But that was fifty years before the conquistadors arrived. And since there were no gold mines in the land of the Muisca natives, the Spaniards concluded that their wealth had to come from those with whom they traded.
El Dorado wasn’t a gilded man. It was a city of gold.
Manoa del Dorado!
The gilded place!
So the Spaniards plundered their way inland, egged on by natives who wished to expel them to other realms. Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru. The fabled city of El Dorado could have been anywhere. Some thought it was in the mountains, just beyond the next range. Others heard it was deep in the unexplored part of the jungle. The myth became more elaborate as each expedition met with grief. Emaciated, fever-stricken men crawled back from disaster, having eaten their horses and dogs to escape alive. Others got shot with arrows poisoned with curare. In 1595, Sir Walter Raleigh sailed up the Orinoco River in search of El Dorado, then wrote in his Discovery of Guiana that somewhere in the Amazon jungle were “more rich and beautiful cities than either Cortez found in Mexico or Pizarro in Peru.”
Gold.
Greed.
Gold!
It was greed that drew the conquistadors to the tropical rainforest of Ecuador and Peru, where the eastern foothills of the Andes meet the headwaters of the Amazon River. They didn’t find El Dorado, but they did find plenty of gold, so the invaders established five towns and forced the local Jivaro to labor in the mines, thereby riling the New World’s fiercest headhunting tribe. When the Spanish governor levied a grasping tax on the gold trade in 1599, twenty thousand warriors crept from the jungle in the dead of night and, led by their chief, Anirula, attacked the sleeping conquistadors in the town of Logrono.
“Jíbaro!”
Shouts of warning crescendoed into a chorus of screams as headhunters burst into bedrooms and hauled the Spaniards from their sleep, dragging them into the moonlight so fearsome warriors could hack at their necks with stone axes, bamboo knives, wooden machetes, and clamshells honed as sharp as razors. Those breaking free were brought down by poisoned darts puffed through blowguns. Twelve thousand men, women, and children were among the dying and dead.
To the Spaniards, the jungle was a green hell, and they were being mauled by demons. Roofs were torched to set the haciendas ablaze. Burnished by the firelight, monsters with long flowing hair and woven headbands crowned with toucan feathers moved from corpse to corpse to string the heads of the slain along ropes of bark. The cords went in through the mouths and came out through the dripping necks.
Hellish men with designs painted on their faces and skeletons drawn on their naked chests herded the governor from his home out into the chaos. There, several Jivaro melted gold in a pot heated by an angry fire. The conquistador shrieked as they poured the liquefied metal down his throat.
“Have you had your fill of gold now?” the Jivaro taunted as billows of steam rose from his lips.
The governor’s bowels burst.
For centuries to come, the Jivaro would be the only savages to thwart the Spanish empire. With the town of Logrono burnt to the ground and all but a handful of sex slaves slaughtered, the headhunters vanished into the mists of the primeval rainforest, leaving nothing behind but the stench of charred human flesh.
The conquistadors had come for gold.
The Jivaro had come for tsantsas.
* * *
With the head of this gold-seeker in his hand, the headhunter worked diligently to peel the skin from the skull. The only light came from a flickering candle and the fire under the pot, but in his imagination he could see the festering jungle around him. Enormous trees soared overhead, their branches dark with every hue of green. Purple orchids hung from the tangled limbs, and poisonous fruits dropped into the undergrowth to rot. Up there, coveys of vampire bats slept in the foliage, their furry bellies bloated with blood. Down here, in the musky odor of damp and decay, tarantulas with fuzzy legs watched anacondas slither through the gloom, the jaws of their spade-shaped heads lined with teeth.
Parting the hair of the severed head from the crown to the hack line at the base of the neck, the headhunter slit the skin by pressing the tip of his knife against the bone. Carefully, he peeled the flesh back on both sides. Cutting was required at the ears, the eyes, and the nose, but soon the skull was naked except for the eyeballs and the lipless teeth.
Had he been close to a river, the headhunter would have tossed the skull in as an offering to the anaconda god, feared for its strength and its supernatural powers. But instead, he mounted the flayed skull on a candlestick.
The bulging, bloodshot whites stared at him.
The teeth flashed an ivory grin.
Pushing back from the table, the man who had bushwhacked Boomer carried the snowboarder’s head across to the pot boiling on the stove and turned the gas flame down to a simmer. Holding the trophy by its long locks, he lowered Boomer’s face into the spaghetti pot and watched it sink slowly into the bubbling water. Then, with half an hour to wait before the next step, he left the kitchen for the main room.
As he crossed the threshold, he morphed from a bronze-skinned Jivaro with long hair into that which he’d seen in the bathroom mirror before setting out to trap the poacher that morning.
“El Dorado,” he prophesied.
The window of the mountainside chalet looked down on the village sprawled at the base of the snow-covered peaks. Twilight stained the slopes an iridescent blue as gold lights below lured Olympic hopefuls to nightlife in the bars. Along the windowsill were several carnivorous plants, their deadly maws yawning for their evening meal. With long tweezers, the headhunter plucked bugs from an aerated jar and dropped them into the hairy funnels. As he did, he smiled down at the skiers, snowboarders, and other athletes converging on the pub in the El Dorado Resort.
“Have you had your fill of gold now?” he asked rhetorically.
If not, they soon would.
So This Cop Walks Into a Bar …
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.
“Whisky,” said Nick.
“Whisky with or without the ‘e’?”
“Single malt.”
“Brand?”
“Surprise me,” said Nick.
“One uisge beatha coming up,” the bartender said, turning her back on the Mountie to choose from the line of bottles ranked along the wall. The brunette poured a dram of Glenmorangie into a glass, held it up to the light to admire the amber color, and set it down in front of Nick with a flash of cleavage that convinced him to increase her tip.
“What’s that mean?”
“What?”
“‘You ski’ whatever.”
“Uisge beatha?” She threw him a bright, white grin. “The same as uisce beatha. Both mean ‘water of life.’ The first is Scots Gaelic, the second Irish Gaelic. Scotsmen drink whisky without an ‘e,’ and Irishmen drink whiskey with an extra letter.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You learn something new every day,” she said, giving him a wink like a starlet from a 1940s movie.
“Whisky or whiskey—does it matter? They’ll both take you where you want to go.”
“Shh!” shushed the bartender, raising a finger to her candy apple lips. “If a Scotsman hears that, the two of you’ll be busting up the pub.”
“You think?”
“‘Whisky or Whiskey?’” the brunette said as if standing in front of a mike:
A Scotsman who spells
Whisky with an “e”
should be handcuffed
and thrown headfirst in the Dee.
In the U.S.A. and Ireland,
it’s spelt with an “e”
but in Scotland
it’s real “Whisky.”
So if you see Whisky
and it has an “e,”
only take it,
if you get it for free!
For the name is not the same
and it never will be,
a dram is only a real
dram
from a bottle of “Scotch Whisky.”
“A pub with entertainment,” said Nick, hoisting his glass in a toast to her and downing a swig.
“That’s Stanley Bruce, the Bard of Banff. Google him. His poem has earned me a lot of tips.”
“I’ll bet. What’s your name?”
“Karen,” she replied.
“I’m Nick,” the corporal said, flashing his regimental badge.
“You can drink on duty?”
“Actually, I’m on my days off. But since I’m the only cop who can ski Boomer’s Run, the local Horsemen called me in to assess the murder scene. Currently, though, I’m off duty.”
“Poor Boomer. An ugly way to go. I guess he messed with someone else’s chick one too many times.”
“In here?”
Karen nodded. “This was his watering hole.”
“Any chicks in particular?”
“That table would be a good place to start.”
Turning from the bar, Nick followed her nod toward three striking women—a blonde, a redhead, and a knockout with raven hair—shedding their coats for what he suspected was an après-ski manhunt for Olympic champions. The Gilded Man was filling up with satisfied skiers and boarders from around the world, all of them lured here to test the waters before going for the gold in February. As North America’s blue-ribbon resort, Whistler had always been the haunt of beautiful yuppies. But now the whiff of real money—endorsement money—had gold diggers like these three polishing their velvet claws. If they could hook a future owner of the podium, these foxes would be able to enjoy the money-is-everything lifestyle that spills from the bed of all platinum jocks.
Have you ever noticed how many multimillionaire sportsmen have Barbie dolls clinging to them?
Nick had.
As a cop from the wrong side of the tracks, the corporal felt inadequate in a gene pool like this. Somewhere, he had read about a speed-dating study that stripped away what people like to think they’re looking for—a like-minded soul mate—and exposed the brutal reality that men are attracted to beauty and women to wealth. Women trade their attractiveness for higher-quality men, leveraging their looks for security, fitness, and commitment. A man wants the most attractive woman who’ll accept him, so he can mate with good genes. Feminine beauty plus masculine money equals love, because evolution drives us to create more successful offspring. Not a pretty picture, but it had the ring of truth. And that’s why Nick knew these three babes were out of his league.
“Karen!” one of the honey traps beckoned, lifting three manicured fingers above her expensive coif. “Guinness is good for you.”
Accepting the advertising slogan as an order, the bartender popped the tops off three cans of beer, partially filled glasses with the dark, foamy brew, and arranged them on a small round tray for delivery to the table.
“I guess I should talk to them, eh?” said Nick.
“I thought you were off duty.”
“Conscientious cops are never off duty, Karen.”
“Not if the duty looks like that,” said the barkeep, rolling her eyes. She passed Nick the drinks. “Here. Go introduce yourself. But return the tip to me.”
Snow Bunnies
The music in the Gilded Man—strictly retro R&B—was played softly enough that drinkers didn’t have to bellow to flirt, but loudly enough that they were induced to get it on. Nick weaved the tray through clusters of chatter to strains of “Money Honey” by the Drifters. A clumsy waiter, he served the sexy trio without spilling too much, then pulled back one of the vacant chairs at their table and sat down.
The blonde tossed him a “get lost” glare.
The redhead dismissed him with a cold pout.
The raven-haired goddess used mental telepathy to tell him to buzz off.
In reply, Nick flashed them all his bison-head badge.
“Boomer,” he said.
When it came to cinematic thrillers, nothing irked Nick more than a director with a fetish for one color of hair. He’d sit there eating his popcorn, trying to figure out whodunit, and all the actresses in the movie would be blondes. In a long shot, the suspects were interchangeable. There should be a rule that femmes fatales must be color-coded so armchair detectives—and real detectives, in Nick’s case—can keep them straight. The women at this table—the Blonde, the Redhead, and the Raven—were how it should be.
“What happened to your hand?” asked the Blonde. Mandy was her name, and she wore a scoop-necked sweater. Obviously, she hadn’t come in from the slopes. She made Nick think of Lana Turner.
“A bad guy hacked it off,” said Nick.
“Why?”
“He was evil.”
“How strong is the new hand?” asked the Redhead. Her name was Jessica, and she wore a fuzzy green sweater. She reminded Nick of Rita Hayworth.
Picking up Jessica’s empty can of Guinness, the cop crushed it down to scrap metal.
“Wow!” said the Blonde. “When you cop a feel, I bet a girl knows she’s been felt up.”
The buxom trio tittered.
“What’s your strangest case?” asked the Raven. Corrina by name, she reminded Nick of Jane Russell. The Raven wore a clinging creamy sweater that hung to her thighs, with a black belt, black ski tights, and black riding boots. When she sipped her Guinness, a foamy mustache lined her Cupid’s bow lip. Out flicked her tongue to lick it away like a kitten laps up milk.
If Nick had to choose …
(In your dreams, dude.)
… he’d take all three.
“You forgot your whisky without an ‘e,’” Karen said behind him, and as she bent over his shoulder to set the drink down on the table, her chest brushed against him. Nick had always been a sucker for Hollywood’s golden era. How had Bob Hope once introduced his radio guest? “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome the two and only Jane Russell?”
Karen went back to the bar.
“Boomer,” Nick said. “I’m led to believe you ladies knew him in the biblical sense?”
“Everyone knew Boomer,” replied Mandy the Blonde.
“He was key to the party circuit,” Jessica the Redhead added. “Get on his list and you were in.”
“Were you all on Boomer’s list?”
“Of course,” said Corrina the Raven. “The Olympics will be a blast.”
“How did you get on his list?”
“It’s Whistler,” said Jessica the Redhead. “Everything has a price. You pay to play.”
“Pay what?”
“Boomer’s entry fee.”
“Which was?”
“Entry.”
The vixens laughed.
The answer reminded Nick of a quip someone once made about Ray Charles. To be a Raelette—one of his background singers—the joke went, you had to let Ray.
“I’m sure you all have boyfriends?”
“Had,” corrected Corrina. “We’re currently unattached and moving up in the world.”
“Or were,” groused Mandy, “until Boomer got himself topped.”
“I’ll need your ex-boyfriends’ names.”
One by one, the social climbers provided Nick with the names and addresses of the lovers they’d ground underfoot on the steps to their own Olympic podium. Each one had a motive for lopping off Boomer’s head.
Ah yes, Whistler!
Gold, sex, and honey drippers.
“So what was your strangest case?” asked Corrina.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No.”
“Neither did I, until I went to Ireland for an extradition case. On a dark and stormy night, I ran out of gas on a countryside road. So there I was, walking along in the pitch black, the rain so hard I could barely see five feet in front of me, when suddenly this car crept up behind me and stopped. Relieved, I jumped in the passenger’s door—but there was no one behind the steering wheel and the engine wasn’t on.
“The AA Guide had told me this district was known for its ghosts, one of whom was called
the Phantom Highwayman. I couldn’t believe it when the car began to move! All of a sudden, as it rolled toward a curve, a ghostly hand came in through the window, yanked the wheel, and saved me from crashing! I was so spooked that I dove out of the car while it was still moving and ran on ahead until I spied lights beckoning from a roadside pub. It was called the Phantom Highwayman.
“As you can imagine, I dashed in, ordered a whiskey, and drank it in one gulp.”
Raising his glass to the Blonde, the Redhead, and the Raven, Nick snapped the malt down his gullet. Wincing, he wiped his mouth with the back of his real hand.
“The locals were nodding their heads,” he continued, “as I told my ghost story, and that’s when two more soaked travelers burst in from the deluge.
“‘Look, Paddy,’ one said, pointing his finger at me. ‘It’s the fucking idiot who jumped in while we were pushing our car!’”
The snow bunnies groaned.
“You’re a barrel of laughs,” said Mandy.
“If you ladies want to pay the entry fee,” said Nick, “I’ll put you on my party list.”
* * *
Two hours later, Nick wandered out of the Gilded Man into the dazzle of Christmas lights sparkling throughout Whistler Village. He reached for his gloves to protect his hands and found a keycard to a room in the El Dorado Resort stuffed in the open end of one.
The keycard bore a Post-it Note.
Nick sucked in a deep breath to help focus his eyes through a fuzz of intoxication.
“Ten o’clock tonight,” he read. “Be discreet.”
Tsantsa
The head that emerged from the spaghetti pot had shrunk to half its size. The skin was as white as paper and smelled like cooked flesh. To the headhunter’s fingers, Boomer felt rubbery.
“Behold the head of a poacher,” the killer said to himself, holding up the trophy like French revolutionaries had with aristocrats topped by the guillotine.
Red Snow Page 2
