by Lou Cameron
The fat man stared at him reproachfully and said, “That’s a terrible thing to say about a man with my reputation to uphold, Captain Gringo. I generally find it best not to burden my clients with the details of my dealing with the authorities on their behalf. But since you seem so suspicious, and since it is a childishly simple affair, I’ll tell you. The first thing we ask for is a continuation of your case for to give the dead woman’s husband time for to cool off and to give the gossip time for to spread, eh? Once I get your trial postponed, ah, indefinitely, I shall see that it occurs to the dead woman’s family that since her funeral is over, after all, it may be best to leave her dead and buried. If you were an old man with an honorary title of respect and a young wife who caused you shame all over town with God knows how many younger men, would you really want it all raked over and over in open court?”
“If I thought she’d been murdered I might.”
“Si, but you know, I know, and no doubt her husband knows she had a dangerous medical condition. If I had to, I could produce evidence in court to show the slut had been hospitalized more than once after cheating on her family physician as well as her husband. But, as I said, people do cool off, and when they suffer a guilty conscience as well as natural grief, they often get to wondering why in heaven’s name they wove such a tangled web in the first place. Leave it to me. I know people who know people and my account of the poor woman’s death will make her innocent as well as you, see?”
Captain Gringo did. So he didn’t press Verdugo for the details of a tall tale he was probably still working on. He got to his feet, held out a hand, and said, “Okay, we’ve got a deal. But remember, I’ll be back this way, once we settle some other scores in Segovia.”
The fat man shook with him, but told Gaston, “Your young friend is very rude.”
Gaston said, “He is young, and as you see, a species of North American. None of them seems to understand how men of honor do business down here.”
Getting to Limón was no problem. Getting a lift up the Mosquito Coast aboard a rusty tramp steamer was no problem. The problem was getting up the Segovia River once they’d been dumped on the sun-bleached quay at Gracias a Dios.
Why they’d named the soggy sleepy seaport a gift from God got more mysterious the longer they were there and the more they looked around. Hispanics always seemed to favor stucco walls and terra cotta roof tiles whether the climate suited them or not. So they’d done their damndest to build a typical Spanish village. The steamroom humidity and salty trade winds of the mangrove-haunted Mosquito Coast had been trying to destroy it ever since. The roofing was infested with tile-splitting weeds wherever it wasn’t just Kelly green with moss. The villagers whitewashed the scabby stucco walls twice as often as they wanted to, but the stucco was still peeling off the soggy bricks like the skin of a serious sunburn victim.
The two soldiers of fortune checked into a waterfront posada, paying in advance as strangers with no luggage and vague identification were expected to in any part of the world. The adjoining second-story rooms they’d booked weren’t bad, considering where they were. The trades, while warm and damp, blew constantly through the jalousied windows, even when the blinds were shut, since a lot of the slats had rotted out, been devoured by insects, or both. Gaston warned Captain Gringo not to stomp the centipede running across the bare floor when the bored-looking bellhop showed them in. Captain Gringo didn’t need the warning. He’d been down here long enough to know centipedes ate bedbugs and cockroaches. He tipped the bellhop, said the place looked grand, then asked how one went about getting a riverboat up the Segovia. That was when they found out how much worse things could get in Gracias a Dios.
The bellhop pocketed the coin readily enough, but answered, “River boat, señor? There are no boats going upriver these days. They have stopped the service because of the wars, see?”
“Did you say wars, plural? How many wars do you have going on around here, muchacho?”
The native youth shrugged and said, “Here in Gracias a Dios? By the grace of God, none at all. Once in a while Nicaragua sends a gunboat for to collect taxes. Other times it is Honduras who says we are behind in our debts to them. But most of the time nobody bothers us at all. The Nicaraguan civil war is going on far to the south. The Republica de Segovia does not claim land here along the coast yet, because to do so they would have to vanquish El Viejo del Montaña, who holds the country between here and Ciudad Segovia. So we are not affected by that civil war. I do not know if they are having a civil war in Honduras this season, señor. It has been some time since a vessel from there has put in.”
“Don’t you even know what country this village is in?”
“In God’s truth, there seems to be some argument about that, señor. But we are simple people. We do not care who runs our distant government, as long as it remains distant.”
Captain Gringo chuckled and said, “I feel the same way about most of the governments I’ve met. But, seriously, we have to get up the river to Ciudad Segovia. So how do we go about it if there’s no regular steamboat service? Do you think we could hire a launch?”
The youth stared wistfully down at the hand Captain Gringo had put in his pocket again. Then he sighed and said, “I can ask around, but I doubt it, señor. Most of the men who own boats around here are fishermen, not moving targets for hire. The Rio Segovia is a treacherous stream in the best of times and at this time one has bullets as well as submerged rocks and trees to worry about. I mean no disrespect, but a man would have to be loco en la cabeza to steam up La Segovia right now.”
Captain Gringo took out another coin, handed it to the bellhop, and told him to see if he could scout up at least one lunatic with a power launch. As soon as the soldiers of fortune were alone again Gaston said, “Eh bien, that tears its adorable wings off, Dick. If we can’t get there by water, I assure you there is no way to get there by land! I told you that time we were playing slap and tickle with those sneaky Germans just a few miles to the north that there was no way inland through the sogginess along this stretch of coast, remember?”
“I remember. But we’ve got to get there some way!”
“Mais why? Now that our slow boat up the coast this far must have given Verdugo time to fix his fix? I see nothing out in the harbor that looks like a southbound steamer. So we can’t get out of here for a while. By the time we’ve made friends with the native girls and found some species of vessel heading back down to Limón, the mess in San José will have surely blown over.”
“Bullshit. I’m not going back to Costa Rica before I find out what’s going on up here. That bellhop could be wrong, you know.”
Gaston shrugged and said, “Oui, I once had a bellhop bring me an ugly redhead after I’d distinctly said I wanted a beautiful blonde, or at least something that could pass for a woman in the dark. But we are not about to find a riverboat up here. A cockroach big enough to pass for one, perhaps, but not a real boat.”
Captain Gringo nodded, took out his pocket watch, and said, “When you’re right, you’re right. We’ve got almost two hours before siesta time, and I’m not sure I want to flop on that soggy mattress even with good company. What’s our next best move, the biggest cantina in town and a little spreading of the word?”
Gaston shook his head and said, “One finds more noise than true sneakiness in the larger drinking establishments, Dick. The last time I passed through here there was a most disreputable little place, down by the boatyards. Let us see if my old friend, Mamma Tortuga, is still in business, and if she has a friend for you as well, hein?”
Captain Gringo followed him back outside, but had to ask, “Jesus, you know the dame that well, and they named her after a turtle?”
“Don’t knock it until you try it, my idealistic Don Juan. But as a matter of record, Mamma Tortuga is not called that because she looks like an old turtle. They call any widow who runs a house of ill repute a mamma and she happens to come from Tortuga, so—”
“All right, I’ll a
t least consider her friend, then,” Captain Gringo cut in, adding, “If her friend has a boat, I’ll screw her even if she does look like a turtle!”
When they got to the end of the quay Gaston was aiming for they found a small shabby cantina, but nobody there had ever heard of any lady called Mamma Tortuga. The husky male mulatto who said he’d owned the place for some time was friendly enough about drinks under the canopy out front, however. So they ordered a couple of cold cervezas and when he said he had no ice they said they’d settle for gin and tonics. Gin and tonic tasted just as bitter but oddly refreshing whether one put ice in it or not.
As soon as they were sipping alone, Captain Gringo asked Gaston just how long ago it had been since he’d been screwing Mamma Tortuga. The no longer young Frenchman thought and mused aloud, “Let me see, it was just before I had to go back to France that time, because of those très disgusting bodies, so—”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Captain Gringo cut in. “The Franco Prussian War was over twenty years ago, Gaston! It’s no wonder nobody here remembers your old sweetheart! She must have daughters old enough to screw by now!”
Gaston shrugged and said, “I doubt it. She took all the usual precautions and preferred oral sex in any case. But could it really have been that long ago? Merde alors, where have all the years gone to?”
He sipped his drink, shook his iron gray head, and marveled, “Twenty years seems like such a long time when one is facing them from the other side. Mon Dieu, to think she must be an old woman now! Before you say anything nasty about your elders, she was a little older than me, even then, but a well-preserved woman of, say, forty had a lot to offer a young man like myself, hein?”
Before Captain Gringo could answer, a quartet of tough-looking dock workers came around the comer, aiming for the cantina door. None of them said anything or seemed to notice the two shabby but better-dressed foreigners under the awning. But as they ducked inside one of them laughed in a way that somehow sounded insulting.
Captain Gringo turned back to Gaston and said, “Never mind about your misspent youth. Let’s get back to future plans. If we can’t get a boat up the Segovia, how about the Patuca?”
“What about the Patuca? It is miles north of here.”
“Yeah, here along the coast. But the headwaters converge as you travel west, and Ciudad Segovia can’t be all that far from either stream up in the high country. They have to be shipping shit in and out of a going republic, and the mouth of the Patuca’s closer to the North American and European markets. We may have simply got off one stop too early, see? What’s the name of the port on the Patuca?”
“Puerta Patuca, of course. Mais how do you propose we get there? It is almost a hundred miles up the coast, with the très impassible Laguna Caratasca between!”
“Well, we got around that lagoon one time, as I recall, with a little help from Indian friends. Maybe they still remember us with a certain fondness. We did save their asses from white bully boys, didn’t we?”
“Oui, and then as I recall we got in some of the nicer Indian ass, who might or might not have told their own bully boys by now that we promised to respect them in the morning! Foot slogging to the Patuca on the mere chance there could be more traffic on it strikes me as a lot of work as well as très risky, Dick. At the rate we’re going, the disturbances in Segovia should be over by the time we get there. So why are we trying so hard to get there?”
Captain Gringo inhaled some gin and tonic as he thought about that. Then he nodded and said, “Yeah, whoever’s been trying to keep us from butting in has done a good job so far. It’s no wonder the junta’s having trouble inland. Ciudad Segovia might as well be in Tibet, when it comes to sending away for anything.”
He’d about finished his drink. So when the owner came out to rejoin them he was about to order another. But the worried-looking mulatto said, “Those drinks are on the house, señores. But finish them muy pronto and go with God, por favor! I try to run a decent establishment here. But some of my regulars seem upset about my serving strangers, even when they are sober, and the muchachos are drinking like fish inside, so—”
“We get the picture,” Captain Gringo cut in, adding in an aside to Gaston, “You sure pick swell places to relax. Shall we let it go or do you feel like exercise?”
Gaston shrugged and said, “Merde alors, it’s too hot at this time of the day to screw, and it’s two to one at the moment and no doubt more once the noise starts. Mamma Tortuga is no longer here to admire my virility in any case. So I vote we let them live.”
Captain Gringo nodded, drained his glass, and stood up as he placed it on the table, saying, “Okay, it’s almost siesta time. So we’ll go back to the posada, hole up until the sun starts acting more reasonable, and give this port one more evening to start making sense. But if we can’t find anyone with a riverboat instead of a chip on his shoulder, I’m looking forward to seeing those ever so friendly Indian girls again. What was that plump one’s name? The one who took us both on that time?”
Gaston rose to follow him, muttering, “Who can remember? I could not pronounce it at the time. It’s simply too fucking far, even with fucks along the way, Dick.”
They were still arguing about it when they got to the posada. Captain Gringo had to admit the odds on another coastal vessel putting in at this port within the next few days were as good and certainly more comfortable than a two-man jungle expedition with no guarantee of improvement at the far end. But he’d already seen all he wanted of Gracias a Dios, and it was beginning to look as if Gracias a Dios didn’t like him all that much, either.
At the posada, Gaston said he had to take a crap. So they split up at the foot of the stairs. Their quarters upstairs were naturally furnished with running water from clay ollas, and pisspots under the beds. But for serious contemplation the latrine out back struck Gaston as more comfortable. Captain Gringo knew it wouldn’t be comfortable anywhere in town this side of, say, three in the afternoon, but at least he could take his sweaty duds off up in his own room. So that was where he went.
It didn’t work out that way. When he put the key in the latch upstairs he found he’d just locked himself out. That was something to think about. He was sure he’d locked the door before leaving and kept the key in his pocket. So how come someone had unlocked it while he was out?
He’d left nothing of value inside for a sneak thief to find. Like most knockaround guys, Captain Gringo liked to travel light. But once he got there he tended to take his razor, toothbrush and so forth out of his overstuffed pockets to spread on a handy dresser or bed table. A mere sneak should have gotten in and out by now. So if anyone was still inside...
Captain Gringo drew his .32 with his right hand as his left hand twisted the key the other way, as quite as a mouse. Then he was inside, crabbing to one side of the door with the gun muzzle trained, and muttering, “What the hell?” as he stared down at the figure sprawled across his brass bed.
She looked like she was dead, or at least asleep. Her pith helmet was hooked on a bedpost above her head and her chestnut brown hair looked pretty, spread across the pillow like that. The face framed by the unbound tresses was pretty, too, in a firm-jawed boyish way. Her figure, dressed in a khaki shirt and long whipcord skirt, looked less boyish. She was obviously more athletic than most proper Victorian maidens and her crossed ankles, while trim, were encased in sensible mosquito boots instead of high-button shoes. He wondered who in the hell she could be. He shut the door behind him, moved over to the bed, and sat on it beside her to ask her. She didn’t answer. But he could see she was breathing and, in fact, sweating pretty good despite her pallor. He shook her and said, “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. If one of us isn’t in the wrong room, you owe me an explanation or two!”
No answer. He frowned and lifted one of her eyelids. Then he swore, got back up, and brought the water olla and a washrag back to the bed. He unbuttoned the front of her shirt and opened it wide. Her firm young breasts didn’t look boyish at all. But
this was no time to worry about such details. He wet the rag and wiped her as wet as he could get her from the waist to the base of her throat. Then he soaked the rag some more and placed it, folded, on her forehead. She murmured something between pale lips so he knew he was doing something right, but she was still out of the game with heat stroke and he had to cool her off some more, but fast.
He unbuttoned her waist band and pulled down her practical but heavy whipcord skirt. He’d expected her to be wearing something under it. But apparently she wasn’t that green a tropic hand after all. He ignored the uncalled for tingle in his own crotch as he exposed her chestnut thatch and hauled the skirt all the way down and off her shapely legs. There was nothing he could do about the shin-high boots for now. So he let them be as he got up again, went to the nearby closet, and sure enough found fresh bedding as well as mosquito netting on a top shelf. He shook out a sheet, placed it over her naked flesh, and proceeded to dribble water over it until it was soaked pretty good. Then he put the olla aside and opened the window blinds wide to let more soggy but at least moving sea breezes blow across the bed and his mysterious unconscious visitor. Then he stripped himself to the waist lest he join her in the same condition. There was nothing to do now but wait. So he lit a claro, sat down again on the foot of the bed with his bare back braced against the warm brass, and waited.
She was breathing easier now, at least. But, Jesus, how often was a guy supposed to explain a dead lady in a cheap motel room to the law? He thought about getting a doctor for her. But he knew he’d done about all a real M.D. could and doctors asked embarrassing questions, too.
A million years and most of his cigar had passed when a pair of big green eyes flickered open, stared soberly up at him, and a confused voice asked, “Oh, what happened?”