‘Mickie’s in touch with the people the other side of the bridge,’ he forged on bravely.
‘Hell are they?’
The bridge was the Bridge of the Americas. The expression was once more Marta’s.
‘The hidden rank and file, Andy,’ said Pendel boldly. ‘The strivers and believers who would rather see progress than take bribes,’ he replied, quoting Marta verbatim. ‘The farmers and artisans who’ve been betrayed by lousy greedy government. The honourable small professionals. The decent part of Panama you never get to see or hear about. They’re organising themselves. They’ve had enough. So’s Mickie.’
‘Marta in on this?’
‘She could be, Andy. I never ask. It’s not my place to know. I have my thoughts. That’s all I’m saying.’
Long pause.
‘Had enough of what exactly?’
Pendel cast a swift, conspiratorial glance round the dining room. He was Robin Hood, bringer of hope to the oppressed, dispenser of justice. At the next table, a noisy party of twelve was tucking into lobster and Dom Perignon.
‘This,’ he replied in a low, emphatic voice. ‘Them. And all that they entail.’
Osnard wanted to hear more about the Japanese.
‘Well now, your Japanese, Andy – you met one just now, which I expect is why you asked – are what I call highly present in Panama, and have been for many years now, I would say as many as twenty,’ Pendel replied enthusiastically, grateful to be able to put the subject of his only true friend behind him. ‘There’s your Japanese processions to-amuse the crowds, there’s your Japanese brass bands, there’s a Japanese seafood market they presented to the nation, and there’s even a Japanese-funded educational TV channel,’ he added, recalling one of the few programmes his children were allowed to watch.
‘Who’s your top Jap?’
‘Customerwise, Andy? Top I don’t know. They’re what I call enigmatic. I’d have to ask Marta probably. It’s one to be measured and six to bow and take his picture, we always say, and we’re not far wrong. There’s a Mr Yoshio from one of their trade missions who throws his weight around the shop a bit, and there’s a Toshikazu from the Embassy, but whether we’re talking first or second names here, I’d have to look it up.’
‘Or get Marta to.’
‘Correct.’
Conscious again of Osnard’s blackened stare, Pendel vouchsafed him an endearing smile in an effort to deflect him, but without success.
‘You ever have Ernie Delgado to dinner?’ he asked while Pendel was still expecting further questions about the Japanese.
‘Not as such, Andy, no.’
‘Why not? He’s your wife’s boss.’
‘I don’t think Louisa would approve, frankly.’
‘Why not?’
The imp again. The one that pops up to remind us that nothing goes away; that a moment’s jealousy can spawn a lifetime’s fiction; and that the only thing to do with a good man once you’ve pulled him low is pull him lower.
‘Ernie is what I call of the hard right, Andy. He was the same under We-Know-Who, although he never let on. All piss and mustard when he was with his liberal friends, if you’ll pardon me, but as soon as their backs were turned it was pop next door to We-Know-Who and “Yes sir, no sir, and how can we be of service, Your Highness?'”
‘Not generally known, though, is it, all the same? Still a white man to most of us, Ernie is.’
‘Which is why he’s dangerous, Andy. Ask Mickie. Ernie’s an iceberg. There’s a lot more of him below the water than what there is above, I’ll put it that way.’
Osnard scrunched a roll, added a spot of butter and ate with slow, ruminative circular movements of the lower jaw. But his chip-black eyes wanted more than bread and butter.
‘That upstairs room you’ve got in the shop – Sportsman’s Corner.’
‘You like it, do you, Andy?’
‘Ever thought o’ turning it into a clubroom for your customers? Somewhere they can let their hair down? Better than a clapped out sofa and an armchair on the ground floor on a Thursday night, isn’t it?’
‘I have thought along those lines many times, Andy, I’ll admit, and I’m quite impressed you’ve hit on the same idea after just one look. But I always bump up against the same immoveable objection, which is where would I put my Sportsman’s Corner?’