Chapter 45: Right on Time... Unfortunately
The door swung open with a long, dry creak. Whoever had last oiled the hinges had probably done it before anyone in the room had been born.
The room beyond was barely better than the street outside. Heavy rafters pressed low overhead. A single shuttered window admitted one sharp blade of sunlight and almost no air. A rough table occupied the center, surrounded by four mismatched chairs. Crates were stacked against the rear wall, making the place feel more like a warehouse than an office.
A man sat behind the table, looking as though he’d been carved from the same rough timber as the rest of Pensacola. He was broad through the middle, his uniform coat undone to the second button in surrender to the heat. A quill rested beside a ledger that looked untouched for days.
He glanced up as four strangers filled his doorway, two of them large enough to make the frame protest. His expression never changed.
James decided immediately that the man had either seen every sort of trouble Pensacola could provide, or he’d stopped caring whether pirates or the weather were worse.
"Don Juan has been sent for." Each word landed with weight. "He is coming. You wait."
That was all.
The man lowered his eyes to the ledger again without bothering to open it.
James had never believed silence was worth of practice. He pulled out the chair opposite the clerk and sat as though they were old acquaintances.
"Lovely place you’ve got here. Tell me, does it ever cool off, or is this the pleasant season and you’re savin’ the real misery for honored guests?"
The clerk looked at him.
"It is hot. Always."
That was the entire answer.
James waited, expecting something more.
Nothing came.
He leaned forward, smiling with the easy warmth that had talked him out of tighter corners than this.
"Bert here reckons your Don Juan keeps a fine cellar. Man of taste and all that. What’s he favor? Rum? Brandy? Some Spanish vintage I’ve yet to make the mistake of drinkin’?"
Behind him, Bert answered with nothing more than a quiet, dignified cough. It might have been agreement. It might simply have been the heat.
The clerk weighed the question for a long moment.
"Wine."
A pause.
"Sometimes."
James glanced at Thatch.
"I like him. Never wastes a man’s time."
Thatch stayed against the wall with his arms folded, not even pretending to hide his amusement.
"Told ye Spaniards know how to hold a line. Shame they’re best at the dull ones."
They heard boots soon then. The footsteps came at an even, unhurried pace, the stride of someone who had never needed to rush for anyone.
Juan de Ayala y Escobar stepped through the doorway as though the room had been waiting for him all along.
He was lean, straight-backed, and impeccably composed. Black hair lay neatly oiled against his head. A narrow mustache had been trimmed with the kind of precision that required patient hands every morning.
His coat was deep wine-colored wool, absurdly heavy for the climate, as if comfort clearly ranked below appearance. A polished basket-hilt rapier rested at his side, immaculate enough that James doubted it had seen real work in years. His olive skin carried the weathered look of a life spent beneath the Spanish sun while refusing to admit it had ever beaten him.
His eyes found Thatch first.
"Edward."
He gave a single nod.
Then his attention shifted to James.
His gaze lingered just long enough to tell James he was being judged.
James had spent too much of his life reading rooms to miss when someone decided to read him in return. Juan worked quickly.
"You have terrible timing, Edward."
His English was precise, every word carefully chosen.
"I had told you to appear only when it was convenient. You have arrived when it is not."
"Didn’t realize there was a wrong time to bring you the goods, Juan."
Thatch’s voice had lost its humor. This was business now.
Juan’s mouth tightened.
"There is a wrong time for everything when other matters require my full attention."
He let the silence do the rest.
"My position here has reached a stage where visitors who attract attention are... unhelpful."
James tucked that away without comment. A man so careful about being seen was either hiding something small or building something much larger.
James would have wagered on the second.
Thatch let the silence stretch another beat.
Then he continued, "We didn’t come empty-handed, Juan. Three ships off the coast, stripped clean. Some friends are going to spend months wonderin’ where all that wandered."
Recognition flickered across Juan’s face. Not surprise exactly, but control drawing tighter around it. For the briefest instant he looked like he wanted to lean forward and forced himself not to.
"This is Calloway."
Thatch nodded toward James. "Captain of the Bloody Rose. Before this is over, you might be doin’ more business with him than you’ve done with me in the past year."
"A pleasure."
James inclined his head. "Though I hear you’re rather protective of your privacy, so I’ll do my best not to seem too enthusiastic."
Juan watched him a moment longer.
"Captain Calloway."
He inclined his head by the smallest degree.
"We shall see what you are worth."
"Aye. We shall."
Thatch clapped his hands together once. The sharp crack echoed through the cramped room.
"Then let’s quit admirin’ one another and talk money. We didn’t sail all this way for the scenery."
"Business, then."
Juan’s expression never changed, but his voice hardened.
"Not here."
He nodded toward the rear door.
"The walls in this building have ears, and those ears answer to people other than me."
His gaze returned to James. "Come. I know a place better suited for men who have just made my week considerably more complicated than it already was."
James found himself liking the man a little for that.
Very few people could make a threat and an invitation sound like the same sentence without raising their voice.
"Aye, well."
He stood.
"Impeccable timin’s always been one of my finer qualities."
Juan did not laugh.
He turned and walked out.
After a moment, the rest of them followed him back into the heat.
