Authors: Gary Brandner
The three of them were a little drunk with their discovery when the Stinson brought them in for a landing on the Campeche stubble field. Connie laughed delightedly at everything and anything, and even the sober Heinemann was smiling. Hooker still had his doubts about the project, but it felt good to be taking some positive action.
It was quickly decided that the first move would be back to the hotel where they would treat themselves to a drink and a little relaxation. For 100 pesos, Gonzales was more than happy to hand his truck over to the gringos for as long as they might need it. They left him wiping down the airplane, to which he had become quite attached, and headed for town.
On the drive in, while Hooker and Connie joked, Heinemann grew serious. “I do not wish to dampen the occasion, my friends, but I hope you remember my feelings about personally entering the jungle on foot.”
“Sure,” Hooker said. “You told us from the start you weren’t going in. That’s the deal we made.”
Heinemann cleared his throat. “Still, I cannot feel good about letting the two of you undertake this foolishness without me.”
“Baloney. You flew us down here; you flew us back and forth over the jungle for two days. You’ve done your share. We’ll pick up a couple of men in Campeche to help with the heavy work. We need you to keep an eye on that kite so we’ll have a ride off this lousy peninsula when we’re finished here.”
Heinemann glanced back toward the airfield. “I do not think I should stray too far from the plane. Gonzales is an eager helper, but I fear he has an urge to fly himself. I had better be here to discourage that.”
• • •
As they entered the Hotel Azteca, the desk clerk beckoned Hooker over. “
Señor
, there is a lady to see you. She waits now in the bar.”
“A lady?” Hooker looked at the others, who could only shrug. He led the way into the bar, then stopped short.
“Alita. What are you doing here?”
She slipped off the stool and ran across the room into his arms. “Johnny, Johnny, I was so worried about you.”
“Worried? What are you talking about?” He eased out of the girl’s grasp, aware of Connie’s eyes upon them.
“The little man who was at El Poche … the one who smelled so good …”
“Earle Maples?”
“That one.”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead, Johnny. In the alley out back of your building. Somebody crushed his little head. Like this.” Alita demonstrated by squeezing her hands together while making a crackling sound in her throat.
Connie gasped and put a hand to her mouth.
“That’s tough,” Hooker said, “but why come all the way down here to tell me? And how did you get here, by the way?”
“I catch a ride on a fishing boat. Johnny, the little man, he was coming to see you. He had something to tell you; I’m sure of it. That’s why they killed him.”
“Who?”
“
Muerateros
. Nobody else kills like this.” She did the business with her hands and the crackling sound again.
Hooker took hold of Alita’s arm. To the others, he said, “Excuse us for a few minutes.” He led her out of the bar, through the entrance of the hotel, and down the street to a bench under a fat palm tree. He sat her down and stood over her with his arms folded.
“Now what the hell is the idea, and I don’t want any more of that
mueratero
crap.”
“Don’t you remember the message, Johnny?
Quintana Roo means death
. One has died already. You got to come back with me.”
“Like hell I got to.”
“Please.”
“Look, honey, I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but I’m working now. A woman does not interfere with a man’s work.
Comprende?
”
“You won’t come back to Veracruz?”
“No.”
Alita stood up and faced him, setting her jaw. “Okay, then I go with you to Quintana Roo.”
“Like hell.”
“Please, Johnny. I can help. I have Maya blood.”
“I don’t care if you’re queen of all the Mayas; you are not going into any jungle with me, and that’s that.”
Alita knew Hooker’s moods well enough to know when to break off a discussion. She let her shoulders slump and looked down at the ground.
He took her by the hand. “Come on; I’ll get you a room at the hotel. Then I want you on the first boat heading back to Veracruz.”
“Can’t I stay in your room?”
“Not when I’m working.” Thinking of Connie Braithwaite, Hooker felt a pang of guilt, but he quickly swallowed it. “Let’s go.”
• • •
Nobody was comfortable at dinner that evening. Alita and Connie smiled politely, but their eyes measured each other like two boxers going into the ring. Heinemann was distracted, and Hooker was not in the mood for small talk. When he suggested they all could use a good night’s sleep, there was no argument.
Hooker was up early the next day. He got the names of local suppliers from the hotel manager and set out to buy the equipment they would need for the trek into the jungle. Judging the distance from the end of the last usable road to the approximate spot where they saw the sheet of bright metal, he figured a generous two days for them to get in and two more to get out. To leave a margin for error, he bought enough supplies to sustain them for five days.
He chose the foodstuffs for portability more than for flavor, settling on flour, coffee, dried beef, beans, and hard cheese. Everyone would carry water. Even if they did come across a river, and none showed on the map of Quintana Roo, you could never be sure who was pissing into it upstream.
In picking out sleeping gear, he was surprised to learn that everybody on Yucatan, except in hotels, slept in hammocks. When he thought about it, it made sense, considering the variety of snakes, insects, and other nuisances that crawled up out of the ground at night. The hammocks were also easy to carry and to hook up once you got the hang of it.
By noon, Hooker was congratulating himself on being ahead of schedule. He had the supplies locked into a storeroom at the hotel and went out to hire a couple of sturdy men. There his luck ran out. Everybody was interested, even eager, until he mentioned Quintana Roo. Nobody, not even the hungriest Indian, wanted to go into that savage land. Not for any price. A dead man, they said, had no use for money.
By late afternoon, Hooker had talked to twenty men referred to him as willing to do anything for money and had come up empty. He went back to the Azteca bar and told the bartender to leave a bottle of tequila on the table. His high spirits had vanished. Even if he had found the two men, the chances of successfully marching through the jungle to the remote spot they marked on the map were remote. Sure, he had covered rough terrain before with just a compass and a map, but this was Quintana Roo.
Connie and Heinemann came in and joined him at the table. The look on Hooker’s face discouraged conversation.
“I didn’t get the men,” he said. “People down here would rather walk into quicksand than into Quintana Roo.”
“How much did you offer to pay?” Connie asked.
Hooker shrugged. “I kept raising the ante. Hell, I finally told them to name their price, but I still got no takers.”
“I don’t suppose you and I could go in alone.”
“Not a chance. It’s hard work, and it’s dangerous. I’ve been around jungles a little, and I know we can’t make this trip with less than two men.” A slow minute ticked by, and nobody said anything. Finally, Heinemann cleared his throat.
“Don’t look so discouraged, Hooker. You gave it a good try. There’s probably nothing out there, anyway.”
“Damn, I hate to give up now. Even if we went into the jungle and found nothing but that hunk of metal, it would be better than quitting.”
“Do you want me to get the men for you?”
They looked up, surprised. Alita was standing behind Hooker’s chair. No one had seen her come in.
“What are you talking about?” Hooker said.
“I can get you the two men you need. I speak the language of these people. I know their ways.”
Hooker looked around at the others, then back up at Alita. “If you think you can do it …”
“I can do it,” Alita said firmly, “but then I go with you.”
“Nix. I told you that was out.”
“Listen, Johnny, if you go into Quintana Roo with two strange Indians, you will need me. I speak Spanish better than you, and I know the Mayan language.”
Hooker looked doubtful.
“She has a point,” Connie said.
“Besides, if I don’t go along, you don’t get the men.”
Hooker knocked a fresh Lucky out of the pack and took his time lighting it. “Okay,
chiquita
, you get us the men and you’re included.”
Alita smiled brightly at all of them, kissed Hooker on the cheek, and hurried out. He could feel Connie watching him. He swallowed some tequila and wondered what the hell he was doing. Taking one woman into the jungle was folly. Taking two was madness. He almost hoped Alita would fail.
• • •
By dusk, she had returned. Hooker met her at the entrance to the hotel.
“I got them, Johnny,” she said.
“You actually found two men willing to go into the jungle with us?”
“Better than that. They know where the plane crashed.”
Hooker stared at her.
“The men are
chicleros
. They saw the wrecked airplane.”
“Chicleros?”
“Ai, that part is not so good. They are no better than
bandidos
. When they work, they go into the jungle to take the sap of the chicle trees. More often, they are robbing and killing. Are you sure you want them?”
“Hell, I’d take Pancho Villa if he could show me where that plane is down. Let’s go meet these beauties.”
Their names were Chaco and Manuel, and their looks suited Alita’s description. Chaco was small and sharp featured, thin as a snake. He wore his hair greased straight back. Manuel was big and brutish, with no forehead and an outthrust jaw. What little they had to say was said by Chaco. He spoke a mixture of Spanish and some Indian dialect Hooker did not recognize, but Alita had no trouble with it.
He repeated the story of seeing the downed aircraft deep in the Quintana Roo jungle some two months earlier. They had not investigated, according to Chaco, because there were strange Indians nearby, and even the tough
chicleros
wanted nothing to do with those untamed Mayas. However, for a price, they were now willing to guide Hooker’s party to the spot.
“Remember what I told you about these men,” Alita added when she had passed on the story.
“Tell them they will get their money when we all return safely to Campeche,” Hooker said.
Alita relayed the message. From the tone of Chaco’s grunted reply, Hooker gathered that the terms were reluctantly accepted. Throughout the exchange, the bright black eyes of the smaller man never left Hooker’s face.
Glaring back at Chaco, Hooker said, “Tell them one more thing. Tell them if there is any funny business while we’re on the trail, I will personally rip their hearts out.”
When Alita translated this, Chaco’s eyes wavered and fell away. Manuel maintained his sullen silence.
“I want them in front of the hotel ready to go with the sun tomorrow morning,” Hooker said. “Tell them to bring machetes.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Alita said. “Men like these never go anywhere without their knives.”
• • •
The next morning, the supplies, now increased to accommodate Alita, were loaded into the back of the pickup. The two
chicleros
climbed in with the equipment, while Hooker and the women got into the cab. Klaus Heinemann wished them good luck and watched as the pickup rattled away down the main street of Campeche and out the single road leading east.
The skies remained clear, although the heat grew intense as they traveled inland. Soon the road dwindled to a rutted trail. More than once, as the sweat dripped from his nose and he battled the steering wheel to keep them on the road, Hooker cursed himself for ever getting into this.
Four hours later, they came to a stop when the jungle of Quintana Roo rose before them like a green wave. A cluster of Mayan huts marked the end of the road. A small, dignified Maya came toward them.
“It is the headman of the village,” Alita said. “I will talk to him.” After several minutes, she came back to say they could leave the truck there. The villagers would take care of it.
“Can we trust them?” Hooker asked. “I’d hate to have to walk back to Campeche.”
“The truck will be safe,” Alita said. “These are good Mayas, not savages like in the jungle.”
The villagers watched with interest as the truck was unloaded. They kept a wary distance from the two
chicleros
, who looked more menacing than ever with the machetes hanging at their sides.
Alita held a brief conversation with Chaco, then talked to the headman again. The Maya nodded and pointed out a trail that led into the jungle. He held Alita back for a moment, talking rapidly, his eyes flicking over at Hooker and the
chicleros
.
“What was that about?” Hooker asked.
“He wanted to know if you were really loco. I told him yes, but it is all right because I love you. Indians understand these things.”
The truck was parked, the equipment unloaded and sorted into backpacks. Hooker placed the two
chicleros
at the head of the party where he could keep an eye on them. He jacked a cartridge into the chamber of the .45. They started into the jungle.
The first thing they all felt was the heat. On the drive across the state of Campeche from the coast, the sun had blistered the little pickup, but their movement had generated enough breeze to make it bearable. Once the jungle closed around them, all breeze died. The vegetation seemed to exude a hot mist that made breathing a chore.
Before they had traveled a quarter of a mile, Hooker’s khaki shirt was soaked through. Alita, at the rear of the party, followed easily, sweating almost as freely as Hooker. Walking between them, Connie Braithwaite kept pace with him. She did not perspire much, but she was breathing hard and growing flushed. Hooker started to say something, but her expression warned him off.
Up in front, the two
chicleros
picked their way through the rain forest with easy familiarity. Occasionally, their path was blocked by brush or a fallen branch, and one or the other would dispose of the obstruction with a swipe of his machete. But for the most part, the trail was clear.
“Must be a lot of traffic through here,” Hooker observed.
“The woods are full of Mayas,” Alita told him. “You won’t see them, but they are there.”
“If they want to keep out of sight, that’s fine with me,” he said.
In addition to the soggy heat, there was the strange diffused light at ground level in the jungle. Much of the time, the tall mahogany trees blotted out the sun. Always there was the rippling, dappled effect of being underwater. When they crossed the rare patches of bare ground, Hooker was grateful for a glimpse of blue sky. It was reassuring to find it still there. In one of the clearings, he called the party to a halt.
“The mosquitoes are getting thicker,” he said. “We’d better rub on some of this stuff before it starts getting dark.”
He opened a tin and scooped out two fingers of a gooey yellow substance, which he began rubbing on the exposed skin of his hands, face, and neck. Alita took the tin from him and followed suit. She handed it to Connie.
Connie sniffed at the contents of the tin and made a face. “Ugh, what is it?”
“Turtle fat,” said Hooker. “The local Indians swear it’s the only thing that will keep the Yucatan mosquitoes off you.”
“I’m not surprised. It smells like shit.”
“It’s got to be well seasoned or it won’t work.”
“What a quaint idea.”
“It’s also said to be good for healing open wounds and curing rheumatism.”
“I think I’ll pass,” Connie said. “The mosquitoes aren’t that bad.”
“Suit yourself,” Hooker said, “but I promise you they’ll get worse.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
He offered the tin to Chaco and Manuel, but they ignored it, rubbing on instead an ointment of their own that smelled even worse than the stale turtle fat.
They started moving again, single file.
“The mosquitoes aren’t the worst of the bugs,” Alita said from the end of the line. “There’s ticks you got to burn out of you sometimes. And chicle flies. They’re the worst of all. When they bite you, it makes a sore that keeps getting bigger until it rots away your ears and your nose. Look close at some of the Indians down here and you’ll see what the chicle fly can do to you.”
Connie sucked in her breath. Hooker turned and looked past her. “Cut it out, Alita. We’ve got enough problems without stories like that.”
She made her eyes big and innocent. “Oh, ‘scuse me. I didn’t mean to scare nobody.”
Connie forced a smile and batted her eyes at the Mexican girl.
As they pushed deeper into the jungle, Hooker was surprised at the number of well-defined trails that intersected theirs and angled off in other directions. Whenever they reached a fork, Chaco would pause, sniff the air, glance at the sky, and choose one of the branches. Hooker checked him as closely as he could against the compass and the map. As nearly as he could tell, the Indian was leading them in the right direction.
At one good-sized clearing, Hooker called them to a halt for rest and food. He brought out tortillas and dried beef.
“This is it?” Connie said.
“When we camp for the night, we’ll have something hot,” Hooker said. “This will keep us going for now.”
“How far do you think we’ve come?” Connie said.
“Five miles,” Hooker estimated. “Maybe six.”
“Jesus, it feels like twenty.”
“More important is how much farther we have to go.” He turned to Alita. “Ask the skinny one.”
Alita walked up and talked with Chaco. In a few minutes, she returned.
“He says if we make good time the rest of today, then go all day tomorrow, by the morning after we should be there.”
“That’s not too bad,” Hooker said. “About what I figured.”
“God, another day and a half of this,” Connie said with feeling.
“Hey, you insisted on coming along,” Hooker reminded her.
“I know it, but I didn’t give up bitching rights.”
Hooker couldn’t hold back a smile. “Fair enough,” he said.
• • •
They started forward again. As the trail narrowed, the
chicleros
put their machetes to work. Hooker had to admire the way they swung the two-foot knives with a beautiful economy of motion. They sliced through vines and branches as thick as a man’s arm with no apparent effort.
As the shadows grew heavier and the sun slanted in low from their right, Hooker watched for the next clearing of any size. When they reached it, he whistled them to a stop.
“We’ll camp here. We don’t want to fight the jungle at night.”
Connie dropped her backpack with a sigh. “That’s the best news I’ve heard since we left civilization.” She swatted at the back of her neck. “Damn!”
Hooker questioned her with a look. She ignored him.
They dug a fire pit in the center of the clearing and propped a pole above it on two forked sticks. While Alita gathered dry wood for the fire, Hooker and the
chicleros
hung the hammocks from trees at the edge of the clearing. Connie watched.
“It’s probably a foolish question,” she said, “but why are we building a fire? It’s already like an oven.”
“It isn’t for heat,” Hooker said. “A fire will keep the animals away.”
“Animals?”
“I told you about them back in Veracruz. Jaguars, mostly. They won’t attack a man in the daylight, but at night, if the man’s sleeping, that’s another story. The wild pigs can hurt you, too.”
Connie looked around at the darkening trees. “It sounds a lot more dangerous out here than it did in my hotel room.”
She swatted at her arms, her face, the back of her neck. “All right, Hooker, give me some of that stinking turtle fat. And no wisecracks, please.”
Hooker rolled his eyes innocently and handed her the tin. Connie rubbed the stuff in vigorously, glaring at Hooker until he erased his grin.
“What’s for dinner?” she demanded.
“Tortillas, beans, cheese, coffee.”
“No meat?”
“Dried beef.”
“Jesus.”
Alita took charge of the cooking, hanging a pot over the fire for the beans and setting water to boil to make coffee. Hooker lit a cigarette. Connie busied herself trying to brush the dust out of her clothes. Chaco sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, tiny eyes narrowed to slits.
Manuel, who had been sitting next to his companion, rose suddenly and stood with his head cocked in a listening attitude. He lunged off into the dark jungle and was immediately out of sight.
“Hey!” Hooker called, standing up.
There was a crashing off among the trees, and in a moment Manuel returned. He was holding by the tail what looked like a three-foot dragon. The beast thrashed in his grasp, trying to twist its head back up to bite his hand.
“Oh, my God, what is that?” Connie said.
“Iguana,” Hooker told her. “Very tasty when it’s cooked right.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Like chicken,” Alita said.
“That’s what they always say about something you wouldn’t normally put in your mouth.”
“You were asking about meat,” Hooker reminded her.
Manuel stood holding the lizard, his broad, flat face turned toward Hooker.
“He offers to share with us,” Alita said.
“Tell him thanks, we accept.”
Alita spoke a single sharp syllable. Moving with a startling swiftness, the big man pulled out a thin-bladed knife and slit the iguana from throat to anus. Connie turned away, squeezing her eyes shut as the intestines spilled out over the ground.
Alita cut the meat into strips, which they roasted on sticks held over the fire. Connie sat by herself, chewing on a piece of dried beef, while the others ate iguana.
“Change your mind?” Hooker said.
“Well …”
He used his hunting knife to slice off a piece from the end of his stick. Connie took it carefully from the knife blade. She sniffed at it, tasted it, finally took a bite. She looked around at the others watching her.
“Okay,” she said. “It’s not bad. It’s not chicken, but it’s not bad.”
For dessert, Hooker brought out squares of chocolate and handed them around. Only Chaco refused to take one.
When they had finished eating and the coffeepot was empty, Alita began to gather the utensils.
“Let me clean up,” Connie said. “You did the cooking.”
Alita looked at her curiously. “I don’t mind. You’ll just get your hands all dirty.” She glanced over at Hooker.
“Let her,” he said.
Alita moved out of the way, and Connie began gathering things together. Hooker watched her without comment.
When she had finished, Connie stood up and yawned. “All of a sudden I’m dead tired. What time is it, anyway?”
Hooker consulted his Bulova. “Eight o’clock.”
“Jesus, at home I’d just be dressing to go out.”
“Time and distance are deceptive in the jungle. Come on; I’ll show you how to get into your hammock.”
He helped her in and attached the cocoonlike mosquito netting to the sides.
“You know, this thing is really comfortable,” she said, looking up at him. “Or else I’m more tired than I thought.”
“They’re woven mesh with no knots,” he said. “They give with the body. Not like the hard canvas slings the navy uses.”
“Were you in the navy?”
Hooker’s eyes clouded. “I’ve been on some boats,” he said. “Good night.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to pry into your past.”
“It’s okay. Maybe someday I’ll tell you all about me.”
“I think I’d like that.”
“Don’t count on it.”
As he started to turn away, she reached out from under the netting and took his hand. “How am I doing, Hooker?”
“You’re doing fine. Just fine.”
“If I start being a pain in the ass, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”
“Sure.”
She made a kiss at him through the mosquito netting. “Good night.”
He moved in toward the fire and sat down again. Chaco and Manuel sat silently on the opposite side of the clearing. Alita came over next to Hooker.
“You never said you were glad to see me, Johnny.”
“Surprised would be more like it.”
“But you’re not mad, now that I’m here?”
“I’m not mad.”
Alita sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. Then, suddenly, she drew back and looked at him. “Did you go to bed with her, Johnny?”
“What?”
“The blonde lady. Did you go to bed with her?”
“You can call her by name,” he said.
“Connie. Did you go to bed with her.”
“If I did, do you think I’d be sap enough to tell you about it?”
“No, I s’pose not.”
“Then what do you say we drop it.”
Alita was quiet for several minutes. Hooker lit a cigarette.
“Are you in love with her, Johnny?”
“Oh, for Chrissake.”
“Are you?”
“I am not in love with her. And that is the last question I am going to answer on the subject. Now or ever.
Comprende?
”
“Comprendo,”
Alita said quietly. “I am a woman, Johnny. Women ask these things. I can’t help it.”
He put an arm around her. “I know you’re a woman,
chiquita
. More woman than a man deserves.”
“Not you, Johnny. You deserve me.”
He laughed and gave her a squeeze.
Across from them, Chaco got to his feet. He belched and started off into the trees.
“Where’s he going?” Hooker said.
Alita spoke to the
chiclero
in the rattling dialect. Chaco answered her with a sneer on his lips.
“He is going to relieve himself,” Alita said.
Chaco said something else, finishing with a short, barking laugh.
“Unless you want him to put out the fire, he says.”
Hooker stared at the small man until the sneer faded. Chaco shrugged and continued into the trees.
“I don’t like that Indian,” Hooker said to nobody in particular.
He got up, leaving Alita sitting by the tree, and walked around to poke at the fire. He could hear Chaco pissing in the woods. Manuel dozed in a sitting position.
A movement on the ground caught Hooker’s eye. He focused on a spot at the edge of the clearing near where Manuel’s hand lay, and his throat dried up. Sliding in an S-curve out of a clump of palm leaves came a snake, fifteen inches long, big around as a good cigar. In the darkness there was no way to tell what kind it was. In the dark, all snakes are deadly.
Hooker’s .45 boomed. The muzzle flash caught the others in a variety of startled attitudes. Manuel leaped to his feet, big hands balled into fists. Connie cried out, tangling herself in the mosquito netting as she tried to get out of the hammock. Alita ran to Hooker’s side. Chaco came crashing in from the jungle, his pants open in front. They all stared at Hooker. He pointed with the pistol at the twitching body of the snake. Where the head had been, a stringy mass oozed blood. All eyes followed his gesture.
Manuel bent down and grasped the mutilated snake by the tail. He held it up in the firelight.
Alita gasped.
“Barba amarilla!”
“What is it?” Connie said.
“A kind of coral snake,” Hooker said.
“Its bite kills you in fifteen minutes,” Alita said. “With very much pain. The name means ‘yellow beard.’ Maybe you can guess why.”
Connie shuddered.
Manuel stood holding the remains of the snake. He looked down at the blood-spattered patch of ground so close to where he had been sitting; then he looked across at Hooker. Their eyes met and held. The big man’s head bobbed once. Hooker raised the pistol to acknowledge the thanks, then holstered it.