Beneath a Panamanian Moon (9 page)

“What else do you know about the States?”

“I know Bill Clinton likes fat girls. What about you, you like fat girls?”

“I played for the president once. President Bush.”

She punched my ribs. “Get away. You did not.”

“I did. He didn't stay long. And I don't think he ever really heard me because I was on the other side of the room.”

“I bet he did hear you, and he ran to get away because you sounded so awful.”

“Probably,” I said.

“Someday I'll go to the States. I'll go to Hollywood and be a big star, own a house in Malibu and a penthouse in New York, and I will dance and act and maybe learn to sing. Then, when I tire of show business, I will be a pediatrician. What do you think of that?”

“Everyone should have a dream,” I said.

“Don't patronize me,” she said, “or I'll cut your balls off.” She looked serious and then, unable to hold it back, she filled the cab with laughter. “You should have seen your face,” she said. I smiled, but the picture of that man in the bar holding his head, his face tight with pain, stayed with me.

The taxi took us toward the ocean and a white hotel lit up like the president's birthday cake. This was La Rosita de España, an old and disapproving dueña to the rest of the city. Our taxi, trailed by its own aura of blue smoke, pulled into the driveway and came to a rattling stop.

The uniformed doorman leaned into the back window and held the door closed as he inspected the passengers. “Perhaps the gentleman has the wrong address,” he said. “If you'll allow me, I can direct the driver to another, more suitable casino, sir.”

Marilyn shoved open the taxi door, forcing the man to step back. “This is the very famous singer Justin Timberlake, you stupid farmer,” she said. “He has come to perform for your privileged guests, tonight only. Step away from the big star from America.” She reached back into the car and pulled me outside. “Please come with me, Mr. Timberlake.”

Wheeling on the doorman again, she said, “Your manager will hear of this insult.” With that she whisked us up the sidewalk, past the royal palms, through the polished double doors, and into the lobby.

The lobby's marble was warmed by acres of buffed mahogany. Beautiful people in beautiful, expensive clothing, drinking beautiful expensive drinks, lounged about, the glitter of gambling and coke in their eyes. They talked about things Marilyn and I were not beautiful or rich enough to understand. They glanced at us and then averted their eyes, hoping we would go away.

On my left was the casino, rumbling with activity. The gamblers stood two deep at the tables, reaching forward to place my entire month's salary on one spin of the roulette wheel. Every seat at the three blackjack tables was filled with serious men betting serious money. It was a busy Friday night and worlds away from the dark squalor of the Silver Key.

Across the lobby was the dining room, an ocean of white linen and long-legged waitresses in starched black-and-white uniforms. Beyond this, in the far corner, was the Prize, a shiny black concert grand, large enough to declare statehood. The bench was empty.

“It is a Steinway,” Marilyn whispered with what I thought was appropriate reverence. We started through the doors.

But standing between us and the Steinway was the most elegant bouncer I had ever seen.

“Excuse me, señor and señorita. But you are not properly dressed. May I suggest another establishment that may be a bit more to your liking?”

“How do we have to dress to come in and spend our money on your overpriced Coca-Cola?” asked Marilyn. I doubted this tack would get us any closer to the Steinway.

“Look, all I want to do is play that piano. How much?” I discreetly held out a folded twenty.

“More than that, señor,” he said, but took the bill. He also took the next bill. And the next. After sixty dollars had changed hands he bowed and said, “The manager didn't tell me we had a new impresario.”

“That's very inconsiderate.”

“I will have a word with him in the morning, señor.”

Marilyn perched on one of the barstools, her legs crossed, a drink in her hand and a look of aristocratic ennui, like Botox, smoothing her features.

The man put a manicured hand on my shoulder and said, “No rock and roll.”

“No, sir.”

“Nice dinner music? Otherwise, stomachs get upset, guests go to their rooms, and no one visits the casino. If that happens, I promise you a very unpleasant evening.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“You have ten minutes,” he said, looking at his watch. “Let's see what you've got.”

“Yes, sir.”

I looked at Marilyn sitting at the bar and she encouraged me with a smile. I walked across the room, slid behind the Steinway, and played “Satin Doll.”

The murmur of conversation began to drift away. By the end of the song, the room was still.

This is the moment when the audience will either come with me, or they'll dismiss me as just so much elevator music.
Fasten your seat belts,
I thought. I closed my eyes and jumped into the “Cuban Overture” and its Latin rhythms of 1930s Manhattan. The mistakes I made, I covered, and when I finished, people applauded. Enrique, the bartender, came over with a rum and Coke. “Compliments of the manager,” he said with a bow.

For the next few hours I played every romantic ballad I could remember. “It Had to Be You,” “How High the Moon,” “It Might As Well Be Spring.” The bartender brought me another drink.

After “September Song,” when the diners were hushed, each contemplating the swiftly moving hands of time, I picked them up with “Somebody Loves Me.” After “Lush Life,” I took them up to Harlem on the “A Train.” My left hand pounded out the rhythm and sent booming counterpoint to the crystal notes spilling from my right. I held my audience and felt that surge of power that's as addictive as heroin. The bartender brought me another drink.

After a botched attempt at a Monk piece, I gave the audience a thousand-watt smile and they laughed, encouraging me to try again. I even sang a few songs. My voice isn't big, but I've heard it described as having an easy charm, and I guess that's accurate. Women find it endearing, and men aren't threatened, which made me perfect for Washington nightlife.

Marilyn sat at the bar and watched me as the cocktail crowd replaced the dinner crowd. They sat at the tables and listened to music written for couples who could chase away the blues of a world war with just the promise of a good-night kiss and the sweet, sweet dream of peace.

If I closed my eyes, I could imagine it was 1943 and everything in the world was in black-and-white.

At the end of the night, when I closed up the Steinway, my audience applauded and then, no longer anchored by old romance, drifted off in the direction of the casino.

At the bar Mr. Montero shook my hand. “I would like to offer you a permanent position, sir. We have trouble keeping musicians like you. The good ones are usually picked up quickly by the cruise ships.”

“I'm afraid I can't, sir. I don't think I'll be in town very long.”

“Too bad. Perhaps we can give the gentleman a room?”

“Thank you, but I'm already booked at La Boca del Culebra.”

Mr. Montero stared at me, displeased, and said, “La Boca?”

“The resort hotel.”

The light went out and he said, “I know what La Boca is, señor. It is a place where they train assassins. Now, I must ask you to leave.”

He tugged on his ear and two no-necks appeared at his shoulder. “Escort the boy and his whore out of my hotel.”

“Whore?” The bouncers hustled us into the lobby. “I'm married to this woman!” As we passed the front desk, I snatched a red rose from a crystal vase. “This woman is the mother of my children!” I hollered, startling the guests. “This is an outrage!”

We were pushed into a waiting cab, and as the taxi pulled into traffic, I handed the rose to Marilyn. “Here,” I said. “Flowers and love songs. Didn't I promise you romance?”

Marilyn sat pressed against the far door. Her unhappiness covered her in a blue funk.

“Why so quiet? Didn't you have a good time?”

“Why did you do that?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Do what?”

“Bring me here, make me feel good? You didn't have to. You could have just given me money like any other guy.”

“I know,” I said, “but then I'd be just like any other guy, and I'm not just any other guy.”

Marilyn was quiet again, thinking. Then she said, “You really can play music.”

“Of course, why would I lie?”

“To impress me.”

“How am I doing?”

She smiled. “You got any money left?”

“A little.”

“Then I really am impressed.” She kissed me.

“Hey!” yelled the cab driver. “No business in my cab, stupid
puta
.”

“Fuck you, pendejo!” A knife appeared in Marilyn's hand and she pressed the point into the flesh just behind his ear. The blade caught the passing streetlights. “You want to call me stupid again?” she said.

The driver said no and Marilyn said, “Say you're sorry.”

“I'm sorry,” the driver said.

“Now in Spanish.”

“Lo siento,”
the driver said. Satisfied, Marilyn sat back, the knife disappeared, tucked away to whatever hiding place it had come from.

It was close to two when the cab pulled up to the Silver Key. The streets were quiet. The bar was open. I looked in the door but didn't see Ren or Zorro.

“Your friends are probably sleeping here tonight and there are no more buses. Why don't you stay with me? You can catch a bus in the morning if you miss your friends.”

The two of us walked, hand in hand, toward Marilyn's room. We stopped and Marilyn touched my cheek. “I like your romance,” she said. “You made me feel real special tonight, gringo boy.” She took my hand and led me upstairs.

The second-floor corridor looked out onto a central courtyard overgrown with plantains and banana trees. Outside a chipped wooden door, Marilyn stopped, produced a key from her purse, and unlocked the padlock.

“You wait inside,” she said and headed down the corridor. I swung the door open and stepped inside.

The room was lit from the street. A thin curtain hung across French doors that opened onto the balcony. I looked around the room. An iron bed was pressed against the wall. A small table and chair stood in the corner. The tiny tabletop overflowed with makeup, mascara, lipstick, and perfume. Over the table a cracked mirror reflected an American boy out of his element. Wedged into the frame was a picture cut from a magazine. It was a scene from
The Misfits
. Marilyn Monroe and Clark Gable stood smiling next to a pickup truck.

I opened the French doors and went outside, onto the balcony overlooking the street. I leaned against the railing, enjoying the night.

Marilyn came out and stood next to me.

“I'm glad you took me to that hotel,” I said. “I had a good time.”

“Me, too.”

“Would you like to come out and visit me tomorrow at my hotel?”

She looked surprised. “At La Boca?”

“Yes, I have a job for you.” I took five twenties out of my wallet and handed them to her. “Is that enough?”

She looked from me to the money and back to me. “That depends, although I have to say, Señor Timberlake, one hundred dollars will get you just about anything you want in Panama.”

“Great. We'll spend some time on the beach. I'll take your picture.”

She took my hand and said, “I can do that.”

“But right now, I should go.”

Marilyn backed away, surprised. “You don't want to stay?”

“I shouldn't. Perhaps when we know one another better.”

She smiled and said, “More romance, hey, music man?”

“That's right. More romance.”

Someone pounded on the door and I nearly jumped over the rail.

“Harper! It's me, Ren. You in there?”

I headed for the door, relieved it wasn't a husband Marilyn had neglected to tell me about. “Yeah, Ren, I'm here, hold on.” I opened the door and Ren fell into the room.

“Harper! Jesus, man, I been looking all over.” I saw that Ren's white shirt was wet, the front soaked and black in the darkness of Marilyn's room. Immediately, I recognized the smell and stepped back. Ren was gasping for breath. “We gotta go!”

“What happened?”

“We gotta go, man!” I saw that Ren was scared. I was scared, too. The smell came off him in hot copper waves. I was afraid to look under Ren's shirt.

“Ren, oh man, tell me you're all right.”

“I been looking all over for you, Harper. Zorro's been stabbed.”

I stepped back and ran my hand through my hair, my scalp tingling. “Are you okay?”

“I don't know.” Ren sat down on the bed and sobbed. “He's dead, man. Zorro's dead.”

Marilyn sat next to him and pulled Ren to her. She held his head against her breasts and rocked him slowly, stroking his hair and humming a song I didn't know. Outside, in the deserted street, it started to rain.

CHAPTER SEVEN

They questioned me for hours. First, two Panama City detectives in stained suits played bad cop/bad cop for a few hours, then they handed me over to a uniformed La Guardia officer who, taking great pride in his profession, found places to hit me that caused incredible pain, but no bruises. Finally, a man from the State Department came in, sat down, and sighed until the sun came up. Together we signed a stack of forms; for a moment I thought we were buying a house together, but in the end he told me not to leave the country. He'd take my passport, just in case, he said. I asked him in case of what, but he sighed again, got up, and left me alone with the original two detectives who made me tell my story all over again.