Read Wake of the Perdido Star Online
Authors: Gene Hackman
Wake of the Perdido Star (50 page)
So here he stood in the middle of the night, shivering half naked across from his enemy's house. Jack had many schemes, none clearly thought out. He realized that each time he started to
devise an idea, his thoughts turned to rage and he was unable to think clearly. He had dreamed of approaching the count in a public place and confronting him with his crimes. Humiliating him in front of his peers and then killing him in a duel, or slipping quietly into his bedroom at night and slitting his throat. Or better yet, hanging him from the yardarm of the
Star
as it sailed slowly and majestically out of Habana harbor. He knew secretly, however, that none of these plans would come to pass. That his unabated anger was leading him around by his nose, and that he must take things slowly.
devise an idea, his thoughts turned to rage and he was unable to think clearly. He had dreamed of approaching the count in a public place and confronting him with his crimes. Humiliating him in front of his peers and then killing him in a duel, or slipping quietly into his bedroom at night and slitting his throat. Or better yet, hanging him from the yardarm of the
Star
as it sailed slowly and majestically out of Habana harbor. He knew secretly, however, that none of these plans would come to pass. That his unabated anger was leading him around by his nose, and that he must take things slowly.
First, he must find out about his property; the deed to his mother's land would have to be sorted out. There was also the matter of Quen-Li's disappearance the first night they had anchored. Only when he had settled this matter would he deal with the count, for no one had seen the slim Chinaman leave the ship. He had simply disappeared. Jack cared a great deal for Quen-Li and it troubled him that twice when he swam to shore to look for the mysterious Oriental gentleman, he found no trace of him.
The swim to the wharf from the
Star
now seemed to him a little silly, but having seen the villa, the years of fantasizing about the count seemed to dissolve into a cold sense of the course he would take. He started back to the ship. “One step at a time, Jack boy,” he mumbled. “One step at a time.”
Star
now seemed to him a little silly, but having seen the villa, the years of fantasizing about the count seemed to dissolve into a cold sense of the course he would take. He started back to the ship. “One step at a time, Jack boy,” he mumbled. “One step at a time.”
The quarantine was lifted the next morning, and after tying up, Jack swiftly made his way off the ship, arriving quickly at the main street of Habana. He asked locals where the American consul resided and was repaid with a wave of the hand toward Calle Juan Carlos.
When Jack entered the consul's outer office, he found a clerk, a self-important young man, who glanced up from his newspaper. “Yes, what is it?”
From his accent, Jack thought he came from the American South. The fellow dropped his eyes back to a month-old newspaper.
“I would like to speak to someone about property that belongs to me.”
Without looking up, the young man said, “And just exactly what would you like to speak to them about?”
Jack raised his index finger to the top edge of the paper and slowly brought it down until he could see over it. “I'll explain that to him when I see him, won't I?” There was something in Jack's voice that persuaded the young man not to delay any further.
“I'll see if the associate consul can see you. Have a seat.”
After nearly half an hour, an effete, older man beckoned Jack to a small office which contained only a desk and one chair. Jack stood with hat in hand before the man. In no hurry to initiate conversation but finally wondering about office protocol, Jack introduced himself. “My name is Jackson Alexander O'Reilly. I have beenâ” Jack stopped, wondering how much to say. “Well, to put it bluntly, I've been traveling the past three years and haven't had time to consummate the transfer of my mother's property in Matanzas into my name. Iâ”
“Have you kept up the taxes on said property, Mr. Jackson?” The man's eyes and voice were expressionless.
“O'Reilly, sir. And no, I haven't. It was my understanding that until the deed had been properly transferred, that wouldn't be a problem.”
“Well, O'Reilly, or whatever your name is, you're wrong. Your place most likely has been sold for taxes. In any case, you don't seem to be of the landed gentry, a latifundista, as they say here.”
Jack glared at this puffed-up politico. “Excuse me, whatever your name happens to be. I'd like to speak to someone who can help me. You obviously aren't interested, and my time's just as valuable as yours.”
“Oh, well I see.” The man looked at Jack for the first time, sneering. “You should have told me you had limited time. It's the consulate general that you want. May I make an appointment for you, Mr. Jackson?” Jack gazed at the fool and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “How would four o'clock this afternoon be, Mr. Jackson O'Reilly, sir?” Jack left the office after providing the
details on the property, and walked out into the avenida. He took in the fresh air in deep gulps, trying to calm himself.
details on the property, and walked out into the avenida. He took in the fresh air in deep gulps, trying to calm himself.
He wandered back to the ship. They had been in Habana three days and they had not been pleasant ones. What had happened to Quen-Li? The Chinaman's personal effects were still on board, yet no one had seen him. Cheatum was missing also, but he had taken his thingsâalong with various items that were not hisâand slipped off the ship in the middle of the night.
Jack made his way up the gangplank to speak to Quince. “Any sign of Quen-Li?”
The one-armed first mate shook his head. “Nary a sign. But Hansumbob said he saw Cheatum speaking to some of the crew on that large galleon tied tandem with that Spanish bark.”
Jack looked across the small harbor to the ship. He could just make out the nameâ
Agresor
. “Well, if he's looking for a job, that ship is well named for him.” They shared a laugh.
Agresor
. “Well, if he's looking for a job, that ship is well named for him.” They shared a laugh.
“Jack, if you're planning something along the lines of revenge, make sure we have a way out of this harbor. It's small and not very maneuverable.”
Jack looked toward the open Caribbean Sea. “I have to go back to the American consul. I'll see you tonight.”
“Any luck with the land?”
“Not yet.”
Jack stepped off the gangplank. Quince's question about a plan got him thinking. As he walked toward the consulate, he found himself passing the count's hacienda. Was it fate that had brought him this way? He gazed at the house that seemed the source of all his misery. On impulse, he borrowed a pen and paper from a shop owner and scrawled a message to the countâone that he felt would not be ignored. He stuffed the note under the clapper and retraced his steps to the American consulate.
The consul himself sat behind a large desk in an elaborate office, American and Cuban flags bordering a painting of Thomas Jefferson. Jack sat before him.
“Your claim of ownership of this property at milepost twenty-seven in Matanzas Province seems completely unfounded,” the consul said. “I am frankly baffled that you would come in here and demandânay, threatenâmy clerk and the associate consul with what seems a spurious claim.”
Jack bit his lip, trying to maintain control. “I felt, sir, and maybe wrongfully, that I was being dodged, or that no one was interested in my problem.”
“Your problem, young man, is that your respect for the proper way to proceed in these matters is completely lacking.” The consul shuffled some papers in front of him. “Now I'll leave you with the following. The property that you speak of, Hacienda de la Roja, or finca milepost twenty-seven, was bought for back taxes by one Alfonso de Silva on the fifth day of December 1805.” The consul looked up with a smile. “So you see, young man, you are just about three years too late. And as for your behavior, you should be ashamed of yourself, conducting this business in a manner that would reflect badly on the worthy citizens of our country.”
The small office seemed to close in on Jack. De Silva had the land. He felt a chill spread up his spine and he started to shake. His knees felt watery, and he wondered how much the consul could see.
“I've instructed my clerk to have a member of the guardia escort you back to your accommodations.” The consul paused solemnly. “Let this be a lesson, Mr. O'Reilly.” The official leaned back in his chair. “You're dismissed.”
Jack was beyond rage. He glared at the politician and forced a smile. Rising slowly, he left the office, to be met in the outer office by three members of the guardia civil.
Once outside, Jack headed for the wharf, even though he realized he could not lead his escorts there. He avoided looking at them, determined to lose these fools long before they found out where he was going. The guardia seemed content to just walk behind him, chatting away. Jack was startled to hear one of the
guards address another as Sargento Matros. He turned around, looking quickly at Matros. It had been three years and the man obviously did not recognize Jack. After all, thought Jack, the sergeant had been much more intent on murdering his mother and father than taking notice of a seventeen-year-old.
guards address another as Sargento Matros. He turned around, looking quickly at Matros. It had been three years and the man obviously did not recognize Jack. After all, thought Jack, the sergeant had been much more intent on murdering his mother and father than taking notice of a seventeen-year-old.
Jack turned right on Calle Juan Carlos, away from the ship. At a small inn he turned abruptly and darted up the stairs, standing in an alcove on the third floor. He watched through the open atrium as the guardia wandered around looking for him. Soon losing interest, they left.
Jack bounded down the stairs, following the soldiers. They stopped at a tavern filled with what seemed to be half of the guardia in Habana. He watched from across the avenida as Matros imitated Jack's flight up the stairs. The sergeant had changed little in three years. Jack had not forgotten his pig eyes and flowing mustache.
Now that he knew where Matros could be found each evening, Jack allowed himself to ease away, fighting the urge to bound across the avenida and plunge a dagger into the beating black heart of his enemy. Feeling light-headed, Jack steadied himself against a lamppost, looking to the world like just another drunk. He began the walk back to the
Star
, his soul filled with violence.
Star
, his soul filled with violence.
The next morning Paul and Jack left the ship, their destination Matanzas. Jack had asked Paul to go with him; they would try to find where Jack's parents were buried. They jumped on the tailgate of an empty lumber wagon, blending back into the dark interior. The driver of the four-horse team saw them, however, and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal symbol of money. Jack smiled, tossed the driver a coin, and they drove on.
Before long, Jack and Paul stood on a small rise, staring out at miles and miles of stripped fields. They were at milepost 27. Nothing
looked the same. The cane had been vibrant and full when Jack had last seen this spot; now it had been cut. Short stalks sprouted in rows, like grave sites. They found nothing that would indicate a massacre. Paul watched Jack pace the red earth. Eventually, with the realization that his parents were not there, Jack gazed at his friend, then started down the road back to Habana, Paul following.
looked the same. The cane had been vibrant and full when Jack had last seen this spot; now it had been cut. Short stalks sprouted in rows, like grave sites. They found nothing that would indicate a massacre. Paul watched Jack pace the red earth. Eventually, with the realization that his parents were not there, Jack gazed at his friend, then started down the road back to Habana, Paul following.
After several miles they stopped for tea in the village of Soñar. As they were leaving, Paul spoke to the proprietor while Jack waited in the street. Then they once again started west, Paul guiding them up a winding trail a half mile above the village. There, covering an acre of ground, was a small cemetery. It took them only moments to find the modest marker with the inscription: “Two unknown souls resting in peace. Heaven help them. December 1805.” Apparently the townspeople had taken this man and woman, when found, and buried them. Jack slipped to his knees in silent prayer.
After several minutes, he rose and looked around at the wellkept graves. His voice was thick.
“Let's go back. I have business in Habana.”
Jack leaned against the stone building, watching the guardia celebrate the end of another working day. Matros and several other soldiers had arrived early and were heavily into their liquor. When Jack gauged them amply drunk, he crossed the street, entered the tavern, and ordered a glass of beer. He had never acquired a taste for it, but felt less conspicuous with the drink in front of him. A guitar's strident tone rang above the noise of the soldiers. A small fight had broken out between a uniformed civil guard and a woman with too much makeup and too little common sense. She cursed the soldiers, only to be rewarded with a clout to her left ear. She retreated, sobbing, into a back room. The atmosphere was rife with malice. Jack bided his time. He felt sooner or later Matros would recognize him.
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