Mounting Fears

30

TEDDY FAY ADJUSTED HIS GRAY COMB-OVER HAIRPIECE AND COMBED HIS VERY real, very gray mustache and his not-so-real thick eyebrows. As a final touch he slipped on a pair of heavy black-rimmed spectacles, then stood back from the mirror and took in his full length. In the months he had been in Panama he had lost twenty-five pounds, and given his exercise program, he felt fitter than he had in years. This look was one of three he had adopted, so that he could move around Panama City without becoming familiar to very many people.

He slipped the jacket of his white suit over his open-necked white shirt, took one last look in the mirror, and went out the back door of his apartment. It was a good exit for him-a tree-shaded wooden staircase rising thirty feet to the road behind his little building. His Vespa motor scooter was locked to a street sign, and he worked the combination quickly. The scooter started instantly, and he let the engine warm up for a moment before putting it into gear and starting down the hill.

He liked the scooter, partly for the anonymity-because there were so many scooters in the city-and partly for the wind in his face. Tonight, he made his way to a bar he liked at El Conquistador, a small but elegant hotel catering to upper-income international visitors. The hotel subsisted on word-of-mouth and relations with a couple of dozen travel agents in American and European cities. He liked it, too, for the occasional businesswoman traveling alone; he had gotten lucky there twice.

Teddy had heard the hotel might be for sale, and he had fantasized about buying it and becoming the genial host. He didn't have that much money, though, and he couldn't afford to become rooted, especially now when he had heard there was a man wandering around town showing a faded photograph of a middle-aged man and asking if he had been seen locally. He didn't much like the sound of that. The man was said to be staying at El Conquistador.

Teddy had chosen Panama City because he could flee north into Mexico or south into the southern continent very easily, and he could quickly disappear in either place. His Spanish had been pretty good when he arrived, and with work, it was much better now, so he was able to pass as an American who had made a career in the country and was now retired.

He parked the scooter and strolled through the lobby, making a show of looking at the expensive merchandise in the glass cases, the goods of nearby shops. The cases went through the wall and could be seen from the bar, too, and that allowed him to view the customers inside. He spotted the man almost immediately.

He was late thirties/early forties, medium height, pale skin, and thin blond hair, and he wore reading glasses on a string around his neck. He had apparently just arrived, because he was showing the bartender a photograph, and the bartender, after a cursory glance, was shaking his head.

Teddy walked into the bar and took a seat two stools down from the visitor, who was almost certainly American. "Fundador and soda," he said to the bartender.

"Ice, seсor?"

"Yes, please."

"You're an American?" the man asked.

Teddy turned and regarded him for a moment. "How'd you guess?" he asked.

The man laughed. "Me, too. Can I buy you a drink?"

"You can buy me this one," Teddy replied, holding up his glass.

The man moved over a place; now there was only one stool between them. "Put that on my tab," he said to the bartender, who nodded gravely and did something with a pencil. "I'm Ned Partain," the man said, sticking out his hand.

"Larry Toms," Teddy said, shaking it.

"What brings you to Panama?"

"The canal, what else?"

"You work on the canal?"

"I did for twenty-seven years, until I retired two years ago."

"What did you do there?"

"Nothing glamorous like an engineer," Teddy replied. "I was an accountant." That information would stop any further conversation about his job.

"Oh."

"Yes, 'Oh,' " Teddy said. "How about you? What brings you down here?"

"An assignment. I'm a journalist."

"Now, that's a lot more interesting than accounting. Who do you write for?"

"A little rag called the National Inquisitor, maybe you've heard of it."

"When I'm in the States I see it at supermarket checkout counters, I think."

"That's the one. It's not exactly prestigious journalism, but it pays one hell of a lot better than the The Washington Post or others of that ilk."

"Good for you."

"You married?"

"My wife died last year in an automobile accident," Teddy replied. "You?"

"Divorced for two years. She's bleeding me white, of course." Ned dug into a pocket and came out with a well-worn photograph. "Say, have you seen this guy in your travels around town?"

Teddy took the photo and found his younger self staring back at him. Where the hell did this come from? He couldn't place it.

"He'd be older now, mid-fifties to sixty."

Teddy continued to stare at the photo. Chesapeake Bay, Fourth of July, eight or nine years ago: rented boat, girl with a camera, girl he'd picked up in a D.C. bar and seen for a few months before they'd tired of each other. "Looks familiar," he said. "Who is he?"

"Really?" Ned said, showing some excitement. "Where'd you see him?"

"I'm trying to remember," Teddy said. "He's older now?"

"Yeah, he was in his late forties when that was taken."

"Who is he?"

"Just a guy I'm looking for."

"Well, he must be a pretty important guy, if you've come all the way down here from the States looking for him."

Ned moved over another stool and leaned close to Teddy. "He's important to my story," he said.

"Let me buy you a drink," Teddy replied, signaling the bartender.

"If you could help me find this guy, there would be a reward," Ned said. "My paper is very generous."

Teddy looked at the photo again. "You know, I think I've seen this guy right here in Panama City."

"Larry, my friend," Ned said, "this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, as Claude Rains said to Bogey."

"You know," Teddy said, "it might be at that."

Teddy continued to drink with the man, but he would not answer the questions about the photo. Teddy badly wanted to know what Ned Partain knew.

It was dark outside now, and Teddy looked at his watch. "Want to get some dinner?" he asked.

"Sure," Partain said, "but the Inquisitor is buying."

"I don't mind that at all," Teddy replied. "Tell you what, there's a nice place in Balboa, sort of a suburb, called El Parador. I've got a quick stop to make, so why don't we meet there in half an hour? There's a cab stand outside the hotel."

"Good deal," Ned said. He was getting a little drunk.