Casco Viejo: The Second Season


Chapter Six

For the past few weeks, Terry Perdu held her yoga classes out on the terrace of the old Union Club. Decades ago, the exclusive, old-family members of the club abandoned the building and relocated directly across Panama Bay, not unlike most of the gentry, who moved away from Casco Viejo during the ‘70s to newer, more modern houses and apartments in Marbella, El Congrejo or the condo canyon of Paitilla. For a while, Manuel Noriega had taken over the club, which previously denied him membership (A sign of a powerful, established club is when the dictator of the country cannot gain admittance.), and reportedly made it one of his favorite hangouts which he renamed Club de Clases y Tropas, even though there were many more military than working class in attendance. That was until the U.S. invasion of 1989 put Noriega out of business and in a Miami jail. The once elegant, neo-classical building, which was built in 1917, looks like it must have been bombed out, during operation “Just Cause,” but apparently simply collapsed from neglect into a roofless ruin, with vultures lounging on a railing around the empty trash-strewn swimming pool, and a tree growing out of a chimney.

What remains is a wide terrace, perched out over the waves of the Pacific, with a skyline view that stretches around the entire bay past the ocean’s horizon and over to where ships, lighted at night, wait at the entrance of the canal for their turn to pass through. Attempts to keep the entrance blocked and locked seemed half-hearted and futile as skateboarders often found a way out on to the terrace, which Mitch Multusky claimed “had to be one of the most gorgeous skate parks in the world,” especially in the pink of evening. There were occasionally art shows and/or discotheques staged on the premises and scenes from the James Bond movie The Quantum of Solace were shot there, but for the most part the structure stood in magnificent decay with a front door latched by a broken chain and a padlock cut with bolt cutters.

So why not hold yoga class out on the sunny, mostly breezy terrace (it did get hot and glary sometimes), with pelicans flying by and the sound of waves washing below. Then one day, the door had been reinforced and locked, but even more meaningful to Perdu’s class was that an eight-foot wall of corrugated steel had been constructed over night around the building. Actually, it took the workers the full previous day, into the evening to complete the barricade, but that was still lightning quick by local standards. Those members of the class, principally, Barb Multusky, who lived down the block and even Beth Page, who made a point to know about such things, noticed the wall go up, but still figured that they could gain access. The rest of Tony’s students were surprised to discover that construction was indeed beginning on what had been rumored for years to be a new boutique hotel. A sign depicting an artist’s conception of what the totally renovated building would look like, was even tacked up at the front of what used to be the second story. Allan Myers, Perdu’s only male client, pointed out that a corner of the grand terrace was represented in the picture, so “at least, that is a good thing;” to which the ladies standing around in loose-fitting tee shirts and draw-string pants, with plastic mats tucked under their arms, readily agreed.

“Okay,” Tony Perdu announced, “we’ll have to walk over to Columbus House. Sorry for the delay.” Perdu, all in white, leotard, short shorts and sneakers, with her brown hair in her usual ponytail, looked peeved, even though her dozen devotees didn’t seem to mind at all. Probably only Beth Page knew that Tony’s seldom-seen husband was interested in developing the old Union Club, which was rumored to be for sale but Beth couldn’t identify the owners, so was unable to represent Mr. Perdu’s Polish money in obtaining the potentially lucrative property. “Please follow me,” Tony said with a raised hand, as her twelve followers walked in double file like a school field trip.

“Welcome, to Casco,” Madge Cole smiled. It was a statement, a version of which was repeated often among the expat community. “Welcome to Panama” or “Welcome to Casco” or “Welcome to Bocas Del Toro” or “…to Boquete.” So what does it mean? Since most of the misplaced yoga enthusiasts nodded knowingly in agreement, the attitude represented by the statement had to do, at least in part, with a kind of agreed-to Murphy’s Law approach to the way things were in Panama. Things never quite worked out smoothly. Plans were often changed; or sabotaged by forces uniquely Panamanian and out of the control of the gringo making the statement. The electricity would go out for three hours after a spectacular thunder storm—Welcome to Panama. An Atlas beer truck would get wedged in between a balcony and Toyota Prada parked on a narrow street—Welcome to Casco. The entire city would close down for Carnival week—Welcome to Panama. The third restaurant at the same location over the past two years would close—Welcome to Casco. A fellow pushing a shaved-ice cart, would be run over by a Diablo Rojo, one of the colorful busses (often painted red—that’s why they’re called Red Devils), that jam the city’s streets—Welcome to Panama. A real estate agent could not ascertain the names of the owners of a desirable property, which, in fact, had a “Se Vende” sign out front--Welcome to Casco. The mountain streams and rivers would flood the town and ruin the annual flower festival—Welcome to Boquete. A tourist would hand his camera to a passerby, who would then run off with it instead of taking a picture—Welcome to Panama. A retired expat couple’s beach cottage would finally be ready for occupancy, nearly a year and a half late—Welcome to Panama. (Just ask Madge’s husband Jerry about that.) Even though the statement was most often used in a negative, what-can-go-wrong-will-go-wrong manner it also was used to refer to other more positive things that seemed inevitable about Panama. Many new faces at an expat mixer—Welcome to Panama. Nearly two dozen cats being fed nightly around the kiosk at the public parking lot—Welcome to Casco. Very hot, humid bright sunny days fading into cool, breezy, star-lit nights—Welcome to Panama.

The group did not march in silence. All Tony Peru needed was to be in a nun’s costume with a clicker and Barb Multusky’s memory of Catholic school would have been complete. She walked next to Madge Cole, whose constant smile seemed more nervous than usual. “So, how’s it goin’?” Barb inquired routinely. Madge pushed up her big white-framed glasses with a finger between her eyes, and sighed. Her hair was bleach blonde, but so light it didn’t make her look any younger than if she had allowed her natural gray to show.

“Sometimes, I feel so guilty,” Madge said. “Here I am off to find inter-peace, while Jerry’s out there at the beach descending further into a hell of his own design.”

Barb laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “You have every right to relax every once in a while.” Even though their little group seemed agitated in talkative two by twos, Barb persisted. “Yoga class is supposed be to where you learn to relax and reflect, so instead of feeling guilty that you’re here and he’s not, you should get him to come along. It would probably do him a world of good.”

“Oh, yeh, I can see that…” Madge seldom stopped with the smile. Often sincere, it was almost always plastered on her round face, which Barb described as cute, a term that Madge would probably interpret as a euphemism for chubby. “Jerry sitting in the lotus position, while gritting his teeth—he’s wound too tight.”

“That’s just my point—it might loosen him up.”

“Hardly.”

“So what’s happened now?” Barb asked, even though she didn’t really want to know any details.

“Sometimes, I think he’s like a Job character,” Madge said, warming to the subject, just as Barb had feared she would. “It’s like the gods are torturing him for the fun of it.”

“What’s happened now?” Barb was resigned.

“Oh, I don’t know. You mean like having the floor tile in the upstairs bathroom come out three tiles short, after they’ve laid ‘em. Or the fact that he was careful and hired a new plumber before he fired the old plumber; but then the new guy didn’t show up and didn’t call or answer his cell phone.”

“Well, welcome to Panama.” Barb provided the standard response.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Last Saturday, Jerry was cleaning up the area, you know, picking up loose concrete bags so they wouldn’t blow into our neighbor’s garden, stuff like that. He had all the trash in a big barrel on the site, so he splashes a little bit of gasoline on the pile and throws a match on. Well, it explodes and knocks Jerry off his feet into a hedge bordering our neighbors’ driveway about fifteen feet away.”

“Geeeezus, Madge. Is he all right?”

“He says he wasn’t hurt.” Madge shrugged, and her smile looked wistful. “Someone must have thrown away a container of gasoline is all we can figure. Jerry’s gas can didn’t explode; and he says he was careful; and he usually is; but he coulda been burnt, or hurt or killed for Christ sake.”

“That’s scary.” Barb had to admit that Madge’s latest tale of woe exceeded the normal level of griping—and oh yeh, my husband was almost killed or maimed at our construction site last week. “Things are just going to have to get better,” Barb said. “They can’t get any worse.” Barb heard her own cliché, but continued, “things are bound to improve.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Madge countered. “Jerry’s ordered a stun gun over the internet. Apparently, it’s legal down here. Guns are hard to get a license for if you’re not a citizen, we’ve been told, so he’s getting a stun gun instead.”

“Guns, are you kidding me?” Barb was surprised. “What do you need a stun gun for?”

“I don’t know; protection, I guess. Jerry says he needs one, so that’s it.”

“Protection from what? Who?”

* * *

“So, you still seein’ that Berger guy?” Allan Myers enquired as casually as he could. He and Beth were the last two in line.

“I was never seeing him,” Beth said with added emphasis; “and excuse me, why is that any concern of yours?”

“Now, don’t get bent out of shape, I’m just making conversation.” Allan made an exaggerated move to back off with his hands at shoulder height and his open palms facing Beth. What Beth didn’t know was that Allan already had a pretty good idea about Berger’s status with her.

The evening before, Beth arrived home from grocery shopping at Riba Smith’s and got Jamon to carry the bags into her kitchen through the front door. As she handed Jamon, who was showing his crooked smile and dirty finger nails, two quarters, Joe Berger’s head appeared over the street guy’s shoulder. He said, “Hi, Beth” in a sudden, high pitched, kinda loud voice. Jamon almost jumped out of his beat-up Crocks, as Beth bleated “Oh, shit!” Jamon spun off the stoop and down the steps in a rather graceful stumble, leaving Berger facing Beth with a surprised look on both their faces. Damn.

“I was hoping to get a chance to talk, you know. It was a big misunderstanding. I didn’t know about the dog and that it was like your pet or whatever.”

“Oh stop. That doesn’t matter. This has nothing to do with the stupid dog; and she’s not my pet.” Beth backed into her open doorway.

“Okay, okay. I was just waiting for you, so we could clear things up, you know, straighten everything out, so we could, you know, get back together.”

“Are you stalking me, you son of a bitch? What do you mean ‘waiting’? You nearly scared Jamon to death, sneaking around…”

“I wasn’t sneaking and I’m not stalking anybody, I was simply in your area and saw that guy at your door, so I figured you were home and so I waited a minute and then I came up to talk.” It was all true, but Joe knew he wasn’t getting anywhere (his explanation sounded contrived to him), and that his timing turned out as bad as always. “Can’t we just sit down and talk for a while. This is all a big mistake.”

“You’re right about that Buster,” Beth said; and closed the door firmly just short of a slam.

Buster ? Berger stood staring at the closed door for a moment and then turned to go. It was his turn to be caught by surprise. What the hell. Walking by slowly, just then at the foot of the three steps, Allan Myers smiled up at Joe and said, “Hey, Berger, how’s it hangin’?”

Before he could compose himself, Berger came out with, “Huh? Okay, I guess.” To Joe, it looked more like a smirk than a smile on Myer’s always confident, smooth face. After a moment, he wished he had said “None of your business, you bald bastard,” but the moment had passed. Dressed in one of his many flower-print Hawaiian shirts, this time green with yellow and white blossoms, chino shorts and flip flops, Myers didn’t stop to talk. He had all the information he needed. He left Berger to linger at the foot of the stairs, befuddled and embarrassed.

“Okay, if you’re not dating anybody, how about me? I would really like to take you out to dinner; how about tonight?

That was not what Beth was expecting, so she came up with a rather weak, “are you kidding?”

“No. I couldn’t be more serious. It occurred to me that we’re perfect for each other.”

Beth quickly regained her footing and countered with “Oh, really. How do you figure that?”

“We’re both smart, independent and good looking and approximately the same age. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a lot in common, besides a love for yoga.”

“Smooth,” Beth thought, “maybe too.” It had occurred to Beth, when Berger sought her out that she was a relatively limited edition. There just weren’t that many widowed, or single for that matter, gringo women around above the age of 30. The younger women were all graduate students or interns or chics on round-the-world adventures, just passing through. Beth did know of a couple of other middle-aged single gals, one divorced and dating a younger Panamanian guy, who Beth thought of as her “boy toy”; the other a widow. Her husband drowned in their backyard swimming pool, which was considered suspicious in some circles (Beth thought the whole situation, with a lucrative insurance payout was fishy as hell), and so the so-called “black widow” was not in as much demand as her voluptuous figure might have indicated. This made Beth feel like a rather unique and probably desirable commodity; certainly from a businesswoman’s perspective. And Beth was a businesswoman, first and foremost. That’s why she hated the idea of giving in to Berger’s attention, like some sort of school girl. As a couple they had no prospects, but there they were cozied up on her couch. Yes, she was bored and horny and that’s how bad decisions are made. Allan, on the other hand, was loaded, Beth knew that; and therefore self-sufficient. Even though Beth liked hair on a head, Allan wasn’t bad looking and had to be smart—he was a wealthy doctor, divorced and on the lam, but still smart enough to keep his money close.

“So what about that bouncy little bimbo I’ve seen you with, there buddy boy,” Beth wasn’t giving in without putting up some sort of defense.

“You gotta admit, she is good looking,” Allan pointed out. Not the rebuttal Beth expected. Allan paused for Beth’s opinion.

“Well, sure, in a young, full bloom, kind of slutty way,” Beth countered.

“A lot of Latin women dress sorta slutty,” Allan said, again avoiding getting pinned down.

“But she’s so young,” Beth said.

“Exactly,” Allan said, pointing his figure in the air. “Bebe’s a sweet kid (That was good—Beth didn’t remember her name), and she’s sexy (at that Allan made direct eye contact, which Beth did not avoid,) and fun (Beth’s eyebrows went up at that), but we have nothing to talk about.”

“I’m sure Spanish is part of the problem.” Beth was enjoying the exchange.

“But, not totally.”

“And she’s a hooker.”

“And yes of course, there’s that,” Allan admitted readily. “I just can’t trust that she’s into me, and not my money; you know, rich gringo and all that goes with that. What she doesn’t know, is that I have no intention of any sort of commitment. She’s young and needs to move on.”

“Well, good for you,” Beth thought. Too many guys, way too many, came down to Panama and Costa Rica especially, first with the intention of exploiting all the young willing women, only to fall for one of their intended sexual conquests. Soon the older dude was deluded into thinking he had found his love match and before he knew it, the girl had moved in, followed in short order, by one or two unexplained and previously not mentioned children, and soon by the mother or sister or cousin. Then it was time to cash in. The hopeless romantic was soon accused of abuse and she had witnesses. That scenario never worked out to the financial benefit of the then not-so-rich gringo. To be honest, that was the path Beth assumed Allan was on, but not anymore.

“To be quite frank, I think I looked kinda foolish in the company of that particular young lady.”

Beth was disarmed. “You did.”

“I know. So help me out here. Let me take somebody out, who I would be proud to be seen with.” Allan stood expectantly, his hands spread out in front, bowed at the waist ever so slightly.

“Oh, all right,” Beth said and slapped him lightly on the shoulder, “but it better be someplace nice.”

“No problemo, I only go to nice places. How about Indigo’s?”

“Fine.” Beth was pleased. This was more like it. Allan suggested one of the most popular restaurants in Casco Viejo. She had been embarrassed by having given in to Berger so easily. She didn’t know anything about him and didn’t really care. Allan was obviously going to be more fun, clearly had money—that Joe character might not—and any way, she was simply going out on a date, not getting engaged or anything stupid like that.

The line had spread out to over a block, with Beth and Allan bringing up the rear. They were approaching the Columbus House, when the group’s newest couple passed by a Chino’s. All, not almost all, all the small grocery stores in the city and even out along the highway and in the towns are owned and run by Chinese. At the beginning of the 20th century, many Chinese migrated to Panama to help first build the railroad across the Isthmus and then the canal. Over the following generations, they came to control the small grocery business. While there are three or four supermarket chains, one owned by the president of the country, all the mini-marts and corner groceries have simply become known as Chino’s.

It was there that Beth spotted a man sitting out front on a bench with a newspaper. Open in front of him, she could read the front page headline Revelador Pone en Peligro Designation de Patrimonio Universal, which translates to Developer Endangers World Heritage Designation.

“Oh, shit!” Beth said as she rushed in to buy a copy of El Diario, the country’s leading daily. Beth could read Spanish, but not with confidence, but she had no difficulty spotting the name Rodrigo Feliz in the first paragraph. She skimmed the rest of the article but did not locate her name, which was good since she had not spoken with any reporters. Beth waved Allan on, but he stood there with a puzzled look on his tanned, clean shaven face. Yoga class was forgotten. In the next instant, Beth had her lawyer Bobby Boar on her cell phone.

“No worries,” Boar said, “you’re not in it. I’ll translate it for you, if you want me to, but it makes him look bad, I assure you. There are a couple of references to ‘local property owners’ and ‘concerned developers’ but no specific reference to you or the building of yours in question.”

“I think he’ll still know it’s me.”

“Of course he will,” Boar sounded condescending and Beth couldn’t help picturing him with that irritating grin on his face. To her quizzical “um” sound, he went on, “you seem to forget my dear, that we’ve filed a formal but useless complaint and we’ve stuck him with a 90-day restraining order, so it’s pretty obvious that you’re one of the local concerned property owner developers. However, when our boy Feliz contacts the editor, and he will, the editor can not link you to the story directly or indirectly. I steered the reporter, who owes me a couple of favors, to some other people. You’re not the only one who thinks this guy is up to no good, you know. You just happen to be the one with the building next door.”

“What do you think he’ll do?” Beth was surprised at how worried she felt.

“Like I said, he’ll try to find out the sources of the story, but I think the guys over at El Diario can stonewall him. Then I think he’ll be somewhat embarrassed tonight at dinner at the Union Club.”

“Big fuckin’ deal,” Beth interjected.

“I thought that’s what we’re trying to do.” Boar sounded impatient. “There are judges, and government officials and big-time real estate types and even a few people, wives mostly who value things like historical heritage, who are members of the Union Club and don’t admire bad publicity. And that’s where we’ll probably get our main benefit. I don’t mean any of those folks will come riding in on a white horse and save Casco Viejo from the jerk. What I hope will happen is that Feliz will want things to die down, so he’ll hopefully decide not to fight the restraining order. Maybe by then a couple of our city fathers will see the light and put a stop to his flagrant disregard for the cultural integrity of Casco Antiquo.”

Beth was impressed and actually gave Allan a thumbs-up sign. “Well, good job, Bobby, really. I hope you’re right.”

“I hope I am too. If not, the shit’s really going to hit the fan.” Pause, Beth did not laugh or say anything. “I’m kidding, okay, just kidding. The worst that can happen is we’re where we are now, with his building lowering our property values.”

“Okay, keep me informed.” With that Beth closed her phone and walked over to Allan and with a shrug said. “Business.”

Meanwhile, it had taken Tony several minutes to locate the concierge to open the door to the Columbus House roof-top terrace that wasn’t supposed to be locked in the first place. Welcome to Casco. As they waited Madge surprised Barb by asking how she was doing. Usually, at the end of a one-way conversation, Barb wondered why it was so seldom that anyone ever returned the favor and asked about her, so she welcomed an opportunity to share a concern of her own.

“Well, you’re not going to believe this,” Barb started tentatively, “but Mitch has volunteered to coach a youth basketball team.” Madge continued to actually look somewhat interested and even a bit surprised.

“That’s nice,” she said, a trite response which immediately discouraged Barb, but then “Where?”

“In Chorrillo.” Barb waited a moment for the information to register with her friend and it finally did.

“You’re kidding isn’t that where he was carjacked?” At that, both women looked around furtively because Barb had asked Madge not to tell anyone else that Mitch had been victimized in the dangerous neighborhood that bordered Casco Viejo to the north. None of the other yoga pilgrims seemed to be paying attention to their conversation, so Madge adjusted her porthole glasses, yet again, and said in a hushed tone “Isn’t that a bit risky?”

“Obviously,” Barb said, but then with a shrug, “but you know my Mitch was never a wimp or anything like that. I mean he won two state championships and then as a vice principal it was his job to deal with the hoodlums in the school; but anyway, he says it has something to do with facing your enemies and overcoming your fears, by simply not giving in to ‘em. Yeh, I know it’s kinda macho,” Barb said in response to the raised eyebrows behind Madge’s glasses. “But, he also said that ‘the best revenge is doing something good’ but I’ll be honest with ya, I’m not so sure that he has to go back into the lion’s den to be positive and constructive.”

“Compared to Jerry, he’s a saint,” Madge said. “My husband would have at least fantasized about machine-gunning down those bastards.”

“Oh, Mitch went thru that stage, I assure you.” Barb was relieved she could tell somebody else about the aftermath of the attack. “His plan was to rent or steal, no kidding, a pickup truck and then load about a dozen suitcases in the open back. Each case was to be booby-trapped with explosives; so when the citizens of Chorrillo stole the luggage and then broke the locks the bombs would go off and wreak havoc in those awful buildings. The charm of the plan, as far as Mitch was concerned, was that ‘if they don’t steal the cases, then there won’t be any explosions.’”

“Where was he going to get explosives,” Madge wondered.

“And where’s Jerry going to get his hands on a machine gun?” Barb said impatiently. “That’s not the point. There are certain ways of dealing with these situations, and this is what Mitch is going to do and even though it worries me, a lot, I’m going to try and support him.”

That left Madge contemplating some topics for meditation, as the group filed up the final stairway and out onto the sunny terrace. “Whew, this might be a hot one,” she said.

Barb left it at that, but she had more on her mind. Even before those gang members attacked Mitch, her husband was showing signs of losing it, but since then his mental acuity seemed to be fading faster. Ever since she knew him, Mitch never, ever took a nap, not even on the weekends; or on vacation and not even when he retired. After the incident, however, he would fall asleep virtually every afternoon and that was after sleeping in until 9—9:30 most mornings. For a guy who used to stay up to watch Jay Leno, Mitch often took a book to bed before 10 p.m. and was snoring soon after.

Mitch’s memory was slipping too. There was a time when Mitch could name every member of every team he coached; and recall the scores of every playoff game and many more. Lately, however, he was hard pressed to recollect the names of people they met at parties or dinners or other people in their building. Of course most people when they get into their sixties experience more difficulty remembering names and items on the thing-to-do list, but Mitch wasn’t bad at all before the attack but afterward he constantly had to walk back downstairs to remember why he had gone upstairs; he was forever searching for his keys and cell phone; he always had to be reminded of names of people they had known for a while; he seldom came back from the Chino’s with everything he was supposed to get; punch lines for jokes (a Mitch specialty), were lost; and appointments, if they weren’t immediately written on the calendar were forgotten.

Before the carjacking or whatever you want to call it, Mitch was not excelling at learning Spanish, but he knew his numbers, days of the week, months and quite a few basic vocab words. It was just that he had problems putting a sentence together. Not anymore—he often had to ask Barb for simple terms; time; everyday objects; place names; basic verbs. From the passenger seat, Barb was concerned about how many times she had to remind Mitch the driver how to get to a place they had been to before, like the grocery store or the Felipe Motta wine shop. He wasn’t drinking any more—that was a good thing. Mitch was still “a couple of beers” kind of guy. Sometimes, though, he would tell a story as if he had not told the same story just a day or two before, if not only an hour or two earlier.

Yes, Barb knew that a faulty memory was a consequence of aging, but she was stunned how quickly Mitch’s memory deteriorated after he had his bad experience. It was like he had become distracted, that there were things on his mind that occupied too much space and didn’t leave room for names, places, dates and/or events. Recently, he persistently called Carmen Butch, a name of a very different (Labrador) dog they used to own back in Michigan. Most of the time, Mitch acted as if nothing was different, though to Barb his memory was twice as bad if not more so than just months before. At other times, however, her big masculine husband, would get a worried look on his broad face, and say “I can’t remember shit.” At times he would look almost frightened. That was why Barb was worried about the basketball plan. Mitch was recruited by a local community organizer Tito Romero, a reformed gang-banger in a blue Casco Antiquo tee shirt with an earnest look in his eye.

Getting back involved with basketball could be a good thing, Barb knew. It might help Mitch get rid of the blues and get him out of the apartment and doing something he was good at and enjoyed. But what if he got lost driving home after practice in the same bad neighborhood where he had already found trouble? Then would he feel even more foolish and impotent and old? Romero, who had a diamond in his left ear that was so big it had to be fake, assured Barb, when she bumped into him while walking Carmen, that he would keep an eye on Mister Mitch. Tito spoke a passable version of Spanglish, enough that Barb could understand and vice versa, but Barb was sure he wouldn’t always be around, even if he gave her a reassuring wink. Her husband was a big guy, who knew how to look confident, even when he wasn’t. What could she do? Coaching a team made up of boys who robbed his car could be therapeutic or not. Tito Romero suggested that after the folks in Chorrillo got to know “el amigo grande” that they would actually look after him as “un compadre de barrio.” Barb hoped that Tito wasn’t being overly optimistic or simply filling a coaching position with the only person he could find; and she figured that a 5’7” part-Indian wouldn’t be overly protective of a man who weighed nearly a hundred pounds more than he did. She sincerely hoped that good things would happen—that challenged, Mitch would sharpen up and maybe even help a couple of kids avoid a life of crime, or straighten up and fly right or whatever. Barb surprised herself at how cynical she had become. Unfortunately, she couldn’t help it, Barb had doubts.