Casco Viejo: The Second Season




Chapter Three

All the usual suspects turned up around 5:30 to stand around the rather small pool situated on the roof of the Columbus House, a four-story building on Avenita “A.” Ice tinkled in a couple of vodka tonics as a light cool breeze came in off the Pacific about four blocks away.

Jerry Cole leaned over and fished an Atlas beer out of a large cooler. Retired at 62, the minimum age for social security, Jerry used to be an engineer with a few different oil companies over the years, but now he and his wife Madge, a nurse—not yet retired at 58, but on leave, were building a beach house on the Pacific coast about two hours away from Panama City. They had moved around quite a bit, Texas, Indonesia, Venezuela, and so, with no roots anywhere, found Panama to be both an exotic enough place for their tastes and rather affordable as compared to where else they had lived. Madge was not thin, with big white framed glasses perched on a small nose and a perpetual smile, and looked larger than her husband, who was thin, nervous and just a bit hunched over. She referred to herself as a “bottle redhead” and kept a wary eye on her husband who wanted to have words with Beth Page, “if or when she has the chutzpah to show her face.”

Madge and Jerry were renting an apartment in the Columbus House until the construction of their house in Gorgona was complete. The problem was that completion was already six months overdue, with no end in sight. Beth had put the deal together, so Jerry held her responsible, even though she had nothing to do with construction and had never even been to the site. Lately, Jerry’s mood was more and more angry and agitated, and he often snapped at Madge, whose “bedside-manner” approach didn’t seem to calm him down like it used to. Jerry expressed machine gun and machete fantasies to Madge at one time or another involving their contractor, most of the work crew and even Beth Page. Madge was glad to see that Jerry was drinking beer and not scotch, so if Beth did show, he might not be tempted to throw her off the roof.

Not only was there a view of the sea, just a few blocks away, but the spires of the church of Saint Francis out toward the water and the National Cathedral, off to the side, stood out above the red tiled roofs of the old stone and concrete buildings that were protected as a World Heritage site by UNESCO. The skyscrapers of the city were visible off across the bay, because nothing in Casco was allowed over its original height, almost in every case three stories and seldom higher than four.

It might have looked like Jack Smith was chatting casually with Allen Myers, but he was actually checking out Allen’s date, a small pretty Latin girl in a tiny, tight white dress. Jack, a widower, who lost his Panamanian wife nearly five years ago, had an eye for “Latin ladies,” and the young woman standing beside Meyers, seemed to appreciate it when Jack spoke to her in reasonably coherent Spanish. She smiled shyly, even though there was nothing shy about her outfit. Her breasts were squeezed together and looked as if they might burst free from the low-cut neckline held taught by two thin spaghetti straps.

Allen Myers already had a reputation as a lady’s man, even though he had been in Panama for less than six months. A very successful plastic surgeon, Allen escaped a nasty divorce by moving his millions, tucked neatly away in several foundations, to Panama for safe keeping. According to Allen his wife “got greedy” and wanted a substantial share of his future earnings “on top of” what Meyers characterized as a generous settlement. “Now she gets nothing,” Allen often summarized, with a wink and a sneer, even though it wasn’t quite true, since she owns all their assets that are still located in the States, including a country club home, a beach house, three cars, their joint bank account, which he didn’t clean out (“I’m no criminal,” he said.) and his beloved Chocolate Lab, Buddy, who had been named after Bill Clinton’s dog. At 50, Myers was young for retirement and still planned to practice his specialty in the future, but currently was in Panama on an investor’s visa. Because of pending law suits and warrants (He failed to appear at a couple of court dates.) Myers considered it “ill advised” (according to his lawyer.) to return to the United States, anytime in the near future. So, with plenty of money to spend and his life on hold, he dressed the part of a playboy, with a huge gold Rolex, a heavy gold chain around his neck, a black silk sport shirt open to his navel , sharp slacks and Gucci shoes. Since he was balding already, he decided to go all the way and shave his head for what he called the “Telly Savalas look.”

Obviously, Allen’s date, a 24-year-old hooker from Columbia, had no idea who Savalas was, but it did sound kind of Spanish. Bebe Castro, actually was allowed into Panama to be a prostitute and worked as a pole dancer and professional escort at one of the city’s most popular “gentlemen’s clubs” The Desert Island Club. Bebe had a single ambition in life and that was to marry a rich gringo. It certainly looked like Allen Myers fit the bill; and since Allen seemed to be on a self proclaimed quest “to fuck as many good looking women as humanly possible,” they appeared to Jack, anyway, as a “perfect couple.”

Old Jack had no such ambitions, though he wouldn’t mind getting into Senorita Castro’s panties, that is, if she were wearing any. No, he was happy to just look. To be honest, he still really missed his wife, Patricia, who he had met 40 years ago, when he taught English in the Canal Zone at Balboa High School, and she was a first-year teacher in the History department. After his two-year contract, they moved to College Park, Maryland, where he scratched his way up through grad school at the university and got his doctorate in Composition Studies, while Patricia worked as a school secretary at High Point High School. Pretty soon, he landed a job teaching Freshman Comp at Western Maryland College, eventually becoming head of the department; and that was where he ended up until retirement.

Jack tried not to be bitter because he remembered many good times when he considered himself a popular, successful member of the faculty, with stints as the college senate president and the editor of a respected though small circulation journal, with the uninspired title College Composition. The last few years, however, didn’t go smoothly, with his students showing up for class with earphones and plagiarized essays downloaded off the internet. Somehow, over the years, the English Department, had, according to Jack, turned into a bunch of “school marms,” who saw themselves more as counselors than instructors dedicated to maintaining standards. Nobody seemed to flunk English 101 anymore, even though few of the students knew the difference between there, their or they’re or cared. He wasn’t forced out or anything so dramatic, but the time to leave Western Maryland felt long overdue, and so he and Patricia decided to retire back to good old Panama, where his wife still had plenty of family and they both had fond memories.

It was a shame because Patricia, the little dark-eyed love of his life and mother of two American daughters, died from a stroke soon after their condo on the third floor of The Columbus House was completed, nearly two years before. Patricia had grown up in Casco Viejo and gone to primary school there, so it had been a true homecoming for her. Jack Smith had no other place to go, so he stayed. The fact that he wrote restaurant reviews for a bilingual tourist newspaper called The Visitor/El Visitante, helped pass some of the time. Because his reviews were often witty while still being reliable, even though he really wasn’t supposed to pan any potential advertiser, Jack had become a personality in the expat community. “I’m not sure how,” one of his readers had written in an e-mail, “but somehow I can tell if the place is really first-rate or not, and especially not, even when Jack seems to be saying all the right things about yet another new restaurant .”

“Hardly a celebrity,” Jack pointed out, but “known around town” and often asked for his opinion or for a recommendation for a nice place to eat, “not too expensive.” Actually, that was exactly what Allen Myers was asking him about, just without the price proviso.

“Jeese,” Jack thought, “he doesn’t have to impress this chick. She’s already ready, willing and able to turn him every way but…oh, never mind.” Jack graciously suggested a couple of spots including his usual standby, La Posta, a fine restaurant located in an old house in the center of the city. At that, Jack turned to survey the group that was steadily growing as the roof-top terrace continued to fill with middle-aged ladies in flowing dresses and thin-strapped sandals and “geezer” guys in flower print shirts and boat shoes with no socks. No shorts—long pants was how men “dressed up” in Panama. The building only had eleven apartments, so obviously some of the twenty-plus people were friends and neighbors, most of a certain age.

The exception to the rule (besides bouncy Bebe, who was standing off to the side, not welcomed into any of the gaggles of gals), was Tony Perdu, the young (35) fit and trim yoga instructor, who lived on the top floor with her Polish businessman husband (He was at least 60, wealthy and often absent). Their apartment took up the entire top floor, while the third floor was divided into two suites (Meyers owned one and Jack the other), and the first two floors housed four small apartments each. In a tank top and dark, slim slacks, Tony looked healthy rather than sexy, with her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was popular with the ladies, who came regularly for her “tough” classes held up on the roof-top terrace in the early morning sun and then again in the late afternoon, three times a week. Tony struck most of the ladies as inspired and thus inspiring, always encouraging her students firmly but positively to do better. The classes were somewhat informal, and Tony allowed the participants to pick and choose among the six classes a week by providing a coupon book, with a dozen prepurchased classes at a reasonable ten bucks a pop. “She’s obviously not in it for the money,” was a common refrain among her ladies, even though it was unclear what she was in it for, besides a vaguely defined missionary zeal for the benefits of yoga and a healthy mind and body. Most of her students (including a couple of guys, with Allen Myers on a semi-regular basis) felt lucky to have Tony.

According to the notice in the hallway, the party was supposed to start at 5:00 p.m. and so Joe Berger arrived a few minutes before. He thought he might be able to ingratiate himself, with whoever was setting up, a good first impression. The only problem was that when Joe stepped off the elevator and climbed the last few steps to the terrace, nobody was there. Nada, not a soul.

“Oh, shit,” Joe said out loud, as his face and neck flushed red in what would have been an obvious blush had anyone seen it. Clutching a bottle of white wine and a bag of tortilla chips, he virtually leaped back to the landing, slammed his palm against the button and slumped into the elevator. Going down. Even though Joe had been looking forward to the get-together since he saw the sign, he didn’t want people to think he was desperate and that’s how he was sure he would have looked to whoever found him waiting forlornly for somebody else to show up. Berger was relieved when nobody was there when the doors opened to the second floor to find him muttering to himself about possibly having “the wrong date or time; or being the only idiot to show up on time; or at all for that matter.”

Back inside his nearly empty bachelor pad, with only one picture on the wall, that of a large pineapple, Joe sat down on one of the two chairs around the kitchen table and considered what to do next. Well, I’ll never show up early again, that’s for sure. He wondered if he could check the sign downstairs one more time without being detected, but thought it was too risky. Instead he decided to wait until “at least 5:30,” and then try again. If nobody was there by then it would be clear that it wasn’t going to happen; maybe it got cancelled or postponed; or maybe they all hid until he left; or it was a cruel practical joke on the new guy.

So Joe was both relieved and surprised when he found nearly two dozen people fully engaged in conversation when he next ascended the final few steps. “Timing’s everything,” Joe thought as he placed the bottle on a table stacked with plastic cups and looked around helplessly for a bowl for the chips.

“Hi, there,” Madge said with what looked to Joe like a smirk. “You’re late.” She immediately regretted the remark because of the odd expression that flashed across this stranger’s face. It was an instant, but the guy looked shocked and bewildered before he quickly composed himself, and with a faint smile, said “Hi. My name is Joe Berger, and I’m new in this building and in Panama for that matter.”

“Well, good to meet you Joe,” Madge said and offered her cheek for an air kiss. “Let’s put these chips on the table, and I’ll introduce you to some of your neighbors.”

“Thank, god,” Joe thought, “for a second there…, oh, fuck it, I’ll get used to stuff around here, soon enough;” but meanwhile, he was actually going to meet some new people. It didn’t take Joe long to spot Tony Perdu, who was pouring herself a glass of white wine. Joe pounced. “Hello,” he said “I hope you’ll like that wine. That’s the one I brought.”

“Oh, great,” Tony thought, “he’s hitting on me.” To be fair, Joe was, and that was a problem since Tony had grown tired of “older guys” constantly coming on to her. She wore her wedding ring and tried not to make eye contact, but without fail, some optimistic “old dude” with hair in his ears, would give her “that look” which meant she was going to be cornered. Within a moment, Madge, in her green and white flower print dress swooped in to save Joe, who immediately recognized the meaning of his target’s body language. “Jesus Christ,” he thought, as he noticed her faint cringe and pursed lips. “I still got it, and it’s not good.”

“Hey there, Tony, I’d like you to meet our newest neighbor, Joe from Florida,” Madge said. “This is Tony, everybody’s favorite yoga instructor,” she continued as Joe observed the woman across from him fain a cordial smile. “Yoga, huh? Maybe I’ll take some lessons,” Joe offered, as he watched Tony do a poor job of concealing her lack of enthusiasm. He then tried out the retired sports agent angle on the two physical opposites,one slim and trim and one not, but it was clear that neither were interested, much less impressed. “Oh, I don’t even understand sports,” Marge said with a giggle and a wave of her hand. “Neither do I,” said Tony. Conversation over. Joe wandered over to the railing and watched as one falcon and then a second landed on the red roof of the building across the street. They were small, compact birds, with sharp curved beaks, brown/gray wings and a row of horizontal grey bars across their white breasts; and held on to the peak of tiles with what looked like oversized yellow claws.

When Joe turned around he noticed the blonde woman, he had seen a couple of days before on the street, come up onto the terrace. “Oh, good,” he thought, “she’s more in my age bracket, and nice lookin’ too.” Beth Page, who did look good in a Spanish style peasant blouse that showed off her bare shoulders, lived around the corner and knew just about everybody in the building and most of the gringos in Casco Viejo. She immediately spotted a fellow she didn’t know by the railing staring at her. “Oh, oh,” she thought as she tried to avoid eye contact, and quickly stepped up to little Barb Multusky, who was standing by herself with a glass of white wine in her hand.

“Who’s that new guy,” Beth said as she moved her head slightly in his direction.

“I have no idea,” Barb replied. “There are always new people and sometimes I just can’t keep up with all the comings and goings. You know what I mean?”

“Absolutely. So where’s Mitch?” Just as she asked, Beth spotted Barb’s husband’s head sticking out from a group of average height men across the room. She could see Allen Myers and Jack Smith with Jerry Cole, whose back was to her. “Well, the gang’s all here.” Barb shrugged. First Mitch, from his higher vantage point, saw Beth and smiled, but then Allen and Jack turned and smiled as well. At that, Jerry literally spun around and glared in Beth’s direction. “Oh, Jesus, not again,” Beth moaned and Barb shrugged again.

“You have a lot of gall, showing your face around here,” Jerry said as he strode over to confront the woman he held personally responsible for getting him into a construction nightmare that seemed destined never to end. At the same time Madge was literally scuttling across the terrace in what turned out be an unsuccessful attempt to intercept her husband before he confronted Beth Page.

“Oh, come off it.” Beth stood defiantly with her hands on her hips. “I don’t even have a drink yet. Gimme a break.”

“Jerry, now…” Madge cautioned.

“Shut up, Madge,” Jerry said a decibel too loud and in an angry tone that made everyone on the terrace take note and feel uncomfortable. “I simply want to find out what Mrs. Page has done to facilitate matters as far as our house project is concerned. For example, did you know that our contractor has not been on site for a week and is not returning my phone calls?”

“I’m not surprised,” Beth said as she pushed past toward the bar. “Why would anybody want to call you back?” It was the way she said you (dripping with asshole connotation) that even stopped Jerry for a moment to contemplate the answer to the question. A quick scan of the audience showed that the group of guys Jerry had abandoned was thoroughly enjoying the confrontation, while Barb, Tony and even Bebe seemed more interested than distressed. Only Madge looked worried. “Please, honey, she said in a voice so plaintive that her husband, paused a moment, before he continued “it’s your damn responsibility, and you know it.”

“Okay, friend, enough is enough.” It was the new guy standing between Jerry and Beth. If a group could ever have a communal thought, it was then; and could be generalized as something to the effect of “What the fuck does he think he’s doing?”

What Joe Berger, the new guy who had been renting an apartment on the second floor for almost two weeks, thought he was doing was coming to the aid of a damsel in distress. He saw his opportunity to impress this attractive woman and he leapt on it. The surprising thing was that it appeared to work. Jerry, for a second, hunched over even more than usual and clenched and unclenched his fists, but it was clear that the air was leaking out of his balloon. Madge pushed her glasses back up her nose as far as they would go and hesitantly placed her chubby hand on her husband’s thin arm. Jerry turned to Beth’s back as she poured herself a full glass of red wine and hissed, “I’ll being calling you first thing, Monday morning.”

“Good luck, with that,” Myers said under his breath to Jack and Mitch, who nodded, while attempting to stifle a laugh. Everyone, except Bebe of course, whose bare back shined with a thin coat of perspiration, turned back and attempted to remember what they were talking about before Jerry went on his rampage.

That left Beth to turn around and deal with a smiling guy, standing right behind her, who she didn’t know and had never met before, but for some reason had decided to take her side.

“So, who in the hell are you,” she said as she brushed past the rather ordinary looking guy with a short gray haircut, and a dumb grin on his face. (“Joe …) After she balanced the wine glass on the railing, (Berger, I’m…), Beth rummaged through her purse for a second (new in the building…), and brought out a pack of Kools. (…and you’re?) Joe was thrilled—he too was a smoker, a dying breed. In a flash he whipped out his lighter. Beth couldn’t help it; she touched his hand to steady the lighter and lit her cigarette. She regretted the tiny intimate gesture and tried to make it appear that she was shielding the flame from the breeze, but it was too late. The Joe fella reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights.

“You know back in the States, it’s almost impossible to smoke in public anymore,” Joe said, as he beamed at Beth. “We’re outside here though, so I guess it’s all right.”

“Listen Joe,” Beth said, more exasperated than peeved, “I really don’t need your help, and in the future, I would appreciate it, if…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Joe said, hoping to keep up his confidence for at least a few more moments, “you’re obviously a very capable woman. I’ve seen you before, around town, and I wanted to meet you; and I was worried that that jerk would cause such a scene that you would leave or sock him or something and I wouldn’t get a chance to introduce myself.”

“Okay,” Beth thought. “He’s not going away, and that is a pretty good line, which could even be true, so what the shit…” and with a sigh, she asked the mandatory series of introductory questions.

“So, where in Florida are you from?”

“Miami. And where are you from?”

“Arizona. The Phoenix area. My husband and I had a real estate business and we moved down here because of the many opportunities in that field.” When she noticed a quizzical look on Joe’s face, Beth added, “He died almost two years ago, but I’m still at it. So, what did you do in Miami, and what brings you to Panama?”

“I was a sports agent, but it wasn’t as glamorous as some people suppose,” Joe offered.

“I really have no idea what that entails,” Beth admitted.

“Good,” Joe thought. “And, to be honest, I’m not sure why I ended up down here.” Joe reverted to honesty for just a brief moment. “I’m retired and looking for something new.”

Beth took a long sip of her wine. “Oh, shit,” she thought, “if he says that he’s keeping his options open, I’ll just throw myself over the railing.”

“So anyway, I’m pretty much keeping my options open.” When Joe noticed Beth shrink back, barely perceptibly, he laughed. After years of experience, Joe had become sensitive to even the slightest sign of distain or rejection, but he was turning over a new leaf, so he pretended not to be discouraged, and countered with, “Pretty weak huh?”

“Well…” Beth knew he had detected her cringe.

“Actually, I’m escaping,” Joe said.

“Oh, great, probably the police” Beth thought, even though she was aware that he seemed to be acutely aware and reading her thoughts, or at least anticipating her reactions.

“The cops,” Joe said, and when a look of amazement appeared on Beth’s face, “just kiddin’. I caught my wife in bed with another man—literally my neighbor. It’s the worst kind of divorce, because to prove you have grounds, you have to prove you’re a cuckold, which is no fun at all. So, any way, that’s what I left behind in Florida. That’s what I’m getting away from.”When Beth looked relieved, Joe’s confidence soared. Honesty isn’t always the best policy. “Here let me get you another glass of wine.”

When he returned from the bar, Barb and Mitch Multusky were standing beside Beth, who introduced them to Joe. Unlike at first, Beth did not feel any more like she needed to lose this Bozo, and actually filled Joe in when they turned to go. No they didn’t live at Columbus House either, but had a little courtyard apartment down Avenida “A” “in a building called Casa something, I don’t remember; but they’re the nicest couple.”

At seven o’clock sharp, as if a factory whistle had sounded, people gathered at the stairwell and made their goodbyes. Beth and Joe were smoking off to the side, near the pool. “So, how about a bite to eat,” Joe enquired, keeping things casual.

“Sure,” Beth said, "why not?”