"They profit from child slavery-10,000 child miners work in these coal mine-they work the seams that are too small for adults, in unsupported tunnels, without gas extraction, working by candlelight. It is a short life for most of them. Explosions are common. Danilo's two brothers were both cripples-one lost his legs when they were amputated by a runaway coal wagon, the other has a terrible lung disease. Danilo left before the mines claimed him.
"Colombia is rich in minerals, you know-precious metals, base metals, and gemstones. It is the world's leading producer of emeralds-before the drug barons, the emerald miners divided the country into private fiefdoms.They too have used child labor to accumulate vast wealth, but none of that wealth comes to us.
"My family is from one of the indigenous tribes.The U'Wa. You may have read that 6,000 U'Wa Indians have threatened to commit suicide if Occidental Petroleum continues its oil explorations on our land." She curled her lip. "Suicide is not my way. If I die it will be with a gun in my hand"
"Who killed Joel?" I said.
"I don't know. Perhaps Ferdinand, perhaps your friends."
"You're here with Porras?" I said.
She shook her head.
"Come on-I saw him not five minutes before I saw you."
She looked puzzled.
"Ferdinand here?"
Did she really not know?
"Damned right lady," Ralph said. "And we need to know what he's after. Is he going to kill Otis or kidnap him?"
"I have no idea. I have not seen him since I left Leticia. I flew here and I waited for you to arrive-I heard you speak of this concert tour."
I drew Ralph away.
"What do you think?"
"I think we cancel the concert, except Otis and Horace won't hear of it."
"You've spoken to them together?"
"Separately. Why?"
"I told Otis about Horace."
Ralph nodded slowly.
"Ah"
"I believe her about Porras by the way," I said.
"Me too.What do you want me to do with her?"
"Me?"
"It's you and Bridget she tried to kill. May still want to kill. Up to you to press charges."
I pondered for a moment.
"What're the cops like in Peru?"
Ralph scarcely raised his eyebrow.
"They'd brutalize her, wouldn't they?"
"Would you ask that if she was an ugly guy?"
"I hope so. Would they?"
"At least that, yes."
"Kill her?"
"Probably."
"Can we let her go?"
"What if she comes after you again?"
"Can I talk to her alone?"
When I went back in she was sitting very upright at the table, bizarrely glamorous in her red dress. She didn't look at me as I sat down.
"We're going to let you go," I said.
She looked puzzled.
"Why?"
"I don't want to see you come to any harm"
"I should be grateful?"
"Only grateful enough not to kill Bridget or me.You know we had nothing to do with Danilo's death. We didn't know the people who rescued us. We didn't ask to be kidnapped."
Her eyes were solemn.
"I became a guerrilla for political reasons. I didn't realize Ferdinand only wanted money until that conversation I heard him have with you. It disgusted me. Also, I hated Porras for his cruelty. His barbarism. He would gouge out people's eyes and chop their hands off. I heard that he once flayed all the skin off one soldier and left him to die in the village square in the midday sun."
She stood.
"May I go now?"
"Sure," I said.
"Can I have my gun back?"
I took it from my knapsack. It seemed somehow heavier. I put it on the table and pushed it across to her. She took it, expertly checked it, and stuck it in her bag.
"What will you do?" I said.
She shrugged then turned.
"Watch out for Ferdinand," she said. "He is ruthless." She moved to the door. Stopped again. "One more thing. He wouldn't alert a victim with threats. He would just get on with the job"
"You said she could go?" Bridget screeched. I thought I heard alarmed condors leave their nests atop remote Andean peaks.
I closed the open windows and turned to face her.
"She tried to kill you-us-you may recall. She would have killed you if not for me. She blames us for the death of her lover. And you said she could go"
"They'd have killed her, Bridget."
"Rather her than me."
Bridget ranted for ten minutes more but finally ran out of steam. A thought struck her.
"What happened to her gun?"
"I picked it up in the church."
"Really? Let me see it-I've never seen a gun close up."
"I-er-gave it back to her."
When I could walk again I thought I'd kill the time before the concert in a bar with a pisco sour or two. I found one that seemed full to bursting with backpackers from the U. S. and Europe. It was incredibly noisy-loud conversation and a band in the corner playing electro-Andean music.
I noticed people glancing over occasionally to a dark corner of the bar where a man in shades was sitting, a bottle of wine at his side. The Late Great Otis Barnes, a little the worse for wear.
"Otis?" I said, standing over him for a change.
He looked in my direction. Nodded. I wondered what concoction he'd been frying his brains with today.
"How's it going?"
"Okay," he said.
I jerked a thumb over at the musicians.
"You going to be dancing again?"
"It takes two to tango," he said.
"Salsa, you mean."
He shook his head.
"Whatever."
"Bit of excitement earlier."
He nodded slowly. I could see this was going to be hard work.
"Have you spoken to Horace?" I said.
He looked at me for a long moment then shook his head. The waiter brought my drink and I sat there wondering what to do. I glanced to either side but I couldn't see his bodyguards. Had he slipped the leash? He leaned forward.
"Bet you had a happy childhood," he said.
"Not particularly," I said.
"I was in and out of mental homes when I was a kid," Otis said.
"I didn't know that," I said. Which wasn't very exciting I know but you have to kind of edge into these things-trust me, I'm a journalist.
"Why would you?" he said. "I never told nobody before."
I was intrigued by the way that under stress he lapsed into some primordial cockney accent, the Sarf London patois favored by all rock stars of his generation who wanted to keep their street cred.
"I kept hearing voices, see, telling me to do things. Bad things. They said I skinned my cat once.You know that saying? About skinning a cat? They find this cat at the bottom of our back garden, hanging from a tree, skinned.
"They said it was my cat and I'd done it. I asked them how they knew it was my cat-I mean a lump of meat hardly has any identifying features does it? And its collar and nametag were gone. My dad just beat me worse."
I stared hard.
"And had you?"
"Skinned my cat? I loved that cat. I'd had it since it were a kitten. Gimme some credit, please. What kind of sicko do you think I was?"
Otis looked away and then back.
"It was the neighbor's cat I'd skinned. Just out of scientific curiosity, you understand. And it didn't suffer-I bashed it with a big stone first.
"But when our cat came home safe and sound did I get an apology? Did I hell.You know what my dad did as punishment? He drowned my cat.Where's the fucking logic in that, eh? Where's the fucking logic?"
"Does seem a bit hard on the cat," I agreed, feeling queasy. I'm quite soppy about cats actually. This was a side of Otis I'd never seen and I wasn't sure I wanted to.
I'd always assumed his violence was impulsive, born out of anger
, but now I wondered if there was something colder, more sadistic about it. Of course, the story he'd recounted went back to his childhood-I assumed he'd had treatment since. Been cured.
"So you had treatment?" I said. "In the mental hospital."
"Well, they put me away, if that's what you mean. After, you know, my mum and dad."
"Your mum and dad?"
"Classic oedipal complex the bloke in the white coat said."
"How classic?" I said with a nervous smile.
"Very classic," he said, his mouth turned down.
I knew about the Oedipus complex.You engage in rivalry with your father for love of your mother.Your father tries to castrate you to stop you but you kill him instead.You're two years old. Clearly absurd but if any of my younger readers should see their fathers coming towards them with a meat cleaver, toddle like hell.
"That would be ... er ..." I said.
"That would be screwing my mother and killing my father."
I looked at him intently. It suddenly seemed very quiet in the bar, although the noise hadn't noticeably lessened.
"Are you saying you did these things, or are you speaking metaphorically?"
"I did worse. Mum died, too.Worst case of arson the police had ever seen.Well, if you're going to do a job, do it properly, eh?"
He looked at me quite calmly.
"Now you know a big secret about me. How can I be sure you won't tell anyone else?"
"No, no, your secret's safe with me.You've paid your debt to society ... er, you have, haven't you?"
He grinned a weird grin.
There was a reception shortly organized by the town council for the rock tour. I wasn't sure Otis was in a fit state to attend.
"I'm going to go back to the hotel, get spruced up to meet the mayor," I said, trying to hide my disgust. "You coming?"
"Be along," he said.
I looked back as I was leaving the bar. He still had the weird grin on his face. He raised his hand in a small wave.
Ralph was the first person I saw at the hotel.
"No word on Porras yet," he said. "I've told all the local and government authorities-they'll be rousting the usual suspects around here. We've got Otis pretty well covered as a kidnap risk but if Porras had anything more in mind-well, there's not much anybody can do against a sniper with a high-powered rifle except not go on stage. And Otis, as you know, is determined to go
"This covering of Otis-your security guards work deep, do they?"
"In what sense?"
"The ones guarding Otis-like you wouldn't know they were there?"
He frowned.
"I guess. What's your point?"
"I just left him in a bar over near the square and I didn't spot a soul keeping an eye on him."
"Damn that man." He clicked on his radio. "Raoul? Where the hell are you and where is Otis?" Ralph listened then relaxed his shoulders. "A bar? Okay."
He looked at me. "Everything is copasetic. Otis just came into the hotel through the back entrance. His guys were sitting in another part of the bar keeping an eye out-guess you didn't spot them."
"That's a relief," I said. "So what about Porras? Which way do you think he's going to jump?"
"Porras is a hard-ass. Don't let that charming smile fool you. The bad guys in Colombia are a whole other breed when it comes to cruelty."
"So the guerrilla girl indicated," I said.
Ralph saw my expression.
"Colombia has a long history of torture and cruelty. They had a civil war back in 1948-La Violenca it was called. Men were castrated, had their cojones stuffed in their mouths. Both sides decapitated their enemies and used their heads as footballs in the village squares.
"People were thrown out of airplanes or over cliffs or were burned alive. For women it was even worse. Rape was the least of it"
One way and another I was in a very subdued mood when I left Ralph. The things Otis had told me about himself had horrified me. The things Ralph had told me about Porras had shaken me even further.
My mood didn't lift at the reception. Bridget flirted shamelessly with the mayor's male secretary. The rock stars were on their best behavior, though God knows what these very straight, formal Peruvian officials thought of their dress sense-even the security guards were dressed better than the musicians.
Otis was here with Conchita, and whilst I could see tension in his face and in the way he held himself, he seemed a lot better than he had earlier. I wasn't sure how he'd feel about having told me his childhood secrets but when he first saw me he gave me a cheery wave. I didn't respond.
Horace was there for a time in a white linen suit and black floral waistcoat-someone should really have a word with this guy. I saw him with Otis talking to the mayor and Otis looked across at me, a taut expression on his face.
This evening's concert and the climactic concert on top of Machu Picchu were being filmed for worldwide TV and video sales. The film crew was allowed a certain amount of backstage access and also had a camera at this reception.To avoid it I walked over to the window.
The scene was magical. The sun was fading, casting a pink glow over the square and cathedral.Tiers of whitewashed buildings with red-tiled roofs stretched away up the hills on every side. Balconies painted blue were illuminated by the soft yellow light of elegant lamps fixed to the walls.
The square was already full of people sitting on the floor listening to some Andean pipe music. People were crammed onto each of the balconies overlooking them.
Those of us not performing were invited to stay here and watch the concert. I couldn't see Bridget for the moment. As I looked around Perry caught my eye.
"Dig this place man. Dig this place. Those Incas were really something"
"This is mostly Spanish you're seeing here"
"Sure but those central gutters down the center of the streets-Inca. Used to keep them filled with rushing water from the mountains to keep the city clean.You know they built this city in the shape of a puma?"
"I didn't know that. Why?"
"Damned if I know but it's a fact.Their capitol.Their empire stretched from the border to the Rio Maule in southern Chile.You got the Amazon jungle in the east, the Pacific coast in the west."
"I know.What's your point Perry?"
"Treasure.You know gangs of huaqueros-treasure huntersplunder sites all over Peru.There are too many sites to be policed or protected by archaeologists. They're finding new ruins all the tine-in the forests around Machu Picchu for example. Then there's the legendary lost city of Paititi-people search for it every year without success."
"What's your point?"
"A freebooter like myself could find a fortune here. I'm thinking of staying on like my great-grandfather"
"Your great-grandfather?" Bridget said, appearing from nowhere and leaning against me.
Perry looked from one to the other of us.
"This reminds me of him."
"Who're you talking about?" I said.
"Who the hell do you think? Harry Alonzo Longabaugh and Robert Le Roy Parker-with Etta Place of course," he said, nodding to Bridget.
"Of course," I said, glancing back at the square.
"Butch and Sundance!" Perry declared intently.
"Oh yeah-good film. `Swim? The fall will probably kill you."'
He grimaced.
"The movies?" he spat. "I'm talking about the real thing. I'm their descendant."
"Both of them?" I said, puzzled.
"They were an item," Bridget said. "You've only got to see the movie to see that."
"Longabaugh-Sundance-and Etta?" I said.
"Parker-Butch-and a local girl in Argentina."
"I thought they went to Bolivia?" I said."When I say Bolivia you just think California. You just keep thinking Butch, that's what you're good at."
"Do you ever listen to yourself?" Bridget said, gazing at me blankly.
"Harry and Etta left for Argentina 1901, were joined by Robert Le Roy Parker in 1902," Perry recited. "Ranched un
til 1905 then in 1906 turned up in Bolivia via Chile. Worked for Percy Siebert at the Concordia tin mine from the end of 1906 to sometime in 1908. Held up the Aramayo payroll in early November-then there was the famous shoot-out in San Vicente in southern Bolivia a few days later on 6 November 1908. Butch and Sundance were undoubtedly involved but-" he leaned towards us, "-there's no proof they were killed."
We both looked at him for a moment. His eyes were bulging a little. Finally Bridget said: "So they killed Kennedy."
Perry drew back.
"What's your point, Perry," I said in irritation.
"He has no point. He never has a point."
Perry looked at Bridget.
"How can you say that? We've only just met. Usually it takes people a couple of weeks to find that out"
"I'm a quick study," Bridget said shortly.
"Actually I do have a point. My point is it's all disguises down here. A person can come here and reinvent himself, be who he wants to be."
"Is that what you want to do?" Bridget said.
"Doesn't everybody?" he said.
"I've always had a vague wish to be Marlene Dietrich," Bridget murmured. "Nick has too for that matter."
"Ha ha," I said, wondering when I'd ever let that slip.
Bridget took my arm and led me away.
"I'm forgiven then?" I said. "For letting the girl go?"
"You know me-I forgive easily. I just never forget."
"Where are you taking me?"
"Don't raise your hopes just to see the concert, but I need to nip back to the hotel and I'm not going anywhere without you whilst Annie Oakley is out there somewhere."
As we came down the steep street to our hotel entrance I was surprised to see Otis and Horace standing at the entrance to an alleyway beyond the hotel. Horace had a puzzled look on his face. It seemed a curious time for Otis to be bearding him.
I watched as Otis put his big arm round Horace's narrow shoulders and drew him into the alley. It was the last time I saw Horace alive.
When Horace didn't show for the train to Machu Picchu next day I thought Otis must have fired him.The concert had gone off without a hitch. Otis and Conchita had been in fine form and at the end had duetted on four numbers: two of her hits in which Otis got a roar of approval for singing in Spanish, followed by two of his, including a sinuous version of "Sinner Man" in which Conchita came down heavy on being the hellhound on his trail.
Two to Tango (Nick Madrid) Page 16