Train Tracks by Michael Savage Page A

liking to me. One
rainy and windy afternoon, after I had motor-scootered in the 7 kilos from
Arenal, a beach town where I had an apartment, he told me to get off the
island.
    â€œKid,” he whispered, his eyes screwed up behind a
smoke cloud, “get out of here, off this island, fast.” I was shocked. Thought
the crowd liked me. “Why, what do you mean?” “Look, you’re young. All they want
from you,” he said, lifting a shoulder in the general direction of the others in
that smoky bivouac, “is your money and your woman.”
    Stunned, I looked around that tank full of human
fish. Were these angels and guppies really piranhas beneath deceptive
markings?
    Over there, at the end of the mahogany counter, his
legs twisted over one another like a rubber man, an Ichabod Crane—a drunken grin
radiating from his fixed jaw—was an English “nature” poet, little known beyond
that grave circle.
    It could not be him. He was too drunk and too kind,
all the time. Collapsed on the bench along the right wall after cursing out some
old lady who dared say “Merry Christmas, Mike,” was a loud-mouthed Irish
novelist whose latest had just appeared as a film. His pretty, kindly wife and
their three-month babe were like a quiet painting next to him, she nursing the
infant while her husband slept off his latest drunk.
    Definitely not them. Too honest.
    Well, the Americans in the bar, sure. Highly
suspect, and therefore, no threat.
    That left only Max. The ex–mob boss on the run who
I thought had befriended me.
    Ya! The more I thought about him the more I began
to believe Shatzy.
    â€œListen. I know this doesn’t seem real to you but,
I tell you, you’re in danger.”
    My eyebrows arched and he ordered a free Advocaat for me.
    Max Roachman first attracted my attention because
of his heavy New York accent. As I thought about it, it was Carla who was first
drawn to him! I remember her saying with that tee-hee little giggle of hers,
“You remind me of my father . . .”
    â€œOh, that little . . .”
    He had us up to his place after that first night.
His Spanish maid, a quiet older lady, cooked an authentic spread.
    Brought over by successive waves of colonizers—the
Arabs, Berbers, and Moors—fruits are so prevalent that they accompany most
courses.
    We began with local wine soaked in sangria, the
fruits coming from Maxie’s own trees. Standing on the stone terrace and eyes
wandering up to Arenal Palace, I felt very much at home.
    His lousy record player was turning The Memory Years: 1925–1950 , as this stocky old tough
spluttered on about his wild days.
    Well, what harm would it do for me to drink his
wine and eat his food? (My money and my woman!)
    Chomping on my first boar, with potatoes and
artichokes, I listened as the old guy reminisced.
    He sees me smirking and jumps up. “Here, you don’t
believe me,” and he rummages through some old photo albums, his maid looking on
from the archway with a sad, knowing look.
    Headline: KING OF THE
HOBOS HAS PENNY RAIL PASS—TRAVELS ONLY 1ST CLASS. He is shaking hands
with railroad officials.
    Next: Two dark-haired sisters, one on each side of
Max in a nightclub: “Took ’em both home for four days.” Next: Max smiling in an
auto showroom, shaking hands with a happy salesman who just sold him a Jaguar MK
V and a Jaguar XK 120.
    â€œA good time, kid, but my wife got mad when I
didn’t come back home for nine months.”
    We eat the paella Valenciana. All the seafood fresh
from then-clean bays.
    The phono spins off speed.
    Over flan and coffee, he worked himself up to his
true confession. A small news article tells us about his first murders: two boys
in a train yard.
    Then, with a flourish, a letter from then New York
mayor Bob Wagner, inquiring about Max’s recent operation.
    â€œI got friends, kid.” The books, records, suits,
coats, shoes