by Vince Milam
“I understand Tinker Juarez is navigating.”
“Yes, indeed. And doing a sterling job of it. We haven’t held a straight course in days.”
“As it should be, my brother. As it should be. Tell me a tale. I require sustenance—preferably legume-based—filling me on my favorite goober’s wellness.”
We chatted, laughed, made nebulous promises of soon-enough visits. And covered the recent job with sidestepping obscure details.
“Tell me of our fearless leader, a man prone toward rigidity but filled with an old soul,” he said after I’d broad-brushed the operational framework.
“Solid as a rock, as always. Invaluable. Somewhat disgusted with the whole affair.”
“Disgusted with the whole affair. Not a bad name for a rock band. Our leader is a fine and good and solid man. Glad he was helpful, although I expected to fill the role of aiding and abetting.”
“He was more than insistent.”
“Another admirable trait, one you and I have experienced with him multiple times. Damn the torpedoes, saber drawn. No physical totems acquired for either of you?”
He asked about wounds, injuries.
“I picked up a few in Rio. Nothing serious.”
“They are all serious. In the metaphysical sense. Tales told, markers laid. How’s your headspace?”
“I was angry as hell at the main perp. She brought on a barrelful of pain and premature demise.”
“Negative energy, my brother. Foul and corrupting. Let it go.”
“I have. Sort of.”
“You’ll keep remnants, as always. It feeds the Georgia peach waterwheel of angst.”
I asked about JJ, their relationship, and future plans. We signed off with poignancy and a desire for closer proximity.
During the watery trip toward Charleston to pick up CC, I’d anchored for the night within a Ditch slough and settled into the throne, Grey Goose in hand. I fired off a short Clubhouse message, dark web. I owed her a wrap-up.
Mission accomplished. Job complete and buried.
Jules wouldn’t require further elaboration. Her response, late at night, arrived quicker than usual.
Excellent. Now rest, dear boy. Soon enough the hounds shall bay again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I’ve lived and worked all over the world, traipsing through places like the Amazon, Congo, and Papua New Guinea. And I make a point of capturing unique sights, sounds, and personalities that are incorporated into each of my novels.
The Suriname Job
I worked a contract in that tiny South American country when revolution broke out. Armored vehicles in the streets, gunfire—the whole nine yards. There’s a standard protocol in many countries when woken by automatic gunfire. Slide out of bed, take a pillow, and nestle on the floor while contemplating whether a coup has taken place or the national soccer team just won a game. In Suriname, it was a coup.
There was work to do, and that meant traveling across Suriname while the fighting took place. Ugly stuff. But the people were great—a strange and unique mixture of Dutch, Asian Indians, Javanese, and Africans. The result of back in the day when the Dutch were a global colonial power.
Revolutions and coups attract strange players. Spies, mercenaries, “advisors.” I did require the services of a helicopter, and one merc who’d arrived with his chopper was willing to perform side gigs when not flying incumbent military folks around. And yes, just as in The Suriname Job, I had to seek him out in Paramaribo’s best bordello. Not my finest moment.
The New Guinea Job
What a strange place. A massive jungle-covered island with 14,000 foot mountains. As tribal a culture as you’ll find. Over 800 living languages (languages, not dialects) making it the most linguistically diverse place on earth. Headhunting an active and proud tradition until very recently (I strongly suspect it still goes on).
I lived and worked deep in the bush—up a tributary of the Fly River. Amazing flora and fauna. Shadowed rain forest jungle, snakes and insects aplenty, peculiar ostrich-like creatures with fluorescent blue heads, massive crocs. Jurassic Park stuff. And leeches. Man, I hated those bloody leeches. Millions of them.
And remarkable characters. In The New Guinea Job, the tribesman Luke Mugumwup was a real person, and a pleasure to be around. The tribal tattoos and ritual scarification across his body lent a badass appearance, for sure. But a rock-solid individual to work with. Unless he became upset. Then all bets were off.
I toned down the boat driver, Babe Cox. Hard to believe. But the actual guy was a unique and nasty and unforgettable piece of work. His speech pattern consisted of continual f-bombs with the occasional adjective, noun, and verb tossed in. And you could smell the dude from thirty feet.
The Caribbean Job
Flashbacks of the time I spent working in that glorious part of the world came easy. The Bahamas, American Virgin Islands, Jamaica, San Andres, Providencia—a trip down memory lane capturing the feel of those islands for this novel. And the people! What marvelous folks. I figured the tale’s intrigue and action against such an idyllic background would make for a unique reading experience.
And pirates. The real deal. I was forced into dealing with them while attempting work contracts. Much of the Caribbean has an active smuggler and pirate trade—well-hidden and never posted in tourist blurbs. Talk about interesting characters! There is a weird code of conduct among them, but I was never clear on the rules of the road. It made for an interesting work environment.
One of the more prevalent memories of those times involved cash. Wads of Benjamins—$100 bills. The pirate and smuggler clans, as you can well imagine, don’t take credit cards or issue receipts. Cash on the barrelhead. Benjamins the preferred currency. It made for inventive bookkeeping entries.
The Amazon Job
I was fortunate to have had a long contract in Brazil, splitting my time between an office in Rio de Janeiro and base camps deep within the Amazon wilderness. The people—remarkable. The environments even more so. Rio is an amazing albeit dangerous place, with favelas or slums crammed across the hills overlooking the city. You have to remain on your toes while enjoying the amazing sights and sounds and culture of Copacabana, Ipanema, and Leblon.
The Amazon rainforest is jaw-dropping in its scope and scale. 20% of the earth’s fresh water flows down the Amazon River with thousands of smaller rivers and tributaries feeding it. The Amazon rainforest is three million square miles, and during flood season is covered with ten to twenty feet of water.
The wildlife is, of course, amazing. After a long field day, I'd often take one of the small base camp skiffs and fish for tucunaré (peacock bass). I’d figured out their preferred watery environments. And learned where the piranhas were less plentiful (although it’s worth noting those fierce little chompers are both easy to catch and quite tasty—karmic justice, perhaps). So I was fishing a remote lagoon a mile or so from the base camp. Lily pads, tannic water, dusk and isolation. Howler monkeys broke into a verbal ruckus among the treetops circling the lagoon. When those raucous critters took a break—dead quiet.
Then soft blowhole exhales no more than five feet away. Scared the bejeesus out of me. It was two botos. Rare Amazon river dolphins. Pinkish-white, curious and content to check out the new addition to their lagoon. We shared the space a full four or five minutes until they eased away. A magic moment, etched forever.
About Me
I live in the Intermountain West, where wide-open spaces give a person perspective and room to think. I relish great books, fine trout streams, family, old friends, and good dogs.
You can visit me at https://vincemilam.com/to learn about new releases and writer’s angst. I can also be visited on Facebook at Vince Milam Author.
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