Then, whistling a song he learned at his grandfather’s knee, he strolled inside.
He got up to the bar, his vision slowly adjusting to the light. He was acutely conscious of being studied by several sets of eyes. This place felt more like a lion’s den than a place to enjoy a drink. But before he could even speak to the man standing behind the counter, he was accosted by a skinny man who wore a sleeveless shirt, revealing arms slashed with long scars and a smattering of tattoos.
“Nobody just walks into the Anchor. Who the hell are you?” the man growled.
Carlos didn’t answer in words. He reached up and grabbed the man’s wrist, wrenching his whole arm down and twisting it until the man cried out.
“That’s about enough of that,” a voice said.
Carlos looked over to see a burly man with a whisky in hand watching him. The man’s dark blue coat blended in with the shadows of his corner booth, making it hard to tell much about him other than that he had dark hair and eyes, and a thick beard that concealed much of his face. He could be smiling or frowning now, it was impossible to tell.
“He started it,” Carlos retorted, then dropped the man, who sprang back up, eager to get revenge on Carlos for the perceived insult.
“Have another drink, Howel,” the burly man said, clearly putting an end to any fight.
After a second, Carlos’s skinny opponent scurried to the bar, casting evil looks over his shoulder toward Carlos as he did so.
“Don’t think I know you, friend,” the burly man said, indicating that Carlos should join him at the table. It was less of an invitation and more of a threat, considering the several other men standing around, obviously just waiting for a signal to grab Carlos and forcibly seat him in front of their boss.
That was when he really got a look at Spargo’s face, in particular the soulessness of his eyes, despite the outward appearance of being a jovial host. Mateo said he had eyes like a demon. That was what Ximena had told him, and now Carlos knew exactly what his friend had meant.
“Just passing through,” Carlos said, allowing his English to become much more accented. “My ship got in from the West Indies and I have a few days leave while the captain gets his next load of goods. Thought I’d get a drink. Didn’t know it was a private club.” Now even more wary, he deliberately demoted himself to an ordinary sailor, not yet sure how this conversation was going to go.
“What’s your ship?”
“Agustina.”
One of the lackeys bent down and whispered to Spargo. He nodded, looking satisfied.
“Aye, we saw it in the harbor. What cargo did she bring in?”
Carlos shrugged. “The usual. Preserved beef. Rum. Saltpeter.” All those products were typical of the Caribbean ports, unlikely to cause comment.
“And how did you feel about our good Customs agents?” Spargo asked slyly.
Carlos turned his head and spat on the floor.
Spargo laughed. “Malcolm, get this man a drink!” he ordered.
“Rum,” Carlos added. One of the lackeys hurried off to the bar to retrieve said drink, and Carlos took a cautious breath. It seemed he’d passed muster.
“Peter Spargo, at your service,” his host said, offering a huge hand across the table.
He shook it. “Carlos, señor. Is this your tavern?”
Spargo grinned. “Aye, ’tis my tavern, and my harbor, and my town, truth be known. The docks are my kingdom, and I know everything that passes through here, coming and going.
A glass of rum appeared in front of Carlos. He picked up the glass and inhaled, surprised by the quality.
His host chuckled. “On the house, friend. Consider it a welcome to Cornwall.”
Carlos took a drink, and made a show of enjoying every drop.
“Who’s the captain of the Augustina?” Spurge asked, clearly moving onto the next phase of his informal interrogation.
“Agustina,” Carlos corrected the pronunciation, annoyed whenever someone couldn’t be bothered to say a name right. “Captain de la Guerra. Though you’ll want to talk to the first mate. The captain is…how do you say? Not all there.”
“Odd duck, is he?” Spargo sounded interested. “Hard man to work for?”
