THE PANAMA CLUB: Pas de trois // Chapter 5

London considered herself good at judging people’s motivations but Mr. Ballard was driving her crazy. Like, what was the man’s game? He obviously got off on domination. What was he up to with this Minister of Culture? The man said he was American. He wasn’t much like any other American she’d ever known.

Alvaro and she said their goodbyes to Dominica who headed back to the office, and she and Alvaro walked with arms linked to Eloy Alfaro, the avenida which led out of the old quarter, pausing to watch a group of shirtless young men play basketball at a waterfront court; beyond the court spread the bay and the futuristic skyline of sun-gleaming Panama City towers.

The young men’s sneakers squeaked on the court and they taunted each other in belligerent Spanish. Alvaro laughed at the terrible things they called each other. She watched his profile, his beautiful face turned to follow the game. He leaned on a metal railing, hands clasped loosely together in front of him, his thick, tattooed arms flexing as he twiddled his thumbs. She touched his cheek. “You’re growing a beard?”

He leaned toward her, tilting his head to pinch her fingers between his cheek and muscular shoulder. “It’s just been a few days,” he said.

She thumbed his cheekbone then slunk against him and put an arm around his waist, leaning against him dreamily and watching the brash young men running from one end of the court to the other. What would she tell Alvaro of what happened with Mr. Ballard? She was not the kind to keep secrets. Thought strongly against that. Secrets destroyed relationships.

But Alvaro needed saving from himself sometimes. The way he’d grown up had been harsh. Unfriendly and unkind. Abandoned, then rescued by Dominica's family. Alvaro resisted the rescue, turned to join young angry boys like himself, where he felt at home. All these years later, twenty-eight now, and Alvaro still had those old demons lurking in his shadows. She’d seen it many times. If she told him what happened with Mr. Ballard, there would only be one outcome. There was no way to make sense of what happened, and therefore no way to explain it.

She stroked his forearm, massaged the bulky knot of muscle at the elbow crease, ran her fingers down and toyed with his Rolex. She lay her cheek on the warmth of his shoulder, said, “Would you do something with me?”

“Anything you want,” he said and rested his cheek on the crown of her head.

She eased back from him, rubbing her hand on his waist. Alvaro looked her way, saw that she was serious. He took off his sunglasses and tucked them on the collar of his shirt. “What is it?”

“Something happened today and I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“This about the building?”

She nodded.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I’m not even sure what happened, Alvaro,” she said, showing him the most honest expression she could. “When I figure it out I’ll tell you.”

“This is very cryptic,” he said. “Was it paranormal? Did you see ghosts in the secret room?”

She lightly patted his shoulder then cupped his cheek and thumbed the edge of his full lips. “I’m not superstitious.”

“I am,” he said, and kissed the heel of her hand.

“Okay,” she said, drawing back her hand, putting it in her purse and producing the business card Mr. Ballard had written on. She showed it to Alvaro. He read the front side, flipped it over to read the handwritten scribbling on the back.

“Blake Ballard,” Alvaro said. “Cultural Attaché. . . . This is the guy with the minister?”

“Yes.”

He flipped it over again. “What’s this address?”

“That’s what I want you to do with me.”

“Go here? Go to this place at this time?”

“Would you go with me?”

“Of course I would. Why wouldn’t I?”

“It might be weird,” she said. “Weird for you.”

“What could be weird for me and not for you?”

“It’s weird for me, too. It’s just that I suspect what it might be.”

“What is it?”

She shrugged, put her elbows on the railing and snuggled against him again. “I don’t even want to say. Maybe I’m wrong.”

“You’re not going to give me a heads up?” He hooked his large arm around her.

“Something happened today,” she said. “And it made me feel something.”

“Is that why your cheeks were flush?”

“I was dancing,” she said.

“So what happened?”

“I guess I had . . . a premonition.”

“And you said you weren’t superstitious.”

“No, a glimpse of something I didn’t know I wanted. Or needed, maybe.”

There was no way for her to explain it. But Alvaro said, “Whatever you want, London”— he pivoted to face her—“I’m going to make it happen for you. You know how much I love you.” Now he cupped her cheeks in both hands.

She met Alvaro’s gaze, pupils darting over his for a long time, then closed her eyes. Alvaro kissed her, and her hands went to his sides and tried to lock around his back but he was too broad. She just rubbed his muscles instead.

A long time ago Alvaro had been so terrible his own mother abandoned him. When he was young and vulnerable no one stood with him. He’d been alone for a long time, always looking for a place to belong. And in her own way, maybe she was always looking for a place to belong as well. They held each other with the basketball game still playing out before them. And then out of the blue, there was a disruption in the players’ banter.

Someone said in Spanish, “I think it’s him.” Someone shouted Yo.

She and Alvaro looked to see a dozen young men watching their way, their game paused, one of them out front with the basketball held at his hip. Somebody at the back said, “I told you it was him,” and now they all were raucous again, excited that Alvaro Ortega was watching them.

“Hey, guys,” Alvaro said, and she smiled, kissed his neck and let him go.

There was quick-talking in Spanish amongst them, and the next thing Alvaro was looking at her for permission. She said, “Fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes,” he said to her, repeating it quietly so the other guys wouldn’t hear. Then, right in front of her, he pulled his black shirt over his head and handed it to her. She bundled it to her collar and looked at his incredible body with his pro-athlete chest and shoulders, the tattoos up both arms and over his chest and neck. Six-two, 230 pounds of male perfection.

Alvaro strode around the fence and onto the basketball court. Someone passed him the ball. The sneakers were squeaking again.

Fifteen minutes would be about all she could take. Fifteen minutes from now she needed Alvaro at the beach house. Mr. Ballard had aroused something inside her that wouldn’t stop. Her stomach had trembled all through lunch. Four bites of sushi and four cocktails. The whole time a soggy horniness low in her belly.

She watched Alvaro race up and down the court, his perfect body beginning to gleam with sweat, and she squeezed her thighs together in long, draggy pulses while she watched.

***

Alvaro stood at the plate, bat wagging over his shoulder in anticipation. Walt Maxwell, Boston’s fireman, the legendary relief pitcher with a 103-mph fastball, palmed and tossed the ball behind his back, shaking off calls from the catcher. Maxwell was a Texan, tall and gangly with huge hands and a beefy mustache for a guy with a 170-pound frame. Boston was up by two points, bottom of the eighth, two on base, seventh game of the World Series.

The knock on the door Ballard expected finally came and he paused the game, full frame on Alvaro Ortega’s calm but focused expression, bat cocked, his stats on a banner at the bottom of the big LCD screen.

Ballard said, “It’s open,” and his liaison entered, dressed in light Panamanian clothing, colorful short-sleeve shirt, linen pants, Panama hat. Ballard watched the lanky guy—not unlike Walt Maxwell, minus the mustache—set the hat down on the bureau in the hall and stroll into the apartment. He admired the view from the twenty-fifth floor of the Urracà Park condo, looking south-southwest over the Panama Bay, historic Casco Viejo on the right side, encircled by the modern Cinta Costera, the marine viaduct and roadway bridge.

“Help yourself to a drink,” he told the man named Jackson.

Jackson smiled, still admiring the view, and twisted off the cap of a bottle of the 18-year-old Flor de Caña and splashed a measure into the bottom of a crystal glass. “Ice?”

“Freezer’s in the kitchen.”

As Jackson crossed the living room to the raised kitchen, he right-faced the television and the paused image of Alvaro Ortega. He said, “This live?”

Ballard swiveled the chair toward the kitchen.

Jackson pushed the glass against the fridge’s ice dispenser, talking to himself now. “Ah shit, we’re off season.”

Ballard said, “World Series game, two years ago.”

Jackson returned with his sipping rum in the glass, ice tinkling, hand in pocket and watching the frozen screen.“That Alvaro Ortega is a hell of an athlete.”

Ballard looked over his shoulder at Alvaro Ortega, eyes laser-beam focused, jaw set hard. “He moves well.”

Jackson hummed an agreement and sipped the rum. “Wait, Ortega’s here in Panama. He have something to do with our project?”

Ballard raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know yet. He’s in the periphery, yes.”

Jackson came around the couch and sat facing Ballard, tugging up a pant leg, crossing one leg over the other, glass held in his lap. “That’s why you’re researching him?”

Ballard looked up at the ceiling, not knowing what he should tell the man at this stage. “That. And other reasons.”

Jackson took another sip, returned the glass to his lap, eyes studying Ballard. Both of them came from the same background, both of them with similar skills. They couldn’t trust each other. Jackson smiled. “Why don’t we start with telling me what you got for me.”

Ballard told him. Told him what the Minister wanted for Casco Viejo, told him he saw a path forward for their friends in Dubai.

“It’s been two months.”

“If you want her dead, just tell me.”

Jackson smirked. “We don’t want that. You know what we want.”

“Then don’t put me under a deadline. You want it done the way you say, let me do it right.”

Jackson sighed, looked out the window, gulped back the rum until the ice cubes touched his nose. “Maybe you should just toss her off a roof.”

“If that’s what they want.”

* * *

When they were done, Ballard walked Jackson to the door and handed him his hat. Jackson left and Ballard returned to the chair in front of the television. He stopped and admired Alvaro, touched the screen with a fingertip and traced the athlete’s brow. “What makes you tick, Alvaro?”

He sat down again, pressed play, watched Maxwell launch a goddamn rocket. Alvaro whacks it, and the whole stadium knows from the sound the ball’s going over The Green Monster. Alvaro hits a grand slam and Atlanta wins the World Series.