Orinoco

by Dan Pollock

  The city planners had deliberately placed the smoke-belching industrial zone at the extreme end, buffering it with a spacious green belt. Beyond this began the high-rise suburb of Alta Vista, a sterile grid of office and apartment towers and tree-lined avenues.

  Once through these geometric precincts and past the adjacent airport, Sam drove down a long avenue sloping toward the Intercontinental Hotel, then spanning across the Río Caroní, a half mile wide here. On the other side was San Félix, the old section where most of the industrial work force lived. Here was familiar South American suburban sprawl—pavement uprooted and overgrown by lush vegetation; asphalt lanes leaving off at graveled or earthen driveways; derelict vehicles; spiderwebbed power lines; banana leaves screening roofs of red pantile or corrugated tin; houses of adobe brick or bright-splashed stucco; and political graffiti everywhere.

  From San Félix’s main drag, Avenida Guayana, Sam turned left, following the rail line from El Pao, the iron mine fifty kilometers south, state-owned now, but developed in the Forties and Fifties by Bethlehem Steel. The tracks led toward the river and the ore-loading port of Palúa. Presently Sam saw the familiar harbor skyline of cranes and gantries ahead. He followed the twin rails almost to the waterside, where they vanished into a vast steel-beamed structure.

  This was the ore-handling terminal of the Orinoco Mining Company. Here, as Sam had witnessed many times, the long trains were uncoupled, shoved into an automatic dumper where individual cars were turned upside down like toys and their tonnage spilled into a primary crusher. The ore was crushed several more times, sorted and weighed, then transported over miles of link-belt conveyers to stockpiles or sent cascading into the holds of oreships. And this was just the El Pao terminus. An even larger operation across the river in Puerto Ordaz processed ore from Cerro Bolivar—and would also process ore from Cerro Calvario, should there ever be any.

  But at the moment, Sam was far too weary to concern himself with his industrial impasse. He guided the Alfa between the Ferrominera terminal and a transit shed, nosing right out onto the Orinoco quayside. Three ships were strung out along the wharf. To his left, portside snug against the ore-loading dock, was a rust-hulled, Swedish-flagged ore-oil carrier, the Franz Berwald out of Göteborg. Judging from the distance between the Plimsoll mark and the waterline, she was waiting to take on cargo.

  Straight before him, with gangway lowered to the passenger landing stage used by Orinoco cruise ships, was something fatuously called the Dreamstar, a snow-white loveboat of Liberian registry and shallow draft, maybe two hundred feet long. Holiday pennants fluttered along the stays, the company ensign flew from the masthead, and next to it the Blue Peter, indicating the Dreamstar was getting ready to sail—probably as soon as her passengers got back from their overflight of Angel Falls and a quick splash in Canaima Lagoon.

  But the ship Sam was looking for was a couple hundred yards to his right, warped to the old wooden San Félix docks. She was smaller than the other two, but not by that much. The Kallisto was a sleek hundred fifty-feet and $1.9 million worth of oceangoing pleasurecraft, with a cruising speed of fifteen knots. A hell of a toy, though D.W. did contrive to give the company considerable use of her—in exchange for a generous subsidy.

  Sam eased out the Alfa’s clutch and rolled along the docks, bumping over embedded crane tracks, toward the Korean-built, steel-hulled motor yacht. He parked alongside, between a party caterers’ panel truck and a Japanese pickup, from the back of which a ponytailed, goateed youth was offloading guitar amps and speakers. Next to it was a blue Proteus Land Cruiser, the one that had brought Jacqueline to Sam’s ranch two days before.

  Sam glanced from the Proteus truck up to the upper-deck taffrail, where a kid in sunglasses and Chicago Bulls shirt was tying a string of party lights to the ensign pole. Sam recognized Bernardo, the boy who’d driven Jacqueline around that day. He shouted and waved, and the spiky-haired kid looked down and saluted back. Then Sam hefted his gear and boarded the gangway amidships.

  On deck a caterer pushed a trolley past him, and Sam followed him aft to the enclosed afterdeck, where a crew was setting up serving tables and chafing dishes. Across the polished teak, the ponytailed guy now arrived to help another longhair plug in the sound system. D.W. was planning a real blowout, Jacqueline had said. And there would be plenty of room for it once the doors were opened to the main salon adjoining. When the Kallisto was quartered in New Orleans, D.W. regularly hosted cocktail parties for fifty or more out on the Mississippi.

  Sam drifted forward next into the salon, an Art Deco effusion of etched glass, mauve carpeting, walnut paneling and upholstery of chocolate leather and suede. At the wet bar a sleepy-eyed bartender was uncrating glassware. Sam glanced at him, then looked forward into the dining salon. Still no D.W. or daughter.

  Another wave of dizzy fatigue washed over him as he spun down and around the brass-railed stairway to the lower deck. D.W. had his office down here, off the master stateroom just forward of the four guest staterooms. Sam had started in that direction when D.W.’s office door opened suddenly and Owen Meade shouldered out, effectively blocking the narrow alleyway. Owen turned, saw Sam—and was a split second slow finding his smile.

  “Sam, hey, I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Buenas tardes, Owen. What for?”

  “To see if you needed a ride. I called the ranch this morning, talked to some woman. She said you’d gone off to a wedding in Ciudad Bolívar. Leastways, I think that’s what she said. Sometimes my Spanish gets me in trouble.”

  “No, you got it right this time, Owen. I decided to come early. Sometime before the party, I’ll be needing a cabin to change and spruce up in. Right now, though, I’d like a word with D.W. Is he inside?”

  “He and Jacqueline are off seeing Llovizna Falls with some folks from Sidor. Since you’ve got a couple hours, Sam, maybe you’d like to relax? If you don’t mind my saying so, you look kinda beat.”

  Sam’s bellylaugh echoed off the panelling. “You could say that. Anyway, I’d love to sack out for an hour. Any vacancies?”

  “Sure. Take the room all the way back on the left.”

  “You’re forgetting we’re aboard ship, Owen. Don’t you mean the starboard cabin aft?”

  “Right, that’s what I meant to say. The door’s unlocked—or is it hatch?”

  “Door’s fine. Thanks. Oh, and I’d like somebody to wake me when D.W. gets back. I need to talk to him before things get crazy topside.”

  The “cabin” was really a double stateroom, with TV, VCR, burled cabinetry, tiled bath. But Sam had eyes only for the double bed. He closed the door, hung up his tux, dropped his bag. Then, too exhausted even to kick off his shoes, he belly-flopped onto the big mattress—and sank right down through its hollow center into a black and bottomless pit.

  Chapter Twenty

  He woke to a cattle stampede—the pounding sound of a large herd on the move. Sam fought his way up out of stupor. His head felt leaden, his heart hollowed-out. But the pounding didn’t go away—became, in fact, louder than ever. His brain fumbled with the sound barrage, unable to decode it. Then his eyes focussed, and the pieces tumbled suddenly together—the wedding, the drive to D.W.’s ship, sacking out in this stateroom. So, those iron-shod bovines running amok up there were probably partygoers, tattooing a dance floor, which must be directly overhead. In support of this theory, Sam’s ear now caught the steady thud of a bass guitar resonating through the ceiling bulkhead.

  But if the party was already in full swing, what the hell time was it? And why the hell hadn’t Owen Meade awakened him? Sam lurched off the bed, tripped over his leather bag, bounced off the wall, but located the light switch. Several Art Deco fixtures cast an indirect radiance, yet enough to set Sam’s head throbbing. It was dark outside the cabin window. He scanned the room groggily for his watch, found it strapped to his wrist. It was a quarter to nine. He’d slept almost four hours!

  He needed a quick jump-start—the old late-for-school r
outine. He stripped, walrussed his face in cold water, brushed his teeth and gargled, electric-shaved, slapped his underarms with deodorant, his cheeks with Royall Lyme, his snowy thatch with military brushes. Then he threw on his studded shirt, monkeysuit, cummerbund and black tie, towel-buffed his patent leathers. Finally he checked the mirror. All things considered, he didn’t look too damn bad. He turned out the lights and stepped into the alleyway.

  The corridor was congested and noisy, and foul with cigarette smoke. As he eased by a conversing couple, the voguishly emaciated woman looked away from her pomaded male companion and flared her nostrils at Sam. He nodded and kept moving.

  He slalomed through more couples on the curving staircase. And the main salon looked to be at or near capacity, a burnished, buzzing pool of humanity which was thrown into immediate ripples by Sam’s mere surfacing from below. Heads turned and people began eddying unmistakably in his direction. Though most faces were unfamiliar, he recognized several from previous Venezuelan sojourns. Immediately in front of him, a bald, bull-necked dome revolved to reveal a deputy minister of agriculture, a man Sam had often entertained at La Promesa. Beyond was a vice president of the Central Bank, sidestroking nearer with a showy new wife in tow. Sam quickly found himself besieged and began pivoting from one to another, volleying back greetings while his hand was pumped, his cheeks were bussed, and his back repeatedly slapped.

  As often as this sort of thing had happened to him, Sam had never really gotten used to it, even when he judged it useful—as at stockholder meetings, for instance, with a plan to present or a slate of directors to install. Mostly, his minor celebrity status was just a damn nuisance. Early in his career, the rolled ranch hat and faded jeans had served as a city disguise. But once the media had trademarked these into a “corporate cowboy” persona, they only made him more conspicuous. Which was one of the prime reasons he had lately chosen to spend more and more time at the Lazy S and let D.W. get his face glossed on the cover of Business Week.

  But Sam worked this cocktail crowd like a good politician, scanning hopefully for D.W. or Jacqueline. After several minutes, when neither appeared to rescue him, he simply disengaged and began moving, like an amiable zombie, toward the afterdeck. His head was once more mildly athrob, and, despite the Kallisto’s air-conditioning, he felt the imminent need for oxygen.

  Outside the salon, the air was considerably better, with wraparound windows wide open to the Orinoco breeze. There was a younger crowd out there as well, and the teak decking was indeed taking a beating, as a dozen couples jerked and stomped to what sounded like a bossa-nova version of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” Sam couldn’t help noticing one pneumatic and brassy blonde, who seemed to be trying to shimmy her way out of her metallic gift-wrap.

  But still no sign of host or hostess.

  Of course D.W. could be quite near, Sam realized, and simply eclipsed by taller folk. He began listening for D.W.’s basso growl. Instead, from deep in the salon a moment later, came a distinctive girlish glissando.

  Sam retreated inside—and spotted Jacqueline at the far end of the room, encircled by men. She was in profile, nodding and listening, while absently stroking a wing of her sideswept hair. The artless gesture belied her sophisticated look. She was a stunner in off-the-shoulder black chiffon—obviously the “Dior black strapless” she’d mentioned on their ride. Sam felt his emotional fortifications crumbling.

  Then he recognized two of the men around her—Nelson Machado and Luís de Villegas. Machado was deputy planning minister, and de Villegas carried the turgid title of presidential secretariat minister—roughly equivalent to chief of staff. During his Caracas meetings Sam had been told that both influential figures were on the presidential junket to Jakarta, and thus not due back for at least two more days. And here they were, not just back in Venezuela ahead of schedule, but attending D.W.’s floating soiree. The sight gave Sam’s heart a secondary fibrillation, almost equal to the revelation of Jacqueline Lee in chiffont decolleté. What strings had D.W. pulled to get them down here, and to what purpose?

  As he pondered this, Jacqueline laughed again, tossed her head, and suddenly locked on Sam through the crowd. Everything else in the room instantly diminished. It was only an incandescent moment before she swung back to her companions, but the damage done to his defenses was profound.

  He started toward her, but collided with a large man.

  It was Owen Meade, and Sam’s anger flared:

  “Goddammit, Owen, why the hell didn’t you wake me?”

  “Sorry, Sam. D.W. and I just got back a few minutes ago. I was on my way to your room.”

  “Got back from where?”

  “Puerto Ordaz. We had to go for a quick meeting.”

  “Where’s D.W. now?”

  “In his suite. Dressing.”

  *

  D.W. was standing behind his desk, fiddling with a red bowtie. Ray Arrillaga, also in evening clothes, got up quickly from a leather sofa to shake Sam’s hand. Sam had not known Ray was down here, but let it pass. Larger matters were at hand. He turned to D.W.

  “So, what are Machado and de Villegas doing here?”

  “Ah, you noticed that, Samuel?”

  “I noticed.”

  “Please, have a seat. I am happy to report that we have made considerable progress in our discussions on Cerro Calvario.”

  “Apparently. Let’s have it.”

  D.W.’s eyes squeezed tightly above a wide smile. He was unusually pleased with himself, Sam thought. D.W. went to his rosewood sideboard, opened a drawer and withdrew a flat, black-leather folder, brandishing it like a sommelier would a pricey wine-list.

  “What’s that?”

  “Authorization to resume mining, to extend the rail line from Cerro Bolívar and to construct a workers settlement.” He flipped open the leather case to a typeset page bearing a gold seal under a florid signature. “It is signed by El Jefe himself, you see? And Señors de Villegas and Machado assure us that the Council of Ministers will meet within the week to, shall we say, rubber-stamp their approval?”

  Still smiling, D.W. handed Sam the leather-clad document. Sam glanced through it quickly.

  “How much is all this going to cost us?”

  “Sam, you sound just like Raymond here. He’s convinced the entire postponement was only a government tactic to extract a bigger bite from Proteus. But surely we are speaking of mutual interests here.”

  “How much, D.W.?”

  “A few million—discreetly deposited in Caribbean banks. Hardly worth mentioning.”

  “How many is a ‘few’?”

  “A final figure is still under negotiation. But I’m not concerned, and neither should you be.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me what was going on?” Sam handed back the document, and D.W. slid it back into its drawer.

  “Things moved too swiftly, Sam. I finally reached Señor de Villegas in Dakar. He was with the president, as you know. Suddenly our discussion reached a critical phase. I was forced to make a commitment over the phone. Without consultation, you understand. In any case, you were out showing Jacqueline the local sights in your little plane. Fortunately Raymond had come down, so I at least had his input.” D.W.’s smiled returned, broader than before. “But what does this matter, Sam? We’ve won! And I decided to make a surprise of it.” He gestured at a silver tray with blue crystal decanter and glasses on the sideboard. “Shall we celebrate?”

  “What’s in there, Suntory?”

  “I’ve got some Wild Turkey in the cabinet. A double, Sam?”

  “Sure. Why the hell not? Only there’s one slight problem, Duke. Remember me saying something about changing my mind? Back when we met on the hill—before the rain?”

  “Of course. You said you were thinking about doing a ‘one-eighty,’ I believe.” D.W. chuckled as he handed Sam a double shot of bourbon. “Very droll. Salud!”

  Ray Arrillaga seconded the Hispanic toast, with considerably better pronunciation.

&n
bsp; “And now, I propose we all rejoin the party upstairs, before my daughter is convinced I’ve totally abandoned her.”

  “The way she looks, D.W.,” Ray said, “I seriously doubt if anybody’s missed us.”

  “Yes, Jacqueline’s a princess,” D.W. agreed. “Sometimes a good princess and sometimes a naughty one. Tonight she is being very good.”

  Sam stood up, blocking their passage to the door.

  “Hold on a minute, D.W. You, too, Ray. What I said about changing my mind, that wasn’t a joke.”

  They froze, and Sam continued: “I assume you talked to Hardy Eason about all this. But did you happen to call either Rollo or John?” Rowland McCall was Proteus’ vice president for public relations, John Godell its general counsel and a company director. “Or maybe you should have checked with the flak-catchers over at Exxon—because you’re getting ready to walk into exactly the kind of PR debacle down here that Exxon had in Prince William Sound. And, criminal and civil penalties aside, that could wind up costing us lucrative deals all over the globe.”

  D.W. remained frozen.

  “Sam, aren’t you maybe exaggerating a bit?” Ray Arrillaga suggested.

  “If anything, Ray, I might be underestimating. When the media get word we’re blasting away archaeological treasures down there, they’ll crucify us.”

  “Sam,” D.W. said emphatically, “there are no treasures down there.”

  “I’m telling you what I saw with my own eyes, D.W. That’s why I went snooping around. We’re not talking about a bunch of broken pottery, goddammit. Dr. Laya has uncovered some incredible stuff—museum pieces—and, believe me, he’s not going to by shy about showing them to CNN, Nightline, 60 Minutes, or anybody else he can corral.”