We held each other.
We held each other.
The next morning, in the first water-colored light of morning, I saw her T-shirt on the floor: Thirty-Second Rule Strictly Enforced.
She was still asleep, hair mussed on the pillow in a rusty halo around her tomboy face, as I closed the door quietly behind me.
In that soft light, she looked very pretty. Amanda looked at peace.
14
On the air approach to Cartagena, the parrot-blue of the Caribbean Sea is gradually murked by a long cusp of beach that flattens into a hardpan of mud and mangroves and plum-colored slums. Beyond is a fortress city that looks like something dreamed up by Hollywood, its bastion walls built by the Spaniards in the 1500s to intimidate pirates, its narrow streets clogged with motor scooters and smoking cars and wooden donkey carts.
Fortresses and pirates are still an intricate part of Cartagena today.
I stepped off the plane into the rain forest heat, Loomis travel bag in hand. At immigration, a little man in a blue uniform checked my passport, eyed me carefully, then rewarded me with a huge smile. “Welcome to Colombia!” He seemed surprised that I was there.
No wonder.
U.S. citizens do not visit Colombia much anymore. The lone exception is Bogota which, of late, has been doing a brisk business in the mail-order-bride business.
To be accurate: computer-ordered brides.
I’ve never heard anyone argue the point: Colombia produces the most beautiful women in the Americas. Single U.S. men, perhaps tired of being treated as social villains, have been flying here in ever-growing numbers to find kind and gentle mates to marry.
There is a second, darker attraction: Because of its beautiful women … and its hungry and desperate children … Colombia is also a favorite destination of sexual predators. Unknown to most, impoverished Third World countries have little choice but to turn a blind eye on their own booming sex trade. They need the money. They have come to rely on it. Behavior that is considered felonious back in the U.S. is, in poor countries such as Colombia, not only tolerated, it is accepted.
That is a tragedy….
Contributing to that tragedy is the United States Congress, which has done absolutely nothing to discourage our sexual deviants from crossing the border and preying on poor and desperate children.
But, aside from men seeking women, U.S. tourists seldom visit Colombia anymore. Not even the cruise ships bother to make landfall. Too much bad press. Maybe the little man at immigration took my arrival as a good omen. A North American tourist? Perhaps the world’s attitude toward his country was changing!
My smile told him: Maybe soon but not yet.
Which is unfortunate. Colombia is one of the most beautiful countries in the Americas and its people are among the most gifted, the friendliest and attractive people in the world.
But Colombia is also the world’s chief exporter of cocaine. Each and every drug cartel has its own meagerly equipped small army. When a cartel goes under, its army tends to stay together because there’s so little work available. How do these guerrilla bands survive? Their members have embraced the very profitable vocation of kidnapping and extortion to keep food on the table.
It is estimated that between a hundred and two hundred people are kidnapped and ransomed each month in Colombia. If relatives of the victims do not pay the ransom quickly and in full measure, the victims are executed in cold blood. There is a spoken procedure: Get down on your knees and I will then press the muzzle of this pistol to the back of your head….
The second casualty of poverty is conscience. The first is the local environment, so it is business, nothing more. Kill a hostage promptly and efficiently and you may be sure that relatives of the next victim will be more highly motivated to cooperate.
The irony is that Colombia, in terms of overall violent crime and theft, is no more dangerous than Miami or L.A. Tourists don’t hesitate to visit those places. But mention the name “Colombia” to an unseasoned traveler, and the reaction is predictable: Colombia? Too risky!
Not really. Besides, such statistics mean very little to me when it comes to travel. I love Colombia, have always loved Colombia, so facts and figures about crime carry little weight. Not when the beauty of the country, the kindness and humor of its people, are weighed in the balance.
Which is why I was both chagrined and irritated at myself when I realized how long it had been since I’d treated myself to a return visit. Had I unknowingly become so tangled in the cheerful social web of Sanibel that I was now what I had always dreaded: dependent, addicted to routine, immobile?
When I got home, I’d force myself to take a hard look at my life. Do some reassessing, maybe make some changes.
For now, though, I felt the thoracic glow of being alone again, focused and under way far outside the boundaries, on the road once more.
I worked my way through Cartagena’s small terminal to the street outside, where four or five taxi drivers stood braced against their little cars, dozy in the heat. By old habit, I chose the third cab in line (never take the first or second car in a country where an attacker might anticipate your arrival). It was a punch-drunk Toyota with a parade of dashboard saints. The car might have once been red but was now sun-bleached pink.
Before opening the door, I paused to ask the driver how many marinas there were near the old walled city.
He said two.
I asked him which of those two marinas would be most comfortable for a gringo couple on a sailboat.
That was easy, he said. There was only one marina preferred or used by foreign yachters (sea travelers, he called them). That was the little marina in Manga.
Good news. Very good news.
I explained to the driver that I might need a hotel, but first I wanted him to drive me to this place, the marina called Club Nautico. I told him that I planned to spend an hour or so at the marina, get something to eat and hopefully make contact with the Aussie who owned the place. If he was a good driver, if he didn’t put my life at risk or try to maneuver me to a friend’s shop or a store or a restaurant in hopes of a kickback, I’d hire him for the day.
I hadn’t quite finished explaining what I wanted when a familiar voice interrupted me from behind: “God dang, Duke, I was beginnin’ to think you wasn’t gonna show up a’tall.”
I felt a sickening feeling. How could this have happened?
I was tempted to slide into the cab, shut the door and never look back. In hindsight, that’s precisely what I should have done.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I turned to see Tucker Gatrell.
He wore a stained gray Justin cattleman’s hat tilted jauntily on his head, skinny-hipped Levi’s, a black western shirt with plastic pearl buttons and a white sports coat that a piano-bar hustler might have chosen. On the macadam, braced against his boots, was a large cardboard suitcase. The thing had to be forty years old.
Tucker Gatrell in travel uniform. I was not amused and I wasn’t sympathetic.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Come to lend a hand. What you think?”
“What I think is, you weren’t invited, so my advice is don’t expect a hell of a lot of consideration.”
“Wasn’t asked, my ass. That pretty little girl asked me. Called me on the phone last night. Said you was headed for Colombia and you might need some help.”
“Amanda? You’re telling me she called you after she spoke to me. And told you I’d need help?”
“That’s right, after. She called me back and told me, ‘You make sure you look after Duke.’ That li’l girl likes you. She truly does.”
“Amanda referred to me as Duke.”
“Well … no, she called you by the other name, Doc. But it means the same.”
I looked into his face. Was he lying? The man had the craziest, brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen in my life. It was as if each iris were independently wired and energized with chromium filament. There was madness in the
re. And a terribly driven … something. But was he lying?
Couldn’t tell. It was always nearly impossible for me to tell if he was lying. Although with Tuck, it was usually safe to assume that he was.
“I’m going to be real honest with you, Tucker. I don’t want your help. I don’t want you near me. And I don’t have time to waste keeping you out of trouble. So do me a favor: Turn around and take the next flight back to Miami. Or anyplace else you want to go.”
He was already loading his suitcase into the trunk of the taxi. “Miami? You drunk, Duke? Hell, boy, I just flew in from Miami. When Amanda—ain’t she the nicest girl?— when that Amanda told me you was takin’ the mornin’ flight, I figured that meant like close to first light, knowin’ you. So I got me a seat on LACSA’s first and best. Been here waitin’ for more than two hours, but I’m still burpin’ red peppers from that breakfast they served.” He was grinning, showing me what a good-natured and all-around cheerful old guy he was. “Goddamn, boy, airplane food, I figure it’s just about the best stuff in the world.”
I used studied, articulate patience to show him just how impatient I was. “I’m not taking you with me. You might as well gather your gear and go home.”
I watched the grin fade from his face. One thing I’ve never doubted about Tuck is his capacity for anger and violence. “You don’t want me?”
“That’s right, I don’t want you.”
“You think I’ll get in the way. Maybe slow you down.” For some reason, now that we were away from Florida, I felt free to tell him exactly what was on my mind. “That’s right, I think you’ll get in the way. Not only that, I think you’d find a way to embarrass me if you stayed. Or get me killed. You’ve got some experience at that, right?” I waited, looking at him. No reaction at all before I continued, “So do us both a favor and take the next flight to Miami. I’ll pay for it. Whatever. Just get the hell out of here because I’ve got work to do.”
He looked at me with those sled-dog eyes and, for a moment, a crazed moment, I think he came close to punching me. In barely a whisper, he said, “Let me tell you somethin’, boy. Don’t fuck with a falcon unless you can fly.” That was supposed to make sense? I said, “O-o-o-kay.”
“There’s never been a day in my life I couldn’t carry my own weight. And I was kickin’ ass in these shithole taco towns back when the big news was that you’d taken a dump that wasn’t in your diapers.”
“Um-huh.”
“I’ve put in the miles. There are worse men to do the river with.”
“If you’re saying you’re not a young man anymore, Tucker, I agree.”
“You ain’t listenin’, ‘cause that ain’t what I’m sayin’.”
“But it’s what I’m saying. So get on a plane and go home. I’m starting to lose my patience.”
I watched him visibly compose himself, but then he was mad again within seconds. “You don’t think I know the story as well as you? Amanda’s mama’s gone off with some lard-assed Yankee that’s diddlin’ her and takin’ her money at the same time. You come down here to fetch her home, but you’re too damn stubborn to admit you might need some help if lard-ass won’t let her go. Goddamn it … quit bein’ so goddamn stubborn!” His face, which was as wrinkled as parchment, had turned a Navaho red. For the first time, I realized something: This really was an old man. What if I kept at it, made him so furious that he had a heart attack right here at the airport? That’s all I needed, dealing with Tuck and mounds of idiotic paperwork at some Colombian hospital.
I said, “Okay, okay, calm down, Tucker. There’s no need to get so upset. People are looking.”
“I don’t give a hoot in hell who’s looking. They can kiss my ass on the county fucking square for all I care! And you, too, Mister-been-all-over-the-world-know-it-all! ‘Cause here’s something you don’t know: When things go bad in a place like Cartagena, the shit comes down so fast, you’d better have wings to stay above it or a shovel to dig your way out. And you’d better by God have someone you can trust watching your back.”
I nearly said, yeah, like I’m supposed to trust you? Would’ve but veins were sticking out in his neck and he’d gotten redder.
“Take a deep breath, just relax.” I was shushing him with my hands. “Get in the cab and we’ll talk about it. No need to get upset.”
“I ain’t exactly inexperienced at this business, you know! I’ve been in plenty of tough spots. Shit” — his voice softened—“I hate to admit it, but I’ve done the worst thing a Christian white man can do. Yes sir, I done killed me a human being. A Mexican. Great big fat one, but he was quick and them bastards ain’t exactly easy targets.” He paused for a moment; let his eyes blur at the horizon. “Duke, that greasy beaner haunts me to this day.”
The man was insane. He hadn’t killed anyone—Tuck’s old partner, Joseph Egret, had told me the truth. One more example that Tucker was the creator of his own sloppy reality.
I opened the door of the cab and slid inside as the old man said, “I won’t get in the way. I promise. And I might help.”
I was shaking my head. Why had Amanda told him my travel plans?
Now he was in the car beside me, hat on his lap because the car was so small. “I hate to admit this, Duke, but I been kinda lowly lately. This ain’t been the best month for me.”
Trying to keep peace, hoping he would calm down, I said, “Amanda told me about Roscoe. I’m sorry. You two had been together a long time.” Tuck and his big appaloosa gelding.
The expression on Tucker’s face demonstrated surprise, then indifference. “Huh? I ain’t talking about my damn horse dying. That worthless bastard? Roscoe, I ain’t … hell, he’d been so damn contrary lately I was half tempted to put a bullet in him myself. Good riddance, that’s what I say. No, what I was talkin’ about, Duke, is my health.”
The man was maddening. I refused to ask.
Didn’t have to.
As the cab sped us west along a rolling seacoast, I listened to him say, “The last four or five weeks, something’s gone wrong with this old body of mine. Hard to believe for as good as I look. I won’t argue that But the problem is … well, shit, I’ll just come out and say it. For more than a month, I’ve had me a permanent case of Whiskey Dick. It’s about to worry me sick. Understand that what I’m saying is just between you, me and the fence post. If Joe ever got wind of it, he wouldn’t let me forget—”
Tucker stopped abruptly. He’d apparently forgotten that his old roundup and poaching partner was dead.
He began again. “What I mean is, if anybody as black-hearted as Joe found out, I’d never hear the end of it. It wouldn’t do me no good with the tourist ladies around Marco and Naples, neither. So I’m hopin’ this little trip to the tropics works me some good. The señoritas, they’ve always liked me just fine, Duke. Just fine.”
I was rubbing my forehead with my fingers. I said, “I’m not going to tell you again, Tucker: Don’t call me Duke.”
Club Nautico was located on Cartagena Bay just a few hundred yards from the Spanish stone garrison that was now an upscale restaurant called Club Pesca … one of the nicer sections of Cartagena.
I recognized the fort from previous trips as well as the postcard that Amanda had received from her mother. One being so close to the other, I interpreted as a good sign. Maybe someone would know something about a fat American on a sailboat.
The little marina took its security seriously. A bright pink stone wall screened and protected it from the street. At the wrought-iron gate, a man in a blue guayabera shirt stood guard. He did a quick assessment as I paid off the taxi, then nodded a greeting as he swung the gate open. Gringos with money are welcome almost anywhere, anytime.
Club Nautico could have served as the prototype for every expatriate waterfront bar from Hong Kong to Bombay: palm-thatched roof strung with fishnet and seashells, ceiling fans, bamboo framing and supports, red tile floor, L-shaped mahogany bar near a pool table and laundry room, an elevated dining area with white tablecl
oths, everything outdoors and open to the water except for the wall that sealed off the street.
This was the tropics, right? All you need is shelter from the sun, protection from thunderstorms, plus some ice, rum and a place to sit.
The rafters above the bar were draped with international flags. An atlas of sailors who had made landfall here from far-flung places—Britain, Japan, Cuba, Vietnam, New Zealand, plus a huge green burgee that read “Nostromos.” Tacked to the raw wood pole supports were yacht club pennants from around the world. The rest I knew without having to look: There would be showers and good food and the bulletin board would be layered with uncollected airmail and For Sale notices posted by wanderers trying to scrape together enough money to get home and handwritten notes offering deckhand service for passage to the next port of call by those stranded and desperate for transportation.
Club Nautico was neat, well maintained and protected. Whoever had set up the place knew what he was doing. It was like most small marinas run by expats: it was an adjunct to the country that housed it; a tiny and precise international crossroads that had many of the characteristics and advantages of a foreign embassy, but none of the stuffy drawbacks.
As Tuck and I straddled stools at the bar, I could look through the fronds of palm trees growing up through the decking and see a couple of dozen ocean-going sailboats moored stem-first to the marina’s high wooden docks. They were probably owned by voyagers who’d settled in Cartagena for an extended stay. Beyond the docks in a broad mooring area were a dozen or so more sailboats anchored randomly. Their hull colors—mostly fiberglass white but a few painted red or blue—looked brighter for the marl-blue water. The marina seemed to have a pretty good business going.
Across the bay was a Colombian Navy Amphibian base where I had once billeted for three interesting weeks. I could picture the way it would be beyond the sentry gates: massive grounds, trimmed golf-course, neat barracks and buildings and Quonset huts freshly whitewashed, a military park with ships tied along the cement quay.
The Mangrove Coast Page 23