* * *
17
Mitch Roberts finished his cataloguing; the harpoons, the rifles, the depths charges, and a few other things he couldn’t identify and wasn’t told what function they would serve. He went down below deck to his massive cabin and took a shower and changed into some jeans and a football jersey of the Socceroos stating prominently, “FIFA 2010.”
He came to the deck and flipped on sunglasses. It was pleasant weather but hot and he thought about running back down and changing into some shorts but decided against it. He had a country to explore.
He walked down the pier and saw Hamilton climbing into a limo, Stewart easily lifting him in before buckling the safety belts and getting in beside him. Stewart made him uneasy. There was a calmness about him that didn’t match his gigantic body and Mitch recognized some of his ink as crude prison work.
Hamilton’s second was sitting on the beach talking on a cell phone. David something or other. A former Navy man and an alcoholic who hadn’t stopped drinking for a moment on the trip down here. Mitch walked to him and waited until he was done with his phone call before speaking.
“You hungry?”
“Yeah,” David said, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. “You been here before?”
“No, never.”
“I know a place.”
He led him up the street and they waited on the side of the road for a taxi though there didn’t seem to be any out.
“So,” Mitch said, “how do you know Taylor?”
“I’ve done a few of these things with him.”
“What things are those?”
“These hunts or expeditions or whatever the fuck he calls them. Waste a time is what I call them. He could give that money to me and I’d put it to much better use.”
“He didn’t tell me he’s done this before. How many times?”
“Forty, maybe fifty.”
“That many?”
“The old man wasn’t always a cripple. He got some disease, Huntington’s Disease I think, when he was in his twenties. Don’t feel it’s right he can’t walk so that’s all he does. His businesses run themselves so he just travels around and looks for cures. Here’s one.”
A taxi came to a stop in front of them and David climbed in without waiting for Mitch. The cabbie was fat with a mustache coming down past his chin and he spoke in quick, almost unintelligible Spanish and David gave him some directions.
“What about you?” David asked. “How’d he find you?”
“I wrote a paper about a chemical found in squids that could have uses in the treatment of disease. He called me almost the day it came out in the journals. Must follow ‘em pretty close I figure.”
“I told you; that’s all he does.”
“Seems like a waste. You got a little time left you should enjoy it instead’a worrying about going back to something you’ll never have again.”
“You don’t think this squid’s got the cure?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. When I wrote that paper I was thinking of genetic disorders relating to the endocrine system. Hormonal imbalances, things like that. Taylor was the one that brought up curing Huntington’s. All I told him was that it could be possible. I never said it was possible.”
“I wouldn’t tell him that. He thinks he’s found his cure.”
The taxi came to a stop in front of a flat two story building. David waited quietly until Mitch pulled out some cash, American dollars which everyone took here, and paid the driver. They stepped outside and walked in to the building.
It was a clean space made almost entirely of wood. Even the cash register was encased in a nice maple. It reminded Mitch of a saloon like he’d seen in the old American westerns. They sat at a table near the center and a waitress wearing a strapless top and tight black pants took their order. She brought out several shots of tequila and a local drink known as fanschop; which was basically tap beer and Fanta, and they drank them down, David guzzling them as if he were abandoned in a desert and just found water.
“Since you’ve never done one of these with the old man, I’ll tell you what to do. You got questions you come to me first and ask and only go to the old man if I don’t know what to do. He doesn’t like to be bugged and if he feels like you don’t know what you’re doing he’ll drop you off at the nearest port and you won’t see a dime. He’s not scared of getting sued. He’s an equity partner at a big law firm in Texas and they do all his work for free. They defended some of the Enron guys.”
“Sounds like a bit of ass.”
“He’s a monster,” David said, staring off the in the distance.
The way he had said it gave Mitch an uneasy feeling and he began to think that maybe coming on this little adventure was not the best idea he’d ever had.
* * *
18
It was well before noon when Patrick walked in to the bar in Valparaiso and looked around. The bar was a mass of filth and stunk of human sweat and urine. In the corner were two old dogs chewing on some bones and the bartender was spitting in a glass before wiping it out with a rag.
Rodrigo was sitting at a table with two other men, a dozen empty beer bottles already littering the table. Patrick walked over and sat next to him.
“Patrick, como esta?”
“Bien.”
“Cerveza?”
“No, gracias.”
“Did you just come to look at my pretty face or to drink?”
“Just look at your pretty face. And to tell you that the man we talked about has showed up.”
Rodrigo made a whistling sound through his teeth. “Why he wants one of these things?”
“I don’t know. Chris says he’s obsessed with them.”
“You know in old times, some of the fishermen used to worship them as demons. They would sacrifice part of every catch to the demonio del mar so it would leave them alone. Some of the men would get so they were comfortable around them and then the demonios would attack them and drag them to the bottom of the ocean.”
“So you’re saying you’re turning down the money? It’s more than you make in two years for just a few weeks work.”
“No, I didn’t say that. I just say some people used to think they’re demons.” Rodrigo guzzled his beer and stood up. “Ho K, let’s go catch a demon.”
*****
Patrick drove Rodrigo back to his boat and he gathered a few things: clothing, his old tattered bible, two of his rifles, and the rest of the beer in the fridge. They took Patrick’s jeep back to the hotel and Christopher had already checked out. He gathered their few bags and loaded them in before hopping into the back.
“I’m gonna miss this place,” Christopher said.
“Can’t afford it, even for a couple nights.”
“I know, can’t I just miss it.”
They drove down the winding path and out of Viña into the surrounding jungle. Valparaiso and Viña were really one city with no separations, but the atmosphere could not have been different. Where Viña was luxurious and catered to every whim, Valparaiso had nearly fifty percent unemployment and a rampant homelessness problem. Roving bands of wild dogs filled the city streets, attacking residents and tourists alike. Men, women and children were all at risk of being mugged or kidnapped at any time of day or night and there was not a single place in the city one could consider safe. The fire department was also a volunteer department with few volunteers and fires routinely could be seen on the surrounding hillsides, the department too depleted or too drunk to do anything about them.
But, knowing that not every tourist could afford to stay in Viña, though they may want to play there, Valparaiso had many hostels; catering to everyone from tourists to people that were just passing through, to criminals and people backpacking through South America.
They pulled to a stop in front of an old building painted blue with the doors falling off. Chickens were running around in front of it and an old man was passed out drunk a dozen feet away.
“Lovely,”
Christopher said.
“Be glad you got a place to stay at all.”
They unloaded everything into the room. It was one space with a bathroom off to the side with no door. There were three cots set up and a small black and white television against a wall. Rodrigo flicked the television on and jumped onto a cot.
“It’s only for two days,” Patrick said. “Then we get the luxury of that ship.”
“I’m having second thoughts,” Christopher said, “maybe we should just call your father and beg his forgiveness?”
Rodrigo let out a wet burp and then farted. They both looked to him and he grinned like he was twelve.
* * *
19
Hector was woken at noon by one of his officers. He answered his phone, still groggy, and nearly fell out of his bed trying to sit up. He told him to wait a minute and turned on his lamp.
“What is it?” he said.
The officer explained to him what he had gathered from the fisherman. The touristas had brought in somebody else, someone with a lot of money. There was a large ship here with many men and they intended to kill whatever had been attacking people in the water. A reporter from the Valparaiso Times had come down to interview someone about it.
“I’ll be right there.”
Hector opened his blinds and looked out to the sun-soaked day. It was clear and there was no wind and he opened his windows so he could smell the salty ocean air coming in.
He dressed and decided to skip shaving. For breakfast he had eggs and a cold beer. The eggs were rubbery and didn’t taste good. Since his wife had passed almost three years ago, he hadn’t had a decent breakfast. He dumped most of it in the sink and then went out to his old Subaru and drove down to the docks.
A massive ship took up the view from the beach. It looked like a warship he’d seen on documentaries about World War II. There were men on the deck busily setting up equipment. One thing he noticed immediately was several shark cages.
He pulled his car to a stop in front of the pier and began walking to the ship. He walked up the ramp and stood a while on the deck, watching the men. Several were locals from Valparaiso but there were a few white men as well.
“Who’s in charge here?” he shouted.
Patrick stepped forward. “I guess that would be me right now.”
“I know you; you are the one that lost your brother.” He looked to the other men who resumed their work. “What’s going on here?”
“We’re going on a little sea trek.”
“Sea trek?”
“Yeah, you know, a little adventure.”
“To do what?”
“Nothing big. It’s like a fishing trip.”
“I know what you’re doing. And you can’t go.”
“Why not?”
“You’re bringing too much attention. You have to move this ship right away.”
Patrick wiped some oil off his hands with a rag he had sticking out of his back pocket. “You’re the police chief, right?”
“Yes.”
Hamilton rolled up the ramp just then and saw Hector. He went past him without saying a word and Patrick had to stop him.
“What is it?” he said.
“This is the chief of police for Viña. He wants us to leave.”
“Why?” Hamilton asked Hector.
“Too much attention. This is dangerous too. You may hurt yourselves.”
“Patrick, just bribe him and be done with it. Give him whatever the going rate is and get rid of him. You’re our local; I don’t want to deal with this.”
“Bribing a police officer is a crime,” Hector said.
“Really? Well maybe I should just call President Piñera and ask him? I’m sure if I donated ten thousand dollars or so to his next campaign, he would be happy to hear me out.”
One thing Hector had a knack for was knowing when he was outgunned. He always felt that way with Ignacio, and he felt that way now with this man in the wheelchair. He could just be bluffing, but any man that could pay all these men and get a ship like this with all the equipment was clearly a man that had money. Hector decided it wasn’t worth the risk.
“Very well,” he said.
Hector got into his car and called Ignacio.
*****
Ignacio finished his lunch of shellfish, crab and a bit of brown rice. He had received Hector’s phone call nearly an hour ago but lunch was something he cherished and would not interrupt for anything.
When he was younger, his family could only afford one meal a day and as he worked in the city shining shoes or selling trinkets or combing the sands at the beaches for lost change, he watched the tourists and wealthier Chileans eat their fine meals of lamb or salmon or steak with bisques and salads and fluffy white rolls.
While most of the downtrodden and poor that saw these things grew resentful and came to despise the rich, Ignacio used it as inspiration. He had no education, his family was comprised of criminals and vagabonds and the mentally ill, and he had a speech impediment that took him fifteen years to get rid of, but he knew he would join the ranks of the wealthy one day. Persistence, he understood, was king. Nothing else mattered; not where you came from, not your talent, not who you knew. And persistence was what he had in ample supply.
“Gracias,” he said to the waitress as she cleared away the table.
A few patrons in the restaurant came and said hello to him and spoke of their love for the beautiful city and how they intended to vote for him again in his reelection bid. He nodded and thanked them softly and waited until they had left before finishing his water and wiping his lips with his napkin. He left a forty percent tip and walked back to the kitchen of the restaurant and thanked the chef personally before leaving and climbing into his Range Rover.
He drove slowly through the streets, listening to a Puccini opera on the CD player. He knew these streets well; they fit around him like clothing and he felt at times as if he could live on these streets and would still be just as happy as in his mansion up on the hill overlooking the ocean.
He passed a pub with a second floor balcony where patrons sat and ate and drank until well into the night. He had gotten into a fight there, in the back of the pub near the dumpster. As he was walking home from a day of shining shoes, three boys attempted to mug him. The money he had was enough to feed his family for the next week. He knew he would not give them the money and he made up his mind that he was going to die there, right then. But he was going to take at least one of them with him.
The boys were older and outweighed him each by at least twenty pounds, but Ignacio had nothing to lose. He didn’t care if he was injured, and he didn’t care if he was killed. The first boy slapped him and then grabbed him by the shirt to punch his face and Ignacio bit down into his neck so hard that blood began to spray from the wound and he pulled away with a chunk of flesh in his mouth. The boy screamed and ran away, which gave Ignacio enough time to grab a wooden box from near the dumpster and smash it into another boy’s head.
The three of them fought for what seemed like hours, but was perhaps no more than a matter of minutes. One of the boys took out a knife and Ignacio felt the small slices across his chest and arms and face, but he didn’t stop. They were not going to make him back down or quit.
As the other boy held him, the one with the knife rushed at him to stab him in the chest. Ignacio twisted away, causing the knife to glide over his shoulder, scraping away a large chunk of skin, and plunge into the other boy’s arm. The boy screamed and Ignacio pulled the knife away and with both hands, smashed it down into the boy’s leg, halfway up to the hilt.
The two boys hobbled away and Ignacio collapsed, bloody and in pain, but alive and with his money.
Ignacio reached the docks and turned his car off. He watched the workers on the ship and saw the shark cages and the rifles and harpoons. He saw a man in a wheelchair come down the ramp and load into a limousine before being shuttled away. He stepped out of the car.
The sun was hot in the
sky and the heat came off the ground and cooked you from both top and bottom. He walked up the ramp and saw Hector sitting on a chair. He pointed to a white man that was standing over one of the shark cages as it was being assembled.
“Are you Patrick?” Ignacio said.
“Yes.”
It was just then that the four police cruisers came to a stop at the docks and a half dozen officers stepped out and approached the ship.
“I am Ignacio Silva. I am the mayor of Viña.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I was told you refused to move this ship when my chief of police asked you to.”
“We have every right to go out on the ocean. There’s nothing you can do to stop us, it’s a free country. I think the best thing is to just let us do our business and get out of here.”
“There’s nothing I can do to stop you? Really?”
* * *
20
Christopher sat across from Patrick in Viña’s jail. They didn’t speak and there was no one else sharing the cell with them so they could hear entire conversations in both Spanish and English from the staff and officers in the station.
The cell had two couches and a drinking fountain with a porcelain toilet behind a screen. The floor was hardwood and it had several words and names carved in it from the men that had been held here.
After nearly three hours, the cell door opened and Ignacio walked in. “You,” he said to Christopher, “the old man has paid your bail. You are free to leave.”
Christopher looked to Patrick, who nodded to him. He stood up and walked out.
Ignacio came and sat down next to Patrick. “So, what do you think of our jail?”
“As jails go, it’s the nicest one I’ve been to.”
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