She threw the note to the bed with a frustrated groan, and laid back covering her eyes with the palms of her hands. Part of her was excited, she had seen the map and knew it was genuine, it looked like it dated back to at least 1500-1600 BC. The cursive hieroglyphs on the withered papyrus sheet brittle from age, the style of it reminiscent with the hieroglyphs found in the ancient pages of the Egyptian Book of The Dead which also dated back to around this era. It was enough to get her archeological juices flowing, finding something that old, let alone what secrets it held was a magnificent find.
Her problem was, she enjoyed reading about it and studying it, not actually going to find it. She had carefully taken a copy of the map, and she opened her handbag taking it out to look at it again. Damn you Uncle Eugene, she thought. He had used the map as a lure to entice her. He had her again, hook, line and sinker.
He knew she was one of a handful of people in the world who could actually read it. It beckoned to her, like a good book you couldn’t put down, or racking your brain trying to finish a puzzle on a rainy day. Just like that one word left on your crossword, or the missing piece when you get to the end of a jigsaw puzzle, it nagged at her, relentlessly without resolution.
OK, I’ll play she thought to herself. She stood up and flicked open her suitcase, deciding to have a shower and clean herself up before heading out to the club. The warm water of the shower lashed her back, with tiny needles of spray like a million massaging fingers, working across her lightly muscled back and arms. She let out a sigh of relief as the warm water ran over her head and face engulfing it, washing away the stress of the last few hours.
She sat on the edge of her bed feeling warm and limp, enticed by the idea of room service and the smoothness of crisp cotton sheets and fluffy pillows. Instead she reluctantly got up and dressed, fixing her hair and makeup, ready to find the Salsa bar and the mysterious Amercian her uncle spoke of.
She hailed a taxi out front of the hotel. The taxi driver, Renzo Rafael an ageing man with bad eyesight eyed her curiously and asked her where she was going. His hair once dark, was now salted with silver, thick bifocals magnifying his eyes in the rear vision mirror, making him look like a comical owl. His taxi smelt of stale tobacco, sweat and orange rinds, a disconcerting trio that even a deodorising hanging pine tree could not disguise, it hung swaying from his rear vision mirror in the futile attempt to mask the lingering smell. Possibly if it was true to size it might have actually worked.
“Please take me to the El Mani Es Asi” she asked, confident that her pronunciation was pretty shaky.
Renzo looked at her, partly concerned detecting her English accent. “Are you sure Miss?” he queried with a strong accent. “There are plenty of restaurants and bars in the city, we have all cuisines including Japanese, Mexican and Chinese, and some really nice bars, are you sure you want to go to the El Mani?” She looked to him like someone who would enjoy a place with a little more class.
She looked at him, a little uncertain. “Yes, I’m meeting someone there.”
“Ah, ok.” Renzo looked a little bit more reassured, “but you know this person?”
“Yes, yes.” She dismissed him not wanting to discuss it any further. “I’m meeting someone I know, please take me there.” She regarded him suspiciously. Maybe he was trying to look out for her, it was a dangerous city, but he was sure asking a lot of questions too, and her uncle did say that he felt like he was being followed.
“Here we are” stated Renzo, pulling up in a dark laneway.
“Is this... it?” She looked at the outside of the building. The walls were covered with graffiti and there were motorbikes lined up out front. There were several patrons, loitering around the door and in the alleyway. Frankly to her, the place looked like a dive bar. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so confident anymore. She was feeling the pins and needles of an oncoming panic attack, but she had to persist, her uncle was depending on her.
From inside the sounds of a live band filtered out onto the street, drumbeats and maracas, and the drifting tune of a guitar played with fingers that skipped lightly and quickly across the strings, as if making fun of them in a game of catch me if you can.
She stepped gingerly out of the taxi, suddenly completely unsure of herself. She felt all their eyes on her as she walked across to the door. Several locals stepped aside to let her by, but she continued to feel their eyes burning into her back as she walked in, feeling completely like a fish out of water amongst all the locals in the club.
She looked around slowly taking in the ambience and absorbing her surroundings. The smell of the taxi was still ripe in her nostrils, roosting there like a squatter facing eviction, ready to be replaced with the smell of the club, more sweat, tobacco and something sweet, like the fragrance of a flower.
There were people on the dance floor, swaying suggestively to the music. The women were scantily clad, the majority of them buxom, with large bosoms and thighs, squeezed into impossibly tight skirts and pants.
They were all tanned with long shiny dark hair and supersized everything - earrings, bracelets and shoes. Compared to them she was practically lily white, she was sure she would glow like a white T-shirt if they switched on the UV lights.
It wasn’t really her type of place, she was long separated from the clubbing scene and she decided quickly that she needed to find the Bush Boss and get out of this club fast. From the corner of the room she saw a large man, with ripped off sleeves and tattoos all down his arms starting to approach her. She made her way posthaste over to the bar. The bartender glanced at her disinterestedly.
“Yes?” she asked in a monotonous tone. She disinterestedly brushed a filthy looking rag across the bar, scooping up peanut shells and discarded cigarette ash. Not much seemed to faze her, she figured she could have been an alien with a blue head and she would have paid her the same amount of attention.
“I’m looking for someone, a man named the Bush Boss.”
She eyed her in her expensive suit, the most attention she had paid to her so far. “We are all looking for someone lady, depends how badly.”
Tasha looked at her starting to feel angry. She couldn’t believe it, only a couple of minutes in the club and someone was already trying to shake her down. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the man with the tattoos getting closer, there was no time to waste.
“Ok - how much?”
The bartender poured her a drink. She wasn’t sure, but the dark amber liquid looked a lot like rum. She was however, sure of the fact that she was not going to be drinking out of the clouded glass she poured it into. “Fifty dollars” she said holding out her hand “American.” She was pretty sure that was a fairly hefty tip, but she didn’t have time to argue or haggle. Tasha grumbled as she dove into her clutch, producing a fifty dollar note.
“Easy,” cautioned the bartender “give it to me quickly, and try not to draw any more attention to yourself, if possible.” She snatched the note crumpled it up and stuffed it down her bra.
“See over there?” She nodded slightly to a table in the corner of the room without turning her head. “He’s the guy in the hat.” Tasha looked across the room to see a guy sitting with some others at a table, wearing a large oversized Akubra hat, a little like the one worn by Crocodile Dundee.
She left the drink on the bar and walked across to the table, standing in front of him. The guy following her with the tattoos backed off slightly, and disappeared back into the crowd of locals mingling around the bar, amongst numerous plumes of smoke from lit cigarettes rising lazily milkily clouding the air.
The Bush Boss was true to his name. An American Adventurer, he was a good match for Indiana Jones. She looked at him, he was tall and muscular, his arms a little like solid tree trunks. His hair was dark and a little bit on the long side, his face covered in a rugged stubble that accentuated his dark blue eyes which were the colour of a stormy ocean, hooded by dark heavy brows. He was unkempt and rough at the edges, that was for sure, but hidden underneath a
ll that was the makings of a very attractive man.
He eyed her with amusement over the rim of a frosty pint. She was wearing a grey suit, with a white blouse, black thick rimmed glasses and her curly blond hair was secure in a smooth bun on top of her head.
“You guys shouldn’t have!” he bellowed in a brazen Southern drawl, as slow as molasses in January. “You got me a stripper.” He continued eying her rambunctiously “she’s not really my type, a bit bonier than I would like” he slapped her on the arse making her squeal.
“I don’t think she’s noes stripper” said Luis, scratching the inside of his ear with his pinky finger, inspecting it when he was done and then and wiping the wax on the table. He cast his head aside and spat, trying to expectorate a small fly he had just inhaled.
Maria, a plus sized woman made her way over to his table, holding a couple of beers, her bountiful breasts bulging over the top of her bra which could be easily seen under the singlet she was wearing. She eyed Tasha jealously, dramatically dumping another pint in front of him.
“Aw come on love, you spilt my beer,” he gurgled as the foam washed over the side of his glass onto the table. She glared at him eyes malignant with hatred, hands on hips with a sneer across her face that would wilt a plant, and without a word turned heel and walked off. Luis and Dantes who were both sitting at the table burst out laughing.
“I told you not to mess with her.” Luis watched her walk off, her ample backside mesmerizing him with its jolt and sway. He was a middle-aged man with an impressive comb-over and several missing teeth. He reminded her of a gerbil with his wide-set beady eyes. “Maria, she’s one mean enchilada, she probably spat in it too.”
The Bush Boss sighed shrugging. “What was I supposed to do, she practically threw herself at me.”
They all laughed, Dante a small man with a large moustache piping in, “you forgot the cardinal rule, you don’t shit where you eat. Now you in big trouble brother.” He stroked his moustache with one and hand raised his beer with the other.
Xavier looked over his shoulder. “Nah. I can handle that,” he said dismissively.
Tasha looked at him. God, he is disgusting she thought. What a misogynistic bastard. Her cheeks flushed red. He grabbed her by the wrist, forcing her down on his lap.
“Sit down” he hissed. “Laugh and smile.”
She looked at him perturbed, defiant. “How dare you touch me” she growled trying to pull herself away.
He forced her back down on his lap, his grip was like steel. He whispered it in her ear, so close she could smell the stink of beer on his breath, “You’d better play along, this is serious. Let me give you a tip, you don’t dress like that around here unless you plan on getting kidnapped or mugged.”
He was so close to her head he could smell her hair, it smelt sweet like drizzled maple syrup on vanilla and cinnamon, and reminded him of mornings at home with a stack of steaming hot pancakes. Man, he was feeling hungry, it didn’t take much to get his man hunger going. He threw his head back laughing like he was having the time of his life.
“What I am I supposed to wear then?” she asked looking down at her designer duds.
“Something less touristy, less conspicuous. Dress like the average Venezuelans, jeans and short-sleeved shirt, and do not wear any expensive looking jewelry.” He nodded towards her wrist, indicating her gold watch.
She subconsciously put her hand over her wrist covering her watch, it was an Armani Classic. Her wrist was white from where he had gripped it so hard. She felt extremely angry with herself.
Why am I so stupid? she thought. No wonder why they were all staring at me. They want to rob me, or worse, kidnap me.
She decided it was in her best interests to play along. She could think of nothing worse than playing up to this Neanderthal, but the alternative was even worse. She leaned back in his arms, stroking her hands down his face feeling the prickle of his stubble, playing with his ears.
“Whoa, steady on there, this must be my lucky day” he said with a glint in his eye. “Don’t want to get the fires started below.”
“Ugh” she sighed in disgust. “Are you the man they call the Bush Boss?” she asked her hands moving down further and rubbing his muscled chest. He smelt like warm sweet musk, like the sticks she used to eat as a kid, it was intoxicating. “Because after all this, I will be very, very disappointed if you are not.” She batted her eyelashes at him petulantly.
He smiled a cheekily boyish grin, watching her hands move slowly over his chest. She had an English accent, and right about now with those glasses on she looked like a hot school teacher out of a teenage fantasy, he hoped it wasn’t just beer goggles talking. “If I were not,” he said intentionally provoking her, a hint of boyish amusement in his eyes, “hypothetically what would you do to me?”
She raised an eyebrow “hypothetically? well hypothetically” she lifted his pint, “I would have to put out your so called ...fires below.” She slowly went to tip the pint on the front of his pants. He grabbed it quickly from her hand, steadying the amber liquid inside.
“Woa, woa, steady on, no need for that. Geeze girly, there’s two things you don’t mess with, a man’s beer and his kit. I’m the Bush Boss, my name is Xavier Alexander. I have been expecting you.”
“Expecting me?” she looked at him with confusion and then lent to bite gently on his ear “who told you I was coming?”
“Your Uncle” he said, his breath quickening a little “for an old man he sure gets around. He engaged me to get you to the jungle.”
She leant back, releasing her golden curls from the bun which encased them, golden ringlets cascaded down her back.
“I don’t think you should have done that” he murmured pulling her back up, the scent of her as intoxicating as the beer he held in his hand. “He didn’t say… well he mentioned you were bookish, but not…” he hesitated, not wanting to say the word beautiful. “You’re drawing too much attention to us now, we should get out of here.” She nodded. She would be glad to get off his lap and get out of that club.
She stood up straightening her skirt. He downed his pint in practically one gulp, releasing a sigh of pleasure.
“What?” he questioned seeing her look of disapproval. “Can’t let it go to waste now can I? Come on, let's blow this joint.” He grabbed her firmly around her slender waist and started guiding her to the door.
Out of the crowd, the man with tattoos came leering towards her.
“No mate, she’s with me” he growled at the burly man, looking him directly in the eye. He stared him down like a ringmaster taming a lion. A look of recognition came across the man's weathered face and he backed off a little nervously.
“Let’s just get to my bike outside,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.
“Bike?” she repeated, “a motorbike?”
“Honey, is there any other kind?”
He pulled her with him out the doorway and across to a motorbike down the alley.
“I’m not sure I want to get on that thing with you” she remarked with a look of consternation.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll change your mind” he said, indicating to a group of three men that exited the club and were approaching them. “It’s the bike or them.”
He sat and she hurriedly swung her leg over the bike behind him, her tight skirt ripping in the process. The men started running towards the bike.
“Your admirers are either brave or stupid.” His hand was on the throttle gunning the engine, and in the next moment his customised Harley Davidson FXR burbled to life, like a deep throaty bass singer warming up for the Opera, it hit every note succinctly, flying up and down the scales with each roll of the throttle.
He let go of the clutch and dropped the bike into gear. The bike lurched, charging forward like a bull at a gate. She wound her arms tighter around his waist, leaning her head against his broad shoulders, the sound of the engine drowning out anything further he had to say.
The three men turned,
running to jump on bikes waiting outside the club, preparing themselves to follow them.
“They’re going to follow us!” she screamed above the thud of the motor.
“Not if I can help it” he bellowed back, gunning the engine.
They wove through the streets at breakneck speed, weaving in and out of parked and moving cars. The street lights flashed by, blinking at them from either side. She looked behind, despite his impressive speed they had managed to keep up.
“They’re still behind us” she yelled.
“I know, I’m going to fix that...right…..now!” he gunned the accelerator, diving straight through a red light. A car horn wailed as a black SUV came to a screaming halt, barely missing the back of the bike. There was shouting and confusion at the intersection, as the black SUV sat in the middle blocking traffic.
The three other bikes came hurtling through the intersection, failing to stop also. the man in his car, infuriated by the bikes, leant into his car, retrieving a gun from the glove box and proceeded to fire furiously at them.
Two of the bullets missed, the third found its mark and a bike went down, the rider hurtling head first into a parked car, crushed and bloodied. Realising what he had done, the man jumped hurriedly back into his SUV and drove off with a squeal of tires and a puff of black smoke. The two other riders continued on, gaining on Xavier. He looked behind, realising that his maneuver had failed to shake them.
“You’re going to have to hang on” he yelled back to her.
As if I’m not already she thought clinging to him for dear life.
“We can lose them in the streets of the Barrios” he maneuvered the bike, swerving suddenly to take a sharp turn onto a large bridge which passed over a wide freeway below, separating the wealthy area of the city from the Barrios, the slums in which millions of Venezuelans live in abject poverty. The Barrios rose above them an eclectic mix of inundating concrete and brick boxes of multiple colours.
He hit the throttle again, diving and weaving through the narrow streets climbing higher and higher up the mountainside. Reaching the peak, he made a swift turn, heading for a long concrete staircase that heading downhill.
The Artifact: Natasha Burrows Series Book One Page 2
