Casco Viejo: the Second Season


Chapter Fifteen

Inspector Gomez sat stiff and upright behind a large teak desk. Beni, “a rather smart up-and-coming lawyer,” as Mitch had pointed out to Barb, was not so sure the meeting was a good idea. However, Barb insisted, even though the main problem was that she didn’t have enough proof to implicate anyone in relation to poor Beth Page’s murder. In fact, while most of her suspicions had been well founded, with a list of at least a half a dozen suspects, she had no real evidence, like witnesses or inadvertent confessions, to actually point at one particular person.

“So what do you want to accomplish?” was Beni’s question.

“I thought maybe we could compare notes,” Barb said. “Okay, I don’t really know much after sticking my nose in everywhere I could. And it’s not as obvious as I first thought. I realize that; but now they don’t even have a suspect in custody. Frankly, I’m afraid that the authorities might not be as aggressive as maybe they should be—oh I don’t know—possibly because the victim is a gringa.”

“Whatever you do, please don’t even imply that,” Beni said, with both hands out in a double stop sign.

“I want to light a fire under their butts,” Barb said, actually pounding one tiny fist into her other tiny palm.

Beni laughed. Maybe he thought she looked cute. “All right,” he said, “but let’s go slow on the confrontation and encourage rather than demand. Okay?”

“Sure,” Barb said. “I’m new at this—I’m an amateur…”

“Exactly,” Beni said, never losing his polite smile with this elderly woman, he and his wife had taken under their wing, and who he genuinely liked.

“…but I’m trying to be a concerned citizen here,” Barb continued, “in my adopted country, to see to it that justice is done. That a fellow expat can’t just be bumped off, you know, without consequences. To be honest, I would feel much safer, not only knowing that Beth’s killer was behind bars; but that people like Beth and me and others would matter to the police as much as any other victim.”

“Well then we don’t have to go,” Beni grinned, “because I can assure you that we third-world Panamanians value life almost as much as you Americans.”

“Oh, I am sorry, dear. That did sound awfully condescending. Of course, they’re doing everything they can; and I’m sure I’ll be reassured. You’re such a dear to indulge me so. And you do speak English.”

At that they both shared a laugh and Beni put his arm around the petite woman’s shoulder.

So there they sat in two straight-backed institutional metal chairs facing an unsmiling police detective, who had told Beni on the phone, beforehand, that he would have the meeting as a favor to the young lawyer, but that he suspected it would be a waste of time for everybody involved. The office was small and bare, with the wide desk almost cutting the room in half. Centered on the white-washed cinderblock wall behind him in a virtual halo effect was the coat of arms of Panama with a very American looking eagle perched on a shield. Inspector Gomez’s head blocked the pictures on the crest, and Barb had to look later to see the rifle and crossed sword; the shovel and pick axe; the panorama of the isthmus; the cornucopia and the flying wheel—all draped by the red, white and blue Panamanian flag.

After very formal handshakes, and before he sat down Barb noticed that even though he seemed somehow grand and imposing, that Gomez was not a big man, stocky but no more than 5’10”. He looked across at the little lady detective with stern dark brown eyes, under heavy level eyebrows. His hair was black and short cropped. He was not in a uniform, but rather a plain-clothed outfit of a white shirt, with a thin black tie and gray slacks, which meant that he still looked like a cop to Barb.

“So how can I be of service?”

Even though the tone of voice was of one who was tired of being of service, Beth was shocked the words came out in English. She decided not to make a point of it, though she did exchange a quick glance with Beni, who did not seem to take notice.

“First of all, thank you for meeting with us,” Beni was quick to interject, before Barb spoke.

“I’m a friend of Beth Page, who was brutally murdered in her own home, and I was wondering if you would be so kind as to update us please on the progress of the investigation.” Barb immediately worried that she was coming across as pompous. (Mitch often said “If you think you are, you probably are…”)

Gomez sighed and looked directly at Beni and said, “We are pursuing a number of leads at this point in the investigation.”

Barb sensed that the discussion was headed nowhere fast and said. “Listen I know you are, and we all appreciate everything you’re doing I’m sure, but could you be a bit more specific. I’m not sure you realize that I’ve spent some time myself looking into the matter.”

“Oh, we are well aware of the fact that you have contacted some of the same people we have during our investigation. In fact there have been complaints.”

“Really?” Barb was surprised. “Can you tell me who?”

“No,” Gomez said. Once again, he looked directly at Beni, who sat impassively, in a light grey sport jacket and blue shirt open at the collar.

“Listen sir,” Barb stood up and leaned with both hands on the desk. Her thin arms stuck out of a pale yellow shirtwaist dress. “All I’m trying to do here is help. I want to make sure that whoever killed Beth doesn’t get away with it—that justice is served.”

“So much for not being confrontational,” Beni thought, and then said “Maybe you could simply update Mrs. Multusky on your progress so far?”

“Well, first of all, I must say that I resent the implication that we have not done enough to provide Mrs. Page with the justice she deserves…” Barb could not get over how well the inspector spoke English and wanted to ask him how long he had spent in the States, but didn’t think that was the time, since she apparently had already pissed him off.

“Listen Jorge,” Beni said in a calm but professional voice, “we are not implying anything and we have every faith that you are performing your duties.” (“So his name is George,” Barb realized.) “I believe that all Mrs. Multusky is asking for, as a concerned resident, is information, an update if you will, about the progress you have made.”

“We have made very little progress,” Gomez said. “Our problem is this. There is no evidence, besides the bruise marks on the victim’s neck, which help to establish a cause of death, but are not fingerprints and so only indicate that whoever did it was strong enough to commit the act. Otherwise, plenty of fingerprints of people who readily admit that they had visited the victim; and yes hairs, and what you call forensic evidence that only prove that Mrs. Page had visitors. No witnesses and so far the suspects all seem to have reasonable alibis, which do seem to check out. So, unless you can tell me something new that implicates a reasonable suspect…” Gomez let his voice trail off.

“No. That’s exactly what I’ve discovered so far,” Barb said as if she were consulting with a colleague. Barb’s attitude both worried Beni and made him proud of his dear old friend. She was giving it a shot. “So why did you arrest Jamon?” Barb asked even though she thought she knew the answer.

“We had hoped that maybe whoever did it, would how do you say drop their guard,” Gomez said, almost as if he were conferring. “And of course, he was a viable suspect.”

Then Barb and Gomez ticked off the list of boyfriends, who they felt weren’t up to it for whatever reasons, including Jerry Cole, who Gomez dismissed as “not in the city.” There were still two names that had not come up—Billy Belize and Rodrigo Feliz.

“So who do you think did it,” Barb said as she sat back on her uncomfortable chair.

“Because of the lack of a sign of a struggle, no foot prints in the garden, no physical evidence, all the appropriate doors and gates locked; really nothing out of place that it might not have been a crime of passion.”

“Was anything missing?”

“No. So we’ve ruled out theft.”

“You mean that it was a professional hit?” Barb was back on her size-five feet.

“Well, Madame Detective has acquired some of the language of her new hobby,” Gomez said, still without a smile. “And with very little evidence to the contrary, we have to consider all the possibilities.”

“How about Billy Belize?”

“Out of the country.”

“He could still hire someone.”

“So could, anyone.”

That’s when Barb tapped her finger on the desk and said, “Okay, how about Rodrigo Felix?”

Gomez went back to looking directly at Beni Cortez and said “No evidence; no proof. So, how about Mr. Multusky? He’s a big strong man.”

“But he doesn’t have a motive,” Barb said without skipping a beat.

“That we know of,” Gomez countered with a wave of his hand that showed the flash of a large gold watch on his wrist.

“But that leaves us pretty much at square one,” Barb almost whined.

“It is however, not because we’re not making an effort,” Gomez said as he stood up. Meeting over. “If I were you Madame, I would leave the investigation to the professionals; and I will assure you that we will do everything that we are able to bring this case to a suitable conclusion.”

“Back to official non-speak,” Barb thought as she rose and offered a dainty, fingers-only handshake. “Thank you very much for your time,” Barb said without enthusiasm. She noted that Inspector Gomez did not ask her to let him know if she found out anything. It was clear he was done with her. She suspected that he had done a competent job of looking into Beth’s murder, but was also convinced that he wasn’t losing sleep over the case either.

“Muchas gracias,” Beni said injecting the first Spanish of the session.

“No promblema,” Gomez said.

Barb couldn’t resist. “Your English is better than mine,” she said. “Did you go to college in the States?”

“Florida International,” Gomez said, “and a law degree from Georgia.” He then shut the door.

* * *

“So why don’t you come with me to yoga class today,” Barb asked as she took off Carmen’s choker chain, just back from their afternoon walk, which Mitch always called a “smoke break.”

“Okay,” Mitch said as he kneaded the space between one white and one black dog ear.

It took a moment for the positive response to register with Barb, who had asked before. Mitch always laughed and said something like “Not me baby,” or “you go ahead and enjoy yourself, I don’t want to get in the way,” or simply “Nope, not today.”

“Are you kidding?” She really wasn’t sure.

“No, I’m not kidding,” Mitch said. He stood with his hands on his hips.

“Okay, that’s great,” Barb said. However she thought “Oh, wow honey, you must really be bored.”

When Mitch spotted Barb having extra thoughts, he offered in explanation, “To be honest, I’m kinda curious. I’ve never done yoga. Don’t worry I won’t get in the way.”

“Don’t be silly,” Barb said. “You can’t get in the way. Everybody has their own space.”

“So you don’t think I’ll slow down the class,” Mitch said.

“You go at your own pace. There are almost always new people or beginners. Nobody will even notice.” Barb smiled.

“I’ll stay in the back to make sure they don’t,” Mitch said.

Barb tried to clear her mind of lingering suspicions and concentrate on her yoga class with Tony Perdu, up on the roof of Columbus House. The class wasn’t meeting on the terrace of the old Union Club anymore because that structure looked to be under major renovation. In fact, most of the old building on the shore had been gutted and the huge terrace, with what Mitch called “the best view of the city across the Bay of Panama,” had been torn down. The sign outside promised a beautiful new boutique hotel right on the water with what looked, based on the artist’s conception, like a much smaller terrace out back. “Well, at least, there’s still some sort of terrace in the plans,” Mitch pointed out.

The problem was that Tony’s classes were popular and the twenty to sometimes thirty mostly middle-aged women students were able to spread out across the broad space facing the sea. Sure it got hot sometimes, especially in the morning sun light, but the evening classes allowed for cooler breezes and pink skies over the waves of the Pacific. The roof on the other hand, sectioned off with a small swimming pool, bar area and the air-conditioning units was a much tighter fit for the nearly two dozen participants. At least there was still a breeze and a sea view off in the distance. Mitch was situated next to the large air compressors, right behind the only other man in the group, Allen Myers. Barb hadn’t seen Myers for a while. He was still a suspect, but not a prime suspect, and she wondered how he was doing. Both men had on similar outfits, college tee shirts—Michigan State green and white and red with “Stanford” written across the chest in white; old rumbled Bermudas; and short golf socks. Each had a pair of white running shoes with blue stripes off to the side. “A couple of old jocks,” is what Barb thought.

With “the guys” behind her, Barb, in a plain yellow scoop-neck tee shirt, thin cotton work-out pants and tiny bare feet, wouldn’t have to see if her husband was behaving himself or not. She had other things to think about, while Tony began the class with a brief series of warm up exercises including head and neck rolls and shoulder shrugging.

“Oh my, Mitch is going to think this is silly,” Barb thought. As usual Tony looked like a member of the American women’s soccer team, with her hair tied up in a pony tail. Her tanned arms and legs shown against her orange tank top and tan short shorts. In fact, at first, Mitch did think that the mountain pose, which was basically standing up straight, was “pretty darn easy.” Then however, when Tony Perdu noticed that he had his bent-leg foot on his knee in the tree pose, she said it either had to be held all the way up against his thigh or back down to his calf. At that he lost his balance.

Without looking around, Barb knew that it was her husband who was receiving extra instruction and she took a certain degree of pleasure in knowing that she was able to move from the table pose to the cat and then release to the cow pose smoothly and gracefully even, while her husband huffed and puffed on his hands and knees. When they moved into the downward facing dog, Barb was sure she recognized Mitch grunt as he attempted to do as Tony instructed and “push your butt into the air and push from your hands not your wrists.” Then during the bridge pose as Tony in a thin, soft voice told everyone “come back down, one vertebra at a time. Slowly, don’t flop down,” Barb was sure she heard the sound of a large man flopping. She was able to naturally spot Mitch while the group posed in warrior two. He looked big and powerful with his feet spread apart, one toe pointed and his long arms extended out at shoulder height, which would have been over Barb’s head if she were closer. There was no way, Mitch was going to be able to twist his long legs into a lotus position, but she could make out his voice from the crowd when he responded to the teacher’s “Namaste,” with a breathy “No mas tee,” of his own.

While she did believe in the stress reducing qualities of yoga, Barb was surprised how peaceful she felt, with her small, slender hands folded in a prayerful pose, as the group chanted “Om” three times. It wasn’t until she lay flat on her back in the so-called corpse pose with her arms out off to her sides, that her mind wandered once again to her failed attempt to solve the mystery. She found herself feeling deep regret, but it wasn’t because she couldn’t name Beth’s murderer. She wasn’t a professional, and as a civilian, knew that she would have to get lucky; and so far that hadn’t happened. Her main regret had to do with Jack, who had put her in the who-can-you-trust position. The answer, while she was supposed to be cooling down and relaxing out, was apparently nobody. As the class came to a close it was a reality that made Barb sad.

At the back as he and Allen tugged on their shoes, Mitch confided to his compadre that “that wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.”

“I know,” Allen, whose red face stretched all over his shaved head, said. “At first, I was in class just to meet women. Hell, that’s how I met Beth. But I found out it’s quite a strange workout. Just posing can be strenuous.”

Directly over Allen’s sweaty shoulder, Mitch spotted his little wife with a surprised almost frightened look on her face as she listened to what Tony, the yoga instructor, had to say. Perdu had a stern look and wagged her finger in Barb’s face. “Shit,” Mitch wondered “what can that be about?” By then, Barb was striding toward him. By the time she got to him, he could tell by the simmering look in her eye that something was up. Barb actually grabbed his elbow and was turning him toward the stairwell, when Allen attempted a “Hello, there senora detective.”

To which Barb responded with a curt, “Hello Allen. We gotta go.” She stopped at the first landing and turned to Mitch and said, “Well, that’s that. I can’t go to yoga anymore.”

“Oh, shit, why not? I kinda liked it.” Mitch was trying to make a joke though he knew he was only postponing finding out what Perdu had to say. “So what’s up?”

“Well, little Miss Tony, yoga, peace-on-earth, told me that her husband, you know, the never-here rich guy, with lots of investments in Casco Viejo, or so we’re told, from Poland or Russia or where ever, had a warning for me.”

“He did? We haven’t even met him, have we?”

“No we haven’t,” Barb said, “but we’ve been warned just the same.

“Was it to keep your husband at home?”

“No. This is serious.”

“Okay, what was it about?” Mitch had no idea.

“To stop sticking my nose in business that is none of my affair.”

“Did she say that?” Mitch was surprised.

“Yes, she did.” Barb had been caught by surprise as well.

“Did you ask her what she was talking about?”

“Yes, I did. And she kinda softened and said that her husband, still no name, was worried about me. That what happened to Beth was none of my concern and that he thought I would be wise to mind my own business. And then she said, no kidding ‘listen darling, my husband says you’re in way over your head’ and she says ‘please take care of yourself,’ end of quote.”

“Oh, fuck,” Mitch said.

“I forgot to tell you, by the way, that the detective Gomez guy told me there were complaints about me asking around,” Barb said.

“From who?”

“He wouldn’t say.” Barb shook her head from side to side.

“Well, let’s get outta here,” Mitch said with his arm looped around his wife’s should. “There might be spies.”

“You know the peace and tranquility I’m supposed to feel after yoga?” Barb said, and then when Mitch nodded; “Well, I’m not feeling it.”

On their way home, the Multuskys stopped at a bench in a small park overlooking the beach. Behind them there was a large municipal parking lot, taking up some of the most valuable waterfront space that Mitch had ever seen. A small fountain gurgled in the center of the triangular park that was bordered on the third side by a sidewalk that led back to their apartment. Apparently, at one time a convent was located where an apartment building now stands across the street because the name of the park is Baluaarte de Monjas, which roughly translates bastion of the nuns.

“How did Mr. Perdu, if that’s even his name, know that you were involved in what has to be described as an informal investigation,” Mitch wondered out loud.

Barb couldn’t resist lighting up a cigarette and through a puff of smoke said, “And I was also wondering who could have possibly complained so Gomez knew.

“I know I wanted to complain, but not to the police. So, I’m pretty sure we can eliminate Allen, who doesn’t really believe he’s even a suspect; and I doubt poor ol’Joe Berger is doing anything to keep his name out front; so do you think it was Jamon?”Beth slapped his arm. “And how could your boy Jack complain when he’s been part of it; so it has to be that prick Jerry Cole.”

“Yup, I think he might have complained, especially after you gave him the bum’s rush; but he’s small potatoes and I doubt if he’s running around with Tony’s husband.”

“So, who’s left?”

“Exactly,” Barb said as she flicked her cigarette butt over the rusted iron railing bordering the beach below. “I never for a minute thought I could trust that creepy lawyer Billy Boar and now I’m convinced he knows more and is involved more in whatever happened than we’ll ever know.”

“That’s the problem isn’t Sweetheart –‘than we’ll ever know…’” Mitch took his wife’s hand in his that looked like a baseball mitt in comparison. “We’ve just been warned by one of the big guys.”

“I know,” Barb said. “I was already worried that I might be getting in over my head, like Tony said, but now I’ve been formally warned, by somebody who shouldn’t give a damn about me or the investigation.”

“Yup, it’s over,” Mitch said.

“Maybe,” Barb said as she looked out at the flat calm sea.

“Definitely,” Mitch said. “Listen Barb, I can’t protect you when I don’t know who we’re actually talking about. Right now, you don’t know shit, which is probably a good thing, because if you did, oh, I don’t know what.”

“What bothers me is that somebody is going to get away with Beth’s murder.”

“Yeah, I think that’s awful,” Mitch agreed as he stood up with his arms out in a shrug, “but we’re not equipped to deal with the situation.”

“I know,” Barb said. “I had that realization the minute, the second, I turned around and walked away from Tony. I don’t know if she was being a Good Samaritan or just a messenger, but the look on her face had something to do with the fact that I didn’t know her husband or his friends and had no conception of what I was getting into—a business that actually cost a friend of ours her life.”

“Not only that; and I don’t like the idea either; but while we’re facing up to realities; we need to keep in mind that we’re living in a foreign country.”

* * *

It was nearly two months since “Barb stopped going to yoga” when Mitch was walking Carmen around Simon Bolivar Plaza, right in front of the Church of St. Francis.

Seated at a table under a large umbrella in front of the Casa Blanca café was Joe Berger. That wasn’t surprising. What was out of character was that while Berger nursed his usual bottle of Atlas beer, a leash attached to a small dog, that looked like a mix between a Chihuahua and several other breeds, was hooked to the leg of Joe’s chair. Naturally, the Chihuahua mix started a yappy barking session, the minute it noticed Carmen prancing by. All black and white confidence, Carmen might have been surprised when her human headed in the direction of the yapping.

“Hi,” Mitch said. “Where’d you get the dog?” Carmen immediately assumed the cobra yoga position and looked as if she wanted to play with or at least tease the other dog. Both approached each other warily, but soon were nose to nose. Mitch stood while Joe sat.

“Oh, that’s my girl friend’s dog; actually my fiancée’s dog. Name’s Pepe; a little male.

“I guess you’ve already met Carmen here,” Mitch said.

“Oh, indeed I have,” Berger said, with a nod and a smirk aimed at Mitch, until Joe realized that the big lug might not know about the alleged kicking incident.

Mitch wasn’t thinking about dogs. He couldn’t believe that this guy was actually going to marry that little whore, whatever her name was; and with an obnoxious dog to boot. So just to make sure, he asked “So who is the lucky lady?”

If Joe realized that Mitch thought the answer was going to be a pole dancer prostitute from Columbia, he didn’t let on. It had been a while since Bebe wandered out of his life. “Her name is Anita, Anita Jimenez. She’s Panamanian/American. She actually grew up here in Casco Viejo, then married an American service man lived in the States for thirty years until he died and then she returned here.”

“Hey, well congratulations man, that sounds great.” Mitch meant it too. He really never got to know Joe that well, but he didn’t wish the bitter life of a jilted gringo at the hands of a young gold digger on anyone. “So I guess that means you’ll be settling down here in Casco,” Mitch said as he shook the fellow’s hand.

“Nope, she’s not happy here. She misses the States, actually more than I do.” The point Joe didn’t make was that he wasn’t happy in Panama either, but would have stayed to be with Anita, a sweet undemanding woman, who treated him with kindness and who he loved and appreciated. “So yeah, we’ll be moving back after the wedding—Florida probably—she’s got as much family there as here and that’s where I’m from.” Full circle.

“I guess you’ll be starting up your sports agent business again?” Mitch was shooting the breeze. “Do you have any prospects lined up?”

“Actually, I was never a sports agent,” Joe said. Even though he tried to make his admission sound nonchalant, he almost choked on the words. “That was all bullshit.” Carmen and Pepe gingerly circled sniffing each other’s tail. Soon the two leashes were tangled.

“Oh, really?” Mitch was disappointed. He liked the idea of knowing somebody involved with professional sports.

“I’m so sorry. I thought I would impress people. It was fucked up.” And stupid.

“So what did you do?” Mitch wasn’t angry, or peeved and not really surprised. In fact, Berger, a real average guy, never impressed him as the type of slick dresser/fast talker that he assumed would be the type to negotiate big league contracts; but once again he took a person on his word. “I may have to stop doing that here,” Mitch concluded.

“I managed a discount retail store, until it went out of business and closed and I was laid off. Somehow, I didn’t think that would impress anybody, so I decided to reinvent myself and as you can see it didn’t work.”

“So whatta you going to do, I mean back in Florida?” Mitch was retired with plenty of time to chat and knew he had to get all the details because Barb would want to know.

“I guess I’ll try to get a job in retail, and hopefully work my way back up to a management position. I won’t be able to retire anytime soon, since I’ve used up a lot of my money down here; but she’s got a pension and office management skills and we’ll survive. We might have to live with her family for a while.”

“That won’t be pretty,” Mitch said with a straight face, until he noticed the worried look on Berger’s mug and let him off the hook with a grin. They both laughed. At that Mitch sat down and hooked Carmen’s leash on the leg of his chair. Both dogs curled up under the chair of the men who had the leashes. Joe gave the waiter the two-sign with his fingers and soon both guys sipped their beers.

“So how’s it going with you?” Berger was always awkward with conversation but thought it was worth a try. “How did your wife’s investigation turn out?”

“The same as the police, so far,” Mitch said with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

“That’s a shame,” Joe said. “Listen, you guys never really thought it was me, did you?”

“Why whadya mean?” Multusky said, again with a straight face. “Did you do it?”

“Oh shit, of course not,” Berger blurted, before he once again spotted a sly grin of the big guy’s face.

“Gotcha. You’re easy, you know that?”

The two men clinked glasses and chuckled, each to himself.

“So is the investigation over?” Joe did wonder since he realized he was a suspect.

“Suspended indefinitely,” Mitch said. “I’m afraid that Beth’s murderer will never be brought to justice.”

“So who do you think did it?” Joe inquired.

“Can’t say for sure,” Mitch said with a note of finality in his voice.

“That’s a shame.” And it was too as far as Joe was concerned; and as far as Mitch was concerned. Nobody deserves to die alone in a far away land. “So what are you guys up to now?”

Mitch leaned back and took a slug on his beer. “Barb and I have decided to see more of Panama—you know—see the sights, travel around. I think we’ve come up with a good plan too. We’ve advertised on a couple of web sites, uh, PanamaToday.com and Panaplaces and we’re going to house sit for people and mostly dog sit really. Lots of expats down here can’t or don’t want to stay all the time and we’ll look after their dogs and bring Carmen along for the ride and we’ll live in different locations. We’re already lined up for a two-month stay in Boquette, up in the mountains and maybe three months in a beach place in Santa Clara.”

“Hey that sounds great.” It did too. Joe even felt some of the old envy creep back in like it used to whenever he heard about somebody else’s good fortune; but he tried to shake it off. “That should keep things interesting.”

“While still feeling like retirement,” Mitch noted. Then he realized that Berger was returning to work, and said “I’m sorry; but I guess that’s the way it is.”

“No, I understand,” Joe said. “You guys deserve it.”

“Not really,” Mitch said. He didn’t believe they necessarily did deserve it but as he said that was the way things seemed to work out.

“Hey listen,” Joe said and then hesitated. “If I invited you and Barb to come to my wedding, would you come?” Joe immediately recognized that it was a very awkward way of extending an invitation.

Mitch also appreciated the awkwardness and decided to joke it away. “Well, that’s pretty darn hypothetical. I’m not sure what we would do, if we happened to be invited.” Mitch knew that by taking that approach, he was implying that he would accept if invited, but that was okay, unless Barb really objected; but she was a sweet, forgiving woman.

“I’m sorry; would you please come to my wedding?” At that moment Joe really wanted the only guests, to whom he even considered extending an invitation, to come.

“No.” Mitch said. Then after enough of a pause to get Berger one more time, “Oh, okay, I’ll have to ask the boss, but I’m sure she’ll think it’s a good idea.”

Two friends on the groom’s side are better than no one.

When Berger arrived in Panama, he had high hopes—the wrong hopes—that he would fool people into liking him. That since Panama was a place where it seemed that a number of people from other parts of the world were coming together and beginning new lives; that he would be able to invent a new life for himself as well. Wrong. Yes, there are opportunities for big payoff investments and scams in one of the only booming economies left. Yes, many people are open to making new friends, since they’ve left their comfort zone behind. And yes, new lives and new identities are being invented in a place that seems to welcome such reinvention, a place that didn’t really have an identity of its own, cut in half by a canal owned by a foreign power; a country ruled by dictators, until recently. Every year, some magazine lists Panama as one of the five best places in the world to (a) visit; (b) retire; or (c) invest; but not for Joe.

Casco Viejo: the Second Season


Chapter Fourteen



Carmen usually walked along with only a slight tug on the leash, so Barb was surprised when the little dog gave a mighty pull. There in front of them was Tica, Beth’s maid, walking directly toward her. Because she was a servant, Barb had only a nodding acquaintance with the small, young Indian woman, who had her eyes down and didn’t notice them until Carmen jumped up to greet her apparent friend. Barb never knew that Carmen had breakfast with Beth most mornings and that Tica served the little dog scrambled eggs on a plate.

“Oh, hello my dear,” Barb said when the maid made eye contact. At that moment, Barb could not recall her name.

“Buenos dias,” Tica said without a smile on her thin angular face. Her big brown eyes darted around only at times stopping at Barb. She held out her tiny hand as much to ward Carmen off as to greet the dog.

Barb knew that Tica could speak some English, but instead tried an awkward “Como esta usted?” followed with what was hopefully perceived as a friendly smile.

“Okay,” Tica offered tentatively, followed with a half step away.

“Bien, bien,” Barb stalled knowing that she would have to revert to Spanglish very soon. And then it hit her. “Oh, my God…” Barb thought as her face flushed. “I should have spoken to this woman long ago, right away; I mean she worked in the house for goodness sake.” “Como se llama, por favor?” No point hiding the fact, she didn’t know.

“Tica.”

“Of course, lo siento. Quiero hablar a usted, por favor con Miss Beth.”

“Por que?”

“Por que esta muy importante,” Barb stressed as her vocabulary ran out. Immediately, she realized that for anything substantive to come out of a conversation with this important witness, she would have to get Beni or better still Candi to help out as an interpreter for both sides. The problem was how to be able to make contact. “I don’t suppose she has a card,” Barb wondered, as she fingered one of her little business-style cards that many expats carried because they were always meeting new people. “That’s stupid, but I could give her one of mine.” Barb pulled out a card and pushed it toward Tica, whose body language was that she really didn’t want to take a card with a phone number she had no intention of putting to use. So then Barb surprised herself and came up with “Que su telephono numero, por favor?” At that, she fished a ball point out of her purse, which she kept handy to make notes about the investigation, along with a small note pad. “Escribe, por favor.” Barb was on a roll with her elemental Spanish and threw in a few more biens and por favors as she watched Barb’s maid, who could not have weighed more than 100 pounds, scribble eight digits (Cell phones in Panama have an extra digit, the first of which is a 6), on the back in small tight numerals. Barb took a quick look at the number and since it began with a 6, hoped Tica wasn’t giving her a dummy in an attempt to get away from this inquisitive gringa. As a backup, Barb asked, “Donde vive, Senora?”

During the entire exchange, after she stopped standing on her hind legs with the leash fully extended just out of reach of Tica, Carmen sat calmly between the two women and appeared to listen attentively with one black ear cocked and one flopped.

Tica shrugged but then seemed to relent to an internal discussion and said “Calle Quince.”

“En Casco Viejo?”

“Si, Senora, si.”

“Yes,” Barb said. If it was true, that was close enough to be able to find her. It wasn’t the safest street. The rule in Casco was the higher the number the more dangerous the street particularly after twelve, so Tica living at 15 was borderline. After all nobody in Panama had house or building numbers so addresses were often vague or limited to building names, but what the heck thought Barb. “Que nombre su edifico?”

At that point, Tica raised her left hand with a thin wedding band on the ring finger in a stop gesture.

“Okay, okay, no problema,” Barb said with what she hoped looked like a reassuring grin.

“Ciao,” Tica said as she continued to scuff up Avenue A in her flip flops, apparently headed home.

“Ciao,” Barb said, as she turned off headed to the Chino’s for cigarettes. Everyone called the small grocery stores and mini-marts “Chinos” because virtually all of the hundreds maybe thousands of convenience stores were run by Chinese merchants. It was said that they had a monopoly.

“Mitch is going to be amazed,” Barb thought. Not only was it amazing that they had not thought to speak to the maid earlier, (Barb wondered if the cops had touched that base or simply scraped Jamon off the street without a second thought), but Barb was also sure that her husband would be impressed by how much she was able to accomplish by speaking Spanish.

Carmen, whose white tale with a black tip curved up behind like rudder, was neither impressed nor not.

* * *

Mitch was sound asleep when a series of loud knocks woke him up from an afternoon nap. Since there was a locked outside gate to the entrance way to their apartment building, visitors needed to be buzzed in before they could knock at an individual apartment. The only person who had ever knocked on their door before was the concierge and never with such insistent gusto. “Jesus,” Mitch thought, “I hope the building’s not on fire.” Which was unlikely since the entire structure was made of block, stone and tile. More bangs rattled the door in its frame. “It better be a fuckin’ emergency, knocking like that.”

After he slipped into his flip flops, Mitch shuffled to the door and opened it with a quick jerk. The sudden change in the position of the door left Jerry Cole frozen in mid-knock. He looked like a quarterback without a ball, his fist by his right ear and his skinny arm bent at the elbow. Mitch, who was at least six inches taller and maybe a hundred pounds heavier, stepped into the doorway and glared down at the intruder whose face was clenched in an angry grimace. Mitch, in a wrinkled white tee shirt and navy blue shorts, was in no mood to be cordial, since he immediately suspected that Jerry’s visit had something to do with his lovely little wife’s investigation. The look on Cole’s face switched from pissed off to surprised when Mitch asked “How in the fuck did you get in here without buzzing?”

Jerry took a step back and rubbed his knuckles. Apparently knocking rudely hurt his fist. “The concierge was right there and let me in.”

“You should have still buzzed,” Mitch pronounced every word like a traffic cop speaking to a speeder. “So get out of here.” Mitch had no intention of giving Jerry an opening. “I won’t allow anyone to bang on my door like that. So scram.” Mitch did not remember ever saying scram to anyone before and it struck him funny when the word came out. It was also clear to Jerry that he had pretty much lost control of the agenda.

“I’m here to speak with your wife,” Jerry blurted. It sounded more plaintiff than threatening, as Cole’s voice broke.

“No you’re not. I told you to leave.” Mitch was peeved but he was nowhere near losing his temper.

It was Jerry whose knees were knocking in an adrenaline rush of angry confused threat. The big lug could throw him back down the passageway if he wanted to, but he was also well known as the gentle giant with the petite wife, so would he? “And what if I don’t?” Even to Jerry the retort made him sound like a school boy, which played right into the hands of the retired vice principal.

“I’ll throw your sorry ass out.” It isn’t a threat if you don’t really intend to do it; but the fact of the matter was that Mitch had every intention of literally throwing Jerry Cole out on the sidewalk. It would be easy—Cole was a lightweight; there were no witnesses—the concierge had disappeared; and it would be righteous because he was defending his wife—something he wanted to prove he could still do. “Okay Buster, on your way.” Scram, buster, the words Mitch chose were intended to belittle and they worked.

Cole decided to call the big guy’s bluff. Sometimes a larger man would be worried about a confrontation appearing as an unfair fight. After all, Cole had been involved in confrontational situations before and often got away with his aggressive behavior. “I’m not leaving until I give your wife a piece of my mind,” Cole said as he immediately saw that he had once again overplayed his decidedly weak hand. In one quick motion, Multusky grabbed both of Jerry’s thin biceps and lifted him a couple of inches off the ground while giving him a powerful push backward, not unlike an offensive lineman blocking a cheerleader. Cole had the air knocked out of him when he hit the wall. Just as quickly, Mitch spun the smaller man around and gripped the collar of Cole’s golf shirt and the belt of his Bermuda shorts from behind and was giving Madge’s husband the classic experience known as the bum’s rush. The only problem was that the gate had become relocked in the meantime.

First Carmen barked, which itself was a rare occurrence and then Barb appeared at the gate with her key out. In a move that Mitch would describe later as “graceful as a dancer,” Barb unlocked the gate and swung it open, just in time to allow Mitch to keep his unwelcome visitor’s toes dragging as he was swept out onto the sidewalk. Cole spun around and landed in a seated position on the hood of a parked car. The car’s alarm screeched into operation, as Carmen continued to bark, and the Multuskys spun back behind the gate which shut with a secure click. Both Barb and he had grins on their faces and Mitch had to restrain an impulse to thumb his nose at Cole who shook with fury.

“God damn you!” Cole screamed like a spoiled brat. “My wife left me because you told her I killed Beth Page. You know god damn well I never murdered that woman; and you had no right accusing me to my wife.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mitch said, back to his administrator voice even if his vocabulary was not as regulated as in the old days.

“You’re definitely a suspect,” Barb pointed out from behind Mitch, “but I never told your wife any such thing. You can rail and scream all you want; but everybody knows you hated Beth and you were the one stupid enough to let everybody realize that you had a motive.”

“Listen buddy,” Mitch said “I’ll be perfectly happy to come out and make you cease and desist from disturbing the peace, (Actually, it was unlikely then with Barb present that Mitch would once again resort to being physical.), but your wife left you because you’re an asshole who bullied her constantly and acted crabby all the time. Personally, I don’t think you have the guts to murder Beth or anybody.” As he spoke, both Mitch and his wife watched as the red drained from Jerry’s face and neck, leaving him pale and slumped. “So get the hell outta here, before you cause any more trouble; and make sure that you leave my wife alone. If she comes and tells me that you’ve bothered her even a little bit, I will break you in half. And that’s a promise, pal, you will be wise to believe.” Buddy, pal—Mitch was perfectly happy to incite Cole, partly because he felt that Jerry wasn’t really man enough to do anything about it.

Cole stood seething for another instant or two, and then peered through the bars of the gate at his massive tormentor, with a tiny woman at his side. “You’ll be hearing from my attorney in the morning.”

Mitch couldn’t help himself and laughed, not a guffaw more of a chuckle. “I’ll look forward to

that,” Multusky said with a broad smile.

Barb, put a small hand on her husband’s sturdy forearm. “Honey, don’t be mean,” she said “leave him be.” Before he turned to go, Mitch saw a bewildered look of defeat on Cole’s scrunched face. Carmen pranced ahead dragging the leash that Barb had let go. When they closed the apartment door behind them , the two, one tall and burley, one short and slim, embraced, fitting together as pieces of a well worn puzzle.

“Crabby?” Mitch shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to get an interview now, thanks to you,” Barb said.

“You’re welcome,” Mitch said with a slight bow.

“Maybe, he’ll still talk to Jack.”

“Oh, stop. Please.”

* * *

It took three days but Candi was able to set up a meeting with Tica at the Café Coca Cola, a historic location on the border of the area known as Casco Viejo. “Tica certainly has a sense for the dramatic,” Barb reported to Mitch after the meeting. The Café Coca Cola is said to be the oldest diner in Panama City dating back to 1875; and named with the famous brand name in 1906 because Panama was one of the first countries outside of North America to operate a bottling plant. When they were on their way to the 10 a.m. meeting, Candi filled Barb in on a little bit of the history of the neighborhood institution situated just off from the Plaza Santa Ana. Apparently, particularly in the ‘50s and ‘60s, many if not most of the wheeler dealers, politicians and government officials would hang out over a pinato, a tiny cup of strong coffee with a spot or two of white cream, and make deals and decide policy. According to local legend, Che Guevara stayed for awhile in the rooms above while passing through on his way to Guatemala. There is even film of the time back in 1989 when then vice-presidential candidate Billy Ford was beaten up right in front of the Café Coca Cola. It seems that the dictator Noriega didn’t appreciate any opposition.

Today, it is simply a diner with brusque waitresses in hairnets waiting on a mostly working-class clientele of local merchants, secretaries, police men and senores viejo playing chess and enjoying the refrigerator-cold air conditioning. (It is said there are two kinds of weather in Panama—hot and air conditioning.) Tica was late and Candi and Barb both worried that she might not show as they absent-mindedly watched one of the never-ending soccer games broadcast from somewhere in the world, on one of the big screen TVs. Barb thought it only appropriate and sipped a Coke through a straw in what she described as “a classic collectible glass.”

“So what did you gals find out?” That’s what Mitch wanted to know.

“Plenty,” Barb seemed excited about the news she was able to scoop when Tica finally made the walk up Avenita B and arrived at what she considered a neutral site. “First of all, and you’re not going to believe this, but Tica thought our Carmen was Beth’s pet dog. In fact, Carmen usually had breakfast on Beth’s back porch most mornings. Scrambled eggs no less served on a plate. Carmen sat on a chair and ate from the table. She’s such a princess”

“Did Carmen take her coffee black or with sugar?” To be honest, Mitch did not find Carmen’s secret life that hard to believe. “So, are you going to interview Carmen next?” Mitch couldn’t resist pointing out that that meant their own part-time pet was a potential witness.

“I wish I could,” Barb said, mostly going along with the joke, but also wistfully wondering what Carmen could tell, if only she could speak.

“So what was Carmen’s other name?”

“Tica didn’t think she had a name. Beth usually called her ‘perra.’ But that’s not the only bombshell,” Barb said with both eyebrows raised on her small, still pretty face.

“Do tell,” Mitch said. He was enjoying being included more if only as a sounding board.

“According to Tica,” Barb said reverting to the professional language and tone she affected when discussing the investigation, “Beth had numerous male visitors to her home after her husband died. Muy mucho; but the most frequent and regular man to visit, at least while Tica was there, but she did work some evenings was…” Barb did not seem happy with the news and nodded her gray head slightly.

“Jack Smith,” Mitch guessed; and by the stunned look on his petite wife’s face, correctly.

“That’s right,” Barb seemed surprised again. “My so-called partner, who appeared to be, you know, disinterested in an almost professional way, was or so Tica seems to believe, one of Beth’s closest friends, her confidante or boyfriend, or whatever, but he was there a lot.”

“So, I guess he’s not that gay, huh?”

“We don’t know that,” Barb said with a slightly perturbed edge to her voice. “Tica says she never saw a lot of affection between the two, just hugs and air kisses and that sort of thing; but like a good maid she also left them alone for substantial periods of time. So Jack could be a boyfriend…”

“A jealous boyfriend, who didn’t appreciate Berger and Allen and whoever else…”

“Or a gay guy friend, like lots of single women have…”

“Who didn’t appreciate her crude, rude heterosexual boyfriends like Berger and Allen or whoever...”

“Okay, okay,” Barb put her hands up in surrender, “he’s definitely a suspect and actually one of our leading ones. (“Our,” Mitch noted.) Especially, since it now appears that he hasn’t been at all candid about his past relationship with the victim and might have joined with me in the investigation in order to monitor whether or not anybody thought he might be involved.”

“You missed your calling,” Mitch said as he watched a sweet smile cross his wife’s face; and then “Well, I think our boy Jack has some splainin’ to do.”

“Oh, definitely; even though, you know what, Tica doesn’t think that Smith is the one. For one thing young, shy, Tica speaks pretty good English, apparently her husband lived in the States for a while and never sensed any real tension between her mistress and Jack, our new mystery man.”

“So who did our inside informant think did it?” Mitch said ever so casually working in the word our again.

“It was more who she didn’t suspect, like Jack, who she considered loyal and always friendly. She thought Berger was a joke and said something about him kicking la perra, that I understand put him on the outs with Beth. She thought Allen was too new on the scene and acted like the well-dressed suitor, who really digged Beth. That’s Tica’s word ‘digged.’ She went on to say before that that both Billies seemed nice.”

“Both Billies? Who in the hell are both Billies?” Mitch asked, as he stretched out his long legs in front of the chair he had eased into for the long haul.

“Well, there’s Billy Boar, her attorney, who like virtually every other available male was at least smitten for a while; and some guy by the name of Billy Belize, who Boar, the other Billy mentioned as a business partner of Beth’s who may have owed her some money. Tica described him as a good looking younger guy from Columbia, who Tica thought was hot.”

“So, you were worried that Tica wasn’t going to say much, but now it seems she’s been fairly forthcoming,” Mitch pointed out.

“Definitely,” Barb agreed. “Candi was a big help and really put Tica at ease with no problems with language, just an easygoing mix of Spanish, English and Spanglish; so it really turned into girl talk if you know what I mean.”

“I can only imagine,” Mitch said. “So what about our favorite asshole Cole?”

“You know, Tica didn’t have much to say about him and wasn’t exactly sure who he was. I guess he didn’t stop by Beth’s that much.”

“So we’re the lucky ones,” Mitch said with a grin. For a variety of reasons, Mitch had gotten a kick out of putting Jerry Cole in his place. “You know after all that, with only the addition of the widower Jack ‘not-that-gay-if-you-ask-me’ Smith, you’re still stuck with about the same list of suspects that you’ve always had.”

“Not exactly,” Barb got up and paced their little living room not unlike dozens of detectives did in dozens of movies as they attempted to sort out what they knew. “Tica said that for the last month or two before her death, Beth would often receive phones calls that would leave her mistress looking upset sometimes; angry sometimes; and in tears sometimes. More than once Beth would end up yelling into the phone saying things like ‘you can’t get away with this’ or ‘that’s wrong—you should be ashamed’ or ‘I can’t believe what you’re saying’ and things like that. Tica said if she answered she could recognize Jack’s voice, but usually could not tell who was on the line. Many times, Beth would wait for her to leave the room before some of the shouting matches.”

“So that certainly leaves Jerry on the list,” Mitch said.

“And maybe both Billies—Boar was involved with some touchy negotiations; and that Belize character from Cartagena, who may have skipped out on this or that deal.” It was obvious that Barb didn’t really think anybody mentioned so far would end up actually being the perpetrator. “Then of course,” she continued “there’s Rodrigo Feliz.”

“Beth’s favorite next door neighbor.” All along, Mitch figured it could very well be somebody like Feliz, who never would actually put his hands around Beth’s neck, but who would see to it that somebody like her never got away with getting in the way. Casco’s most notorious developer; a guy so ruthless he would purposely jeopardize the historic section of Panama City by causing it to lose its World Heritage status so he could maybe make a buck; a short dumpy, bald on top, with dyed black hair; the self-designated cock of the walk, who was probably untouchable, was just the guy Mitch did not want his little, smart but defenseless wife to come into contact with; was, had been, and always would be a leading suspect in the death of Beth Page.

“And that’s not all,” Barb said almost anxious to change the subject from the most dangerous to the least. “Tica is not so sure that Jamon didn’t do it. She thinks he’s a low life and didn’t trust him; didn’t like him and didn’t approve of Beth giving him jobs around her house. She seemed to think that arresting Jamon made a lot of sense.”

“Which means we’re pretty much back where we started from?” Mitch threw up his hands.

“What do you mean we, Kemo Sabe?” Barb stepped over and sat in her husband’s lap and gave him a kiss on his one-day-old cheek.

* * *

Jack Smith had a simple solution when Barb paid him a not unexpected visit and suggested that he had not been candid with her when it came to his relationship with Beth Page.

“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “I should have never gotten involved in your witch hunt, and I will not be involved in any way in the future.” Jack had on a pair of light tan linen trousers, and a white long-sleeved shirt, open at the collar.

Poor Barb had actually expected an apology. “Okay” she said, “so what was your relationship with the deceased?” She watched as he rolled up one sleeve and then the other to just below his elbows.

“That, my dear, is none of your business.”

“Oh,” Barb said, “we can go around and interrogate other people about what they know, but when it comes to you, yourself, you’re going to plead the fifth.”

“I’m not making a plea or anything else. I don’t need to.”

“Oh, come on Jack, you know something. Fess up. You lead me to believe something and now we know something very different. You owe me an explanation.” Barb took a quick look around Jack’s uncluttered but tired looking old apartment with its cheap “native village” art on the walls and the heavy dark wood furniture.

“I do not owe a nosey old gal, with nothing better to do than play at being Lady Sherlock, anything.”

“Jack, you weren’t honest. You misrepresented yourself. Now I think it’s time to come clean.” Compared to Mitch, Jack at 5’8” seemed tiny to Barb, and neat. Only the crooked part in his gray hair was not in line.

“And what did I lead you to believe that wasn’t and isn’t true,” Jack said, still not really losing his cool. “That Beth was my friend? That I wouldn’t mind finding out who murdered a lovely woman, who did not deserve to die? Where is the dishonest part?”

“I had no idea the extent of your relationship with Beth.”

“And you still don’t and won’t because it is none of your business.”

“Oh, come on Jack,” Barb pleaded, “I know that I have no right (with extra emphasis on the word), to be involved, not like you, but I simply felt it was wrong and dangerous to allow people like Beth or any of us to be murdered, for goodness sake, without justice, without attention being paid, in a foreign country, if you know what I mean.”

“I am no longer involved in your silly so-called investigation,” Jack said. “Case closed.”

“The case is most certainly not closed,” Barb said. “For your information, the police released Jamon, this morning, so there is not even a suspect in custody, much less the wrong one. Even though, I’m not so sure if releasing Jamon was even a correct decision.”

“In fact, you’re not sure of anything are you?” Jack couldn’t resist.

“I am sure that as of now, you’ve become a suspect by the way you’ve misrepresented yourself.”

“I may be a suspect in your eyes, but then again you don’t know shit.”

Barb felt she might be getting to Jack, so she pressed on with, “So, you tell me what I don’t know.”

Jack took a big breath. “You don’t know me; you don’t know Beth; you don’t know Panama; you don’t know how to speak Spanish; you don’t know what you’re getting into; and you don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.”

At that Barb laughed, but then thought twice and came back with “So what am I getting myself into?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said and shook his head, “but neither do you.”

“So do you think it could be that bastard Feliz?”

“I don’t know. It could be a lot of people.”

“That’s right.” Barb knew she was very close to losing Jack for good, so she figured she had nothing to lose by pressing him. “There were a lot of men in Beth’s life.” If Jack was jealous that might get a rise out of him.

“That’s right,” Jack said. He did not look particularly perturbed. “Maybe you need some women on your ever-expanding list of prime suspects.” With a new hint of sarcasm, Jack continued, “Maybe it was Tica, the trusted maid or maybe that hooker, you know the one that hung out with Allen and then Joe, what was her name?”

“Bebe.”

“That’s right; she deserves to be on your never-ending list. Which is just the point isn’t it. For even an amateur detective, you haven’t a clue. Heck the cops, who don’t give a flying fuck about some hussy gringa probably have more clues and a better idea of who did it than you ever will.” More sarcasm, but Jack did feel that everyone would be better off if Barb dropped her act as well.

“Have you talked to the cops? What do they think?”

“Stop,” Jack said. In fact Jack had talked to a detective informally and by now would have told Barb that the only finger prints they found belonged to Tica and Allen. There didn’t seem to be any skin under Beth’s fingernails and the hair that they found was mostly dog hair. However, since he wasn’t involved any more, she would have to get her boy Beni to find that out, if he could.

“Have you seen Bebe around lately? I really thought she was out of the picture.”

“Not lately. She’s probably escaping back to Columbia as we speak.”

“And Tica. I just spoke to her. She was the one who filled me in on you. Is there some way that Tica could have had the strength and could she have locked herself back out?”

“What about the CIA?” Jack added. “Or the KGB or the FARC?”

“Oh, shut up,” Barb said. “There is no point in making fun of me for trying to do the right thing, something you were very much involved in for a while.”

“Well, I am not involved anymore,” Jack said. Slowly, he walked over to the door of his apartment and opened it. Barb, paused a moment in the door way, sensed an emptiness that old objects didn’t fill and then turned and walked toward the stairwell. “Good luck, my dear.” Barb did not look back.

To be honest, Jack actually thought that they had done a pretty good job of eliminating suspects, at least in his mind. Without access to forensic evidence, they were basically hoping to find someone who acted guilty and/or in some way incriminated himself or herself. For one thing, Jack was certain he had not somehow killed a woman he adored and then forgotten about it. No. When he first heard the news, he sat down in the very chair he was sitting in and cried. He wept because whatever it was that Beth had done, he knew that she did not deserve to be killed, it was crazy. That is in fact what he hoped to find out—if any of the so-called suspects on Barb’s list were irrational enough; troubled enough; twisted enough to do in sweet, sexy and not-as-tough-as-she-would-like-people-to-think Beth. He also wept because he didn’t have that many friends, very few in fact, and none he loved more than a woman kind and caring and generous enough to take him to her bed. Beth was his only source of affection and he, like anyone, everyone needed some affection every once in a while.

When Beth’s husband died, Jack comforted her. After all, he was a widower and knew something about what she was going through. He had not expected it to lead to sex, but wasn’t surprised when it did. The love making brought him comfort too. He missed it and appreciated being held close. It also didn’t take long for other suitors to appear and his dear friend was free to be with whomever she chose. When she came over there were times when they didn’t even go to bed.

Even though they were friends, close friends there were certain topics that Beth did not seem interested in discussing. Details about other men and business were two subjects about which his friend was not forthcoming. Jack tried with casual questions such as “How’s business?” or “How is your love life?” Beth’s answer was almost always the same “You don’t want to know.” Instead, they told each other stories from their past lives. Their spouses, his daughters, books, America, college, childhood memories even—these were the things they talked about. Jack knew that Beth was often hassled by her real estate dealings and did say things like she wasn’t sure how long she could handle her little business on her own. However, she never seemed scared; never acted frightened. Attractive and desirable, Beth kept up a feisty front. Maybe she didn’t want to be but she seemed determined to be independent by not being dependent on anybody else.

Yes, she held Beliz to his debts; and dumped Berger without an honest explanation; and stole that hooker’s sugar daddy; but these weren’t trespasses that those weak characters would or could do anything about. Revenge seemed like a reach for them because they were all at least somewhat used to being treated in that manner. And that blustery fool Jerry Cole was too stupid to realize that virtually everyone he was dealing with from the plumber; to the bank; to Beth; was jerking him around because they didn’t like his attitude and they also knew he really couldn’t do anything about it. Beth would have never let him in, even though she was not at all scared of him. Jamon, who was often totally out-of-it, was very respectful and would have been foolish to hurt one of his best meal tickets. He only brought up Tica to piss Barb off. Sooner or later, jack realized that Barb would want to ask the maid a few questions, so he had correctly guessed that Tica told Barb Multusky about all the boyfriends, even the one who only drank tea.

As far as Jack was concerned that left three suspects—Billy Boar, Rodrigo Feliz and that unknown someone. Beth had secrets. Maybe one of her secrets blew up in her face.

Jack knew Boar in other contexts. Since Beth’s attorney was a rather rare breed known as a Zonian, Jack had encountered Billy Boar off and on again for the 40 years he had been coming to Panama. Before Jimmy Carter turned the canal over to its rightful owners or gave it away to some small-time dictator of a banana republic (depending on your point of view—Billy believing in the latter), the United States occupied a ten-mile- wide strip of land that enclosed the Panama Canal. Within the Canal Zone was a way of life that was separated from the rest of the country. The Zone was like a county in America without a state. English was spoken; the high schools played American style football and products from the States were shipped in and stocked at supermarkets. U.S. troops protected the canal, patrolled the borders and guarded the gates. After 1977, most of the American citizens left and returned to what used to be home. However, with dual citizenship, some people like Boar stayed for professional or business opportunities; or because they had married into Panamanian families; or they were used to the hot weather; or they had no place to return to.

Jack never liked Boar, even though he understood why Beth and other people would want him as a lawyer. He was a pseudo American, who knew his way around the obtuse Panamanian legal system. It was the same reason Jack was uncomfortable around and didn’t like Zonians in general. It seemed to Jack, that they weren’t actually citizens of two countries but really citizens of neither—outsiders in the land where they were born, who spoke with an odd American accent, but weren’t really from there. Jack was sure they felt like outsiders everywhere because their parents or grandparents or they never embraced the country they had partitioned off and so were not welcomed with open arms when the fences came down. They weren’t and didn’t feel like immigrants. What happened was that their little piece of America moved away. Panamanians are, for the most part, not at all anti-American, which Jack found surprising when he first came down and then particularly after the invasion under Bush. The history of the two countries just goes back too far, with the good ol’US of A being a relatively benevolent big brother for the most part. Zonians however weren’t even a part of that. By the time the new millennium had come about and the canal was entirely under Panamanian control, Zonians were definitely the odd people out, with a vague heritage that was quickly being erased. There are also too few of them. There are no Zonian Society meetings held once a month. No Zonian clubs, bars, hangouts or neighborhoods. There are only individual Zonians, like Billy Boar, who consider themselves experts on all things Panamanian but have few Panamanian friends. In Jack’s experience the few he knows tend to dominate conversations; make crude jokes; get aggressive when they drink; drink rum; and have trouble maintaining satisfying relationships. That includes Billy Boar, who Jack always found came on a little too strong and whose sense of humor leaned toward mean and who never acted warm or genuine. The guy’s crew cut never seemed to be in style.

And yes, after Paul died, his attorney did in fact make a move on his other vulnerable client, the deceased man’s wife. Timing is everything and Billy was on Beth like a cheap suit too strong, too soon. It was a situation that a woman in a foreign country needed all the help she could get and her lawyer needed to be there for her on a variety of issues. Jack had become friends with the Pages, when they first arrived and he too was in a position to pounce when Beth became available if that’s what to call it. However, Jack held off and really didn’t see anything out of order when Beth’s attorney would stop by more than once or twice a week. However, the visits seemed to stop rather abruptly. When he asked Beth about it much later, she simply said that after the initial period of sorting out all the legal matters, she no longer needed to consult with her attorney on such a regular basis; and she mentioned “He gives me the creeps.”

The problem of course was that Jack had no evidence. One of his hidden agendas with Barb Multusky was to see if he could keep an eye on Beth’s affairs to see if her property or equity somehow ended up in Boar’s control and even that wouldn’t be proof of murder. Rather it would simply show that like most lawyers, Billy was ready, willing and able to take advantage of an opportunity to represent his own best interests. No—shifty eyes and a hunch wasn’t much to go on; but Jack had decided to keep an eye on Boar and Beth’s assets as best he could. It would be a bit more difficult, since he was officially not involved, but he also knew that Billy Boar wasn’t going any place.

That left Rodrigo Feliz, who had the most to lose in the unlikely event she was able to stop his illegal building from going forward. If he was even aware of Beth Page and her official complaint and that stupid planted story in the paper, why would he bother to knock her off? His pack of high powered legal beagles could tear a lone wolf like Billy apart. It might take a little longer, but guys like Feliz flicked nuisances like Beth off the sleeve of his silk suit jacket like a piece of lint.

Then again there is something out there that Jack knew was associated with some Panamanian men known as machismo. Not just a masculine toughness, but with a sexist slant that somebody like Feliz might allow to influence decisions. Put bluntly, Feliz, a big shot certainly in his own mind, a gangster in others’ perspective, might have really been pissed off by not being allowed to get his way. Add to that the perceived insult of some woman even trying to push him around, and a big fish like Feliz might not think twice about eating a smaller female fish. It was already demonstrated that Rodrigo Feliz didn’t worry much about public opinion. So unless he could somehow be caught red-handed –an unlikely proposition since it was a professional hit with little or no evidence left behind at the scene—he could continue to march around town; step from limos; ignore regulations; pay off bureaucrats; bump off gringas, who tried to get in the way; pay off the cops; and make lots of money as he always did. Jack knew he had no way of getting at Feliz; and his helplessness made him feel angry and frustrated. There would be no smoking gun dangling from Feliz’s finger.

So there Jack sat in the apartment he once shared with his wife, filled with things his wife had arranged; pictures and chairs and lamps that he might not have selected himself, but were theirs. With half of the partnership dissolved by death, the furnishings didn’t seem like his but half hers and she’s gone. After the funeral, her family, a sister and two brothers, disappeared. He would go out to dinner with the publisher of the paper he wrote for occasionally, but always suspected his boss was as interested in a free meal as companionship. Being a dining critic also meant that there were very few dinner invitations because none of his acquaintances wished to be judged. It reminded Jack of the old days when he would introduce himself at a cocktail party as an English professor. Almost always, the other person would say that he or she would “have to watch my grammar.” Even though Jack liked to tell himself that was unfair, the truth of the matter was that he almost always immediately lost respect for a person who used faulty grammar or seemed to possess a poor vocabulary. He also could not stomach overcooked or poorly seasoned food.

However, over the years, Jack had become accustomed to his isolation. He was resigned and took certain steps to accommodate the situation. First and foremost, he didn’t go out of his way (it sounded to Jack as childish) to make friends. He hadn’t become that close to the Pages, who laughed at his jokes and appreciated his manners, before Paul’s death and wasn’t strong enough to hold on to Beth. Finally, he allowed himself to be associated with Barb Multusky in part out of desperation. Not only did he lack human contact, but it was fun when Barb would pay him a visit and they could play detective together. It filled some time, and she was so serious and charming. Jack even held out the possibility that he might be able to insinuate himself within Barb’s affections. After all, what were her motives for “conducting an investigation” into the wrongful death of a mere acquaintance. If, at worst, she was a little bored and, at best, she was dissatisfied somehow with her life—maybe that oaf she was married to, then he might have an opportunity. As of then, Jack had not really put a move on the little lady, who had become a mute point.

When he closed the door on Barb’s back and turned to face his deserted apartment, Jack felt what he had experienced before but never so intensely. A bit dizzy, Jack staggered and slumped in his all too familiar, but not that particularly comfortable chair. At that moment he felt profoundly lonely. He realized he couldn’t fight it off anymore; no more self delusion; but worse no more hope. Without anyone, he was lonely. It was a fact. There was nobody. Not unlike that sad sack Billy Boar, he was a man without a country, without a place, with no loyalties either way. He was the ultimate expatriate.

Casco Viejo: The Second Season


Chapter Thirteen

Just three or four feet away, the stream spilled over the cliff and the water cascaded down another 300 feet below. Jerry stood at the edge and leaned over to take a picture. He held the small digital camera out at his skinny arm’s length and aimed it over the precipice. “This is spectacular!” he shouted over the roar of the water. A strong breeze that tugged at Madge’s curly red hair, added to the strong hum in her ears. The river spilled into a long deep valley that seemed to stretch for miles as it widened between two steep green mountain ranges. “Come on.” He motioned to his wife to step closer to the rocky edge so she could see the water fall below. “Come on, baby. There’s a rainbow in the spray. You gotta see this.”

Madge could not do it. She could not put herself in that position. No matter how much her husband coaxed her to a better view, she was frozen in a spot several paces away from the edge. “I’m afraid of heights,” she said to explain her reluctance, which was true to a certain extent. However, it was more than a case of acrophobia. No matter, how well the last day and a half had gone—and it had seemed to go well; she could not take another step.

Jerry sung along to an Elton John CD as he steered up the curving road to Santa Fe. At points, they faced rocky walls rising from each side of the road; at other points one side or the other fell off just a few feet from the asphalt down to yet another dizzy deep valley below. Every shade of green from almost yellow to deep verdant soaked up the sunlight. Across the valleys, ridge after ridge of blue-green mountain ranges faded into the clouds in the distance. Madge had to agree when Jerry said that it was “one of the most beautiful drives” they had ever taken.

The little town of Santa Fe, which had been founded by Conquistadors looking for gold way back in 1571, nestled in a forest that crowned a mountain at 6,000 feet. Taller peaks stood off in the distance. They got a room in a hostel that had bamboo walls, a broad second floor porch with two or three cats lounging on the barrister. Even a haze of drizzle as evening approached did not spoil an ambience of casual, bucolic warmth. The innkeeper, a French woman with a cigarette hanging from her lip, fixed them a dinner of pork chops and Spanish rice. Jerry and Madge polished off a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and went to bed under mosquito netting. With a light breeze blowing through the spaces between the bamboo slats, that also allowed a buzz of bugs, Jerry was snoring within minutes.

The next morning came early. Before sunrise, maybe around five a.m., the peaceful starry darkness was interrupted by an explosion of shrill screams. Both Madge and Jerry sat up in bed and in shock as what sounded like 4,000 roosters shouted to each other. When it dawned on them what was happening, both laughed out loud. “Well, we don’t have to worry if our little alarm clock goes off or not,” Jerry said. Their travel alarm had never been reliable. Madge smiled back, even though she was surprised that her husband wasn’t furious. Jerry had never been a good sport since she married him. This was unusual and did nothing to make her feel any more at ease. Maybe if he had said fuck or something, but laughing off being rudely awakened a good two hours early was not normal. Even after a breakfast of bacon and eggs—Jerry joked about not being surprised that “the eggs were fresh in the chicken capitol of the world”—Madge felt uneasy, off balance, not dizzy exactly, but out of kilter, in another dimension. It was as if a very capable imposter had taken over Jerry’s thin, tense body. Of course that wasn’t possible, so she remained on guard, wondering when the real Jerry would come out from behind his jovial mask.

After breakfast, they put on their hiking shoes, applied a slick coat of sun block on their exposed arms, ears and necks and sprayed all over with Off bug repellent. After about an hour of a steady, steep-at-times climb, they had come to the waterfall, and that was where Madge stood paralyzed not by fear exactly but by uncertainty, doubt. Jerry was smiling, a plastered-on salesman smile that Madge did not trust. Madge did not trust her husband and pulled her wrist away when he tried to grab hold.

“I’m afraid,” she said. Like a cloud passing in front of a mountain peak, a stern look of recognition crossed Jerry’s pinched smile, which looked for a moment like a grimace. If he had persisted for another moment or two, Madge may have turned to run away, but he didn’t. “Okay, okay,” Jerry said sounding cross but calm. “You’ll have to be satisfied with the pictures, but you’re missing a chance of a lifetime.”

Everything Jerry said lately came across as double entendres to Madge, who backed off slowly as if not to incite an attack that she wasn’t at all sure was actually coming. A chance of a lifetime. Had she just saved her own life, denied her husband a chance to stage what would have appeared to be an accident without anyone to witness or know for sure what had happened? She had spent a lifetime, with a man she now realized she could not trust. At that moment, as Madge pushed her glasses back up her nose and turned to scuttle back down the path, she realized that as far as she was concerned their marriage was over. It didn’t matter that she had no proof of intent on Jerry’s part to do her harm. It didn’t matter that he had not actually pushed her over the edge. It was at once much more complicated than that and actually rather simple. She didn’t trust him. It was okay that she would never know for sure if she had come close or not. It was better that she didn’t have to pull her arm out of his grasp and fight for survival. The moment had passed and she was safe. A lifetime of slights; of outbursts of temper; of sneered jokes; of angry body language; of self doubt and guilt that she was somehow unworthy or lacking; had finally pushed Madge to another edge, almost as scary, but much less uncertain. Before they arrived back at the lodge, Madge knew that she would still have to be careful, but that she was going to leave Jerry.

* * *

Mitch didn’t know what to do. For a while he tried to play solitaire on the computer but had trouble paying attention. Throughout his career, he had always been a busy guy, teaching, coaching being an administrator. Retirement was supposed be a time when a person took it easy—didn’t have to be at school by 7 a.m. ahead of the teachers and students, who would dedicate their days to screwing up the schedule with disputes, sometimes petty and occasionally major. No more pressure to win games; help silly boys stay academically eligible and out of trouble; or keep up with coaching trends from run-and-gun to zone defense. The accepted retirement picture was a wise old guy sitting peacefully on a rocking chair, reflecting back on a life well lived. The past life seemed okay to Mitch, lucky even. Never drafted for the Vietnam War, Mitch was free to pursue his chosen career as a history teacher and basketball coach. If the truth be known, he went into teaching so he could coach. He wasn’t bad either, won a couple of county championships. Even though he never made it past the semi-finals in the states, he had a winning record.

He had become an administrator because it seemed like the logical progression in a career in education. However he never really enjoyed being thrust in the middle of one problem after the other; whether it was a discipline problem, when the teachers seemed out of line about a third of the time; or a problem with the air conditioning that never seemed to be properly maintained and consistently failed to be ready for the first heat wave or would break down half way through summer school. Mitch thought that being a vice principal would have a certain degree of prestige. Wrong. There was never a time when somebody; a weak whiney teacher; the cheerleading sponsor; a student caught cheating; the head of the janitorial staff; parents furious with the grades their precious little brats were earning; the drama teacher (often) or glee club adviser; some functionary from the school board with a hidden agenda; but always somebody hated him. So what about the principal? In his last ten years, he had worked with (for) three— a good ol’boy who was simply waiting out his tenure until he retired; a distracted woman, who had no idea what Mitch was doing; and a manipulative younger (by about ten years) go-getter, who routinely dumped all the unpleasant situations into Mitch’s lap and then neglected to give credit where credit was due. If things turned out well, this guy would take his bows; if not, Mitch would take his lumps, enough that he was never seriously considered for a principalship. At the time Mitch was eligible to retire, it seemed like a good idea.

Barb and he had always been considered a happy couple. Often friends would congratulate them for being married for longer than the average, in some cases way longer; and why not. Barb and he always got along well, made allowances for real or perceived short comings. They suffered through the small stuff together. Mitch never left his socks lying around, but if he had that would not have been enough to send Barb packing. Barb wasn’t much of a house keeper. There were always dust balls in the corners and spots on the glasses, but she was a good cook and a lovely companion. Barb never missed a basketball game and Mitch never forgot her birthday or their anniversary or even the anniversary of their first date. In fact both of them made sure that a big deal was made—dinner out at a fancy restaurant or a weekend at a bed-and-breakfast in the mountains.

Neither had been at all worried about not having children. If that was self-centered, then both had made the decision. Their biological clocks never sounded an alarm. Neither blamed the other. Instead each took care of hundreds, maybe thousands of other people’s kids, from all stars to criminals. The point was that after 40 years of marriage, it had been firmly established that they were together, fully aware of the for-better-or-worse clause. That was why Mitch was stunned by even the suspicion of an affair; and after all these years. Why now? Did retirement have something to do with it? Was she unfulfilled in a way that had not been the case when they both had jobs with responsibilities and obligations? Now each was only responsible to the other. No kids; no grandkids; just a dog for a pet and a cozy little apartment in a historic neighborhood next to the Pacific Ocean.

Sure Barb was going through much of the same stuff that he was. After they had spent so much of their energy pulling up stakes and moving to a foreign country, she probably felt at loose ends too. With time on her hands, she decided to play sleuth in a misguided attempt to right a wrong (assuming that Beth didn’t somehow deserve it). That was understandable to a certain degree. After all, there was the question as to what Mitch would do all day, now that the little basketball season had finally come to a fruitless end. Maybe he would take Yoga classes, but then again he and his wife needed some time apart. Mitch recalled when his Uncle Ted retired; his Aunt Alice would complain that “I married him forever, but not all the time.” Maybe the investigation was Barb’s excuse to get away on her own some. However, she could do that without Jack.

Lately, one of the things Mitch did with his extensive spare time was surf the web travel sites. When he mentioned that they should travel more, Barb seemed interested if not excited. That was something he definitely thought they should do, except where? Maybe a cruise; they had never been on one; but to where? They had not been to very many different places—Florida a couple of times; the Bahamas once; California twice, LA and San Fran one each and Honolulu once. That was it—never to Europe and rarely outside of the good ol’US. That was why, most if not all their friends and family were surprised when they moved to Panama of all places. Where in the hell is Panama? Why Panama? Why not Pago Pago? Besides the usual reasons of cost of living; AARP recommendations and the weather; one of the reasons Mitch always said was because “they had never ever been any place exotic.” So why not look into traveling to Croatia or Ecuador or Sweden or New Zealand. He had no desire to go to any place in Africa or Asia, particularly India, (too crowded), but that wasn’t the point. There were two main objectives, in Mitch’s mind, achieved by travel. First was something interesting to do; and secondly going on a trip would get Barb away from Jack.

The other thing that worried Mitch was that he was fairly sure that Barb was worried, or bothered, or concerned about him. At first when he was “kinda forgetful,” Barb acted impatient, perturbed and told him more than once “to get a grip.” More recently however, she would get a sad look on her face and call him “honey” and ask him leading questions like “Are you still planning to go to the wine store?” or “When is your next practice?” Barb knew full well the team practiced every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. Mitch was worried too. He was well aware that people lost their short term memory to a certain degree when they got older, but for the last few months he felt “lucky to come down stairs with his pants on.” Once or twice, when he was on a walk with Carmen, Mitch got lost or at least didn’t recognize the street they were on. He couldn’t find his way around his own neighborhood, but his brilliant solution was to wander around the streets of Paris or the canals of Venice. He could just tell that Barb was trying to be calm and understanding and of course supportive, but he didn’t want to invoke the in-sickness-and-in-health provision quite yet. No wonder Barb was covering all her bases, with a sharp guy like Jack as a backup.

Then there was the carjacking. How confident could Barb feel when her protector, her man, had been ripped off and attacked by a bunch of street punks? Ever since then, they always drove around with their car doors locked and only opened the windows in certain neighborhoods. That made sense to be safe and not invite problems; but the fact remained that they were closing the gate way after the horse had run off—that the guy who was in charge of the gate had already left it and him wide open to attack. Neither one of them ever mentioned the attack and Barb never questioned him about it, but Mitch had to wonder if the fact that it happened undermined his wife’s confidence in him. Not that that twerp Jack could have done any better under the circumstances; but maybe that was the deal. Even though Jack was not as physically capable as Mitch, maybe Barb saw him as more clever, to stay out of danger while figuring out the murder mystery.

Any way, he looked at it, it was irritating and hurtful and stupid. Mitch didn’t want to fly off half cocked, so he was biding his time before he confronted Jack. Punching the guy in the nose without proof would probably backfire. At one point, he looked down at the computer screen and was surprised to see that it was on the NBA Now web site. He must have been checking the scores or standings or something but he didn’t remember. That wasn’t good.

Just then, Barb unlocked the door and came into the apartment. She looked very businesslike in a white blouse and gray slacks with flat black shoes. She gave Carmen a quick pet as the dog stretched out from a nap, and then walked over to her husband and kissed him on the forehead. Immediately, while still standing with her small leather purse strapped over her shoulder, Barb said, “I meant to tell you that Jack was coming along for my meeting with Billy Boar, but I didn’t. I don’t know why, but I didn’t. So that’s also why I didn’t want you to drive me. I know you don’t like Jack, for some reason, or you don’t like him being involved, but I should have told you that he was coming along.”

“I know,” Mitch said. Even though he was seated, he was able to look his petite wife directly in her face, which seemed to have a surprised expression on it. “I took Carmen for a walk right after you left and spotted Jack getting into our car, right away.”

“Oh, dear,” Barb said. “I knew I should have told you.”

“So, is he your boyfriend?”

“Oh honey, don’t be silly.” At that Mitch stood up and towered over his wife. “And I don’t mean that in a mean way.” Her birdlike hand touched his chest but not defensively. Barb wasn’t afraid that the big lug in front of her would hurt her. That could never happen. She was worried that his feelings had been hurt. “Honey, I love you,” with an emphasis on you.

“Well, it really looked suspicious, I’ll tell you that.”

“I can imagine,” Barb said as she walked into her husband’s arms. “I knew I should have mentioned it, but I didn’t want to get another disapproving look. I know you don’t like Jack, but I wasn’t sure why.

“I guess I was jealous,” Mitch said. “Why should you want to spend time with some other guy instead of me?”

“Because you didn’t think I should be trying to find out who really killed Beth—and Jack was willing to help. I still don’t think I can go it alone.”

“I still think it’s a bad idea,” Mitch said.

“Oh, please honey, I don’t want to stop now. Not that I have any better idea than I had before.”

“I just worry that you might be putting yourself in some sort of dangerous position, and that pip squeak Jack is not going to be able to protect you.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Barb said. “I don’t know enough to get into trouble, but if I did, I’m smart enough to back off and inform Beni to get the cops involved. And I know that you’ll always protect me.”

“I hope that’s the way you really feel,” Mitch said with a shrug. “You know I really didn’t know what to make of the whole situation. I mean I do trust you, but I wasn’t so sure I could trust Jack. After all, you’re a very attractive woman.”

“I’ll just make sure you know what I’m up to, so you can keep trusting me,” Barb said. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Mitch, who was sincerely relieved, said.

“One thing,” Barb looked somewhat hesitant to bring up another point. “I was just wondering?”

“What?” Mitch was puzzled.

“Did it ever occur to you that Jack might be gay?”

“No!” The word popped from Mitch’s surprised lips. “Is he?”

“Oh, I don’t know for sure,” Barb said, “but I’m afraid I always assumed he was. I mean that’s why I was surprised you were jealous. I really don’t have any proof, I mean he never said anything and he’s not real feminine or anything, but I always got that impression, or feeling or whatever. You know, like a vibe.”

“So he never once flirted?”

“No, not that I noticed,” Barb said. By that time, the two of them were chuckling, on the verge of laughing.

“Well, he never flirted with me either,” Mitch said. “So how was I to know?”

* * *

Joe Berger was not happy. He hadn’t seen Bebe for over a week. When he called her on his cell phone and asked her in his broken Spanish where she was, she responded in her broken English that she would see him right after work. Then she did not show up. Donde usted? He didn’t want to go to the club either. He was tired of nursing his beer and watching his supposed girlfriend humping some other guy’s leg. It was over and he knew it. Bebe, in her tight dresses and no panties had moved on to greener pastures and to be honest, that wasn’t difficult to do. Eventually, she would realize that her particular gringo wasn’t half as rich as he was supposed to be. Joe didn’t even own a car; his watch was a Timex and he wore Nike sneakers. Joe was surprised that he had access to Bebe’s charms for as long as he did, since even he realized that her main motivation was to make Allen jealous or at least piss him off by being around and in his face. After the first couple of times, which Joe found gratifying as well, because showing up in Casco Viejo seemed to make Allen uncomfortable, he hadn’t seen him around. Mitch went by almost every day walking that damn dog. Jack could often be seen sitting out on a bench in front of their building some days and most evenings; but no Allen Myers. Maybe Allen blew town before they stuck him with Beth’s murder. That certainly wouldn’t surprise Joe. He knew Myers was an arrogant shithead, who had more luck with women than he deserved. Without buxom Bebe at his side, Joe really had no need to see Allen and couldn’t be sure that he would not be the one more embarrassed—No Bebe; no Beth; no prospects.

Berger was beginning to admit to himself, since it seemed obvious to everybody else, that his move to Panama was not a triumph. After the party in the building where he lived, he received no further invites, none, nada. He went to a couple of expat socials that had been advertised in The Visitor, a local tourist newspaper, but he only ended up having awkward conversations with people, retired couples mostly, who were very willing to tell their stories, but who seldom said anything even approaching “so what’s up with you.” Fuck me. After Beth, he had lost what confidence he had with women, so the few gals he encountered at the week-night socials, never seemed impressed by his lack of anything amusing to say. It was a nightmare. He felt like a junior high nerd. Unfortunately, he could vaguely remember how that felt. It was no fun remembering and even less fun feeling ill at ease again.

Joe Berger was more lonely, much more, than he had ever been in Miami. Which is saying something. He had a life in Florida—pathetic, mediocre, unfulfilled, depressing even—but a life and a job before he was laid off. In Panama, he was not allowed by law to simply go out and find a job and since his social life was a big zero, he had nothing to do all day and worried that he would soon go crazy. That’s not an overstatement either. Crazy. Looney Tunes. Nuts. He had failed before, but never so profoundly. He was not only a stranger in a strange land, but completely alone, an alien from another world. He knew people back in the States. Not all of them were good guys, or loving family members or hot dates, but he wasn’t totally, absolutely on his own, with nobody to even really chat with. That guy Jack, for example, could give a shit. He didn’t seem to go out much, except with Barb once or twice. What was with that? Otherwise, he didn’t seem to have any more friends that popped around to the apartment than Joe had. The only difference is that he seemed okay with his lot in life. Berger came to Panama because he wasn’t satisfied and thought a change of scenery and a new start would provide him with a new opportunity to impress people. Au contraire. It gave him many more chances to appear nervous and lost for words, and therefore to feel inadequate, feeble, goofy.

Berger had gotten in the habit of sitting at the same table in front of the Casa Blanca restaurant, watching the same world go by the same corner every afternoon. From his vantage point under a large maroon umbrella with Balboa Beer advertising written in gold, he had a chance to study a strange little chapel across the street. Iglesia San Felipe de Neri was purported to be one of the oldest churches in Panama but it never seemed open, not on Sunday or ever. Berger liked the mystery of the place with its oyster shell steeple and rumors of Opus Dei. It was a good location for people watching even though lately it bummed Joe out because he was forced to watch people going places, young women in flower-print sun dresses and sandals; government workers in white shirts and ties, their suit jackets hooked on a finger over their shoulders; tourists, couples mostly, looking a bit lost. There was a time that Joe would ask them if they needed help and then direct them to the Presidential Palace a block away. Not any more—a constant parade of strangers, who never seemed interested in Joe, wasn’t what he was looking for anymore. That was how he felt when customers trooped by back at the store in Miami. Lots of people, but nobody interested in seeing him, unless they had a complaint. He felt lonely back in Florida and he felt even lonelier in Panama. Changing places didn’t seem to change the problem. Face facts, bud. You’re a loser.

So there Joe sat, literally crying in his beer, when he noticed a woman walk by with a small yappy dog on a leash. The dog looked like a big Chihuahua. That’s an oxymoron. Maybe it was a mix of some sort, but it didn’t matter; Joe automatically didn’t like the stupid mutt. After the woman walked by, she stopped and lowered her pet over the fence onto a grassy area in front of the statue of Simon Bolivar. Sort of chubby, the lady looked to be in her fifties, with black hair cut in a bob. Like lots of Panamanian gals, she was short, no taller than 5’2”, an ordinary woman in a simple yellow A-line dress and flat white shoes. Not Joe’s type at all, even though it had become more difficult lately to determine if he had a type. As Joe contemplated the question of what exactly his type was, the brown-and-black-striped dog slipped through the wrought iron railing that surrounded the small lawn in the square. Surprised, the dog’s owner called out her pet’s name “Pepe! Pepe.” Inexplicably, amazingly the dog made a beeline toward Joe and then leaped into his lap. Berger was frozen. He had no idea what to do so he did nothing. Having learned his lesson, he resisted the impulse to backhand the mutt off his lap. Holding his hands up with his palms out in a not-me gesture, Joe experienced the indignity of having his face licked. By then the woman arrived and scooped Pepe into her arms. When Joe looked up he saw the brightest smile he had seen in months; certainly the brightest, most friendly, lovely smile that had been aimed in his direction.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said still smiling maybe laughing, “Pepe doesn’t usually do that. Please forgive me and my dog.”

“No problema,” Joe said and then immediately realized that the woman had spoken English. “Ah, you speak English?”

“Si, senor,” she said with a glint in her eye. “Like I said, Pepe, your new friend has never done anything like that before. I don’t know what got into him.”

“I gotta be honest,” Joe said, “I’ve never had any dog jump in my lap before ever. I don’t always even get along with dogs.” Joe couldn’t help of thinking of Carmen and how badly that had gone with Beth.

“Well, dogs are usually pretty good judges of character,” the woman said, “and Pepe obviously likes you, so you must be a nice man.” That smile again.

“First impressions can be deceiving,” Joe said and then realized he might talk himself out of this encounter, as he had done so many others, and changed course. “But I’m flattered. Tell Pepe he can jump in my lap any time, as long as he’s careful.” At that the woman laughed. “Hey listen,” Joe said, “now that I’ve made friends with your dog, can I buy you a drink, a glass of wine, ice tea, whatever you want.”

“Sure,” she said, “why not?”

For the next twenty minutes Berger found out that the woman’s name was Anita Jimenez; that she was a widow; and that she married an American soldier serving in the Canal Zone; and lived in the States for thirty years. Anita sipped a white wine, while Joe listened attentively and forgot his Balboa beer that warmed up in its can. When her husband died, she retired from a position as an executive secretary in an Allstate Insurance office in Trenton, New Jersey and returned to her native country. She had family, a couple of sisters and an elderly mother in Panama City and owned a small apartment in a renovated building just a couple of blocks away.

Then it was Joe’s turn. Oh, oh and then what the fuck? Joe explained that he had been laid off as the manager of a Thrift Center when the store closed.

“We had a couple of them in Jersey,” Anita interjected, “and I’m pretty sure they closed too.”

“Well, that left me high and dry, with no prospects, so I decided to see if anything was happening here in Panama.”

“And is there?” Anita seemed interested.

“Not so far, to be honest,” Joe said, doing something he had not done since he arrived in Panama. Berger went on to explain that he was divorced; had two grown daughters, who he was not close to and a shrinking circle of friends, which caused him to consider moving to a different place, an adventure, that hadn’t really turned out as he had hoped—that he had difficulty meeting people. He didn’t know how to break the ice—“not that there’s much ice around here.” Again she laughed at one of his lame jokes. He wasn’t sure what he would do. Maybe Mexico, maybe back to Florida…

“I don’t think you’ve given Panama much of a chance,” Anita said, still with the smile. Joe was giddy. This was a nice girl, woman, whatever, and she hadn’t run off yet; hadn’t pretended to be late for an appointment; didn’t look around the plaza with a bored stare. She was making conversation, while Joe held his hand down and allowed the dog to lick it. She wasn’t the best looking woman he had seen around, with a kind of pudgy figure on a small frame and her hairdo was short and plain, but she had a flat-out great smile that lit up her small round face and her dog liked him. After all, Berger knew that he was no prize either, an average Joe (Ha, ha!), with thinning gray hair and an unemployed store manager wardrobe. He had nothing to lose.

“Hey how about I take you out to dinner, tomorrow night,” Joe said trying to sound matter-of-fact, when his heart was racing. Then, when Anita paused, though she looked like she might be considering it, “There’s a new tapas restaurant on Calle Primero called Callejon del Gato, which I think means alley cat; or we could go to Buzio’s which is an outdoor café and you can bring Pepe.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Anita was shaking her head no, which caused Joe’s heart to sag, when she then went on to say, “Pepe can stay home. I’ve been curious about the Alley Cat, let’s go there.

“Okay, okay.” Joe was elated and figured it probably showed, but he didn’t care. This is good. “How about seven?”

“Make it eight,” Anita said.