1993 – A Man, A Plan
Two days later, Bolo summoned me back to his house for a meeting. I was scheduled to fly out the next afternoon, so this would be his one and only chance to micromanage me.
A driver, not Manfred, collected me from the hotel right after breakfast. When we arrived at Bolo’s villa he asked me to remain in the car.
“Regresaré en breve con el señor Montilla,” he said, then hurried up the walkway to Bolo’s front door.
Three minutes later, Bolo appeared. He opened the door and slid into the backseat, next to me. Yellow linen shirt, fawn trousers, mirrored sunglasses. A slightly enhanced tan courtesy of his destination wedding weekend. Cacique mode in full effect. I assumed we were on our way to somewhere- but what was our destination?
Bolo and I made small talk as the Mercedes made its way out of the hills and through the city. We pulled up to a waterfront restaurant located on the top floor of a modern mixed-use building.
“I hope you like seafood,” Bolo said as we entered an airy, spacious dining room framed with floor to ceiling windows offering a spectacular view of Bahía de Panama.
“I’m an island man times three,” I replied. “It’s my favorite.”
Lunch was luxurious. Understated. Leisurely. Service was attentive. The dining room was filled with prosperous looking businessmen and a handful of beautiful, quietly dressed women. The vibe was serious yet untroubled. The food was excellent. The drinks were, of course, strong.
Bolo led the conversation by asking how I enjoyed my weekend.
“Did you enjoy Mano’s version of Panama City?” he asked.
“Immensely,” I replied, choosing to err on the side of formality. “Mano was an excellent guide. He showed me around Rio Abajo and made sure I got a good, homecooked meal.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” Bolo said. “Mano’s father was one of my oldest friends in Panama City. We met practically the second I got off the chicken bus that carried me from the country.”
“Manfred told me you arrived in town on the back of the donkey,” I replied with a light laugh.
“Let’s split the difference and agree that my arrival was highly inauspicious.”
“Unlike mine,” I remarked.
“I wanted to make sure you enjoyed your stay, Hopeton,” Bolo said, simply. “I need you to consider Panama City to be an outpost of the work we do together in Brooklyn. I need you to feel like you’ll be able to put some roots down here.”
I saw this as an opening and took it as such.
“I know our operation is tied into a lot of political movement here,” I began.
I noticed that, at the word “political,” Bolo straightened his shoulders and leaned towards me ever so slightly.
“But what if the situation changes?” I asked. “Is our long-term endgame this particular product and nothing more? Have you ever considered a pivot?”
I stopped right there, picked up my glass and took a sip of scotch. My question hung between us. The next move was Bolo’s.
He raised his right hand and ran it over the top of his slicked back hair.
“You know what, Hopeton,” Bolo started out. His voice was overly modulated, extremely calm. “I have to admit, I don't think in those terms, because to me, I'm a businessman first and foremost. As you know, I have a quiet life, funding political campaigns behind the scenes.”
I nodded. That had been Bolo’s party line since the first day he crossed the threshold of Black Star Shipping & Logistics.
Bolo continued his monologue.
“I own some public-facing businesses, and I'm about to break into this real estate venture. But the machine is fueled by the work I do with you. Right now, I know that it's a sure thing. It could change in the future, but I don't tend to think in those terms.”
He broke off abruptly, gave me a quizzical look and said, “Why do you ask?”
My moment of truth…
“Rafael,” I said, in what I hoped was an equally modulated tone, “I understand that product is product, but nothing lasts forever. I'm always open to changing lanes if lanes must be changed.”
“I'll keep that in mind,” Bolo replied.
After that, lunch was over.
The next day, I boarded a plane back to New York.
