by Rusty Young
Since Ratón might recognise my face, I’d hide under a canvas cover in the boat’s bow. When we were far enough out into the river, Palillo would distract him by pointing back to the jetty and say, ‘Look there!’ – my signal to emerge with the Taurus.
We’d then travel further upstream to a remote patch of jungle where I could deliver my speech and interrogate him about Papá’s other killers.
I felt my excitement growing. But Saturday was two days away, and I could barely constrain my impatience.
In the meantime, Palillo urged me to have fun.
‘Relax, hermano!’ he said while I paced up and down. ‘You’re home. Why not make peace with this shitty town and enjoy yourself?’
Over the next two days I tried to follow his advice. I ate lunch each day with Mamá. On Thursday morning, I made my statement to Buitrago’s lieutenant. Late afternoons, I’d meet Camila in the plaza. Since I didn’t want Señor Muñoz knowing I was back, Palillo would phone Carolina, who’d phone Camila so that she’d have an alibi for her visits to Garbanzos.
However, I felt like I was living a double life. The whole time I was playing the roles of doting son and repentant boyfriend, my thoughts were preoccupied by Ratón.
As I waited for Camila in the plaza on Friday afternoon, I saw the Díaz brothers – the cowardly sons of the man Papá and I had buried – sauntering towards their offices at the bus terminal. Physically, the brothers couldn’t have been more different. Javier Díaz, at twenty-eight, was solid as an ox and short in stature with a soft, chubby face and a penetrating gaze. His brother, Fabián, was four years younger but much taller and better looking. He had high cheekbones, perfect white teeth and long black hair that drooped across his eyes.
It was strange that the Guerrilla had killed Humberto Díaz, banished his wife from the region but allowed their sons to return. I figured Fabián and Javier must have come to some arrangement with them. Their colectivos and trucks continued to run the route all the way south to the Puerto Princesa wharf, whereas most other bus companies had to stop at Llorona. Although accompanied by bodyguards, Fabián and Javier were back to walking the streets of Garbanzos like they owned it.
Their name was plastered everywhere, including on the outside of the bus terminal and on the TRANSPORTADORES DÍAZ colectivo that now screeched to a halt in front of me. Hanging from the steps, the busetero boy called out the bus’s destinations.
‘Llorona, Galán, Princesa. Llorona.’
He waved to me. They had an extra sense, these boys. They often knew where passengers were going before they knew themselves. He beckoned to me.
‘¡Suba! Llorona?’
If only it were that easy. To catch the bus, ride my bicycle up to our finca, kiss Mamá and then help Papá finish work in the remaining light.
My old life was over. However, now that I was back, I had to keep reminding myself.
Camila had grown tired of our deception. I was tired of it myself. I wanted to spend every moment with her and was annoyed that I couldn’t visit her at home like before.
‘I can’t stay long,’ she said, climbing nervously into the Blazer and glancing over her shoulder. ‘I told my father I was going shopping.’
‘Does he suspect?’
‘Not yet. But this can’t go on. I hate lying. You need to talk to him.’
We hugged, and I felt her warm breath against my neck. I’d given up trying to kiss her, hoping she’d make the first move when she felt comfortable.
‘If you like, I’ll phone him tonight.’
‘Better face to face.’ She broke our embrace and gave me a peck on the cheek before opening the door. ‘He’ll be at church on Sunday.’
I realised Camila wasn’t simply requesting that I make peace with her father – it was a condition. Once I’d won him over, I was hopeful she’d come back to me. However, before the appointment with Señor Muñoz, I had another special appointment with an old but soon-to-be-deceased friend: Ratón.
51
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Palillo cycled to Puerto Galán to pick up the seven-metre lancha he’d arranged to rent. However, when he puttered to a stop at Garbanzos wharf to collect me, it was in an old, two-seat dinghy with a ten-horsepower Yamaha outboard. There was barely enough space for our legs, let alone for me to hide under my canvas.
‘What happened?’ I asked in despair.
‘The stupid owner decided to paint his other boat!’ said Palillo angrily. ‘There was nothing I could do.’
Palillo revised our plan: I’d hide amid the dense jungle lining the path from Flora’s Cantina to the river. After Ratón passed me on his way to the jetty, I’d follow cautiously, pausing at the edge of the trees until I saw Palillo give his explanation about the old boat driver being sick and Ratón climb into the boat.
‘But once I emerge from the jungle, Ratón will see me,’ I protested.
‘I’ll tell him you’re a porter bringing me fuel. If you carry a jerry can, I doubt he’ll look closely. But if he recognises you and makes a fuss, we’ll finish him on the spot.’
I was already nervous, but this change of plan rattled me further. So much could go wrong. What if Ratón drew his weapon? If I had to shoot him immediately, I’d miss out on my valuable interrogation. And if his men heard the gunshot, how would we escape in such a snail-paced boat?
On the journey downriver, the sky was grey and ominous. Palillo stared pensively at the boat’s prow as it sliced through the water and I watched the riverbanks glide by. The Santo Paraíso side to our left was deep-green virgin jungle, while on the Llorona side I saw cleared land and houses propped on stilts as protection against flooding. Five kilometres beyond Llorona, we passed Puerto Galán. Ten kilometres further on we reached Puerto Princesa.
Pulling up alongside Anaufre’s boat, Palillo, ever the consummate actor, opened our motor and pretended to fiddle with a screwdriver. Once he was certain no one was watching, he stepped confidently across the gunwale and hacked off the rubber barb on the female fuel line fitting. Disintegrating rubber was a common problem in the tropics, so Anaufre wouldn’t suspect sabotage.
We puttered across the slow-flowing river towards Santo Paraíso, a ramshackle collection of huts nestled amid the lush tropical jungle. Ahead of us, the small car-ferry was docking at the new concrete boat ramp. Two black SUVs drove off and pulled up on the edge of a grassy clearing where vehicles were parked haphazardly under the trees. Colourful lanchas lined the riverbank. We cut the motor two hundred metres before the ramp and coasted in towards a small wooden jetty.
‘This is it,’ Palillo declared, jumping out to wade through the mud and reeds. He dragged the dinghy the last few metres. ‘There’s the path.’
I followed his gaze and saw a tiny gap in the vegetation.
‘Wait here. I’ll go up and do some reconnaissance.’ Palillo jogged up the path and returned after ten minutes, tense with excitement.
‘I saw Ratón! He’s in the clearing beyond Flora’s, supervising workers lining up for their salaries. I didn’t get close, but I only saw four plain-clothes milicianos. They’re carrying pistols, but none of them are shadowing Ratón.’
This reassured me; our plan was back on track. Palillo passed me the jerry can and I walked up the trail, looking for a hiding spot on the bend so I’d have a clear view of Ratón as he approached. For several minutes I scouted unsuccessfully. Although the foliage was dense, none of the tree trunks was thick enough to conceal me.
Suddenly, I heard the tramp of boots from the direction of the river, and a thunderous voice booming, ‘Get me five porters!’ Before I could leap into the undergrowth, the same voice shouted, ‘¡Oiga! You!’
A tall, moustachioed man wearing a cream woollen poncho strode towards me, scowling. From his belt hung a Colt .45. Following him were two fierce-looking men, each with a twenty-kilo bag of cement balanced on his shoulder.
‘Want to earn some quick money?’ he demanded.
‘No, gracias. I’m here for fuel. We’re al
most out.’
‘The village is completely dry. We brought Flora’s gasoline delivery in our boat. Carry up some cement and I’ll sell you half a tank.’
I was terrified at the thought of going anywhere near Flora’s Cantina with Ratón nearby. But trapped by the logic of my own cover story, I had no legitimate reason to refuse. My further excuses sounded feeble and the man became irritated.
‘Muchacho, it’s our fuel or nothing. Tito, give him your sack and go back for another.’
One of the workers heaved his cement onto my shoulder and turned back towards the river, while I stumbled up the path after the man in the poncho and the other worker. With only twenty minutes before Ratón was due to meet Anaufre, I hoped I’d be able to drop off the sack and scurry back in time.
After a hundred metres, the trail opened into a large clearing surrounded by towering trees. To our left stood a long rectangular hut with a thatched roof and open sides, slightly elevated from the ground on stilts. Stairs led up to the entrance. Painted in large white lettering over the doorway were the words DOÑA FLORA.
In front of the cantina, wooden tables and chairs were set out on the bare earth. There, a motley assortment of about forty coca-leaf pickers, ordinary day labourers and cocaleros – men who worked in the cocaine laboratories – sat drinking bottles of beer. Young, skinny girls and older women wearing piles of make-up – Doña Flora’s muchachas – moved languidly from table to table, sitting on customers’ knees and flirting.
On the far side of the clearing a queue of workers snaked up to a man seated at a table. My view was obscured, but it must have been Ratón. I felt furious just knowing he was there, and I bristled with impatience to return to the river.
I followed the ponchoed man up the stairs and into the cantina. At the bar, a wiry, dark-skinned man was drunkenly demanding a canasta of beer. When he turned towards me, I almost choked. It was Diomedes, Palillo’s stepfather. Quickly, I swivelled and lifted the sack to my other shoulder, pulling it in tightly against my cheek. The last thing I needed was someone calling out my name.
Diomedes tossed a transparent bag containing white powder on the counter and the bargirl scooped some of it out with a shot glass. Only then did I notice a chalkboard propped up behind the bar listing the prices of drinks not in pesos but in gramos.
I could hardly believe what I was witnessing: cocaine was accepted as hard currency. I’d only seen cocaine once in my life – the minuscule amounts snorted by Tango and Murgas. But once I’d snuck past Diomedes and into the large, dimly lit back room, I realised Santo Paraíso wasn’t a place for small-time consumers; it was a wholesale cocaine supermarket.
‘Over there,’ ordered the man with the poncho, pointing to the far wall where rows of plastic barrels were stacked two deep and three high. Along the side wall, dozens of waist-high hessian sacks overflowed with coca leaves. The leaves would be sold to nearby jungle laboratories to be crushed and stomped on by workers in a pit, then soaked in gasoline to leach out the valuable ingredients.
To reach the wall I had to pass several tables where more drinkers sat, including a fat man wearing a loose-fitting shirt, gold chains and a cowboy hat. He was holding a spoon over two candles, heating a white substance, which must have been cocaine base – the final product of the jungle laboratories. The deferential silence of the two men seated opposite him made it clear he was the patrón.
When the substance bubbled and cracked, the patrón nodded and pairs of workers began lifting barrels that must have each weighed fifty kilos out a side door, beside which a short, weaselly man stood counting them.
I stopped dead in my tracks. It was Ratón! I’d have recognised that pinched nose and those pointy ears anywhere. How had he finished so quickly with the queue of workers? Unfortunately, my sudden halt caused the worker behind to bump into me, which in turn caused me to knock against the fat man’s chair and almost drop my cement.
‘¡Gonorrea!’ he cursed, staring up at me. ‘Who en putas are you?’
With Ratón so close, I didn’t dare say my name. Instead, I spun away from him, towards the man with the poncho, who shrugged.
‘He’s a boat boy I found by the old jetty, patrón.’
‘I haven’t seen your face before. You new?’
‘I don’t work here, patrón,’ I said humbly, bowing my head. ‘I was promised fuel.’
The ponchoed man nodded. ‘Two of them came on a boat, patrón.’
‘But you live here?’
‘In Llorona.’
‘Can anyone here vouch for you?’
With the sack pressed even tighter against my cheek, I went through the pretence of looking around the room, neither expecting nor wanting to recognise anyone.
Imagine my shock when I saw Javier Díaz drinking beer with a respectable cattle rancher from Garbanzos. I tried not to stare; Javier was the last person I’d expected to see. How could he risk being here, in a village controlled by the men who’d murdered his father? I almost caught Javier’s eye but thought better of it. Javier was a coward who, if it suited him, would disown his mother.
‘I don’t think so, patrón.’
But the patrón’s eyes were sharp as an eagle’s; he’d noted my glance and lengthy pause.
‘Javi!’ he called out. ‘You know this pelado?’
Javier turned, his mouth slightly agape, but then thankfully came over, out of Ratón’s earshot.
‘Don Miguel, he’s not with me.’
‘I asked whether you knew him.’
‘Not well.’ Javier paused. ‘He’s from Llorona.’
‘He’s not policía?’
Javier’s hands fidgeted. ‘I only recognise him because my father knew his father.’ Clearly, Javier was afraid of Miguel and wanted nothing to do with me. ‘As far as I know, he’s a cattle farmer’s son.’
This appeased Miguel slightly. He returned to testing the next batch of cocaine base. ‘Give him his fuel,’ he said to the man with the poncho. And then to me: ‘Put down that sack and wait over there where you can’t do any damage, you clumsy idiota!’
‘I’ll keep an eye on him, Don Miguel,’ offered Javier.
Javier now made a show of greeting me with a polite but distant handshake, as though our families hadn’t been next-door neighbours for a decade.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said in a low, angry voice, all the while smiling graciously for the benefit of others. ‘This place is swarming with Guerrilla. You could get me killed.’
‘I’m buying fuel to go fishing.’
‘Aren’t you afraid of them? After what happened to your father …’
‘Aren’t you? After what happened to yours.’
‘Of course I’m afraid. But I need to hire yucca and banana workers for my fields. The Guerrilla insist on witnessing me make payments in person. One word from them means no labourers for me. My crops will rot and my buses can’t run. But that’s my business, not yours.’
During this conversation, my gaze flitted between Ratón and the siphoning of the fuel, which seemed to take an eternity. The appointed worker had to first wait for the fuel to arrive from the boat. Then he searched for a hose and took several sucks to get the gasoline trickling. When it finally flowed, the thin hose filled my jerry can with the speed of a leaking tap. Inwardly, I cursed Javier for his cowardice in not vouching for me. Javier noticed me eyeing Ratón. And although I couldn’t be certain, I thought he noted the outline of the Taurus tucked into my trousers.
Ratón finished counting barrels, nodded to Don Miguel, and left via the side door. I was itching to follow him. But I couldn’t leave, not with Don Miguel right there and the ponchoed man blocking the main door, arms folded. Departing without my jerry can would reignite his suspicions. Instead, I waited, counting every precious second. Every step I imagined Ratón taking placed him a step further from justice.
Finally, they returned my jerry can.
I walked briskly out into the main room of the cantina, down the stai
rs and across the clearing, and then sprinted down the track, arriving at the riverbank, pistol drawn, thirty seconds too late.
Palillo was already motoring out with Ratón seated in the bow, waving his arms impatiently. Palillo looked back at me and shrugged, as if to say, What happened?
I hid in the undergrowth, and when Palillo returned I explained everything, including my encounter with Javier Díaz.
He spat his disgust. ‘I don’t trust either of those Díaz brothers.’
‘What did Ratón say?’
‘He called me a stupid negro then turned his back. If I’d had the Taurus, I would’ve done the job for you.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘Ratón has seen my face. And when he speaks to Anaufre …’ He kicked his heel into the transom. ‘We need a new plan.’
52
BACK AT OUR hotel Palillo drank half a bottle of Havana Club to steady his nerves. His hand shook as he stubbed out his cigarette – a delayed reaction to being trapped on a boat with the wily Ratón, who’d been armed with a pistol, whereas the only weapon Palillo had within reach was an oar. Palillo had been convinced Ratón was onto him and at any moment would turn and shoot.
Seeing Ratón again had injected fire into my blood. And although my hands trembled too, it was from anger at coming so close to the prize and then having it ripped away. After successfully exploiting the vulnerabilities in Ratón’s security regimen, unlike Palillo I was gaining my nerve, not losing it. And I was irritated that it would be another seven days before we could try for him again.
Once Ratón spoke to Anaufre, his suspicion would be aroused, so we couldn’t reuse the same strategy. But Palillo was working on a new plan and I was determined not to fail.
‘We’ll get him,’ he insisted. ‘Just relax, be patient and don’t do anything rash.’
That afternoon, Palillo temporarily moved out of our residencia, as his stepfather had gone back into the mountains to pick coca. Palillo planned to spend the rest of the day with his mother and siblings, and to stay with them on Saturday night.