects. You can’t take like that from people around here.”
“Then they shouldn’t risk it.”
“You’re preying on them.”
I didn’t answer.
“Did you cheat?”
“No, I got lucky with the cards. But you should know that I would have. I wouldn’t hesitate.”
“Learn anything about Zaul?”
“No.”
She shook her head and walked toward the house. “Sun’ll be up in a few hours.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Unlike most of the women I’d known, Paulina did not own many articles of clothing, and what she did have she wore several days in a row. As best I could tell, she had three pairs of shoes: running shoes that looked several years old, flip-flops that had been taped back together, and a pair of sandals, which doubled as her “dress shoes.”
She woke me yet again with coffee and a smile. Flip-flops and yesterday’s dress. She set the coffee dow
n and pulled a chair up next to the bed. “You want to walk me back through that poker game last night?”
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Based on our last conversation, I wasn’t sure where this was going, so I wanted to offer as little as possible.
She continued, “You left out a few details.”
“Such as?”
She crossed her legs. “How you won all the money and then gave it all back to the losers—save one.”
I sipped, trying not to make eye contact.
She stood. “Word is that you’re crazy.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you have your reasons that reason doesn’t understand.”
“Paulina, I’m not trying to prey on these people. I’m trying to find Zaul.”
She nodded. “We might be closer than you think.” She walked out, talking over her shoulder. She was chuckling. “Breakfast was delivered this morning.”
I splashed my face and walked into the kitchen, where Paulo was beaming over a cup of coffee. He pointed to two bags on the floor and a cage outside that was clucking. One bag was full of mangoes. The other was full of coffee. The cage contained twelve chickens.
Paulina pointed. She was giddy. “Laying hens.” Her face lit. “Do you know how long it’s been since we owned chickens? Chickens mean eggs! Every morning.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Where’d they come from?”
“Your friends at the coffee plantation.”
“What?”
Paulina stepped toward me—into my personal space—put her hand on my shoulder, and kissed me tenderly on the cheek. Paulo was nodding and smiling larger.
“What’s that for?”
She explained, “The foreman did not come to work this morning. Seems someone exposed him as a first-class cheat. Given that he took a lot of money from several high-ranking officials, chances are likely that he won’t ever return.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Conditions in the plantation mirror the foreman. If he sneezes, the entire plantation gets a cold. If he smiles, everyone laughs. If he’s gone, they take a deep breath and throw a party.”