The camp ownership had changed hands, and a son of the original operator was now master of the business. He had been a boy that both Alpha and Bravo remembered from their last visit, but recognition was one way. The proprietor did not remember them or their boat.
Yes, he had johnboats available for fishing or exploring the river. He assured the prospective customers that his engines were almost new and in perfect condition. Alpha explained their fear of sinking and their system of filling bags with balloons to provide flotation if their boat leaked or swamped.
Then the camp owner remembered because the balloon-filled bags had provided unfailing laughter for the people of the camp. The children had enjoyed the abandoned balloons for many months.
His visitors were unoffended. They spoke of dangerous fish, like the piranha, that had never been in this river. Their balloon system had provided safety the last time, and they would use it again. They promised that when they departed, the current crop of children would have another balloon supply to last for more months of pleasure.
Bravo remembered that he and Alpha had simply punctured balloons to expel the air—they had, after-all, been in something of a hurry to pack money into those sailbags. They had left some unused balloons in the rental boat, but this time, they would leave all of their unused balloons for the children's enjoyment.
The camp owner summoned the short-legged padre and directed him to prepare their best boat with the newest motor and include three five-gallon cans of their best, carefully filtered, gasoline for the friends from his father's time.
Apparently a regularly employed helper, the monk nodded and went about the duties. His ear still attuning to the Mexican's rapid language, Alpha asked about the damaged helper.
The proprietor shrugged almost dismissively.
"He is called Father, no feet. He is not a real priest, but he has a small congregation that enjoys his sermons. He lives nearby, and I pay him a pittance for his help. He is poor and has no prospects. Even the pennies I pay him are appreciated."
Bravo said, in English, "You are kind, Senor."
The owner understood the words and smiled appreciatively. "Padre, no feet, has been here since my father's days. He comes and he goes, but he has always returned, and I do what little I can for him."
Alpha asked the question that Bravo was waiting for. "Was he born without feet? His is a terrible affliction that he handles well."
"No one knows for sure, but it happened long ago. Some say sharks took his feet. Others believe that his feet were cut off by guerillas during fighting in the bad times. I have never asked."
Bravo said, "We will leave him something before we go."
The proprietor nodded, "He will be grateful, Senors. His lot is hard."
Neither Alpha nor Bravo spoke of it before they reached the privacy of their boat, but their suspicions ran high.
Seated in their cockpit, Bravo said, "It's him, all right."
Alpha agreed. The murderous pirate they had sunk at sea had survived, but he said, "We can't be sure. We never really studied the guy, and it has been a long time. Lots of Mexicans look alike to us."
"It's him." Bravo did not doubt it. "But how in hell did he survive? He should have drowned, and it looks as if sharks worked on him more than a little."
"Just not his time, I guess—if that really is him. Do you think he recognized us?"
"Of course, he recognized us. We just look a little older, and there is only one boat like the Noisy Oyster, and you remember that he wanted it very badly." Bravo's lips thinned. "I'll bet his guts curdled, and his stumps ached when he saw us coming in. The questions are, how is he taking it, and what if anything might he do about it?"
Alpha was thoughtful. "Yeah, we'll look closely at that outboard engine, and I want to re-filter the gas and make sure it smells right. If it is him, he might be content with small dirty tricks. On the other hand, he might be thinking big, and we had better be prepared for that as well." Byrne flailed at encroaching mosquitoes. "When we go upriver, we will cross to the other side and stay close to the bank where shooting ranges will be longer."
Bravo said, "Let's hire a reliable boy to sleep on the boat and guard it against anybody else coming aboard."
Alpha nodded, "Can't hurt. We'll do it. I'll go back up to the office shack and make the arrangement."
He thought for a moment. "I'll tell you what else we'll do right now. We'll hire about four little rascals to sit here in the cockpit and fill balloons. I about blew my lungs out the last time, and kids will be good camouflage."
"Camouflage? God, Byrne, you misuse our language something awful. Camouflage is a material, not a diversion."
Byrne was dismissive. "A used house salesman like you would be expert at diversions, Shepard. I accept your correction, even if it is in error."
Then Byrne said, "There is another question to consider. If it is him, what do we want to do about it?"
Bravo was succinct. "That's easy, shoot him and bury him. What else does he deserve?"
Chapter 22
There had been severe flooding since their 1985 visit, and the crude dock below the river bridge was gone without a trace. The dirt path leading up to the road remained but looked little used.
They powered under the bridge looking for another way to reach the road, but jungle was solid with massive growth barring sensible landing.
Bravo said, "We'll just tie off from a handy branch where the dock used to be and continue as planned."
Alpha agreed and steered for the shore. Bravo secured the boat. They assembled their cart, loaded the balloon-filled bags, and seized weapons. This trip each had a .45 caliber pistol under his shirt, and there were two shotguns in with the bags. An infantryman's shovel/pick combination tool was included. There were two machetes and a pliers-type vine trimmer with two-foot handles. They soaked in DEET and carried a spare bottle each.
When they reached the road, both looked each way. The road ran empty, and it appeared barely traveled.
Bravo reminded, "If we see anyone coming, we cache the weapons off the road, except for our pistols, and smile in our friendliest manner."
Alpha asked, "What if it is the Federales?"
Bravo said, "Smile broader and 'No comprende Spanish.' We're just wandering touristy Americans looking for Mayan ruins—or something."
Byrne said, "Boy, that'll fool them," and they started across the bridge.
The side road appeared on schedule, and it, too, appeared almost untraveled. Further along, the dead tree still poked itself above the thorn thicket, but the thorns had regrown, and only the closest examination hinted at a route to the tree cleared two decades earlier. A quarter of a mile further they reached the sharp turn and the steep drop off.
Bravo looked over the edge. "Good God, it's almost a cliff, and it must be a hundred and fifty feet to the bottom—which I can't begin to see."
Alpha was approving. "Yeah, all you can see is vegetation and tree tops. No one would have a reason to climb down there. The Mercedes will be waiting for us."
Bravo grumbled, "The car probably broke apart and everything got soaked and rotted. All we will find is rotted paper with rat nests in it."
Bravo said, "I'll hide the guns we aren't taking. We can't just leave them in the cart."
Alpha went over the edge without answering. The going was treacherous, and they edged downward with one hand always gripping a root or branch of the heavy foliage. Bravo slipped and skidded a dozen feet before catching a plant that would hold. He slithered to a stop just above a serious looking drop off.
Alpha was unsympathetic. "Damn it, Shepard, be careful. I'll need help getting the money out of here."
Bravo said, "I'm being careful because, if it was me or the money, I would be doomed to rot here forever."
He examined the drop he had been heading for. "Hell that's only about twenty feet, I could hit and do a parachute landing fall right back onto my feet."
Alpha was off to a side safely bypassing th
e small cliff. He was about to answer when his feet slipped, and he shot downhill for two body lengths before regaining his balance. Bravo said "Nice move, Byrne."
Alpha cursed softly, "And here come the mosquitoes, Bravo. I hate mosquitoes even more than I used to." The insects rose in an almost solid swarm. The DEET held them at bay, but they droned menacingly, surrounding the sweating explorers.
Finally, they were down. Alpha made it to the jungle floor, but Bravo stopped on a large earth mound that bulged from the hillside. From his higher perch Shepard surveyed the jungle. Disappointment tinged his voice.
"Hell, there's no car here, Byrne. Somebody must have found it, hauled it back up, and took it away." He swung furiously at the threatening mosquito horde. "We're screwed, Alpha. All this work was for nothing."
Byrne sounded unperturbed. "Then, I guess you'd be willing to give me your share of anything we find?"
Bravo was not that willing. "I give you nothing, Alpha, but the car's gone—if it ever was here. You sure this is the right place?"
Byrne shrugged and said, "Well, I'm pretty sure, pardner. In fact, from here, I can see that you are standing smack on top of it."
Bravo's leap carried him clear of the dirt mound, and from the side he could see the earth-covered automobile buried nose down for half its length in the soggy forest floor.
"Son-of-a-gun! There it is, Byrne." Bravo's grin was wide. "I never doubted you for an instant, old pal."
Byrne's voice was cynical. "Right, Shepard. So, let's not stand here. Get out the shovel and start clearing the butt end of this fine machine. I'll clear away a bunch of these creepers, so that we can have working room."
Bravo punched on the side of the Mercedes with the combination tool, and the steel sounded solid. "Well, it doesn't seem rusted out, so we've got a chance that the trunk stayed sound." He began clawing dirt and plants from the highest part of the standing-on-end automobile.
Bravo dug, and Alpha hacked at vines. After ten minutes they switched tools and paused to see how they were doing.
Alpha said, "When you get a few more vines out of the way, start clearing a path to the river. I can hear it; it's only a few yards away. With a little luck, we can bring the boat right here and avoid trying to haul bags back up this damned cliff."
Alpha dug, then Bravo returned to the task, and gradually the body of the armored car appeared with enough earth moved to allow examination of the car's rear end. Alpha ran his hand along the trunk and body seam. "Man, this is as tight as it ever was, Bravo. Damn thing feels airtight."
"Good. The money should be undamaged."
Alpha nodded, "So how are we going to get inside the trunk, pardner? This is armor, after all."
Bravo was bemused by the problem. "I thought the metal would be rusted and about falling apart. What is this stuff, stainless steel or something?"
"This can't be modern stainless steel, but whatever it is, it's hardened armor, and we aren't going to bend it like it was ordinary car body steel. I thought the metal would be all but gone, too—but?" Alpha had to think about it.
Bravo said, "Try the trunk handle."
Byrne sneered. "Like it would be unlocked and functioning after twenty years in the jungle. Hell, it will probably break off in my hand, but . . ." Alpha got a grip on the T-handle and twisted.
To his astonishment, the handle turned. Not far, but it moved. Bravo was at least as astounded.
"Oh man, Alpha, those old time Germans built things right. That lock is going to open like it was greased last week."
Impatient and anxious they took turns working the lock. They banged on the handle and on the armored trunk. They twisted the handle back and forth edging it a hint further when they could.
Bravo went to the river and returned with a hatful of water that he poured on while Alpha moved the handle. The water helped, and they gained more than a little. Alpha said, "What we need is oil."
"Yeah, maybe a can of WD-40. That's good for everything."
"We've got two cans of WD on the Oyster. You want to go back down the river and get them, Bravo?"
"Just keep twisting, Byrne. We're gaining." Bravo thought, then he suggested, "What about DEET? It couldn't hurt, could it?"
Byrne jarred the recalcitrant lock with the back of their entrenching tool. "Try it, Bravo, but there isn't any body or oil to our DEET." Alpha thought about it. "Maybe that will be good. It might penetrate better than water. Pour some on, pardner." Bravo poured, and Alpha twisted the handle back and forth.
Movement slid up Alpha's arm. He felt a difference. The handle motion was smoothing, and it was longer, and—the handle turned a full ninety degrees. It stopped moving because it struck a mechanical stop.
Byrne said, "We've got it, Bravo, we've got it." He tugged furiously at the trunk lid, but nothing moved.
Bravo said, "Relax a minute. Hell, that thing is stuck from twenty years of rubber gaskets melting together. We'll get it now."
Byrne sat back, waiting, but anxious to haul and pull until they had the trunk open. It was his duty, so he jabbed Bravo's nerves a little.
"You know, Shepard, I've always wondered how Donna Santos could know there was money in the trunk of this car. I'll bet she was just guessing. There might not be anything in here worth bothering about."
Bravo glared. "I'll tell you what, Byrne. You just go up and wait at the cart. I'll bring my share up and leave yours."
Byrne reminded, "We are leaving by the river. We go up this hill once. We get the cart and hump ourselves back to our boat. Then we will cruise under the bridge, up the river, load the money, and be gone."
Byrne got to his feet and began trying to wedge their tool under the edge of the trunk lid. He got a good grip, and Bravo forced the tip of one of the machetes into the bonded-together crack of gaskets sealing the trunk. Alpha heaved, and Bravo jammed his blade tip in a little deeper. They heaved again, and Alpha could feel a small giving. Bravo's blade was in enough for him to add his strength to the levering.
They threw their backs into it, and the Mercedes trunk began opening as reluctantly as if it were a medieval tomb. They gained a six-inch opening and knew they had succeeded.
They abandoned their tools and got their fingers into the opening. Then they heaved like stevedores, and the trunk opened more than half way. A few wiggles opening and closing, and the trunk lid swung high.
Alpha and Bravo stared. They had a problem. Even a first glance showed them more bags than they had expected. Moneybags stuffed the trunk. How many? Could there be a dozen? Well, maybe not, but more than the expected six or seven.
Bravo's voice was hoarse. "Geez, this car's got a big trunk."
Alpha's head was bobbing. "No wonder those drug guys were celebrating back in 1985. They must have been planning on flying out most of the dough their drug selling had produced."
It was almost too much to comprehend, but Alpha summed up their feelings on the matter.
"And now it is all ours."
Chapter 23
Alpha delayed their downriver approach to the docked Noisy Oyster until dark was approaching. He idled the loaded johnboat alongside the Oyster, and as they had expected, except for their watch boy the marina lay deserted. No crippled monk/murderer came to tie them off, and no children played among the buildings. The youthful guard was dismissed with his payment including a fat tip.
Avoiding noises and suspicious haste, Alpha handed brittle and aged plastic bags of tightly packed money to Bravo who hustled them into the unlighted cabin. There were nine bags of compressed American one hundred dollar bills. Alpha judged that if the seven 1985 moneybags had profited them more than three million dollars each, nine bags—even counting the more massive payouts necessary—would reap more than another few million dollars American—each.
Without enough sailbags to carry the unexpectedly large cash bounty, they had placed the old plastic bags in the johnboat's bottom and disguised their presence with money-filled sail bags. The subterfuge would not have pas
sed even a casual boat inspection, but the river was virtually deserted, and they merely swapped distant hand waves with a few passing workboats.
With the moneybags safely stashed in the forward V-berth compartment, Alpha immediately went to work. He used dockside electrical power to swiftly saw open their keel compartment. The bags went in, and the sawed-out deck section was replaced and held strongly around its edges by fast drying 10-minute epoxy.
An hour later, Alpha laid the first fiberglass patch over an area larger than the covered hole and soaked it into permanence with epoxy. They spent the last of the evening resting in the Oyster's cockpit, but about midnight, Byrne poured expandable foam through a small hole drilled into the money compartment until the mixture foamed up through the hole. Byrne stood with his foot on the hole until the foam compressed on itself and hardened. The money bags were sealed in as if they were part of the boat.
Before dawn, Alpha added a second fiberglass layer to the cabin floor that was larger than the first layer. The point was to disguise the presence of a neat little hole leading to a secret keel compartment.
In mid-morning, Byrne could soak in a third and final fiberglass cloth layer. By evening, they would epoxy paint the entire cabin floor, and later, during the night, they could re-glue the carpet and be ready to depart.
Bravo was already spraying the cabin with new car scent.
It was late afternoon with all but the floor painting and carpet re-gluing completed before visitors approached. The footless man clumped his awkward way across the marina. He was accompanied by a younger man—a priest, if his clerical collar could be trusted. The marina owner appeared at his office door and greeted the new priest with obvious respect and affection—probably a legitimate clergyman, both Byrne and Shepard decided.
The priest with feet came to the dock edge and spent a long moment studying the Noisy Oyster's solid but graceful lines. His footless companion waited silently at his elbow. The priest nodded approval of the Oyster's design and looks and turned his attention to Alpha and Bravo waiting in the boat's cockpit.
Pardners Page 23
