Chapter 156: Regretfully, Señor
James caught Sam’s eye and gave him a short nod. Nothing more was needed, and they fell in behind Don Ambrosio as he led them out of the courtyard, through a door held open by a servant who had already learned the sensible rule of never staring at either guest longer than necessary.
The room beyond was built for a different sort of business, with shuttered windows that reduced the afternoon to narrow strips of light across the floor. One strongbox was bolted into one corner, while papers were stacked along a desk that had plainly seen more work than the man sitting behind it.
Besides, two guards stood inside, their backs straighter and their eyes sharper than those of the loose-limbed fellows outside. Then the door closed behind them, and the courtyard noise vanished as neatly as a mouth being covered.
In the courtyard, Kit had gathered three of Don Ambrosio’s men beside a wine cask and was already deep into his tale. "So there’s the man o’ war bearin’ down on us, guns run out, and the captain screamin’ orders nobody can hear above the storm."
Kit said, both hands cutting through the air as if the man o’ war were right there before him.
"And I says to meself, well, Kit, this is it. This is the day..."
One of the men leaned toward the other and whispered, "Este muchacho habla más que un loro," which made them both laugh.
They had understood perhaps a third of Kit’s story, but Kit saw no reason to let that inconvenience him. He went on regardless, certain that a good tale had enough life in it to survive a language or two.
Meanwhile, Jim had made his way to the table where the two women sat. He drew himself up straight, put on what he apparently considered a courteous expression, and tried his four words once more.
"Ron. Plata. Mujer. Luego."
One of the women looked him over from head to boot, then burst out laughing and said to her friend.
The joke nearly had them both falling out of their chairs, and Jim took the laughter for encouragement rather than mockery, grinned wider, and pulled up a stool as though he had been invited all along.
Far back, the two sailors had backed themselves so firmly against the wall that there was scarcely room left for their shadows. One kept swallowing every few seconds, while the other watched the armed men as if waiting to discover which one intended to eat him first. Neither seemed eager to breathe any louder than necessary.
Back in the private room, Don Ambrosio sat comfortably behind his desk and pulled a paper toward him. He dipped his quill without ceremony.
"Now then, señor. Let us speak plainly, as men who understand each other."
He glanced up. "For the goods, I take at market weight, less my share for the risk. Fifty in the hundred to me. The rest yours, paid in coin before the goods reach my warehouse."
"Thirty-five."
"Forty, señor. My door does not open for less, and neither does my strongbox."
James let that sit for a breath.
"Thirty-eight, and we’ll call it a fair mornin’s work for both of us."
Ambrosio’s mustache twitched.
"Thirty-eight."
He wrote it down. There was no reason to squeeze a man for another coin once the number was good enough to leave everybody pleased.
"Done, señor. Simple enough, this part."
He laid the quill aside and folded his hands. "But you did not sail three hundred miles for one sale. A man with your manner does not come so far, and speak so carefully, for a single afternoon’s business."
"Nay."
James kept his voice easy. "I’ve a mind for one partnership. Goods movin’ both ways, regular, discreet, and worth both our whiles for longer than one handshake."
Ambrosio’s good humor faded a little. His eyes had stopped smiling.
"So, you want to set up a black market route?"
He said it slowly, weighing the idea. "You ask a great deal, señor. Once is an accident, twice has a rhythm, and those get noticed. The Guarda Costa are not so blind as the fools guarding my street."
James shrugged, "There’s ways round that. Nights, false manifests, a man in the right office lookin’ the other way at the right hour, as ye already run for Juan, I’d wager."
"Juan’s arrangement is his own, señor. Built over years, and even he has limits."
Ambrosio leaned back, and the chair let out a complaint beneath him. "You ask me to build trust in one afternoon. Where does this cargo come from? A harbor? An island? Somewhere I might send a man of my own to see it before I risk my neck on your word?"
"Friendly waters, hidden well enough that no navy’s found it yet, and it’ll stay that way."
James kept his ground.
"All you need to know’s the goods’ll come, steady, and the deal’ll be worthwhile."
Ambrosio watched him for a long moment. The coin from earlier turned between his fingers again, but whatever amusement had been in the gesture was gone.
"That’d be great deal of faith from a stranger, señor."
"Aye, and I’m offerin’ the same in return."
Ambrosio’s shoulders eased, and his grin returned, slower this time and with more thought behind it.
"Perhaps we can work it out."
He reached for a decanter beside the papers. The glass was fine-cut, and what he poured was considerably darker and richer than the stuff in the courtyard. He topped up two glasses and slid one across the desk.
"A share of sixty, on the partnership. Higher than the single sale, given what I risk."
"Forty-five, and I’ll throw in first choice of the goods each run."
"Forty-seven."
Ambrosio lifted his glass.
"And we drink on it, señor, like civilized men."
James lifted his own to meet it.
"Thirty-seven. We’ve a deal, then?"
Don Ambrosio did not answer.
Before he could, a boy came hurrying through the backdoor, so quickly that he nearly stumbled to a halt beside the desk. He bent close and whispered into Ambrosio’s ear.
Ambrosio listened without looking at him, then dismissed the boy with a small motion of his hand. The servant vanished as quickly as he had come.
He set his glass down untouched. The smile he had been wearing was gone now, and so was the warmth, while his eyes dropped to James’s face as though comparing it with what he had just heard.
"Regretfully, señor."