Casco Viejo: the Second Season


Chapter Five

“Okay,” Beth thought, “this is a bad idea.” Joe Berger was asleep beside her, snoring in a regular, apparently contented rhythm. “I don’t need a man in my life, right now or ever, as a matter of fact, but definitely not now.”

They had dinner at a new place called Callejon de Gato, the Alley Cat, and Beth thought the food, tapas, langostinos and meat balls, was pretty good. Joe was attentive and complimentary and most importantly not overly interested in real estate. Sure, he would like her to help him find a “nice little, inexpensive condo in Casco,” like everybody else. Nobody ever seemed to be looking for a horrible, big, expensive place, but that seemed normal for the situation he claimed to be in. But that was a point—there was something about the guy she didn’t trust exactly; or quite believe; even though he didn’t seem to be scamming her or trying to weasel his way into her operation or anything remotely like that—he didn’t want to be a partner, in the business at least; or that’s what she thought. Her judgment or sense of human nature gave her just a hint that this guy wasn’t one hundred percent honest or candid or aboveboard, whatever that meant.

So, why did she go to bed with him? It seemed so natural, inevitable even. After dinner, they went for a drink at Havana Viejo, the Old Havana, which sometimes had a lively crowd, many of whom Beth knew, but not that night—only a couple of couples. Joe made pleasant enough conversation and told two or three mildly funny jokes. So, “what the hell,” she invited him back to her place and they ended up sitting on the couch and smoking a joint. Beth was in the mood to get high and so she did. Joe was neither smooth nor not. He smiled, put his arm around her shoulder, like a date at the movies (years, actually decades ago), and kissed her. To Beth the kiss seemed friendly, not overly aggressive or desperate, and to be honest, she was kinda, sorta, okay, rather horny.

Joe, who was completely naked, rolled over on his side, with his back to her. The hair on his narrow shoulders was gray and wispy. Beth was aware of how thin and ordinary he looked. “Well, he’s not moving in here,” she decided in advance; “and I don’t think he should assume that I’ll be falling on my back every time I see him either.” The point was that she could use a male escort sometimes and Joe already demonstrated that he was willing to at least try to fend off unwelcome attention.

The problem was that Beth Page, real estate operator and deal maker, was involved in a number of disputes at the moment. In fact, the least of her concerns had to do with that grumpy old Jerry Cole, who Beth considered nothing more than a chronic complainer, who made matters worse by getting bent out of shape with the builder and contractors and even the ordinary workers out at his site in Gorgona. Even though Beth did feel sorry for Madge, who was obviously bullied by Jerry, there was nothing she could do, even if she wanted to, to help him out of a work slowdown inspired by his own asinine behavior.

No, Beth was swimming with bigger fish, much bigger fish than Madge Cole’s silly overwrought husband. As far as Beth was concerned she was in a tricky war, one she could lose, and on two fronts at that. Her first battle was with Billy Belize, a 35-year-old developer from Columbia, who acted like he had a lot of money until it came time for him to pay his bills. They were in a partnership in a promising three-story building on Avenida “B” between Calles Quarto and Cinco. The plan was to restore the building that had lovely arched windows, wrought-iron balconies on the second and third floors and thick stone walls, with a commercial property on the first floor and two condos on each of the remaining levels. Belize showed up with his half of the down payment, no problema, but since then there were promises but no more money coming in from his side. He had become a classic “fly-by-night” guy, as far as Beth was concerned, with long absences, purportedly back and forth from Cartagena, where he was also developing a couple of old buildings. At first, she was confident and liked the guy, thin, classic dark short hair and what was becoming a more and more mischievous smile. Eventually, she was going to have to sue him, a deal she was sure was a “lose-lose” situation.

The biggest fish in her particular sea of troubles was Rodrigo Feliz, a short, dumpy fellow, maybe fifty, probably closer to sixty, with a male-pattern bald head trimmed in jet black hair. The first time she met him, Beth suspected that he dyed the hair he had. Feliz reportedly owned 19 buildings scattered around Casco Viejo. Eighteen were just sitting there moldering, some with squatters including a couple that were inhabited by drug dealers and some gang members, and most that were either boarded up or empty shells. Apparently, Feliz’s plan was to eventually sell off his buildings, when they acquired more value due to the restoration of the rest of the neighborhood. Far be it from him to actually contribute to the revitalization by actually investing any money or effort himself.

There was one notable exception; the building directly next to Barb’s on Avenue B, right at the corner at Fifth Street. Here the other half of Feliz’s plan seemed to be taking shape. Not only had the building been gutted, but because of the lack of support, two of the four walls had collapsed as well; which meant that the entire building needed to be rebuilt from the ground up. At first, this particular rebuilding project seemed like a positive, until the structure rose to a grand six stories, with modern rectangular windows.

Casco Viejo, after all, is a World Heritage Site officially designated by UNESCO. What that means is that there are a complicated set of rules and regulations that stipulate that any restoration of a building must be consistent with its original, historical design and that all the buildings have to be compatible and true to the heritage of the “protected” area. As far as Beth was concerned, this historical designation was what gave the district its value. There were and could only be some 800 buildings in a clearly defined area, which was to be preserved as a memorial to the original city of Panama. Old Town San Juan came immediately to mind, and of course Billy’s stomping grounds Cartagena.

Before anyone could restore a structure, a detailed building permit was required, that insured the integrity of the original (for example, if the old building had a courtyard, the new building had one too), specifically having to do with appropriate design and dimensions. “What in the hell is goin’on,” is what Beth wanted to know with the monstrosity next door. Her building was literally hunched in the shadow of what looked like a Soviet apartment block. Naturally, she had her lawyer, Bobby Boar, a Zonian, file a complaint, only to find out that Feliz “allegedly” had all the permits.

“That’s not possible,” Barb pointed out. “That place, has nothing to do with the original building or anything remotely like preservation of the surroundings.”

“Obviously,” Boar said with a grin that Beth never knew quite how to interpret. “We’ve just experienced a change in administrations (Ricardo Martinelli ran on a reform, anti-corruption ticket and soundly defeated Balbina Herrera and the party that had been in charge previously.), but it appears that our boy Feliz may have pulled a fast one right before the end or during the transition.”

“You mean he bribed someone and got phony permits or what,” Barb said.

“We have no proof that such a thing happened,” Boar pointed out in his smug lawyerly fashion.

Beth knew she was swimming in shark infested waters, but decided to file a formal complaint against Feliz. Boar also managed to get a judge to issue a restraining order that forced Feliz to stop construction, at least temporarily for 90 days. Boar was cautious.

“I just don’t see how he can win this,” Beth said. “The old building was no more than four stories. Rodrigo’s skyscraper is at least six stories, if the fat bastard is going to stop there. He should not only be made to cease and desist, but he needs to be taken down a coupla pegs—like about two stories.”

“I am sure he will not like that idea,” Boar said, then flashed a brief grin.

“Too fuckin’ bad,” Beth said. “The rules are the rules and they have to be followed or…”

“Or what,” Boar interrupted. “I got a theory for ya, that ya might not have considered.”

“Oh, good,” Beth said. Even though Boar wasn’t very personable, Beth knew he was smart, fairly well connected and knew the so-called ropes. “Tell me.”

“Were you aware that the bi-annual review of the status as a World Heritage Site by UNESCO is scheduled for next month?” Beth nodded but Boar did not grin. “Have you heard that there are a number of problems with the maintenance of several of the government buildings; the cobblestone streets (which were a mess because of truck traffic and had been filled in at several points with black top or concrete); and the fact that the previous government supposedly failed to file much of the necessary paperwork?” Beth had heard rumors too. “Now, I don’t know if any or all of it is accurate or if it will even affect the World Heritage status. What I am pretty sure of is that Senor Feliz would be just as happy if UNESCO was no longer involved with his building plans, so he could do whatever he wanted with his properties; maybe even put up a coupla towers, if you get my drift.”

“Are you telling me that that shit is trying to sabotage the ruling by putting up a building that is clearly in violation?”

“I don’t have any proof and I’m not in Senor Feliz’s inner circle, but it is curious that he has recently become interested in developing one of his properties. You know don’t you that if it comes to a battle in the Panamanian courts that it could take two or more years and you could quite possibly lose.”

“Oh, I know,” Beth said, “and if I don’t fight the fat, bald bastard, I lose. What do you suggest?”

That was when the biggest grin of the day came over Boar’s narrow face. “I do have some connections with the local press. Let’s see if I can get a reporter or two to start asking the right questions.”

“I’ll be glad to talk to the press,” Beth said and stood up to make her point.

“I don’t think you fully understand,” Boar stopped grinning. “My job is to protect you and your interests, so the last thing I want you to do is hold a press conference or even be quoted in the papers.”

"Fine." As the sun came up, Beth lay in her bed going over her current “challenges” in her head and wondering what would happen next. Nothing good, she was sure. All the while Joe Berger, who had not yet fully achieved the status of boyfriend, slept soundly at her side.

* * *

Joe Berger didn’t have to pretend to be asleep. Following the first sex he had had in over a year, he slept soundly, content that his life had taken a positive turn. After all, Beth was an attractive, apparently prosperous woman, and she had asked him up. He hadn’t needed to be pushy or suggest it or anything. He was goin’ with the flow, as they say, and it was working. God knows, he was nervous and had even practiced some small talk before their dinner date. He also brought cash in case there was a problem with his credit card. He checked himself in the mirror and even brushed his teeth twice, before venturing out.

At times, Beth acted maybe a bit too casual, as if she wasn’t all that interested much less excited; but then she invited him up for a drink. Beth looked good too. She seemed to favor strapless outfits and had on a snug-fitting green and brown striped dress that showed off her faintly freckled shoulders. Her perfume had what seemed to Joe a tropical fruit scent.

Yes! Berger shouted in his head while he attempted to accept the invitation naturally. Then she came out of the bathroom with a joint. Even though Joe hadn’t smoked pot since his first wife (His second would not allow it.), he thought this was a positive sign as well. He tried not to inhale, so he wouldn’t go nuts or fall asleep, but he still managed to get a pretty good buzz, which scared him. Don’t fuck up now. Beth seemed to relax and had kicked off her sandals. When she stretched out her legs and put her bare feet, with bright red toenails, on the coffee table, he, oh, so smoothly, put his arm around her shoulder. She actually leaned into him and rested her blonde head on his shoulder. So far, so good. The only thing he could think to do then was kiss her, so he did. Pretty soon, she stood up, put out her hand, with bright red fingernails, and led him into the bedroom. Sweet dreams.

* * *

Most mornings, Carmen would cruise on over to a construction site on Avenida “B”, where a number of construction workers would be sitting on the curb having breakfast. Carmen was cool. She would not attempt to steal any food, patacones or bread, but simply hang about, nearby, until something was dropped or more often tossed in her direction. How the workers knew the dog’s name was Carmen was a mystery, but some greeted their small black and white friend with jovial "buenos dias, Carmenlita" and none of them ever kicked at her or shooed her away.

Mitch, the provisional owner, often took an early morning walk and more than once noticed his would-be pet working the crowd at one construction site or another. “It is hard to believe that our puppy isn’t mucha gorda,” he would say to Barb upon his return. “Carmen has breakfast with us, each morning and joins the local work force for desayuno numero dos.” Actually Mitch had learned very little Spanish and what he did know he often used for comic effect, a classic defensive maneuver for the language challenged. Sometimes Carmen would abandon her amigos and follow Mitch for the rest of his walk and sometimes she would allow the man to go on his own.

Mitch never caught her at Beth’s breakfast nook and had no idea. Mitch did know that one of his pup’s best amigos was Jamon; and that particular morning, (the one Joe Berger would always think of as the morning after) Mitch watched as Carmen stopped in a doorway, where Jamon was curled up after apparently spending the night. Mitch always called him Horace, because he just couldn’t get himself to call the guy “Ham” to his face. Jamon/Horace did not look very good –his clothes were dirty and extremely wrinkled and his socks could be seen sliding down into his shoes, baring chubby ankles. There was a smile on Jamon’s pink, puffy face as he fiddled with Carmen’s black ear. It appeared to Mitch, that the left side Horace’s face was swollen and redder than the right side, though both of the guy’s eyes were half hooded by red lids. He certainly wasn’t fat, but he was soft and formless and pretty much deserved his nickname.

“Buenos dias, jefe,” Jamon said as he stood up on uneasy legs. An empty half-pint bottle rattled at his feet. Mitch was just liberal enough to be uncomfortable being called boss, but he reached in his pocket and handed Horace a dollar and said emphatically “para desayuno.” Jamon almost bowed to his flabby waist and said “gracias, jefe.” Mitch went on with his morning constitutional, while Carmen, her white tail wagging, lingered for more pets, from her gentle friend. “I am such an enabler,” Mitch thought as he turned the corner, “but whatcha gonna do?”

Soon too, Carmen left Jamon on the doorstep to contemplate yet another lost day. With the big old man still in sight in the distance with his back to her, Carmen ducked down an alley and then slid under the gate toward the smell of coffee and her third breakfast of the morning. Halfway, up the walkway, she noticed a strange man sitting on her chair. He had short gray hair and was wearing a blue and white flower-print shirt open to the waist, a pair of chino slacks and was barefoot. Carmen went directly to her place and looked up at the man expectantly.

“Oh, oh,” the man said. “Where did you come from, you little rascal?” Berger was amused, but thought it best to shoo the dog away. “Scat,” he said and waved his hand, palm down, at the mutt. The dog just stood there, with its black and white face cocked at a quizzical angle. “Scat!” Joe said, in what he felt was a commanding voice. When the dog didn’t budge, Joe tried “Vamos!” thinking maybe Spanish would work. Nope. The dog stood stoically beside his chair. This is when Joe’s hopes took an unfortunate turn. Berger made what he felt was a playful swing at the dog with his bare foot, in an attempt to get the animal to move away. What Beth saw as she passed through the door was the guy who she had spent the night with kicking her favorite breakfast companion. Poor Joe didn’t see or hear Beth until he attempted an even firmer nudge, no not exactly, kick, not really, swipe with his foot at the dog, who he thought was the intruder.

“What in the fuck do you think you’re doing?” It wasn’t a scream exactly, but the protest was decibels louder than a simple question. It caught Berger completely by surprise as Carmen leapt from the terrace and hid behind a rose bush.

To his eternal regret, Joe answered “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Beth snarled. “I just saw you kick Carmen. What gives you the right to kick that dog?”

“I didn’t know it was your dog,” Berger said, and then immediately corrected his defense to “I didn’t really kick him. I was like, you know, shooing him away.”

“It’s a her, you idiot.” Beth looked like she was shaking in rage, which put Berger in a panic. “And, I saw you kick her. So don’t deny it.”

“But, I didn’t.” By that time, the argument was lost and Berger knew it. Nothing. Why did I say nothing? I am an idiot.

“Get the fuck out of my house.” Beth stood rigid and pointed toward the doorway, where Tica, the maid, stood with two large plates and one small one of scrambled eggs. Apparently the maid had adapted much better to the situation than Joe, who only expected that two would be having breakfast that morning.

“Oh, please Beth—this is a silly misunderstanding.” When Joe stood up, it must have looked to Carmen as if he was threatening Beth, because she started barking at him.

“I wasn’t kicking your dog,” Joe insisted.

“She’s not my dog,” Beth said waving her arm in an exasperated manner.

Joe’s mind was racing. Not her dog, so what’s the big deal. He was playing around, not trying to hurt him or her or whoever. “Oh, come on,” he said, while Carmen barked incessantly, from the foot of the terrace. Joe also saw Tica smiling broadly, and that pissed him off. “This is stupid,” he said in a voice with a brand new but not welcome tone of anger.

“Get__the__fuck__out__of__my__house,” Beth pronounced each word with individual emphasis, “Right, now.”

“Jesus Christ, Beth, would you calm down for a moment.” It was too late for Joe to attempt to take some sort of control.

At that Beth whirled around and told Tica to “telefone las policias, por favor.” Joe didn’t speak Spanish, but he could figure that out.

“Okay, okay, Christ this is stupid, but I’ll leave. Just let me get my shoes, and wallet and stuff.”

“Tica, policias, pronto.” Tica put the plates down and went inside.

“You are overreacting,” Joe said, pointing his finger in his ex-girlfriend’s face. However, he didn’t hesitate and soon had his wallet in his pocket and his shoes in his hand. In another moment, he was out the front door, which was slammed behind him.

“How in the hell was I supposed to know that that dog was going to have breakfast with us,” Joe asked rhetorically, out loud, as he sat on the steps and slipped the boat shoes on his feet.