Best Kept Secrets by Rochelle Alers Read Free Book Online Page A

Alva, heading in the direction she indicated and wondering who or what Donovan’s was.
     
    It turned out that Donovan’s was Puerto Limon’s local saloon. A lopsided, hand-painted sign hung precariously from a rusted chain in front of a tin structure erected on stilts. A quartet of elderly men, sitting on crates under a sagging wooden porch, were engaged in a vocal game of dominoes.
    Samuel walked in and went completely still, struggling to breathe as a wave of heat sucked the air out of his lungs. Moisture beaded up on his forehead and upper lip. How, he wondered, could anyone remain inside for more than a few minutes without passing out from the heat?
    Waiting until his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he made his way to a makeshift bar that had been constructed with a long board resting on two large metal drums. The bartender, a thin, light-skinned man with a scruffy reddish beard, watched his approach, gaze narrowing.
    “Good afternoon.”
    “Yeah, mon.”
    “Are you Donovan?”
    “Yeah, mon. What you drinking?”
    “I didn’t come to drink.”
    His gray-green eyes widened. “Why you here asking for Donovan then?”
    Samuel reached into a pocket of his trousers and placed a silver dollar on the wooden plank covered with food stains,making certain the man saw the coin before he covered it with his hand. “I need some information.”
    The bartender smiled, displaying a mouth filled with yellowing teeth. “What you want?”
    “Where can I find the American?”
    “I’m over here,” came a disembodied masculine voice with a distinctive Southern drawl. “And who’s asking?”
    Samuel squinted, unable to make out his features. “Samuel Cole.” His own drawling voice carried easily in the stagnant, stifling space.
    The shape stirred. “Come closer.” The command was strong and uncompromising.
    He bristled at the sharp tone because he was used to giving orders, not obeying them. “Who are you?”
    “I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Cole. After all, you’re the one who came looking for me.”
    Gritting his teeth, Samuel deliberately placed one foot in front of the other as he closed the distance between him and the arrogant bastard hiding in the shadows.
    It wasn’t the dark, bearded face, the strong odor of stale liquor floating around him, the long, matted hair littered with lint particles, or the rumpled clothes that looked as if they’d been slept in that stopped Samuel in his tracks, but his eyes, a glittering gold brown, the eyes of a madman. What accurate information would he be able to glean from someone who looked as if he belonged in an asylum?
    “Sit down. And try not to talk too loud. My head hurts like hell.”
    “I’d rather talk somewhere else. I can’t breathe in here.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with the air in here unless you think you’re too good for—”
    He never completed his sentence. Samuel Cole had turned on his heel and was heading for the door. The bearded man panicked. “Wait!” Samuel stopped, but did not turn around. Rising to his feet on wobbly knees, the man managed to walkthe half-dozen steps that left him less than a foot from the stranger who’d sought him out. He stared at the broad shoulders under a white guayabera . “Mr. Cole?”
    A knowing smile flitted across Samuel’s face, but vanished within seconds, replaced with an expression of annoyance. “I need information from you, information I’m willing to pay for. But not here.”
    “How much are you willing to pay?”
    “That depends on you.” A deep sigh and a rush of rum-soured breath wafted in the oppressive air behind him. “If you tell me what I need to know, then you can name your price.”
    “What do you want to know?”
    “Are you familiar with the United Fruit Company?”
    There was a pulse beat of silence before the man said, “Quite familiar. I worked for them for two years before I was fired.”
    Samuel turned and stared at the unkempt man. He was tall and thin. No, emaciated was a