equally wretched experience of attending to complaints about a broken screen made to the colonel this morning by a shrew whose voice makes me fear for shattered spectacles.”
“Mrs. Penny.”
He raised an eyebrow. Score one for me.
“What, then, suits you best for a drinking establishment?” he asked.
“Well, let me help you out when it comes to my particular bent. All I want is to get home as soon as possible because I have a young girl to raise.”
“The report did say you were a widower.”
“What would a report say about you?”
“Define
best
for me.” Another twitch of his eyeglasses with his free hand. “Panama City is rife with drinking establishments.”
“I first want a place where journalists gather like stupid gazelles at a water hole.”
“Journalists? I don’t think you yet appreciate how confidential all of this must be.”
“Or maybe you don’t appreciate that I want to ask, not answer, questions. How about helping me fill out one of these blank trip tickets and writing down directions to a few bars and then escorting me to a train to get me there.”
“I’m not your servant.”
“But you are the colonel’s. Second, I want a working-class bar.”
“It will be dangerous.”
“Then definitely don’t follow me this evening. I doubt you’d survive five minutes in a place like that.”
“Strange,” Miskimon said, “I was just thinking that I couldn’t ever dislike you more than I do already. Yet here I am. Proven wrong. It’s a novel sensation. Not my dislike for you. But being proven wrong.”
“That’s okay, Muskie. I’ll be gone tomorrow. Keep that in mind. Confirm for me that you’ll reimburse me for receipts for the booze I buy. Tonight is going to be nothing but work for the colonel.”
“I would think nothing but.”
“By the way, the bars in Panama City, they accept American dollars, right?”
“So do the con men and pickpockets and all the other riffraff.” Miskimon sniffed. “If I’m lucky, you won’t make it back here at all.”
T he Zone police had a station in Corozal, a few stops south of Culebra, and, conveniently enough, the second-to-last stop before Ancón, where I would disembark later to reach Panama City.
I stepped off the train and noticed immediately a man in a khaki uniform. He was a handsome, large man, skin ebony black, and when I asked for directions to the police station, he stretched a grin across his face. “Follow me, mon.”
We didn’t have far to go. It was on a knoll across the track, a pleasant-looking low building with a veranda and rocking chairs.
“What bizness you got here?” His voice was a rumble.
“I’m looking for Harry Franck.”
“That man? I hope you not in no hurry. He talks and talks. Talks ’nuff to make a horse lose its hind leg.”
We stepped onto the veranda, and he peered through the window.
“Yah, mon. Nuttin’ different. Jess listen. He’s a mon to tell stories. Good thing his stories are good.”
He pushed the door open and motioned for me to remain quiet. We both snuck inside.
“I can tell you boys,” Harry Franck was saying as I slipped past the open door to step into the station, “getting a transfer from Uncle Sam’s quarters to bunk here with you is not something I mind in particular. Let me tell you about my roommate in House 81.”
Harry had his back to me, and his audience consisted of two other men as ebony black as the policeman who had led me here. I would find out later from Harry that they were called First-Class Policemen and that the term was a euphemism for men of color in general, much needed for peaceful dealings with the laborers, who lived in segregated camps. Here, I would learn, their regular duties were to make sure the rocking chairs on the front veranda didn’t get blown away by the occasional strong winds from the Pacific and to stroll the short distance from the police station to the train station seven times daily to see which passengers might
“Mrs. Penny.”
He raised an eyebrow. Score one for me.
“What, then, suits you best for a drinking establishment?” he asked.
“Well, let me help you out when it comes to my particular bent. All I want is to get home as soon as possible because I have a young girl to raise.”
“The report did say you were a widower.”
“What would a report say about you?”
“Define
best
for me.” Another twitch of his eyeglasses with his free hand. “Panama City is rife with drinking establishments.”
“I first want a place where journalists gather like stupid gazelles at a water hole.”
“Journalists? I don’t think you yet appreciate how confidential all of this must be.”
“Or maybe you don’t appreciate that I want to ask, not answer, questions. How about helping me fill out one of these blank trip tickets and writing down directions to a few bars and then escorting me to a train to get me there.”
“I’m not your servant.”
“But you are the colonel’s. Second, I want a working-class bar.”
“It will be dangerous.”
“Then definitely don’t follow me this evening. I doubt you’d survive five minutes in a place like that.”
“Strange,” Miskimon said, “I was just thinking that I couldn’t ever dislike you more than I do already. Yet here I am. Proven wrong. It’s a novel sensation. Not my dislike for you. But being proven wrong.”
“That’s okay, Muskie. I’ll be gone tomorrow. Keep that in mind. Confirm for me that you’ll reimburse me for receipts for the booze I buy. Tonight is going to be nothing but work for the colonel.”
“I would think nothing but.”
“By the way, the bars in Panama City, they accept American dollars, right?”
“So do the con men and pickpockets and all the other riffraff.” Miskimon sniffed. “If I’m lucky, you won’t make it back here at all.”
T he Zone police had a station in Corozal, a few stops south of Culebra, and, conveniently enough, the second-to-last stop before Ancón, where I would disembark later to reach Panama City.
I stepped off the train and noticed immediately a man in a khaki uniform. He was a handsome, large man, skin ebony black, and when I asked for directions to the police station, he stretched a grin across his face. “Follow me, mon.”
We didn’t have far to go. It was on a knoll across the track, a pleasant-looking low building with a veranda and rocking chairs.
“What bizness you got here?” His voice was a rumble.
“I’m looking for Harry Franck.”
“That man? I hope you not in no hurry. He talks and talks. Talks ’nuff to make a horse lose its hind leg.”
We stepped onto the veranda, and he peered through the window.
“Yah, mon. Nuttin’ different. Jess listen. He’s a mon to tell stories. Good thing his stories are good.”
He pushed the door open and motioned for me to remain quiet. We both snuck inside.
“I can tell you boys,” Harry Franck was saying as I slipped past the open door to step into the station, “getting a transfer from Uncle Sam’s quarters to bunk here with you is not something I mind in particular. Let me tell you about my roommate in House 81.”
Harry had his back to me, and his audience consisted of two other men as ebony black as the policeman who had led me here. I would find out later from Harry that they were called First-Class Policemen and that the term was a euphemism for men of color in general, much needed for peaceful dealings with the laborers, who lived in segregated camps. Here, I would learn, their regular duties were to make sure the rocking chairs on the front veranda didn’t get blown away by the occasional strong winds from the Pacific and to stroll the short distance from the police station to the train station seven times daily to see which passengers might
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