by Lou Cameron
“Don’t be nasty, dear. I still wish you’d come to work for us.”
“Doing what? As I understand it, Sir Basil has his money on every horse in the race!”
“Of course, that’s why he can afford to pay so well. When I tell him we met again I’ll say you’re thinking about it. He’s liable to have you killed if you upset him.”
“I told you I knew the little bastard,” Captain Gringo said, as he got to his feet. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll talk about it later, if that. Venezuelan you’re having dinner with isn’t up to your usual standards.”
He opened the door and blinked as an upraised fist almost knocked on his forehead. The young marine officer who’d been about to knock on the door looked as startled and said, “Oh, are you folks using the study?”
Captain Gringo saw he was with the snooty receptionist, who seemed to be blushing for some reason. He smiled and said, “We were just leaving. It’s all yours, Leatherneck.”
Bubbles smiled sweetly and said, “The couch is very comfy. But then, I suppose you two already know that, eh?”
Captain Gringo waited until they were out of earshot down the hall before he exploded in mirth and said, “You’ve got a nasty sense of humor, but that snooty little gal had it coming. You’d be fun to be around if you didn’t run with such a vicious pack.”
“Oh, dear, does that mean you don’t want me to join you later, Dick?”
“I never said that. I run with a vicious pack, too. I don’t see any way you can make a plugged nickel out of murdering me, so what the hell, let’s screw some more tonight.”
~*~
Pneumonia kills as many people in the tropics as the various fevers, so after leaving the consulate with his new I.D.s, Captain Gringo stopped to pick up some dry clothes. The stuff he had on had seen some rough times even before he’d gotten soaked, so he meant to throw it away and start fresh with a new outfit cut more in the local style. He bought a few changes of shirts and underwear while he was at it, packing them in a straw suitcase to carry back to the hotel.
He found his bed still unmade when he arrived. Apparently the little chambermaid was taking her siesta, but who cared? He took his new outfit down to the bathroom, enjoyed a long hot soak, and returned to his room feeling downright civilized.
Gaston was there and, like Captain Gringo, had thought to change into new dry clothes, with or without a bath. Gaston said, “I was wondering where you were, my jolly alley fighter.”
Captain Gringo took out Gaston’s new I.D., tossed it on the bed beside him, and said, “Here, M’sieu Chambrun. Welcome to the club.”
Gaston picked up the passport, examined it, and marveled aloud, “Sacré, this is good, Dick! Where did you find such an artist in such a little out of the way place?”
“U.S. Consulate. I could have made you a Russian nobleman but I didn’t want to turn your head.”
He brought Gaston up to date, mentioning that he’d met Bubbles and what she was up to, without mentioning any carnal matters. But Gaston put a finger against the side of his nose and said, “Ooh la la! I thought you looked more weary than a fight with mere men should have left you.”
“So I’m a friendly guy,” Captain Gringo growled, adding, “Speaking of friendly guys, what’s the story on our boat load of goodies?”
Frowning, Gaston said, “A curious one. We have a buyer. The Dutchman says something big is about to happen in French Guiana while everyone is watching this part of the coast, so—”
“Wait a minute,” Captain Gringo cut in, “you say French Guiana, Devil’s Island and all that shit?”
“Mais oui. As you may know, the French government has a trés droll policy regarding the penal colony down that way. After a man has served part of his sentence on Devil’s Island they send him ashore to the main colony under parole, to work out the remainder of his sentence as rather dramatically underpaid labor. For some reason France has had little luck in persuading free Frenchmen to go anywhere near French Guiana!”
“Yeah, I heard it was a hellhole. But who needs the guns, the guards?”
“Mais non, the guards and colonial police have their guns. The largely convict population plans to declare independence from France. One gathers they are not satisfied with the local pay scale and so forth.”
Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Gotcha. But if these guys in the market for a mess of 30-30 haven’t been getting paid enough to matter, how can they afford to pay the going rates?”
“Ah, that is the curious part, non?” Gaston said. “The Dutchman says some of the planters down that way are also annoyed with Paris for some reason. Perhaps the French government monopolies on trade. At any rate, the ex-convicts shall supply the muscle and the planters shall supply such leadership and financing as a rather mundane revolution might require.”
Captain Gringo took out a smoke, lit up, and said, “Well, like Bubbles says, everybody needs guns. France does have a legion detachment sitting on the lid down there, right?”
“Of course. I told the Dutchman they would be butchered like babes, but he was adamant and what do we care, as long as we are not asked to fire any of the weapons we sell them, hein?”
“Okay, when do we deliver and where?”
“We don’t have to do a thing, my worried brow. I simply told the Dutchman where the guns and launch are hidden. Tonight, after midnight, he shall have some of his associates pick up and deliver for us.”
“Jesus H. Christ! You told them where we hid that launch? Okay, how much front money did the Dutchman give you, Gaston?”
Gaston looked uncomfortable and said, “Uh, Dick, they are on a trés limited budget. The Dutchman says he will pay us in full upon delivery. After the guns arrive in French Guiana.”
Captain Gringo took the cigar from his mouth, stared morosely down at his smaller friend, and said flatly, “You* asshole! Assuming they don’t double-cross us, which would be a hell of a switch, it’s going to take them at least a couple of weeks to run down there and back. The fucking British Navy is blockading the south-east corner of the delta.”
“Merde, only offshore, Dick. The coast is a maze of lagoons and shallow channels, all the way to the Guianas. I admit there are certain dangers, but look at it this way: better them than us, hein?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, and they’re about to have an all-out war down here any minute! I took one hell of a chance getting us those papers, Gaston. We could leave with the next tide if we had our money. But now look what you’ve done, you chump!”
Gaston sighed and said, “Eh bien, I confess I might have been rash. But, as you say, what the hell, hein? Consider that we paid nothing for the guns and ammo we stole while escaping from those mysterious nuns up the river.”
“They’re not mysterious anymore. It’s starting to fall in place. Old Basil Hakim sent those guns up to that fake mission to arm some back country guerrillas working for Cipriano Castro’s faction. The little Turk’s a two-faced lying bastard, but he sells top merchandise. It’s good business to deliver the stuff the customer orders.”
“You confuse me, my old and rare. What do we care about Sir Basil and his hardware business? We are not gunrunners, as a rule.”
“Maybe not, but we have our own reps to think of. Don’t you see what the wise money boys will say if we let ourselves get diddled like greenhorns by a backwoods thug like the Dutchman?”
“It would be trés embarrassing. But I see no way to get our money, now, unless we stay until he returns.”
“Neither do I, you silly son-of-a-bitch! If we leave without demanding our money word will get around that it’s not really all that important to pay us, and God knows we’ve had enough trouble getting paid as it is. If we stay, we’ll be sitting right on the front fucking line when the Brits make their power play.”
“Merde alors, Dick, we are well inland. The Royal Marines will have to march through many a swamp, before they reach the capital, here, non?”
“Bullshit. Haven’t you been paying a
ny attention to the way Queen Victoria deals in real estate, Gaston? They didn’t take India by marching into a mangrove swamp. They moved in to grab Madras, Bombay, and Calcutta right off. Look at the damned map! There are only half a dozen towns in the whole delta and most of them are just villages. This is a deep water port, inland or not. They’ll steam up here with the band playing “God Save the Queen” and make this their base of operations.”
“And the Americans?”
“What Americans? I just heard the U.S. forces are bogged down between here and Key West. For a guy who talks so big, old Grover Cleveland vetoes military appropriations a lot. So far they’ve sent a lousy Civil War monitor that figures to turn turtle if they ever fire its guns. If the gunners of the Royal Navy can keep from laughing too hard, they have her on the bottom before she can even fire her guns. We have a marine detachment here in Tucupita. The Venezuelan forces loyal to Caracas probably number a few more. One Battalion of Royal Marines could have them for breakfast, even before the home grown rebel guerrillas start shooting them in the back.”
Gaston grimaced and said, “You make the position sound trés hopeless, Dick.”
“It is hopeless. Cleveland’s been beating his chest and sounding off about the Monroe Doctrine and now the Brits are going to call his bluff and, damn, those marines and a few army and navy kids I met today are going to get the shit kicked out of them!”
“Perhaps they will have sense enough to run away?” soothed Gaston.
Captain Gringo shook his head grimly, and said, “They won’t run. The poor assholes think the world’s run on the level. They’re expecting help, real help, from the States. The guys at the Alamo were expecting help, too, and you know how that turned out!”
Gaston took out his revolver and began to check the cylinder as he sighed and said, “I keep forgetting your idealistic streak, Dick. But, eh bien, if we must fight beside your countrymen, we must fight beside your countrymen. You know, of course, that you are an idiot?”
Captain Gringo started to protest they were only hanging around until the Dutchman got back with their money, but then he laughed, ruefully, and said, “Yeah, I spent four years at the Point and they never sent me into a real war.”
“One hears war is hell, Dick.”
“Yeah, but would you really like to miss this one?”
“Oui, very much. But if you stay, I stay. You have often reminded me I am an asshole.”
~*~
In Caracas, El Sortilego moved the black bishop to menace a white castle before he picked up the ringing, unlisted phone. His voice did not betray his surprise when he found himself talking to a strange voice. The man at the other end said, “I’m Sir Basil Hakim. You’ve heard of me, perhaps?”
El Sortilego said, “Of course. I am most curious to learn how you might have heard of me, Sir Basil.”
“Let’s just say we both have crystal balls, El Sortilego. I know your clients pay you to make things happen. May I assume you’re also paid to prevent things from happening to them?”
“Perhaps. What sort of things might be about to happen to anyone I know, Sir Basil?”
“Your client, Cipriano Castro, for one. I’ve been trying to reach the bloody bastard all day and he keeps ducking me. I seldom show all my cards like this, but it’s getting late in the game. I haven’t been paid for the arms I delivered to Castro’s rebels. It’s going to be even harder to collect in a few days, when he plans to make himself El Presidente. So get to the blighter and tell him he’s not going to live that long unless I see some money within twenty-four hours!”
El Sortilego took the castle with his bishop as he considered a bluff, then sighed, and said, “I shall take your voice on good faith, since I, too, keep tabs on other players and we have met, although I doubt if you would know me.”
“I know you. You were acting as the head waiter at that dinner the other night.”
“Touché, Sir Basil, you are as good as they say. Very well, let us put our cards on the table, man to man. I admit my client has been avoiding you—I advised him to. He has a temper and they say you have, too. I did not think the two of you should discuss your business dealings until we sort them out a bit. Somebody would seem to have thrown a wooden shoe into the works. Our guerrillas never got the guns and shells you sent. I am sure your people acted in good faith. Those so-called nuns of yours insisted under torture that they had not double-crossed us, and we tortured them to death.”
There was a long pause before Sir Basil said, in a cobra-calm tone, “All right. You doubtless have a good explanation for killing two of my agents and I’d like to hear it.”
“Our people arrived as agreed to pick up the so-called medical supplies,” El Sortilego said. “The people at the mission told a wild story about two maniacs hijacking the two steam launches. Your launch crews were not there to verify they had ever arrived. Our man in the field found it most difficult to believe that two men could have taken two launches, crew and all, so I fear he applied certain pressures. The peons at the mission told the same tale, no matter how often they were beaten.”
“The peons don’t matter. What about those girls I had working for me?”
“Alas, as I said, they died under the perhaps unskilled questioning. But we got the names of the culprits and their story makes a certain sense. You have heard, perhaps, of a Captain Gringo and his friend, Gaston?”
“I have. They’re in Tucupita at the moment, under observation by my agents there. Are you trying to tell me Captain Gringo hijacked my arms out on the llano?”
“That is what the people at the mission told us.”
“Well, the people at your mission are full of it. I know Dick Walker. He’s worked for me in the past. He’s good. He’s not that good, and even if he was, how in the devil could he be hijacking out on the llano if my people have him in the delta?”
El Sortilego moved a pawn, decided he didn’t like it there, and said, “Perhaps they took the launches they stole down the river to Tucupita?”
“Ridiculous!” Sir Basil snapped. “I’ve had them under observation since they arrived, I tell you. They’re staying at the Flamingo, and neither has a steam launch under his bed. I had the Frenchman followed to some riff-raff friends along the waterfront. They spent some time in a boat house. My people looked in the boathouse. There is no steam launch in said boathouse. One of my other agents picked Dick Walker up at the U.S. Consulate this afternoon. He didn’t have my stuff with him there, either. He’s working with American Military Intelligence. American Military Intelligence does not highjack steam launches. On the other hand, your Cipriano Castro has a rather dreadful credit rating. This wouldn’t be the first time he tried to get out of paying his just debts with a wild story.”
El Sortilego looked pained, moved another pawn, and said, “Let us admit Castro hates to pay for goods not received. The point is that somebody got the stuff you sent before his boys could pick it up. You know what I think? I think perhaps somebody pretending to be this Captain Gringo is trying to drive a wedge between friends.”
“We’re not friends,” Sir Basil snapped. “I’m an honest dealer and your lad is a customer who agreed to pay on delivery. So I’ll tell you what I think. I think the son-of-a-bitch is trying to have his revolution on the cheap! You get to him, muy pronto, and tell him if I don’t get my money he can commend his soul to Jesus, because his ass will belong to me!”
“But Sir Basil, how are we to have our revolution unless we have the arms? It is true we got some arms and ammunition, before the central government broke up our last delivery point. But without those shells for the howitzers you sold us, it would be suicide to stage a coup here in Caracas. Most of the loyalist troops are marching to meet the invasion, but they still have enough here in the capital to stand off rebels armed with only rifles.”
“That’s your problem,” Sir Basil said. “I delivered you enough 155s to blow Caracas flat. You pay me back by killing my field agents and stifling me on the price. I’ll sh
ow you suicide, if you don’t get some money to me, damned soon! I have to leave on my yacht before the Royal Navy steams in. But I’m leaving more than enough of my secret associates behind to make your lot very sorry you annoyed me. I’m leaving some rather dramatic hardware too. You want shells, for free? I’ll give you shells for free! I’ll lob a 155 through Castro’s loo, and if that won’t make an honest man of him, I’ll fire one up his arse!”
“Calm yourself, Sir Basil. I assure you you’ll get your money, in time.’*
“God strike a bloody light, I don’t want my money in time. I want it now!”
“But Sir, you must understand it is difficult to raise that kind of money before one takes over the government mint, no?”
There was a long ominous silence before the little Turk at the other end of the line hissed, “You ... son ... of … a … bitch! So that was the game all the while, was it? You asked me to arm your jolly revolution, cash and carry, and all the while you didn’t have the money?”
“Oh, I assure you, we have wealthy backers, Sir Basil.”
“You’d better have. I delivered. I want to be paid. By the way, those two women will cost you a hundred thousand a-piece. Good help is hard to find. I expect the money, as I said, within twenty-four hours.”
“I don’t see how we can raise such an amount on short notice, Sir Basil, but I will advise my client of your demands.”
“Don’t advise him. Tell him! Payment in full for the arms, plus two-hundred thousand for blood money, or you’ll see blood run like water before you die. You think your country is having trouble with the British Empire? Well, the British Empire is afraid of me!”
The line went dead. El Sortilego winced and put the receiver back on its cradle. He moved a couple of chessmen to steady his nerves and then he picked up the phone and asked for a certain number. When the man at the other end picked up, El Sortilego repeated the conversation and added, softly, “You’d better pay him, Cipriano, my friend.”
“Idiot! How can I?” the rebel leader gasped. “We need money for the revolution. Laying out such a sum would wipe us out!”