Pendel smirked, partly from the flattery, partly in awe of his predicament. But mostly because he was aware of witnessing a great moment in his life which, though terrible and cleansing, appeared to be taking place without his participation.
‘I’ve been deniable ever since I can remember, if I’m honest, Andy,’ he confided, while his mind cruised erratically round the outer edges of his life so far. But he hadn’t said yes.
‘Down side is, you’ll be in up to your neck from day one. That going to bother you?’
‘I’m up to my neck already, aren’t I? It’s a question of where I’d sooner not be.’
The eyes again, too old, too steady, listening, remembering, smelling, doing all the jobs at once. And Pendel recklessly asserting himself despite them or because of them.
‘Though what you’re going to do with a bankrupt listening post is slightly beyond my powers of comprehension,’ he declared with the boastful pride of the condemned. ‘There’s no way out that I know of to save me, short of a mad millionaire.’ A needless glance around the room. ‘See a mad millionaire at all, Andy, among the crowd? I’m not saying they’re all sane, mind. Just not mad in my direction.’
Nothing changed in Osnard. Not his stare, not his voice, not his heavy hands that sat uncurled and fingers down on the rich white tablecloth.
‘Maybe my outfit’s mad enough,’ he said.
Casting round for relief, Pendel’s gaze selected the gruesome figure of the Bear, Panama’s most hated columnist, treading his inconsolable path towards a solitary table in the darkest part of the room. But he still hadn’t said yes, and with one ear he was listening desperately to Uncle Benny: Son, when you meet a con, dangle him. Because there’s nothing a con likes less than being told to come back next week.
‘You on or not?’
‘I’m thinking, Andy. I’m pondering is what I’m doing.’
‘Hell about?’
About being a sober adult making up my mind, he replied truculently in his head. About having a centre and a will instead of a bunch of stupid impulses and bad memories and an excessive dose of fluence.
‘I’m weighing my options, Andy. Looking at all sides,’ he said loftily.
Osnard is denying accusations nobody has levelled against him. He is doing this in a low wet murmur that perfectly suits his bungy body, but Pendel finds no continuity in his words. It’s a different evening. I was thinking of Benny again. I need to go home to bed.
‘We don’t put the hard word on chaps, Harry. Not chaps we like.’
‘I never said you did, Andy.’
‘Not our style. Hell’s the point o’ leaking your criminal record to the Pans when we want you the way you are and more so?’
‘There’s no point at all, Andy, and I’m pleased to hear you say it.’
‘Why blow the whistle on old Braithwaite, make a fool o’ you to your wife and kids, break up the happy home? We want you, Harry. You’ve got a hell of a lot to sell. All we want to do is buy it.’
‘Sort out the rice farm for me and you can have my head on a charger, Andy,’ says Pendel to be com-panionable.
‘No sale, old boy. Need your soul.’
Aping the example of his host, Pendel has taken his brandy glass in both hands and is leaning across the candlelit table. Weighing his decision still. Holding out, even though most of him would like to say ‘yes’, just to end the embarrassment of not saying it.
‘I haven’t heard you on job description yet, have I, Andy?’
‘Listening post. Told you.’
‘Yes, but what do you want me to hear, Andy? What’s the bottom line?’
The eyes again, needle-sharp. The red sparks back inside. The slouchy jaw, absently masticating while he ruminates. The slumped fat-boy’s body. The trailed, damped-down voice spoken from one corner of the crooked mouth.
‘Not a lot. Balance o’ global power in the twenty-first century. Future o’ world trade. Panama’s political chess-board. Silent opposers. Chaps from the other side o’ the bridge, as you call ’em. What’s going to happen when the Yanks pull out? If they do. Who’ll be laughing, who’ll be crying, come midday December 31st 1999? Shape o’ things to come when one o’ the world’s two greatest gateways goes under the hammer and the auction’s run by a bunch o’ wide boys? Piece o’ cake,’ he replied, but ending on a question mark, as if the best were yet to come.