The Drop Edge of Yonder (14 page)

Five minutes later the man returned. "He's not here, Commodore."

The Commodore focused on Zebulon, who was seated on the other side of the veranda. "We're lookin' for a short little bastard. William Walker. Green eyes, prettified, carries himself like some kind of poo-bah East Coast royalty."

"Haven't seen him," Zebulon replied.

"What?" the Commodore shouted. "I can't hear you! The damn rain."

"I haven't seen him," Zebulon repeated.

After drinks were served by a barefoot waiter, the men lit up hand-rolled cigarettes while the Commodore produced an oversized cigar.

"What the hell is there to do in this godforsaken place?" the Commodore shouted, waiting for his cigar to be lit.

"Drink," Zebulon said. "Shoot scorpions and monkeys. There's a billiard table."

The Commodore peered at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "Billiards, huh? You any good?"

Zebulon leaned back on his chair, propping his feet on the table in front of him. "Good enough for you"

The Commodore grunted, annoyed by the stranger's lack of deference or even curiosity.

One of the men stood up, peering through the rain. "They're comin', Commodore, but Walker ain't with 'em."

Three barefoot Indians passed the veranda, their eyes on the ground.

"Good god, man," the Commodore shouted. "Don't you know natives when you see them? What the hell is wrong with you?"

He turned back to Zebulon. "Where's this billiard table?"

Zebulon led him inside, followed by the others.

The Commodore stared at the billiard table. "You expect me to play on that contraption?"

"I don't expect anything," Zebulon said. "And I don't give a damn what you play on, as long as it ain't on me."

The Commodore laughed. He was almost beginning to like this ignorant drifter. Swiveling his huge head towards the doorway, he shouted at his men: "Get me my billiard table."

They reacted as if they hadn't heard him, a response that caused purple veins to spread across the Commodore's forehead. "I don't care how many of you it takes. I want my table in three hours. And if you run into that little runt, Walker, tell him he'll have to wait his turn to see Vanderbilt."

As the men disappeared into the rain, the Commodore stomped back to the veranda. Ordering another round of rum, he gestured impatiently for Zebulon to join him.

"How come you're hanging out in greaser country?" he asked as Zebulon pulled up a chair.

"Waitin' for a ship," Zebulon replied. "Headed for Californie by way of a train across Panama."

"I have a ship going to Nicaragua. You could get across that way, but couldn't afford the passage."

The Commodore sighed. "Walker is a big pain in the ass. I set him up down here, but as soon as he took over and declared himself president or king of Nicaragua or whatever the hell he now calls himself, he revoked my steamship license. So I ruined him." He paused, a look of satisfaction spreading across his face. "I got Costa Rica to declare war against him, and then I withdrew his funds. Now he's got a civil war to deal with. Two things I have no patience for are civil war and failure."

"I can see that." Zebulon felt comfortable with the Commodore's display of bull-headed fury and revenge. He had run into his kind before: half-assed generals slaughtering Indians just to satisfy a bunch of stuffed shirts in Washington, or big shots and cattle barons that hung around the lobbies of Denver hotels selling fake shares in made-up mining and lumber operations. It was clear that the Commodore was just another asshole from the East, set on driving a stake into whatever poor bastard or country stood in his way.

"And now he's asking me to help him take over the country again," the Commodore was saying. "Amazing how some people never learn their limitations."

"Why bother if he riles you that much?" Zebulon asked, not really listening- an attitude that only stimulated the Commodore's compulsion for candor.

"I'm trying out a new boat and I was headed down here anyway; although why the son of a bitch chose the rainy season to meet in this sink hole is beyond me. I have no patience for fools."

"So you said," Zebulon replied.

They drank in silence. It wasn't until after their third round of straight rum that the Commodore finally seemed to relax.

"It's been a week of failure and frustration. I feel like I'm stuck inside someone else's goddamn dream with no way out. You ever get that way?"

"From time to time," Zebulon replied.

"What's your business down here?"

"No business. Just movin' through."

"Going for gold, are you?"

"Thinkin' about it."

"Let me give you some free advice. The future of the United States of America is business, and smart business lies in transportation. I guarantee that I'll make more money in one year than all of you gold suckers put together. Don't get me wrong. I appreciate men like you who have the balls to push back the frontier. If America is about anything, it's about expansion. We took a big chunk out of Mexico. Soon we'll lock up the Pacific, Hawaii, the Philippines. Maybe even Japan if Admiral Perry makes the right moves, which I have my doubts about."

"I never thought about it," Zebulon said.

"Well, start," the Commodore said. "Never trust anyone. And once you've made your pile, don't spend it. And always remember that -"

"expansion is the future," Zebulon interrupted.

The Commodore nodded, pleased to have found someone who knew what he was talking about. "Maybe you're not as dumb as you look. And as for that puny little rail track across the isthmus you intend to travel on, that's for mail-order brides and amateurs, not heavy loads and commerce."

"And heavy loads is the name of the game," Zebulon added. "Except that I ain't carryin' a heavy load. Not even a light one."

The Commodore laughed. "You want a job? I can use a man who doesn't back down. Someone to put the boot to all the damn yes-men and hangers-on. Someone who's not afraid to ride for the brand."

"I already got a job," Zebulon replied.

"Well, quit."

They were interrupted by a solitary figure trudging towards them. Stumbling onto the veranda, he removed his rain slicker from his bony frame. After he unfolded a handkerchief and carefully wiped off his wire-rimmed spectacles, he shook out the water that had collected along the curved brim of his derby. Finally he presented himself to the Commodore with a halfbow.

"Always a pleasure, Commodore Vanderbilt," he said through pursed lips, as if pleasure was a meal he rarely tasted.

"I wish I could say the same, Ephraim," the Commodore said. "Where the hell is Walker?"

"President Walker is engaged in important matters elsewhere. He sent me instead"

"What kind of bullshit is that?" the Commodore roared. "Are you telling me that the son of a bitch is afraid to come down here and look me in the eye now that his pathetic game is over and done with?"

Ephraim Squier drew himself up to his full height, which barely approached Vanderbilt's shoulders. "William Walker doesn't know the meaning of fear."

"No kidding? Maybe that's his problem."

The Commodore looked down at Squier's handmade English boots. "Where the hell did you get those whorehouse shit-kickers, Ephraim? Don't tell me. I don't want to know. The trouble with you pansy New Englanders is that you don't know when to quit. Every time you people go south of the border you embarrass the whole goddamn country."

"I didn't come all this way to argue with you, Commodore."

"Then state your case."

"President Walker has organized a second expedition in Mobile, Alabama, with the intention of sailing for Nicaragua within the month. He is firmly convinced that by the first of the year he will have regained control of the country. He has sent me to ask for help. He needs munitions and supplies as soon as possible."

The Commodore half-rose from his seat. "The man has gone ma .

"Quite possibly," Ephraim Squier said. "Although that is not for me to say. In any case, I can agree that he is neither a statesman nor a diplomat."

"Was this your idea, or his?"

"That's difficult to say," Squier replied. "There are cultural and political complexities to consider, as well as weather, disease, and public opinion."

"Public opinion?" the Commodore shouted. "I don't give a rat's ass about public opinion! Never have, never will. Do you understand my meaning, Ephraim?"

"I understand, Commodore. Of course, even you must acknowledge that madmen are often successful."

"I acknowledge nothing," the Commodore said. "If you run across Walker, tell him that I hope he rots in hell. Let him know that I will do everything in my power to hinder his every progress.

Squier stood up and put on his derby and rain slicker. "Obviously; Commodore Vanderbilt, we have nothing further to discuss."

"My sentiments exactly," the Commodore said. "Bv the way, do you shoot billiards?"

Confused, Squier hesitated at the edge of the veranda. "It has never been a hobby of mine, if that's what you mean."

"Too bad, Ephraim," the Commodore replied. "Every successful man needs a hobby."

Without another word, Squier walked back into the rain.

The Commodore lit up another cigar and then smashed it out in the middle of the table. "I admit to a soft spot for Ephraim Squier. He's a decent family man that appreciates good food and stimulating conversation. But when it comes to worldly matters, his style trips him up. It requires a certain skill to play both sides against the middle. He's too refined and convoluted for his own good. But I'll hear from him again. His kind always comes back."

He took out another cigar, sniffing its length a few times before he shoved it in his mouth. "To put it bluntly, Ephraim's problem is a naive sense of integrity."

"You mean he ain't a man of his word," Zebulon said.

"That's not at all what I mean."

He looked at Zebulon as if seeing him for the first time. "What the hell do you care about any of this, anyway?"

"I don't," Zebulon said.

As the Commodore stood up to leave, a cart appeared through the rain, pulled by two horses. A twelve-foot billiard table wrapped in canvas stood in the middle of the cart. Ten men surrounded the sides and the rear of the cart, all of them pushing and swearing at the horses as they plodded through the mud.

It was another hour before the table was installed. Zebulon had never seen anything like it. The legs were made of sculpted black teak and acacia, and the four leather pockets were embroidered with the Commodore's initials. A leather covering was stretched across the table like smooth polished skin.

"Now we'll have a decent game," the Commodore said. "Of course, I never play for fun."

"I got nothin' to put up," Zebulon confessed.

The Commodore thought it over, walking around the table and rolling a cue ball into each pocket.

"Tell you what, cowboy. If I win, you give me six months of back-breaking work in Nicaragua. My steamships only go so far up the lake and then it's overland. That's where you'll come in: getting the pilgrims to the Pacific. For each one that doesn't make it, you'll owe me another week of service, including burial. If you win, I'll give you free passage to Panama, plus a stateroom and as much food as you can eat. And I'll throw in twenty-five bucks for the train across Panama.

"Three months and it's a deal," Zebulon replied.

"Four," was the Commodore's counter-offer.

"Done," said Zebulon.

The game was Fall-Ball billiards: the winner, the first to make five hundred points.

They played through the night, the contest witnessed by the Commodore's men, as well as the hotel staff and the French plantation owner and his wife.

Before dawn, the rain stopped and hundreds of black-winged moths flew into the room, banging against the oil lamps. The Commodore, who had continued to drink heavily, was obviously tired, but he was determined to press on even though he was losing by fifty points. There was no way he was going to walk away from his own table, especially when he'd be leaving it to a down-and-out hustler with nothing left to lose.

As he lined up his cue ball, he was interrupted by the sudden appearance of an aristocratic dark-haired woman, her thin shoulders covered by an expensive white-laced shawl. She was followed by a heavy-set Negro carrying an umbrella and huge leather suitcase.

The Commodore motioned for her to sit down, then returned his attention to the table. Missing an easy carom by several inches, he banged his cue stick on the floor before he finally turned to her.

"You're late."

The woman removed her shawl, glancing imperiously around the room, as if she had stepped out of a Goya painting of Spanish royalty. Her refined features expressed the worldly exhaustion and arrogance of someone seized with loathing for the carnal and financial circumstances that had delivered her to such an improbable assignation.

"I come all the way from Cartagena on horseback through a monsoon rain and clouds of mosquitoes as big as your thumb, and all you say is that I'm late?"

"Wait for me upstairs, Esmeralda," he grunted. "I've booked a room. In fact I booked the entire floor."

"I prefer to wait on your ship."

"That's not possible."

"Don't tell me you've brought your wife with you?"

"Of course not."

"Then who?"

"That, my dear, is none of your damn business."

"Business? Is that all you ever think of, Cornelius?"

"Look around you, Esmeralda. Pay attention to the situation. I'm playing a game. I will join you when I am finished. Not before."

"Yankee pig-fucker."

She looked at Zebulon. "Who are you?"

When Zebulon shrugged, she stalked upstairs, followed by her servant.

Stimulated by Esmeralda's response and the anticipation of what waited for him upstairs, the Commodore managed to conduct his cue ball around the table, making one difficult carom after another before he finally missed.

Zebulon finished off the match by making thirty-nine points on three shots, a Victory that caused the Commodore to break his cue stick over his knee and throw a glass against a wall.