Up River

Our boat guide and his porter










"Still strong." Lou holds the tracker up and checks the signal at different angles.
"How far?"
"About twenty four clicks as the crow flies." He looks at me, "Do they have crows down here?"
"In miles, for Christ's sake."
"About fifteen miles."
I pull the small notebook that Abramawitz gave us and flip to the chart inside and the red "x" that marked the spot of the transmission.

I turn to our river guide. He is middle aged, balding... has his nephew or grand kid or something like that along to help us with our gear. He gives us his name a few times, but I don't remember what it is. He speaks pretty good English.
"Hey... uh," I hold the small chart out for his inspection, "This place, how far from here?"
He hands control of the tiller to his boy and takes the small chart in hand. After a moment he looks up, definately a little more pallid than before.
"This is where my brother has gone?"

I am at a loss for a second, then... "Oh, yes, you are brother to Chris' river guide. Forgot that one."
He still has that wide-eyed look.
"Why, is that a problem?"
He hands the book back to me, his hand shaking ever so slightly. "My brother would not have gone all the way up river to this point."
"Why not?"
"This is very dangerous area, bad makumba."
"Yeah, yeah, I heard about the scary Black Makumba. Look, I know it doesn't seem like it to you, but this is the twenty-first century. We have our own magic now, it's called the computer age? So let's get passed all of this."

He shakes his head. I can see it in his eyes that he wants to turn the boat around.
"Hey, now... just relax. You want to find your brother, don't you?"
He takes the tiller from the boy. I hear the click of the hammer being pulled back on Lou's Kimber. I cut to him quickly and shake my head... that won't be necessary.

"We won't let anything happen to you and your boy. Our friend, your brother, they need our help. We can't do that without you. Your brother would do it for you."
He chews on that for a moment.
"How long to that spot?"
"River winds many times." He looks at the sunlight pouring through the trees, "Three hours."
Lou's head drops, "Three hours? We should have flown that float plane up here ourselves."
"You can't land that plane on the river. You could barely see it through the jungle."
He shakes his head, "Fucking Nancy."

The boat ride is interesting at first. We see a lot of wild life; parrots, yellow and black striped bass that are native to the river, a couple of huge spider webs with no spiders, Lou even spots a jungle cat sleeping in a tree. But all of this slowly turns to boredom, the drone of the little outboard engine a constant soundtrack to all that we see. Time passes, the light changes.

Lou holds the tracker out for my inspection, "Another half a mile and we are there."
The boy says something in Portugese to the man, it is urgent and is accompanied by a frantic tugging at the man's shirt. He points to the shore and his voice gets higher. There, on the bank, is a strange assemblage of sticks and foliage in the shape of an "X". It obviously means something.

Our river guide lets off the throttle and the engine drops to idle. There is a noise in the jungle, not drums but definately man made signals of some kind being tapped off on a hollow log or something of that nature. I don't even get all the dots connected before Lou has donned his MP-5 and tucked the Kimber in his belt at the small of his back.

There is panic in our guide's face as he starts to turn the boat. Lou presents the Kimber at arms length, "Keep her comin'."
"Lou, easy man, just have him take us to shore. It is only a half a mile."
"Which shore, Jake. You want to swim this river? I don't. No, this guy will take us to the very spot or he dies here and now."

I am hoping he says this for effect and isn't serious. There is a little kid here, and shooting his... whatever he is to him, would be pretty traumatic.
"We will double your payment, okay? Just take us up until we know which bank... "
"STOP pussy footin' around with this guy, Jake. He will take us all the way." He keeps the Kimber leveled at him. The man's hand slowly goes back on the tiller. Lou wiggles the end of the gun to press him into action and the throttle is twisted and we are once again under way.

"Jesus, these guys and their black magic. You know that shit is only as powerful as you let it be." I don my MP-5 and ready my Kimber. "This guy isn't going to wait, you know that... don't you?"
"I don't care if he waits. He can leave right fucking now as far as I am concerned. But the boat stays."
"Oh, sure, that'll work."

Our guide looks constantly from side to side. Since spotting the "scarecrow" on the bank of the river he is as nervous as a Kentucky prom date in a short red dress.
Lou snaps his fingers and motions to shore. The boats, one red and one orange, are pulled up out of the river. Not a soul in sight.
The boat is pointed to the bank and there is a noticable look of relief on our friend's face.

As we approach, Lou spots a piece of paper floating on the water. He picks it up and looks at it, then passes it to me. I look at it. Three words; Berliner..leave.. comment.
"What the hell does that mean?"
Lou shakes his head. I let the soggy piece of paper fall to back into the river and prepare to disembark.

On the shore, our man leaves the engine running. Lou checks out the boats. They look fine. He pulls the covers off the five gallon gas tanks.
"Plenty of fuel." He gives the engine a once over. "These haven't been tampered with. Hell, he can go if he wants. We can find our way back."

He doesn't need any prompting. No sooner do we have the gear off the boat he backs out into the river. In his haste to shift from reverse to forward he stalls the engine. As he frantically yanks on the cord, a few whisps of air can be heard from the far shore. First the boy cries out, grabbing at the small of his back before going limp. Then the boat lurches as the engine catches and the escape proceeds for a moment. A few more whisps and the man grabs at his neck. As he collapses onto the tiller, the boat begins a continuous turn at full speed until its own wake begins to swallow the craft.

In less than a minute the motor is silenced as it sinks into the Amazon. There is no evidence that they were even here... with the exception of the two of us.

Water Hopping

Our Vista float plane coming from the fuel dock.









"Nice digs."
Lou peels open a can of mixed nuts and dumps a handful into his palm. In his other hand is a chilled can of Club Cocktail... Long Island Ice Tea I think. The plane is stocked, but they didn't have the time to pick up the flight attendant with the rush and all.

I feel a little uncomfortable in the Gulfstream 200 as we make our way... post haste, to the town of Coari in the Amazon Jungle. I don't know if it is because of the anxiety or the slight case of air-sickness I have from the turbulance on our climb out.

Jerry wanted us to all go on Abigail, but now it is only he and Ollie that will take her down. It is over two thousand miles as the crow flies so he will take almost three times as long with fuel stops. We have the bulk of the supplies on board her in case this turns into an extended expedition.
Lou and I are the advance team, jetting down there as quickly as possible so we can take advantage of the the distress beacon still eminating from the Breitling. Time is of the essance. Our flight crew tells us that we should be wheels down in four hours.

We are to be met by the same pilot that dropped Chris off at Lago Piorini. He has also arranged to have brothers of the same guides that took them up river. None of this give me pause to relax. Walking in the footsteps of a man lost in the Amazon Jungle will twirl your compass.

"Hold out your hand." Lou jostles the can of nuts.
"I'm good."
"Come on, you haven't eaten anything since we landed in Puerto Barrios."
"Yeah, well... "
He tosses the can again and then starts picking out his favorites.
"What did they give us aside from that satellite phone? What about weapons?"
I pull out the inventory list of what they loaded in the small hold.
"HK MP-5SD3? Two of those and a butt-load of... special ammunition drum canisters instead of clips, a hundred rounds each."
"Ahhh, good weapon, 800 rounds per minute, internally silenced."
He drains the Long Island and leans back to access the mini-bar.
"What else?"
I continue down the paper, calling off each of the items; percussion grenades, a couple of thermal grenades, machetes, two Kimber forty-fives.
"Cool, back to the Kimber, huh? I was pissed when that gun went into the drink."
"Lights, tents, rations... what the fuck is all of this stuff?"
"That's what they put on Abigail." He finds two more cans of Long Island."
I give him a look, "You aren't gonna be passed out by the time we get there, are you?"
"What are you? My fucking mother?" He cracks one and empties it without hesitation.
I look at him, "Are there any more of those?"
He shakes his head. "No, Nancy, these are the last two. They do have a couple of Fuzzy Navels and a Sex on the Beach. I don't touch those fairy drinks, but you can have 'em."

I make my way over to the mini-bar and see that there are a couple of Vodka Martini cans and pull those for the ride. The other drinks stay in the chiller to be consumed during less manly pursuits.

Not much to do on the way down. These guys are cooking along at top speed, but it is still a long time. We end up drinking everything in the bar, including a couple of minis of 10 Cane rum we find in the back. Lou longs for a Walker, but he smoked the last one he had while we waited on the tarmack for this plane to show. The rest of his stash is aboard Abigail. He prays that Ollie doesn't forget to bring it up river when he comes.

I am asleep when we touch ground. It is a harder landing than most. I can see the windsock at the end of the field and it doesn't seem like that is the issue. Probably a rookie.
We taxi for a bit and then stop outside a small wooden building. A man comes out and enters the aircraft. He seems ready to ask a lot of questions and demand passports and other paperwork when he is handed a manila envelope thick with what has to be currency of some kind. He is handed a clipboard and is required to sign by the co-pilot, then he turns and exits.

"Wow, that was quick."
The pilot looks at me and winks. "Don't have the time to screw with these little tyrants. So we radio ahead and let them know we are coming and that we have been instructed to provide "documentation fees" upon landing."
"No shit." Lou straightens up and stretches, "How much was that?"
"Two hundred ReAls."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, about a hundred-fourteen bucks."
"Is that all it takes?"
"One time all we had were two bottles of Scotch."

An old seventies crew cab Chevy four wheel drive pulls up to the plane and two guys in coveralls step out amid the clatter of empty beer cans. With quick succession they are tossed in the bed. On the side of the truck, as well as painted on the back of their coveralls is the word "Vista".
We watch as they walk over to the pilot. Lou and I grab the duffles and a couple of hard cases that contain our more volatile instruments and we walk up to the small group.
"Jake," the pilot begins, "This is the crew from Vista FloatPlanes for the trip out to Lago Piorini. They will take you from here."
We shake hands with our pilots, and then with the floatplane guys.
"You boys didn't have to dress up on our account." Lou tells them.
One of them looks at Lou with wide eyes, then turns to his partner, then back to Lou.
"Hey, relax fella, just kidding."
Our G200 pilot turns to us, "They know who you work for, what that represents. They do not want to disappoint the family."

The jittery one grabs every bag we are carrying and places them in the back of the truck, giving special attention to the metal carrying cases... before I am able to warn him.
Lou and I load into the back seats of the crew cab and we exit the airstrip next to the terminal building.
"Where are we going?"
The two of them talk... Portugese I would assume. I look to Lou. Finally something he can't do. Why it has to be at this moment I don't know.
"English?" I ask the driver.
He looks at me in the mirror from behind taped sunglasses... RayBans of all things.
"Floatplane is on the river."
"No shit, Sherlock." Lou nudges me in the ribs as though he knew it all the time.
"Horse shit, Lou... you were thinking the same thing I was."
"No, Nancy, I was thinking a "float" plane would be floating."

Ten minutes of washboard road and we are pulling down a long industrial drive on the water. The guys pull off onto a path and drive between the trees. Against one of them leans a hand painted sign for "Vista FloatPlanes". We continue up to a rickety dock structure that doubles as a containment for a flotilla of logs. To the right of this is another floating platform that I assume serves the radial engine float-plane.

As we get the gear out of the truck, a red floatplane motors up to the platform and one of the crew runs to receive it.
"I was worried." I turn to Lou, "By the looks of things I thought we might have to pedal our way to the lake."
"She sounds good." Lou nods and we watch as the pilot shuts her down.

As our gear is loaded onboard I check out the plane. It seems as though she is well taken care of. The pilot sees my interest and we have a short discussion about the plane. It has been in his family for forty years and has only had three in-flight incidents; bird strike, engine fire, and a float departing the aircraft. He assures me that the plane is in the best shape ever... he has seen to that. I believe him.

Lou grabs the hand held tracker out of our gear and turns it on. It ranges for a moment or two and then reports the position of the Breitling's signal at sixty-three point eight miles northwest.
"We should have him fly us over this location so we can see what we are in for." Lou holds the tracker up and shows the pilot.

The guy looks at the tracker and then at Lou, his eyes wide. "No... no, this is not possible. I will take you as far as the north shore of Piorini. But this place?"
He pointst to the tracker, "This is protected by Black Makumba, very strong, Yanomami black magic."
I look at Lou and get a blank stare in return. Finally, something he doesn't know. But that doesn't help us here.
"Makumba? Black Makumba? What the hell is Black Makumba?"

The pilot turns away and feigns an inspection on the old plane.
"Yanomami protect their lands with a curse, very bad."

Lou smirks, "Jake, I hope you brought your rabbit's foot."
We don't have time for mumbo jumbo.
"Look, pal, our friend is lost in the jungle. All we want to do is fly over this spot. You don't have to land, you don't have to do anything but fly us around so we can see what we are in for."

The pilot stops his inspection and turns, "I know this man. I take him to the lake and leave him. I know he is Antonelli Family. But this is nothing compared to Black Makumba. Is very very bad."
"Okay, Mack, okay... just take us to the mouth of the river. I will let the Antonelli's know that you weren't able to accomodate us."

His features reveal the internal struggle. Black Magic, his beliefs, the possibility of reprisal from the "family". But Makumba seems to win out and his fears of this ancient practice overshadows any reason.

We leave the water with no incident. The jungle is featureless, with the exception of an occassional snaking river here and there. Then we reach the lake. Quite beautiful, a developers dream if any of these people could afford the dreams that those people dream. But the lake is primative with a couple of shanties and make-shift docks stringing out into the water.

After a minute or two over the lake, I ask our pilot one last time.
"Last chance, pal. Fly us over this location." I point to the tracker and its reading, "You might save this man's life. The Antonellis will definately appreciate your decision."

Moments pass as he tangles with the decision. Finally he requests the location as we fly over the spot where we will eventually land.

Both Lou and I scour the landscape for any clue as we make our way toward the sight of the Breitling's broadcast. There is nothing but green jungle and a black ribbon of river. Then things happen quickly.
I spot a flash of red or orange in the jungle below. Before I can open my mouth to speak, the engine sputters, causing our pilot to begin a frantic check of gauges and knobs. He taps and pulls and turns but the engine keeps sputtering.

A quick bank, a dive to gain some speed and then he kicks it back up to make it toward the lake. Then there is that uneasy silence when the engine stops and just the whine of the wind fills the cabin.

"Well shit, that's four times, eh?" Lou smiles, somehow knowing that this isn't the emergency that our pilot feels that it is.

The lake comes into view as we drop below one hundred feet. Our pilot is praying in Portugese as we get feet wet and have cleared the trees. It is obvious that he has been flying since he could walk... second nature. He sets her down with little more than a bump and we drag to a stop.

With the paddles we assemble from under the seats it takes twenty minutes to get us up to the make-shift dock where our river boats await us. Black Makumba... it may be real.

Bungle in the Jungle

Abramowitz waits until the drinks are brought in from the other room. They are jade green and a little luminescant. Tastes like melon and a lot of tequila. I look at Lou as he takes a long draw... he approves.

"Gentleman, we have moved into an emergency situation. We haven't heard from Christoper for three days. There is a standing order that he is to check in every forty-eight hours."
Lou smirks, "Check in... it's not like he's in high school."
"No, it's not like that at all. Mr. Antonelli is now the head of a multi-billion dollar empire and we need to know that he is safe at all times."
"So what happened to him?" I straighten up and watch as a wall panel slides back to reveal a huge LCD.

The Earth comes up, spinning gently on the screen. Abramowitz types in some numbers and it spins and settles over Brazil then begins to dive. He smiles like he really has something.
"Google Earth, wonderful... isn't it?" Lou tells him.
Abramowitz' smile slackens. It is obvious that this is a new toy for him.
"Gentlemen, several weeks ago after Mr. Antonelli flew the both of you to Northern California, he took the G4 to this location."
Google Earth stops its descent over a small town on the Amazon called Coari.
"This town was the closest he could get to his objective with the jet." Abramowitz closes in on the town now and we see the landing strip.

Lou tosses back the rest of his Puerto Loco and sets the glass back down in front of him, turning it in his hands.
"So what? Is he broken down there? They probably have mechanics closer than Jake here right in Sau Paulo."

Abramowitz pulls back from the airport and then moves north about fifty miles.
"Christopher was investigating a business opportunity... a gold claim, against our advice, north of this lake... Lago Piorini. He and several of his men took a float plane and landed here."
He places the cursor mid-way up the north eastern bank where another a river snakes out into the jungle.
"That was three days ago. We talked to him as he stepped off the plane and they were loading supplies onto a couple of long boats to take them up river to the claim."
"How long were they planning on staying at this gold claim?" I ask, finishing my drink and then wiggling the glass at the man that brought them to us. He comes and collects both of our glasses and leaves the room... hopefully to bring us another.

"They were to spend the day and then return. Along with him was a man named George Stroud. He is one of the top men in the field of geology and the only man to call if you want to get more yield out of modern mining equipment."

Google Earth is now replaced with a picture of Stroud and Chris standing by a large pallet of equipment. "There was a possibility that the task may run into the next day, but even if that was to occur, Christopher has a satellite phone that works anywhere on the planet with maybe the exception of the South Pole."
"So he didn't check in."
"No... he did not."

Lou looks perplexed, "So... you called us to go find him?"
Abramowitz pulls a briefcase below the table and opens it. He removes a red leather folder with a locking clasp and sets it on the table.
"This is a contigency folder... emergency instructions written by Mr. Antonelli himself. Once he was outside the forty-eight hour window we opened it. You two are at the top of his list." He snaps to attention, almost as though he were startled.

"Find him."
We turn to see a well maintained middle aged woman, fatigue and worry show on her face like a Days of Our Lives marathon.
"Find my son."
As she speaks we all stand, out of respect... well, we stand because the lawyers jump up.
"Mrs. Antonelli, may I introduce Jake Allen and Lou... Lou..."
"Just Lou is fine." He smiles, "It's a pleasure to make your aquaintance Ma'am."

She nods and then walks slowly toward the table. She waivers slightly, feeling the gentle swell of the Caribbean sea beneath us.
"He spoke of you two. Christopher trusts you boys with his life."
She gives us a look that only God himself or a mother who loves her son could muster.
"Find my son."

The room is silent as she exits, then there is an audible sight of relief. It was as though the Queen of England had come and gone.
"Jesus, why wouldn't she be heading up the family?" I ask as I take my seat.
Stinkle loosens the tie around his neck.
"It is not within the code that these people live by. When Senior died, Chris took his place. Mrs. Antonelli is most certainly the matriarch of this family but is not allowed to be involved directly with any business dealings."

As we get back to our briefing, one of the ship's crew bolts into the room with a sheet of paper.
"The Breitling, sir... we've got a report of a signal." He sets the paper in front of Abramowitz.
"The Breitling?" I look at Abramowitz.
"Yes... Mr. Antonelli's watch. It has an emergency beacon."
"No shit."
"Breitling... a hundred mile radius, hundred and twenty-five point one megahertz for forty-eight hours." Lou rattles the information off like he is reading it from the back of a cereal box.
"Who the fuck are you? Rain Man?"

Goldfarb takes the floor, "Gentlemen, please." He watches over Abramowitz' shoulder as he inputs the coordinates into Google Earth:

3 degrees 19' 10.71" s
63 degrees 18' 23.19" w

The Google pulls back for a moment, then settles in up river from Lago Piorini about fifteen miles into the jungle.
"Oh my." Abramowitz seems stunned.
"What? What's up there?"
"Nothing... that's the problem. The gold claim he was to investigate was at the end of the lake, here."
He uses the cursor to point to the foggy end of the satellite snapshot of the area. There is a main river that feeds the sky blue enhanced lake.
"The actual claim is at the base of this loop." He points once again and circles the area with his arrow.
"Why would he have gone that way then?" Lou looks at the map. Nothing but jungle and a squiggly line of river that can barely be discerned from the jungle.
"I don't believe he would have... not voluntarily." Abramowitz stands and closes the red folder.
"Gentlemen, this is extraordinary news."
"Sounds like a fucking tragedy." Lou shakes his head.
"No, sir, it is not. Christopher is alive and well as of... " He takes the paper that the radioman had brought in, "This signal was received in Coari seven hours ago."
Stinkle perks up as well. "The Breitling is meant to be set off by hand if there is a need to declare an emergency. No one would even know to use it except for him. This means that only seven hours ago did he realize that he is in danger."

I look at Lou, "Yeah... he's in the middle of the Amazon Jungle. Of course he's in danger."
"We have every resource available to you, men. Find Christopher... bring him back to us."

They leave us for the moment and we join Jerry and Ollie in the lounge next door. We brief them on what has happened. We only have forty hours and change before the signal stops. We are at least two thousand miles away, and I haven't even got a change of underwear.
I knew this would happen.

Goldfarb, Stinkle, and Abramowitz

The Caribbear, Antonelli's new Mega-yacht. Hard to believe there is one bigger than KOZANOSTRA




"Goldfarb, Stinkle, and Abramowitz." The greeting is definately American, a young lady... sweet.
"Yes, can you hear me okay?"
"Yes... how can I help you?"
How can you help me... don't sue me.
"We were presented with this fax when my associates landed with a message to call this number."
"And you are?"
"Jake... Jake Allen."
There is silence for a moment, "Can I place you on hold, Mr. Allen?"
"I guess. Not too long, I am on a third world phone system and I don't know how long this will last."
I couple of clicks and I am listening to an orchestral arrangement of a Seals and Crofts tune.

We have flown to Coban on a run from Tapia's... goats. I hate flying livestock. It makes Abigail smell like shit and hay. We could have landed hours before this to make this call, but the phone system is unreliable the further you get into the rural areas.

"Mr. Allen?"
"Still here."
"I have Mr. Stinkle for you."
I choke on a what might have been a laughing fit.
"Mr. Allen?"
"Mr. Stinkle?"
"Yes, Hiram Stinkle. My partners and I represent the Antonelli Family and their concerns throughout the world."
"Oh... how is Chris? We just saw him a few weeks ago and... "
"Mr. Allen, that is why we have been searching for you and your associates. Mr. Antonelli has not been heard from for quite some time now."
"Oh, hey... he's not with us, man. Last time we saw him he was alive and kicking, flying to the Caribbean with a plane full of catered food."
"You are not suspect in his disappearance, Mr. Allen. We need your help in locating him."
"Okay."
"Are you familiar with a coastal town there in Guatamala called Puerto Barrios?"
"Pretty familiar."
"Is it possible for you to meet us there?"

I look over at Abigail and the off-loading of goats. After a quick hosing and a top off on fuel we are going to be ready.
"I guess so. We are a few hours away."
"That will be fine. We will have a man meet you at the airstrip."
"What is this all about? What do you need us for?"
"I am prepared to fill you in on all of the details when you arrive."
The line goes dead.

Ollie is hosing out the cargo bay as I return with the news. Jerry looks up at the sun like a Cherokee checking his watch.
"If this weather holds we should be there before lunch."
"Chris is missing?" Lou's concern creases in the lines on his face.
"Well, that's what this Stinkle guy says. They haven't heard from him."
"You guys saw him in Vegas, right?" Jerry pulls a crumpled pack of Backwoods cigars out of his shirt pocket and opens it.
"He saved our asses in Vegas," Lou adds.
Jerry fishes through the selection and pulls one out and sparks it. He tosses the pack to Lou who does the same.
"Well, we go then." Jerry watches as the fuel truck shows up and they begin to top us off.

We stand to the side while they fuel. Now all three of us puff on the Backwoods cigars. Ollie has a liter bottle of Coke that he plans to drink while we stand here.
I think about the last time we came to the aid of the Antonelli family, like last month. Not dull, let me tell you.
"I wonder how long this is going to take?"?
Lou blows a perfect smoke ring, "Why, got a hot date we don't know about?"
"No, but the way these things go we won't be home for a while."
"It will still be there when we get back."
"I just wish I would have packed some clothes and stuff."
"You're a pussy, you know that?"
"Fuck your momma."

The flight from Coban is about four hundred and fifty miles. We bank it in over the bay and see a huge ship at anchor outside of the smaller craft.
"You don't suppose... "
"An insurance replacement?" Lou smiles.
"Could be." I line Abigail up and begin our descent to the airstrip. Jerry and Ollie had flown her into Coban, Lou and I took her out her to Puerto Barrios. The two of them were napping in the hammocks. We had a pretty good barbeque last night that only ended when we decided to fire up the old girl and go to make our phone call. It was only when we were airborne that Jerry remembered Tapia's cargo. He was going to schedule it later this week, but we would kill two goats with one stone by taking them today.

The guys at the airstrip remember us. They chock us up and give us the thumbs up to shut her down. It is a rainy day here in Puerto Barrios, but sunny skies outside the bay indicate the weather to come.
There is a small helicopter, rotor idling, is off to our left. When we motored up to our spot, I saw a man in a suit step out of the chopper and head our way. Now he is walking up to us as we stretch the last couple of hours out of our bones.

"Mr. Allen?"
I hold up my hand.
"Mr. Allen, I am Mr. Stinkle. We spoke on the telephone this morning."
Lou smiles and then puts his hand over his mouth and nose and turns away.
"Mr. Allen, I will need you to come with me."
I look at him and then gesture to my friends, "We are all here for this, not just me."
He looks at the four of us, then focuses on our Aztec giant. "We may not have the capacity to take all of you."
Lou looks over at the chopper, "That's an AS350,Stinkle, it has a fifteen hundred pound lifting capacity... we'll be fine."

There are the four seats in the back of the chopper, blue leather and very accomodating. Me and Lou sit facing Ollie and Jerry. The two of them fall asleep again as soon as we are airborne.
"Jesus, what light-weights."
"I don't think they have been spending the last several weeks drinking their days away like we have."
"Yeah, that's their problem. We don't need anyone slowing us down."
"Whoa there, slick. Where are you going that they are going to slow you down?"
"Wherever we need to go to save Chris' ass."

We watch the airstrip and Abigail as we lift to about a thousand feet and then head out into the bay. As I suspected we head to the mega-yacht out in the bay. I look down at the marina as we fly over and wonder about Blanco and Loco. No time for memory lane right now. We are on approach to the mega-yacht within minutes and the pilot lowers us down to the deck with ease.

Another man in a three piece suit ducks below the rotors and opens our door. It is at least ninety degrees with matching humidity and these guys are in their monkey suits. Totally out of place in paradise.
"Gentlemen," he calls to us over the sound of the helicopter, "I am Mr. Goldfarb. Welcome aboard the Caribbear." He shakes each of our hands as we file out of the chopper.
"No shit." Lou punches me in the arm, "CaribBEAR... get it?"
I just shake my head.

We are led from the helipad to a roomy salon where the third name in the fax is waiting at a long table. He stands and holds his arms wide.
"Welcome aboard, gentlemen. I am Stan Abramowitz, head council for the Antonelli family."
We introduce ourselves, and Jerry introduces Ollie because he doesn't know what is going on.
"This mainly concerns the two of you." He gestures to Lou and me. "I will need you gentlemen to wait in the bar, which is in the next room. Have the bartender make you a Puerto Loco, a delightful beverage from one of the local constables in town."

I look at Lou, "How about a couple of those in here."

A Message From Afar

The bike is wrecked. It takes six hours to find Lou and Angela... some girl he met on a ride into Cosa, the next small village up the road. He did do one smart thing and that was to bring the hand held radio with him, that and a pistol. As it turns out he uses both while he waits to be rescued.

It has been a week since he pulled it from Naomi's hold. He has put several hundred miles on it already. I don't mind. It's not like it is mine or anything. Mike won the damn thing and was generous enough to give me one. I did get the one ride on it that first day, and offers afterward but he was too many hits into his third Walker for me to tag along.

This morning I hear from him. He had taken Angela on a ride through her village the night before and stayed over after a big dinner and lots of tequila and homemade banana liquor. He is going to bring Angela over for dinner at our place, big plans for a barbeque, ass kicking horseshoe game, a dozen tightly rolled Walkers with that local shit that Nester's cousin sold to him. Sounds like fun.
Except he goes the other way and takes her for a ride toward a bend in the river east of Cosa where Angela tells him there is a beautiful deep blue pool to swim in.

It is, I suspect, a few hours after this that I get the call on the radio. I can't hear what he says... completely, but it is an SOS call and the only thing I can make out is Cosa. So that is where I go.

Just me this morning. Jerry and Ollie are over to Santa Cruz Hautulco on a fuel and supply run. Lou was supposed to go along, and had he gone I would have gone. But he called in "sick" and the boys headed over to the coast. They will check out the situation with Lou's bar. Not that he wants to go back, but he did have some things there that he wants back.

I drive the Powerwagon into Cosa. I can use my arm now, much better, just sore after too much use. I get through town and try to raise him on the radio.
"LOU... COME IN, LOU."
Nothing.
"COME ON, YOU SON OF A BITCH... COME IN."
Still nothing.
I look ahead of me on the road and it takes a rise about a quarter of a mile away. I get to the top of that and then try him again.
"WE'RE GETTING TO YOUR LAST CHANCE, ASSWIPE."
I hear the radio key, more of a change in the static, then it goes back to normal.
"CAN YOU HEAR ME? BECAUSE I CAN'T HEAR YOU."
Another change in static, in the hiss of white noise I swear I hear the word "asshole".
I get on top of the truck and hold the radio at arms length, keying it up.
"GIVE ME SOME KIND OF SIGNAL I CAN WORK WITH."

Three shots ring out, one right after the other. I turn my head and try to get a position on him. Not much out here to produce an echo, so what I hear and where I hear it is just about where I find him.

He is cradling his right hand. Angela has the gun in hand, and is intently watching the trees up the bank near the swimming hole. She rattles off something in a panicked tone.
"What?"
"She shot at a panther that rushed us a minute ago."
"No shit, I thought you were signalling me."
"Worked, didn't it."
I look around, "where's the bike?"
He points at the water. I can see the chrome of the back rest about three feet underwater.
"What the fuck happened?"
"Before or after we hit the tree?"
"After... before... what tree?"
He lays his the hand he is cradling in his lap and then uses the good hand to point to wipe the blood out of his hair. There is a pretty good hit to the side of his skull.
"Jesus, Lou, are you okay?"
"Head's all right, but my hand, I dislocated three of my fingers."

He gesters to his left hand laying in his lap. The pinky, ring finger, and middle finger are blue and at odd angles. It makes my balls climb up inside me.
Lou searches the ground and finds a stick about a half inch in diameter.
"I need you to reset them."
"What?"
"Reset them. Give them each a sturdy pull, one after the other. Do it quick and hard."
"Oh no... you, you do it."
"Don't you think I would have done it by now. It is a lot easier if you do it."
He puts the stick in his mouth, then grunts at me and holds out his hand.
"Motherfucker."
After I pull the first one, I work quickly. Angela screams and scares the shit out of me, but I pull away and in less than ten seconds, I am finished.
Lou peels the stick out of his mouth, which has deep teeth marks in it. He didn't say a word, didn't cry out, didn't even take in a breath. Tough as nails.

I use the winch on the front of the Powerwagon to pull the bike out of the water. The winch and a sturdy, low hanging brach and I am able to get the carcass into the bed of the truck. Easy come... easy go. We are all up front now and headed back to El Corazon.
"So... how did you do that?"
He looks over at Angela, who speaks as much English as the average ten year old collie.
"She was giving me a hand job and I got distracted."
I say nothing.
"I... I'm sorry."
I look straight ahead and let him stew in it.
"I'll fix it."
"I want a new one."

By the time we pull into the compound all is forgiven and the cab is full of smoke. Angela has a sweet laugh. I really feel like grabbing her by the back of the neck and planting a long, luscious kiss on her lips. But Lou is sitting beside her and even with his bad hand on my side, I think I would come out on the short side of things.
"Does Angela have a sister?"
We stop and Lou opens the door and steps out.
"She has three sisters. Only one is still in her village."
He takes one last toke on the roach of the Walker and then snubs it out and eats it.
"You should have said something, Lucille just sits home."
"Lucille?"
"All three hundred pounds of her."
"That would make a hell of a lap dance."
"Lap, legs, probably your chest and shoulders."

We leave the broken, waterlogged remains of the bike in the back of the truck and load some mesquite into the homemade barbeque and spark it up. We have two ice chests that Jerry brought back on a run. Tapia had smoked some goat meat, and there was marinated pollo, and a couple of racks of spare ribs with Mari's special rub. The other cooler is stacked with bottles of Negra Modelo... payment on a bet with someone down the trade route.

It is about five minutes after we light the mesquite, we can hear Abby on approach. I watch the tree line at the end of the dirt strip and she appears about a half mile away. Me and Lou watch her touch down. No matter how many times I have seen it, I can't turn away.

She idles into the compound and Jerry cuts her engines. Angela has a couple of semi-cold beers opened and ready for them as they exit the aircraft. Ollie up ends his and it disappears in seconds, just foam clinging to the inside of an empty bottle. Jerry takes a long draw and then pulls a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket.
"Goldfarb, Stinkle, and Abramowitz." He hands it to me while he up-ends his beer.
"Bless you." Lou rings in.
I open the paper and it is an official looking faxed correspondance addressed to me, Lou, Jerry... and Abigail. Only a couple of lines and then a contact number.
"What the hell is this?"
"Read it."
Ollie says something in mother tongue.
"Yeah, no shit." Jerry agrees.
"What?"
"Local cops, staters... whatever the fuck they were, scared the shit out of us. Turns out that a copy of that letter was sent to every local cop with a fax machine, and to every airstrip with a tower or personel that might have known us or where we were located."
Ollie speaks again.
"We thought we were busted. Those fuckers were on us as soon as we touched down. Good thing we had already done our crop run. All we had on board was some irrigation equipment."
"They boarded you?"
"No... just wanted to give us that." He points to the paper, "Those are lawyers for a very important person."
"No shit, I thought they were a Vaudeville act."
Lou shakes his head, "Lawyers, I hate lawyers. Nothing good can come of that."

We all adjourn to the patio and check on the coals and throw a little meat on the barbi. After a few more beers are cracked and we have all read the fax, we all scratch our heads.
Lou takes a hit off a Walker and blows it out slowly, "Nothing but that little bit of shit,our names and a contact number."
"Maybe we're being sued." I can't believe I just said it, but it is possible.
"Sued for what, delivering bad assault rifles?" Jerry takes the Walker as it passes and hits it long and hard.

We don't have our satellite phone any longer. It is at the bottom of the Caribbean. No phone in Nogales, just the radio. We make plans for an early flight tomorrow so we can make the call and find out what the hell this is all about.