by Lou Cameron
Greystoke said, “It may save time, as you Yanks say, if I put my cards on the table. Colonel Maldonado is being recalled to Bogota and his command’s been turned over to Major Jesus Valdez, a rather violent man. At the moment he’s moving into the jungle in force after the last of the Balboa Brigade.”
The American smiled with the cigar still gripped between his yellow teeth and asked, “What’s this supposed to mean to us, Greystoke? We had no part in that fiasco. I don’t know anyone in the Balboa Brigade.”
“I know. Your syndicate is landing arms for another rebel group on the north coast at this moment.”
“Do tell? Now, why would we want to do a thing like that, Greystoke? We’re in the transport business. These greasers have a revolution every other Sunday down here. Why would we want them to have another? They’re bad for business.”
“I quite agree. That’s why certain Wall Street interests are so interested in a stable government down here. A stable Latin American government is a contradiction in terms, but no doubt you mean well. My own instructions are to calm things down and preserve the status quo for at least the next few years. That’s why I’ve come to you. This latest ill-advised attempt has stirred things up terribly. A rather unpleasant arms merchant is using the emergency to sell modern arms to the central government. I’m sure neither my government nor the people you work for want a modern, fully armed Colombian Army to deal with when it’s time to make our own moves, eh?”
“I hear your words, Greystoke, but I’m having a hard time following your .drift. I don’t know what you British are up to. We’re not up to anything. We’re just honest businessmen, out to make a buck.”
“I put it to you, sir, that at this very moment you are landing arms on the north coast for your American-backed rebels. I put it to you, sir, that your own coup was slated for later this month. I further put it to you, sir, that we live in changing times, and that your own revolution is premature.”
The American took the cigar from his mouth, flicked the ashes, and muttered, “I put it to you, sir, that you’re full of shit. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We’re wasting time. I don’t expect you to admit anything. I came to bring you up to date on a few things your employers weren’t to find out about for a year or so. I take it this is a privileged conversation between gentlemen?”
“If you’re asking if I’m likely to repeat this talk, forget it. You’re talking crazy as hell.”
“And you, sir, are starting your revolution prematurely. I must inform you, in strictest confidence, that the British stockholders of the Suez Society have made certain arrangements with certain U. S. banking interests. Other certain political figures in Washington have agreed to meet with certain members of the British and French governments with a view to protecting the interests of all three powers.”
“Greystoke, I wish you’d say whatever you have in mind in simple English.”
“Very well. It’s a sellout. Colombia wants too much money for another canal contract. They’ve been playing Britain, France, and the United States against one another, hoping to get the highest price possible for the defunct rights to the canal. It’s a game that any number can play. London, Paris, and Washington have made a deal.”
The American stared thoughtfully at his cigar ash and said, “Sounds interesting, if true. I take it Washington’s willing to forget the Monroe Doctrine if France and England decide to bull the canal through?”
“No. Britain and France are stepping aside. The Americans are buying up the watered stock of the bankrupt Suez Society and they’ve given certain assurances about Britain or French vessels using the future canal. The Colombian Government has not been consulted about the matter. It’s felt a more stable local government might be best for all concerned.”
“Then what’s the problem? Admitting nothing, I don’t see why your government cares, now, if some, well, guys I know, take over.”
“We care very much. You’re backing the wrong team. Your syndicate’s been backing rebels to prevent the canal in order to protect your rail monopoly across the isthmus.”
“I suppose you can prove that?”
“I don’t have to, sir. We both know it’s true. But, as I said, we live in changing times. You had better check with certain banking houses I’m leaving with you before you go any farther. You see, the people who’ve been working to break the deadlock over the canal are aware of every angle and they’re not inclined to be unreasonable, with reasonable men. Your railroad right of way across the isthmus is the only practical route for the canal and you’ve been protecting it with all your considerable financial and political weight, with good reason.”
“Get to the bottom line about somebody backing the wrong team.”
“Your international transport trust is being taken care of. There’s to be a stock split your employers should find most rewarding. In other words, to put it crudely, you’re being dealt in, as a price for backing out. The semi-bandits you’ve been backing are not the people London, Paris, or Washington have in mind for the new Panamanian Government. Even if they should win, none of the Great Powers will recognize them.”
“I see. You’ve got those clowns backed by the French in mind, eh?”
“Let us say a former engineer with the Suez Society has started to form his own organization from among the more respectable members of the local business community.”
“I know that bunch. It could take them half a dozen years to organize a revolution from scratch.”
“We know. That’s why you’re going to call off your own lads before someone gets hurt. The Great Powers want things very quiet in Panama for the next few years.”
“Yeah? Suppose I tell you to go to hell? I don’t work for any damned government.”
“You may not be working for anyone at all, if you don’t do exactly as I say. If you and your friends back the wrong rebels, Colombia will mop them up and occupy this isthmus in force with modern weaponry. This will delay the building of the canal and make a lot of people very upset.”
“So what? I told you we’re in the railroad business.”
“You’re not listening. I’ve just explained your company will be taken care of if it co-operates. I forgot to add you’ll be taken care of it you refuse. Are you aware of the antitrust laws proposed by some young U. S. politico from New York?”
“Antitrust? I’ve never heard the term before.”
“Have patience. You will. As I understand it, big companies who buck the system are becoming a bother to every government of late. Since you just told me you’re willing to co-operate, I daresay your transport trust shouldn’t be bothered by Washington for a time, eh?”
“Come on! Since when does a British agent speak for Washington?”
“Since we started working together. If you repeat this conversation to any American official, he’ll tell you I’m insane. Then, in about a year, you’ll be looking for a job and wondering why nobody wants to hire you.”
“I think you’re bluffing.”
“Try me,” smiled Greystoke, rising to his feet as he added, “I’ll be leaving, now. I’m going to cable that the landings on the north coast have ceased and that the San Bias Indians will be moving back to those keys they were driven from. In a day or so the Army will have mopped up the remnants of the Balboa Brigade, and Panama can go back to sleep until the new canal company gets around to her.”
The fat American followed him to the door, asking, “How much of this crazy story does the Colombian Government know?” and Greystoke replied,
“Some senators in Bogota believe me and have assured me they’re willing to go along with the Great Powers. Most of the Colombian Senate, alas, thinks we’re bluffing.”
He left and the fat American noticed his cigar had gone out. He went back to his desk and sat down. He relit the cigar and picked up the telephone on his desk. He got the operator to put him through to a similar office a hundred-odd miles away. Then he said, “Bernie? The s
how is off. Can’t talk about it on the phone, but we’re dealing a new game from a whole new deck. Get out to the keys and get our own guys out.”
There was a confused sputter at the other end of the line and the fat American said, “No. Just our guys. The egg just hit the fan and I don’t want any Americans picked up.”
He blew a cloud of smoke and added, “That’s right. The spies are on their own. The big boys just sold out a whole country. We can’t worry about a few dumb greasers who might be left behind.”
Despite poetic notions of the primitive life’s joys, time passed slowly in the Indian camp. The San Bias had a few animals they were keeping for pets, or fresh meat, but no small children. When their unwilling “guests” managed to ask why, they were told the band they were with were an advance spearhead of the main tribe.
The coastal salt-water Indians were little more familiar with this part of Panama than a farming Creole might have been. They knew the flora and fauna and came from jungle-covered islands, but being this far from the sea made them nervous and despite having a mountain range named after them, or vice versa, the San Bias didn’t like hills at all. The big central marshland was their substitute for the saline marshes they were used to. The hunting wasn’t as good, or they didn’t know the fresh-water life forms well enough to hunt them with real skill. Hence they tended to mope. As the afternoon wore on, many of them slowly started to get drunk.
The reason it took a San Bias so long to get drunk was the weak home-brew they swilled from gourd bowls by the quart. It was called by two grunts that might have been spelled chi-chic, had they known how to write. Their Carib dialect consisted of many words ending in the same guttural “c” a Scot uses to say “loch” or a German to say “ach”
Oddly, they called a hammock a ha-muc and rolled crude cigars from a leaf they called ta-buc—that is, it seemed odd until someone remembered where the early Spanish had learned to sleep in hammocks or smoke tobacco. Gaston said “tomato” and “tamale” were Aztec words. Captain Gringo said he didn’t care.
He didn’t think they had time to learn enough Carib to matter. The albino bruja, Blanca, spent most of her day lazing in her hut, as if saving up strength for the night.
He figured he was up to servicing her, but his first enthusiasm for her odd little body was wearing off. He’d never understood rapists or child molesters. No matter what a female looked like, a good part of the excitement was another mind to share the fun with. It was best when the other mind belonged to an adult human being. Blanca was, at best, a willful child with a dangerous streak of selfish, unthinking cruelty.
Other cruel streaks began to surface as the sun sank toward the treetops and the all-day drinking bout went on. Two drunken warriors stood face to face and began to take turns breaking sticks over one another’s heads, for reasons best known to themselves. None of the other Indians seemed interested. A pretty, slack-jawed squaw slowly impaled a baby possum, alive, on a green stem. Then she toasted it over a fire and giggled when it writhed and whimpered.
Gaston passed a gourd of the native beer to Captain Gringo and began to explain how they made it. The tall American said he didn’t want to hear. It smelled pleasant, tasted like thin tapioca, and what the hell, there wasn’t anything else to drink.
It had the potency of weak beer and a way of sneaking up on you as the day wore on. The other members of the Balboa Brigade had been at it for some time, and even Sor Pantera began to sing.
The dark widow had a throaty voice with astounding range and the other Creoles began to keep time with their palms as Sor Pantera went into a wild flamenco, half again as old as Time. It was pre-Christian, probably pre-Spanish, and the Indians were entranced by the impossible sounds she sang, as her companions clapped a primitive rhythm and joined in with occasional sounds that reminded Captain Gringo of a dog being kicked. As the sun began to set, Sor Pantera got to her feet and began to dance in time to her song. She swirled her skirt with her hands and pounded the earth with her heels, singing faster and ever wilder. The Indians grinned and began to pick up the clapping, slapping their own thighs or anybody handy as Sor Pantera sobbed, in a language older than Spanish, of forbidden rites and small, dark, haky men in ships with painted sails. The Indians who’d been having a slugging contest dropped their sticks and began to chant another song in harmony with her flamenco. Another Indian, excited by the wild rhythm and the alcoholic swill he’d been drinking all afternoon, threw one of the San Bias girls down and began to ravage her as the others laughed. Captain Gringo noticed they laughed in harsh, guttural barks, like coyotes teasing a rabbit to death. As the light began to fade and he watched them swaying in the red firelight, it was easier to believe what Columbus had said about the Caribs he’d encountered in these parts. The Caribbean Sea had been named for them, and the word meant cannibal in Spanish!
But the San Bias were reasonably pleasant, for the most part, and the party began to remind Captain Gringo of an average Saturday night in a fairly rough saloon, almost anywhere. He found himself tapping his foot in time as young Chino began to sing a wild Moresco flamenco in a high falsetto and Sor Pantera went into a hair-tossing gypsy dance. He was beginning to enjoy the performance when somebody nudged his back with a sharp stick and a San Bias pointed at Blanca’s hut to indicate he was wanted there.
He muttered, “Jesus H. Christ, it’s hardly sundown!” as he rose to see what the bruja wanted.
There was no doubt at all what Blanca wanted as he ducked into her hut. She lay spread-eagled across the hammock with an inviting smile, and he’d forgotten how tempting her lush, pink curves could be.
He smiled and peeled off his clothes, feeling a bit unsteady because of the Indian beer he’d been drinking, sitting down. As he steadied himself and moved over to join her on the hammock, Blanca said, “I want you to get down on your knees and be my puppy.”
He frowned and answered, ‘The hell you say, baby. I’m a man, not your goddamn pet.”
He got on the hammock and lay beside her, putting a hand on her pale torso as she snapped, “You must do it as I tell you to. I am a bruja!”
He laughed and asked, “What are you going to do, turn me into a toad?” Then he started to pet her, his way.
Blanca protested she wanted to be in charge, but he smothered her pink lips with a kiss and rolled himself between her hairless pale thighs. She tried to stop him. She saw he was too strong to push off, so she dug her nails into his back and clawed hard. He growled in annoyance, raised his weight high enough to slap her face, and thrust himself into her as she literally snarled in surprise and rage.
As he started to move, his feet on the floor for purchase, Blanca hissed, “I’ll have you killed for this, you big brute!”
He said, “Sure. You just give a good yell and everyone will come running to see their virgin goddess screwing like a mink.”
Then he kissed her again and, this time, she kissed back. He made love to her his own way, for his own enjoyment. Two could play at selfish sex and he’d had enough of her cat-and-mouse game. If she was going to turn on him, so be it. He’d go down fighting with a belly full of booze and a nice lay to remember. The Maxim gun was still there, loaded and cocked, one sudden move away. If she yelled she yelled, and they’d all die together in a blaze of glory.
But Blanca didn’t call for help. She called for more. She’d never been treated this way before and it made her passionate as well as angry. He was letting himself go completely and as she twisted her lips from his it was to warn, “Careful! If you break this hammock it may break my back, too!”
He nodded, got one hand under her tailbone and another around her shoulders, shoved one leg forward for balance, and lifted.
Blanca gasped in worried surprise as she felt herself rising in midair, still spitted on his erection. Then he lowered her to the hard-packed earth and she sobbed, “No! Not on the ground! You’re too big and there’s too much of you! You’ll hurt me!”
Then, as he went right on, bumping h
er firm pink buttocks on the gritty dirt, she moaned in pleasure and sighed, “Oh, yes. Hurt me! Hurt me all the way!”
It ended, for the moment, in a mutual, shuddering climax. Blanca lay pinned to the earth in silence for a time before she opened her pink eyes to ask shyly, “Darling, what is a mink?”
He kissed her again and said, “It’s another cute little animal. Am I hurting you?”
“A little. You are very heavy and this floor is very hard. Can’t we try it in the hammock again?”
“We might break it.”
“It’s worth a chance. Let me get on top this time.”
“If you want to do it your way, you have to know the magic word.”
“Magic word? I did not know you were a brujo”
“I’m not. I’m a man. When people want something from me they say please”
She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I am not used to saying please. I am used to being obeyed! I really could have you killed for treating me like this, you know.”
“Maybe. But who’d get in the hammock with you, then?”
Blanca laughed and said, “I think I’ll keep you alive for a while at least. I have never met a man like you and it’s most exciting. But let’s get back in the hammock.”
“Please?”
“Oh, very well. Please. Are you satisfied?”
He picked her up as he said, “Hell, no, I’m not satisfied. I’m going to take half the night before I’m satisfied.”
As they climbed back in the hammock Blanca felt his virile member and purred, “Oh, please must be a magic word after all. I’m so glad you taught it to me, brujo mior.”
Less than a hundred miles away Sir Basil Hakim was in bed with the redhead, Jenny. But they weren’t making love. Sir Basil was on the telephone, making war.
He finished his call and replaced the receiver on its hook with a self-satisfied smile. Jenny shook her head in wonder and said, “That was pretty raw, even for you, darling.”
Hakim shrugged and said, “I was only trying to be helpful. So many annoying people are working to calm things down before the Colombian Army has had a chance to learn the error of its ways. How are they to see the advantages of modern weapons unless I have Captain Gringo demonstrate the Maxim gun we gave him?”
