Of all the numerous places in Managua that offered various kinds of
diversion to Marines on temporary leaves of absence, the most
interesting was the Cantina la Flora. This center of life, music and
wine probably intrigued the American soldiers of the sea and air because
it was a strict breach of Marine rules for a uniformed man to be seen
beyond the cafe’s entrance.
The Cantina la Flora was just ten or fifteen feet off the main road,
directly on the outskirts of the city.
A low wall encircled the entire cafe, beyond this, the visitors parked
their cars and hitched their horses in the shade of invitingly cooling
palm trees. In the rear, stood a two-story, yellow stucco building,
housing the bar, gaming tables, dance floor and private rooms of the
Cantina. A large veranda, going the full length of the building and
shaded with leaves and flowers, had been built in front of the house,
where native men and women lounged lazily during the day and night,
sipping coffee or liquor and playing dominoes.
The cafe, which occupied the entire ground floor, had a large bar to the
left that was never idle. The floor was of strikingly colored tiles.
Marble top tables where visitors, who came to drink and be entertained,
sat around, was over to the right, looking out upon the open patio. The
rear was separated in two by a partition, the front of which was
occupied by the string orchestra, while the other side shielded the
gaming tables that were always buzzing with activity. The center of the
great room, when an entertainer wasn’t performing, served as a dance
floor for the patrons.
Above this inclosure of laughter and care-free activity, a narrow
balcony encircled the room, reached by a small stairway to the left of
the orchestra stand.
As Lefty cautiously made his way up the steps of the veranda, making
certain that there were no interfering military police near by who might
spoil his evening, he saw many white civilians mixing with the native
visitors; waiters bustling in and out between rows of tables, bringing
and taking orders, and the five-piece string orchestra in the rear,
playing a vigorous accompaniment for a lovely and shapely dark-skinned
girl, wearing a large sombrero, a silk blouse and a wide, colorful
skirt. She was dancing a Spanish fandango in the center of the tiled
floor.
Suddenly the music stopped and the girl fell to the floor on her knees,
smiling ingratiatingly as she raised her head to receive the vociferous
applause of her appreciative audience. She stood up, threw a profusion
of kisses in all directions and ran up the steps to the balcony, opening
a door and disappearing into one of the little rooms occupied by the
performers.
As Lefty crossed the dance floor to the bar, the eyes of both natives
and whites followed his progress with astonishment, leaning over their
tables to whisper in speculation as to what would be the Marine’s fate
should he be discovered by his officers or the military police.
Just about this time, a faded, coarse-looking blond woman attired in a
thin, black silk dress with a wide skirt, meandered over to the
orchestra stand, now deserted by the musicians. She slouched down on the
piano stool and lazily lifted her thin, white hands, letting them fall
upon the keys. Slowly and softly, she began to play one of those ancient
torch ballads, popular in the States years before prohibition.
Lefty leaned up against the bar and listened with flattering
attentiveness to the outburst of the faded blonde at the piano. Each
line of the touching lyrics she emitted made him feel more and more
sorry for himself.
A fetching little olive-skinned girl with a profusion of black hair,
large, dark eyes and lovely white teeth, glided over to him, placing her
arm about his shoulder. Her scanty attire showed her trim, shapely
figure to excellent advantage. Of all the girls at the Cantina la Flora,
this one was the most sought after.
“Nice soldado Americano quiere leetle drink?” she cooed, temptingly.
Lefty merely responded by brushing her arm from about his shoulders. He
had time for no one now. The blond entertainer’s song had completely
enveloped him.
“Mebe Americano want to drink alone weeth Rosa, upa-stairs, yes?” the
undaunted little native coquette asked, again brushing herself close to
Lefty’s side.
The boy pushed her away forcibly, once more allowing his mind to drift
away with the music.
Rosa turned to the bartender and winked broadly as she announced,
“Leetle soft drink for brave soldado—ver’ soft, Peitro!” The bartender
grinned and reached for a glass just as the blonde at the piano finished
her song.
Lefty smiled sympathetically and applauded with enthusiasm, calling for
an encore. The entertainer bowed gratefully in his direction for he had
been the only one of all the people present who acknowledged his
appreciation of her art.
“Don’t encourage her,” someone shouted.
“If you applaud like that, she’ll inflict another one of those songs on
us!”
“That’s just what I want her to do!” Lefty announced; and that was
exactly what the lady did to the discomfort of all.
“Where’s my drink?” the soldier demanded as the music once more reached
his ears.
The bartender complied by drawing a glass of beer, and when Lefty again
turned to watch the girl at the piano, the man serving the drink dropped
the ashes of his cigar in the beer, also pouring in a good deal of
whiskey as well.
Lefty reached back to the bar, mechanically taking the stein by the
handle and lifting the beer to his lips, much to the amusement of Rosa
and the practical joking bartender.
Just as he had finished his drink with no dire effect other than a
feeling of dizziness, the music again stopped and he sauntered over to
where the girl at the piano sat.
“That was fine, sister,” he announced as he reached her side, falling
into a chair in a daze. “Give us another, will you?”
The blonde rose, and eyed him with a piercing look of disdain. “Say,
insipid, you don’t think I’m doin’ this for me health, do you?”
“You mean, you expect me to pay you?” asked the astonished Marine,
gradually falling under the spell of intoxication.
“Naw—just leave me the price of a pair of stocking, that’s all!”
“How can you be so mercenary?” the boy asked with the sincerity of an
inebriated man.
“If you call me that again, you big bum, I’ll punch you in the nose,”
the blonde warned as her eyes protruded, blazing with fire. “I’ll have
you know I’m a lady, I am!”
“Well, who said you wasn’t?”
“You did!” she persisted. “You called me a—a—well, don’t say that
again!”
“Say what?” Lefty demanded to know.
“What you just called me!”
“What did I call you?”
“I don’t know what it meant,” the girl admitted, “but if it was as bad
as it sounded, my brother would make you eat those words, if he was
here!”
Lefty yawned and stretched his arms, already tired from the effects of
the bartender’s loaded drink. “Aw, be a reg’lar feller, kiddo, an’
give’sh a tune!”
“You like my voice?” the blonde asked, changing her tone to the
ingratiating pitch so familiar with her type.
“Do I like it? I love it!” Lefty bellowed, much to the amusement of the
white patrons seated at tables near by. “I think you have a better voice
than—than—let me think. Oh, yeah! Better than Galli Curci!”
“Galli Curci?” the entertainer repeated as a puzzled expression lighted
upon her face. “Who’s that guy, Galli Curci?”
“You don’t know old Galli?” Lefty asked in a high pitch of astonishment,
and the blonde shook her head negatively. “Well, if you must know, let
me enlighten you; Galli—old Galli Curci was the bes’ Russian bicycle
rider in Brooklyn!”
A roar of laughter came from the tables occupied by the Americans. Lefty
rose with much difficulty, bearing a silly grin and bowing to his
encouraging audience. The girl at the piano moved about uncomfortably,
the lines in her face hardening and her eyebrows knitting in a frown.
“Say, bozo, I gotta feelin’ you’re trying to razz me!” she announced.
“And I don’t mind tellin’ you, brother, I don’t like it!”
“Who, me?” Lefty protested innocently enough.
“Yes, you! Now cut the comedy. If you want another number, either put up
or shut up!”
“Okay, baby!” Lefty announced, digging down into his pocket and bringing
forth a roll of bills, peeling one off and dropping it into the lap of
the performer. “Shoot!”
The boy’s roll of money was of such considerable size that Rosa, who had
picked up an acquaintance with a new arrival, who seemed to gloat over
her amorous antics, left the man without further ado and returned to the
boy just as he placed the bills back in his pocket.
“You got sometink for Rosa?” she begged, her face again illuminated by a
beaming smile.
[Illustration: “You got sometink for Rosa?” she begged of Lefty.]
“Naw, go on away!” he replied with impatience, pushing the girl from
him, “I wanna hear my baby here sing!”
The blonde folded the bill and placed it in her dress, then touched the
white ivory keys and once more burst aloud in sentimental song.
“Rosa, she dance for her brave Americano soldado, you watch!”
“I don’ wanna watch,” he protested. “Go ’way, woman; you draw flies!”
“But Rosa, she dance for you!” the girl insisted, using every bit of
will power she possessed to hold back her rising temper.
“I don’t care if Rosa stand on her head! Leave me alone, will ya? I
wanna listen to ole blondie do her stuff!”
“Sacri!” fumed the native heartbreaker. “You do not know art!”
Lefty sighed impatiently and pushed the girl away once again. “Aw, go
sit on a tack!”
Rosa frowned menacingly but still managing to check her temper, walked
to a near-by table, picked up a straight drink of whiskey and handed it
to the boy.
Without even looking at her, he brought the glass to his lips and
swallowed the contents with one gulp, making a wry face as he did so.
The blonde finished her song and the orchestra returned to the stand,
picking up their instruments, and at the sign from the leader, burst
into a wild fandango. Rosa took Lefty by the hand and pulled him off of
the stand. He looked back to call the blonde entertainer but she had
already disappeared.
“Come, we dance, no?” Rosa announced, leading him to the center of the
floor.
“Yes!” the boy agreed, and taking the shapely native girl in his arms,
whirled off, around the tiled dance floor, stepping over any couple who
might unfortunately come within his path.
He felt something brush against his trouser pocket and looking down,
caught sight of the girl’s hand in the act of removing his money. With a
swift jerk, he grabbed the roll of bills from her and placed it in the
inside pocket of his blouse, much to the native’s discomfort.
At that very moment, Panama reached the veranda outside of the cafe,
stopping to read the sign that forbade Marines to enter. As he burst
through the grilled door, rudely brushing by a party of Americans who
were ready to leave, his ears caught the sound of music and hilarity.
Once inside, his eyes searched over the rows of tables and the people
jammed together on the dance floor, resting them upon Lefty and the
little native girl. Without waiting another moment, he pushed through
the crowd until he reached the center of the floor.
“What are you trying to pull off here?” he demanded to know, placing his
hand on the boy’s shoulder and swinging him around. “Pull yourself
together. We’re gettin’ out of this joint pronto!”
Rosa made no attempt to hide her resentment over Panama’s sudden
intrusion and clung desperately to Lefty’s sleeve. As for the boy, he
was so far gone by this time, that it took him a few moments to
recognize the sergeant. When he finally did, his jovial mood returned
and he slapped Panama on the back in a playful fashion, shouting: “Well,
well, well—if it ain’t the old kid hisself!”
“Come on, son,” Panama said, good-humoredly. “You’ve had your little
fling, let’s go places!”
“No, sir! No, sir! We’re goin’ stay right here!” the boy stubbornly
insisted, throwing his arms about the sergeant’s neck in a typical
inebriated fashion. “You an’ me, ole pal, we’re goin’ raise the ole
roof!”
The native girl grew more and more angered as the intruder insisted upon
separating her from her easy prey.
“What you want, huh?” she demanded to know of Panama. “Why you no leave
heem weez me, yes?”
“Yeah, why you no leave me weez she, huh?” Lefty mimicked the girl in a
silly fashion.
“Because he doesn’t belong here,” the sergeant explained patiently. “He
must go back camp. Police see him here—boom—no more soldado!”
“You bad, bad hombre,” she shrieked, jumping at Panama and clawing his
face and neck with her finger nails.
The sergeant had all he could do to hold Lefty from falling, and at the
same time, he was forced to fight off this little native minx much to
the amusement of those surrounding the trio.
“Cut it out, will ya, lady?” Panama pleaded, still a victim of the
girl’s painful clawing. “I gotta take him back or we’ll all land in the
brig, sure!”
“You no tak my soldado, you bad hombre!” she shrieked with renewed rage,
leaping for Williams’ throat this time.
“Aw, why don’t you stop hittin’ the poor gal,” Lefty stammered, now
nearly blind from the reaction of the bad liquor. “Rosie, ol’ baby, I’m
your pal; if he smacks you again, jes’ tell me, tha’s all!”
Panama pushed Lefty against a post in the middle of the floor, holding
him upright with one foot while he tore the girl loose from his throat,
throwing her off of him with all the force he could bring to his
command.
“Panny, ol’ kid,” the boy muttered, “ain’t you my pal, now—ain’t you?”
“Yeah—yeah—sure I am!” he replied, breathlessly, “but we gotta get out
of this joint!”
“Wai—it a minute!” Lefty protested. “You gotta shtick around. Now
lisshum—did ya ever hear me sing a song?”
“No and I ain’t goin’ to now!” Williams insisted. “You’re goin’ back to
camp!”
By this time, Rosa had collected her senses and made a flying leap for
the sergeant’s back, clawing his neck and pulling his hair until he
screamed with pain. They struggled for a while, with the girl getting
the better of things until Panama finally gripped her hands and flung
her across a table.
“Don’ push her aroun’ like that!” Lefty interfered by saying. “She’sh my
li’l old pal!”
Panama was at the end of his rope by this time and glared at the boy
with fire in his eyes. “You shut up, savvy? I’m gonna get you outa here
if I have to drag you bodily!”
The boy supported himself against the post and raised his head in
drunken defiance. “Don’ get tough with me, ol’ kid!”
“You shut your trap or I’ll close it for you!” the sergeant shouted,
completely devoid of patience now.
A good-sized crowd had formed a circle about Lefty, Panama and the girl
and they seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the little impromptu show.
Rosa regained her bearings and rushed in between the two Marines, ready
for another wild session.
“I keel you!” she threatened Williams. “You no tak away my hombre!”
“If you don’t clear out of here, lady,” Panama warned the girl, “I’m
gonna paste you one in the mouth!”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” Phelps interrupted in an antagonistic manner of
defiance. “She’s my gal an’ nobody’s gonna hurt her when I’m ’round!”
Panama was boiling over with rage. The more he strove to suppress his
anger, the hotter he became. Never before in all his career as a noncom
had he ever stood for so much abuse from a buck private. He couldn’t
understand now why he was taking it all from Lefty.
“I’m warnin’ you, Lef, cut the comedy or you’re liable to get hurt!”
Phelps, looking for sympathy, turned to a man standing near by.
“Sh—sh—shee that? He’s ma’ pal an’ now he wants to fight! Okay, baby, if
you wan’ it, I’m ready!”
Lefty lifted his hands and clenched his fists, but before he could use
them, Panama shot out a clean right straight to the jaw and sent the boy
spinning across the room, dead to the world. He fell to the floor in a
heap and just missed crashing his head against the iron legs of a table.
Panama grinned menacingly and started toward his victim as the crowd of
onlookers stepped back to make way for him. Rosa, though, was not to be
so easily done with. She ran after the sergeant, still determined to
prevent her prize from slipping through her fingers. Just as she was
about to leap for him from behind, he swung around, picked her up in his
arms and sat her on top of the bar, kicking, screaming and protesting.
As he reached the spot where Lefty fell, he bent down, picked the boy
up, throwing him over his shoulder and turned about to leave. He hadn’t
gone far when one of the waiters ran after him, waving a check and
gesticulating in Spanish. Panama glanced at the bill, reached into
Lefty’s pocket and took out the roll of currency, peeling off some money
and throwing it to the waiter, returning the rest to the pocket from
whence it came.
As the sergeant reached the grilled door with Lefty still across his
shoulder, a heavy-set native, nearly a head taller than the Marine,
stepped before them. Panama’s quick-wittedness came into play, and
picking up Lefty’s limp, right leg, shoved it forward into the face of
the unsuspecting antagonist, bowling the man over into insensibility.
Someone near by swung open the door and Panama exited, breathing freely
as he once more found himself out in the cool, night air. No sooner had
he started down the steps of the veranda than he heard someone
approaching from behind. Turning, he found Rosa in the doorway. She
leaped forward, clinging to Williams’ shoulders as she emitted a flood
of vile oaths in her native tongue.
He strove to throw her off but her grip was too strong; besides, she had
the advantage over him due to the fact that he was loaded down on one
side by Lefty’s dead weight.
Just ahead, at the side of the building, was a rain barrel. Panama
smiled grimly as he continued on his way, now burdened with the
screeching girl as well as the intoxicated Marine. As they came to the
side of the rain barrel, the sergeant dropped Lefty gently to the ground
and then suddenly grasped the unsuspecting Rosa in both arms, lifted her
high in the air and then threw her bodily into the cask of overflowing
rain water.
“Mebbe that’ll keep you quiet, miss,” he speculated grimly as he reached
down and threw Lefty over his shoulder again.
A half hour later, Panama entered the camp boundaries with the rows of
white tents just ahead of him. He didn’t fear any of the boys on guard
duty. After all, he was top kick and none of them would dare turn him
in, not if they knew what was well for them! Of course, the military
police, that was something else again! That crowd of roughnecks would
just as lief place an offending major general under arrest as quickly as
they would turn in a raw recruit.
He turned down the company street where he and Lefty lived. Just ahead
of him, his keen eyes caught the silhouetted figures of Major Harding
and one of his aides coming in their direction.
“Cripes, don’t that guy ever turn in?” he thought aloud. “If he catches
me with my mechanic passed out, it’ll be a month in the brig instead of
a medal that I’ll be gettin’!”
Panama ducked inside of one of the tents just in time to avoid a meeting
with the squadron commander and his adjutant. When they had gone a
sufficient distance ahead in the opposite direction, he came out, still
bearing Lefty on his shoulder and hurried down the company street to
their own tent.
Once inside, he lighted the small oil lamp with one hand and threw the
prostrated form of his mechanic over on the cot, with the boy lying
motionless in the same position that he had fallen.
“There you are, soldier!” Panama announced, good-humoredly, as he
lighted a muchly deserved cigarette. “As you were—or nearly!”
He placed his cigarette down to wipe off the bloodstains from the
scratches the little native minx had inflicted upon his arms, face and
neck when he heard a woman’s voice, just outside the tent, call his
name.
He opened the flaps and found Elinor waiting for him with grave anxiety
plainly written over her pale face.
“Is he hurt, Panama?” she asked, making no attempt now to conceal her
deep concern over Lefty’s welfare.
“No, Elinor, he’s top hole,” the sergeant replied in a comforting tone
of assurance, “nothin’s wrong only he’s just a little tired, I reckon!”
Once reassured as to the boy’s safety, Elinor breathed freely again and
gazed up at Panama with keen admiration.
“You’re a darling,” she said impulsively, reaching up on her toes and
kissing him on the cheek. When she realized what she had done, she
turned on her heels and ran up the company street for dear life. In
another moment, she had completely disappeared from view.
Elinor’s sudden move left the sergeant utterly at loss for words. He
stood in amazement, gazing after her fleeting form, his heart filled
with supreme ecstasy as he slowly stroked the part of his cheek her lips
had touched.
He called her name vainly, but she was gone too far to hear him. Happy
as a boy away from school, he brushed back the tent flaps and burst
inside, craving for someone to talk to.
Lefty was still lying on the cot in the same dull, prostrated manner as
Panama came over to him and vigorously shook him by the shoulder,
finally propping him up in a sitting position in an effort to bring him
back to consciousness.
“Lefty! Listen! Wake up, you son of a sea cook! It’s Panama, I’m talkin’
to you, you old pickle barrel! She kissed me, do you hear that? Elinor
kissed me! Will you wake up, you mug? This is your pal, can’t you
understand? She just kissed me!”
Panama continued to try and bring Lefty around to consciousness but the
only thing his efforts resulted in was to awake the boy once more in a
drunken fit of song. At the top of his lungs, Lefty began singing off
key, the music of the Spanish fandango he and Rosa had danced to.
Disgusted with his efforts, Williams let the boy drop back on the cot.
He lighted another cigarette and sat down on the edge of the bunk beside
Phelps who had now fallen back to his silent state of unconsciousness.
“It’s all right with me, soldier,” he addressed the boy. “Don’t listen!
It ain’t none of your business anyhow!”
Just then, an orderly entered and handed Williams a paper.
“What do you want, stupid?” the sergeant snapped at the dog robber.
“Major Harding requests that you take off at once on a night flight to
locate some enemy camp fires,” the orderly explained.
Panama jumped up and slapped the astonished messenger on the back. “You
tell the Old Man that it’s Okay with me, kid! I’ll make ten flights if
he wants me to!”
As the sergeant started to get into his flying togs, the orderly exited.
Once more alone, Panama turned to Lefty again, “You wouldn’t listen, eh?
Well, you old stew, you don’t have to! I’ll tell the propeller. I can
always talk to that old prop; in fact, I might tell the whole, darn,
cockeyed world!”
By this time, he was in his togs, searching about to make certain that
he hadn’t forgotten anything.
After picking up his cigarettes, he ran to the front of the tent,
stopping to look back at Lefty’s motionless form still sprawled in the
same position on the cot. A happy smile crossed the sergeant’s face and
he crossed to where the boy lay asleep. Bending over him, he jabbed his
elbow into Lefty’s ribs and whispered again, “Elinor kissed me, you
mug!”