1990 – I’ve Got The Handle
I was busy with a customer when Bolo showed up two days later. Miss Allona was one of my steady clients, a former higgler from St. Ann’s who was constantly shipping barrels to family back home. Each of them seemed to own a small business in constant need of merchandise. I never looked too closely at what she had packed up amongst her stuff, but it’s probably safe to assume Miss Allona was practicing some subtle customs subterfuge on the regular.
I looked up just as Bolo rang the buzzer.
“Excuse me, Miss Allona. I need to let this man in,” I said as I stepped from behind the plywood counter towards the door.
I ushered Bolo to the backroom and told him to make himself comfortable while I finished up with my customer. He smiled, gave a brief nod of his head and closed the door behind him.
Miss Allona turned slightly, taking a quick gander at the Spanish man walking into the store’s off-limits area. She swiveled back towards me and gave me a tight lipped, squinty-eyed look that said all it needed to.
Twenty minutes later, my customer was dispatched and I was seated at the card table across from Bolo.
Three seconds of barely murmured preliminaries and I jumped right into it.
“I’ve given it thought and I’m willing to accept your offer of partnership,” I began.
I knew the use of the word “partnership” had thrown Bolo off. “Patronage” might have been closer to his original intent. But I was about to disabuse him of that notion.
“However,” I continued, “before we can do anything together, I’ll need you to help me fast track my citizenship.”
Bolo looked extremely disconcerted, as if that was the last thing he’d ever expect a man like me to ask him for. And the fact was, I was not asking. I was stating.
“Go on,” he said, in an obvious attempt to regain equilibrium. The Cacique vibes ran deep with this man.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I told him, “I have my greencard. My permanent greencard.”
I stood up and walked over to the file cabinet.
“But, if I’m going to be in charge of all of your shipments,” I continued as I rummaged around in the top drawer, “from point of entry straight through to distribution…”
I paused to grab a bottle of rum, two highball glasses and a carved ironwood ashtray- the kind you’d buy at a tourist stand on the outskirts of Negril.
“I can’t afford to not be a citizen,” I finished as I sat back down at the card table. “I doubt you’d want your head of operations deported for some silly reason or another.”
I handed the ashtray and a box of wooden matches to Bolo and poured out two hefty shots of fine, aged Hampden Estate.
Bolo leaned back in the rickety metal chair, stretched out his legs and let out a genuine smile.
“Hopeton!” he chirped, as he lit his cigar. “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”
I downed my shot and poured another one. Whatever it took for my future boss to realize I was a hard man fi dead, I was willing to hit that note.
“Where should we be then?” I asked and offered another shot. Bolo smiled, nodded and slid his glass towards me.
“I need you to understand,” Bolo started, then stopped and tossed the rum down his throat, followed by a pull from his cigar.
I made a motion towards the cigar case. Bolo smiled again and passed it to me. I withdrew a fragrant tube of tobacco and quickly passed it under my nose. Virgin thighs, yes. Bolo passed me the box of matches. I bit the end off my cigar and pressed a lit match to its end. It instantly brought me back to Habana Viejo.
Bumbaclot. This man was going to make me like him.
“I was not born of money, Hopeton,” Bolo said, a serious note in his voice. “I am from Los Santos, Panama. No one has ever given the smallest of fucks about Los Santos.”
I had to laugh to myself. This was the first time that this man’s English had connected to my ears the way he’d meant it to.
“To get to where I am today, I had to hack my way out of a sugar cane field,” he pressed on. “Just me and my machete.”
I kept my face still. Here was the origin story.
“I am not the oppressor, Hopeton.”
And that was it.
Rafael Montilla held his empty glass out to me. I poured liquor to the brim. I expected him to drink it all.
“In my country, Bolo, the word is downpressor,” I corrected.
I poured myself an equally hefty drink, then continued my thought.
“And no one will ever be able to keep me down.”
I gulped down the rum, and slammed the glass onto the table.
Bolo followed suit.
He held his palm up and lightly pushed it towards me, signaling that he was about to say something important. And when he spoke, his tone was grave.
“I would never want to keep any man down, especially not someone such as yourself. And now that you've let me know what it will take for me to secure your participation, I see what kind of man you really are. And I'd be wasting my time if I ever tried to keep someone like you down.”
“It’s good that you recognize this from the beginning,” I replied. “It’d be a hard lesson for you to learn down the road.” Having said my piece, I allowed myself to relax a bit, enjoying my cigar.
“Well, now I know there are things that need to be put in place before you and I can officially begin our partnership,” Bolo said. “I think we should be able to take care of everything right around the time that I finalize my deal to buy this building.”
“As soon as I get my citizenship, I’m yours,” I said. There wasn’t anything to gain by playing hard to get with this man.
“Then I want to connect you with my lawyer, Teófilo, who handles all of my legal matters here in the States. You could consider him my silent partner, but he's also a very old family friend.”
At this point, Bolo broke off and gestured towards his empty glass. I smiled and filled it to the brim. He raised it to me before taking a sip.
“Teó’s office will handle your citizenship paperwork,” he explained.
I raised my glass to my lips and took a sip.
“I’m also going to arrange a meeting between the two of you, so you can negotiate terms between Black Star and Panamanian Star,” Bolo continued. “The nature of our business may not be aboveboard, but our paperwork will.”
“It’s a must,” I agreed. Then I leaned forward to shake Bolo’s hand.
“One final thing, Hopeton, and then I think we’re done for the day,” Bolo said.
I waited.
“Until I’ve purchased the building and while you’re still on greencard, please feel free to remain Black Star Shipping & Logistics,” he told me. “But the day you start working for me is the day you’ll be Panamanian Star Shipping & Logistics.”
“Seen,” I said quietly. Bolo probably wasn’t up on Patwa but I was sure he got the gist of my response.
“Oh!” he continued, as if something had almost slipped his mind. I knew that was mere play acting. This man had forgotten nothing. “Feel free to hire the same man to re-do your window. All I ask is that you make sure the design centers around the Panamanian flag.”
I nodded and said that wouldn’t be a problem.
“And make sure the lettering is in standard print. None of that Rastafarian script you have up there now.”
I rolled my eyes lightly and said that I got his point.
Bolo shook my hand, stood up and prepared to leave.
