Rudolph Wurlitzer - The Drop Edge of Yonder

"What the hell is there to do in this godforsaken place?" the Commodore shouted, waiting for his cigar to be lit.

"Drink," Zebulon said. "Shoot scorpions and monkeys. There's a billiard table."

The Commodore peered at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "Billiards, huh? You any good?"

Zebulon leaned back on his chair, propping his feet on the table in front of him. "Good enough for you"

The Commodore grunted, annoyed by the stranger's lack of deference or even curiosity.

One of the men stood up, peering through the rain. "They're comin', Commodore, but Walker ain't with 'em."

Three barefoot Indians passed the veranda, their eyes on the ground.

"Good god, man," the Commodore shouted. "Don't you know natives when you see them? What the hell is wrong with you?"

He turned back to Zebulon. "Where's this billiard table?"

Zebulon led him inside, followed by the others.

The Commodore stared at the billiard table. "You expect me to play on that contraption?"

"I don't expect anything," Zebulon said. "And I don't give a damn what you play on, as long as it ain't on me."

The Commodore laughed. He was almost beginning to like this ignorant drifter. Swiveling his huge head towards the doorway, he shouted at his men: "Get me my billiard table."

They reacted as if they hadn't heard him, a response that caused purple veins to spread across the Commodore's forehead. "I don't care how many of you it takes. I want my table in three hours. And if you run into that little runt, Walker, tell him he'll have to wait his turn to see Vanderbilt."

As the men disappeared into the rain, the Commodore stomped back to the veranda. Ordering another round of rum, he gestured impatiently for Zebulon to join him.

"How come you're hanging out in greaser country?" he asked as Zebulon pulled up a chair.

"Waitin' for a ship," Zebulon replied. "Headed for Californie by way of a train across Panama."

"I have a ship going to Nicaragua. You could get across that way, but couldn't afford the passage."

The Commodore sighed. "Walker is a big pain in the ass. I set him up down here, but as soon as he took over and declared himself president or king of Nicaragua or whatever the hell he now calls himself, he revoked my steamship license. So I ruined him." He paused, a look of satisfaction spreading across his face. "I got Costa Rica to declare war against him, and then I withdrew his funds. Now he's got a civil war to deal with. Two things I have no patience for are civil war and failure."

"I can see that." Zebulon felt comfortable with the Commodore's display of bull-headed fury and revenge. He had run into his kind before: half-assed generals slaughtering Indians just to satisfy a bunch of stuffed shirts in Washington, or big shots and cattle barons that hung around the lobbies of Denver hotels selling fake shares in made-up mining and lumber operations. It was clear that the Commodore was just another asshole from the East, set on driving a stake into whatever poor bastard or country stood in his way.

"And now he's asking me to help him take over the country again," the Commodore was saying. "Amazing how some people never learn their limitations."

"Why bother if he riles you that much?" Zebulon asked, not really listening- an attitude that only stimulated the Commodore's compulsion for candor.

"I'm trying out a new boat and I was headed down here anyway; although why the son of a bitch chose the rainy season to meet in this sink hole is beyond me. I have no patience for fools."

"So you said," Zebulon replied.

They drank in silence. It wasn't until after their third round of straight rum that the Commodore finally seemed to relax.

"It's been a week of failure and frustration. I feel like I'm stuck inside someone else's goddamn dream with no way out. You ever get that way?"

"From time to time," Zebulon replied.

"What's your business down here?"

"No business. Just movin' through."

"Going for gold, are you?"

"Thinkin' about it."

"Let me give you some free advice. The future of the United States of America is business, and smart business lies in transportation. I guarantee that I'll make more money in one year than all of you gold suckers put together. Don't get me wrong. I appreciate men like you who have the balls to push back the frontier. If America is about anything, it's about expansion. We took a big chunk out of Mexico. Soon we'll lock up the Pacific, Hawaii, the Philippines. Maybe even Japan if Admiral Perry makes the right moves, which I have my doubts about."

"I never thought about it," Zebulon said.

"Well, start," the Commodore said. "Never trust anyone. And once you've made your pile, don't spend it. And always remember that — "

"expansion is the future," Zebulon interrupted.

The Commodore nodded, pleased to have found someone who knew what he was talking about. "Maybe you're not as dumb as you look. And as for that puny little rail track across the isthmus you intend to travel on, that's for mail-order brides and amateurs, not heavy loads and commerce."

"And heavy loads is the name of the game," Zebulon added. "Except that I ain't carryin' a heavy load. Not even a light one."

The Commodore laughed. "You want a job? I can use a man who doesn't back down. Someone to put the boot to all the damn yes-men and hangers-on. Someone who's not afraid to ride for the brand."

"I already got a job," Zebulon replied.

"Well, quit."

They were interrupted by a solitary figure trudging towards them. Stumbling onto the veranda, he removed his rain slicker from his bony frame. After he unfolded a handkerchief and carefully wiped off his wire-rimmed spectacles, he shook out the water that had collected along the curved brim of his derby. Finally he presented himself to the Commodore with a halfbow.

"Always a pleasure, Commodore Vanderbilt," he said through pursed lips, as if pleasure was a meal he rarely tasted.

"I wish I could say the same, Ephraim," the Commodore said. "Where the hell is Walker?"

"President Walker is engaged in important matters elsewhere. He sent me instead"

"What kind of bullshit is that?" the Commodore roared. "Are you telling me that the son of a bitch is afraid to come down here and look me in the eye now that his pathetic game is over and done with?"

Ephraim Squier drew himself up to his full height, which barely approached Vanderbilt's shoulders. "William Walker doesn't know the meaning of fear."

"No kidding? Maybe that's his problem."

The Commodore looked down at Squier's handmade English boots. "Where the hell did you get those whorehouse shit-kickers, Ephraim? Don't tell me. I don't want to know. The trouble with you pansy New Englanders is that you don't know when to quit. Every time you people go south of the border you embarrass the whole goddamn country."

"I didn't come all this way to argue with you, Commodore."

"Then state your case."

"President Walker has organized a second expedition in Mobile, Alabama, with the intention of sailing for Nicaragua within the month. He is firmly convinced that by the first of the year he will have regained control of the country. He has sent me to ask for help. He needs munitions and supplies as soon as possible."

The Commodore half-rose from his seat. "The man has gone ma.

"Quite possibly," Ephraim Squier said. "Although that is not for me to say. In any case, I can agree that he is neither a statesman nor a diplomat."

"Was this your idea, or his?"

"That's difficult to say," Squier replied. "There are cultural and political complexities to consider, as well as weather, disease, and public opinion."

"Public opinion?" the Commodore shouted. "I don't give a rat's ass about public opinion! Never have, never will. Do you understand my meaning, Ephraim?"