to go home at once. So the man was a loose cannon, all right, but what choice was there? Who else could knowledgeably guide Scofield and his people and also introduce them to genuine jungle shamans? No one, only Cisco. Vargas had advanced him a hundred nuevos soles to get his hair and that wild beard of his trimmed and to buy a pair of new shoes to replace his disgusting, falling-apart, ankle-high sneakers. Whether he’d actually do any of that, or would even remember that he’d been asked, was strictly a toss-up.
Scofield, ready to leave now, drained his whiskey, smacked his lips, and set down the glass. “All right then, Captain, we have ourselves a deal.” His left hand went into the pocket of his neat plaid shirt, from which he withdrew a blue leather checkbook. His right hand clicked the top of a ballpoint pen and held it, poised, above the top check.
“Five thousand four hundred dollars, correct?”
“Perfectly correct,” said Vargas, his heart in his mouth. Five thousand four hundred dollars would almost cover what was still owed for the Adelita ’s refitting. The pen remained poised.
Write, write, damn it!
Scofield began to scratch away at last. “Let’s round it off and say fifty-five hundred, shall we?”
“Thank you, professor.” Vargas started breathing again. They were actually closing the deal. “I do have many expenses that-”
Scofield completed the check, tore it off with just about the sweetest sound that Vargas had ever heard, but then practically stopped the captain’s heart by drawing it back across the table before Vargas could snatch it.
Now what? “Is something wrong?” he said, managing what he hoped was a smile.
“I wonder, Captain,” Scofield said slowly, gently waving the check, “if you would be interested in earning an additional five thousand dollars?”
Vargas’s heart started up again. At about a hundred beats a minute. “You’re thinking about another cruise?”
“No, not another cruise. Something more in the nature of a simple favor on this one. No additional trouble on your part at all.” He leaned closer, smiling. “I have a proposition in which I think you might be interested, Captain Vargas.”
Twenty minutes later, the two men stood up and shook hands, Vargas having first used a cocktail napkin to surreptitiously wipe the sweat from his palm.
“We’ll look forward to our departure on the twenty-sixth, then,” Scofield said. “Thank you for the drinks.”
“Thank you, professor.”
Once Scofield had left, Vargas flopped back into his soft leather chair. With the thousand soles he was being paid for the mail and cargo deliveries, he would gross almost $11,000, an incredible sum, enough to outfit his beloved Adelita in the manner it deserved, enough for a down payment on a second ship! Yet all the same, an edgy panic, as thick and turgid as cold mud, pressed painfully on his heart. What had he gotten himself into?
He shoved his Inca Kola aside, and limply signaled the barman.
“Bernardo, a double aguardiente.”
FOUR
In the elevator on the way to his fourth-floor room in the Dorado Plaza, Arden Scofield was experiencing a mixture of excitement, relief, and self-congratulation. The arrangement he’d just concluded with Vargas was the final element in an elegantly contrived plan. Had Vargas not agreed, it would all have come to nothing. But really, there hadn’t been much chance of that. His choice of Vargas was hardly random. He had chosen him with care, had meticulously researched him and liked what he had discovered: a cash-pressed boat owner with big dreams for the future; an ambitious, cunning, but basically simple man; not a hardened criminal by any means – certainly not “connected” – but definitely money-hungry and not above the occasional skirting of the law when expedience demanded it. Perfect for what Scofield had in mind.
And what Arden Scofield had in mind had little to do with ethnobotanical expeditions. What he was
Scofield, ready to leave now, drained his whiskey, smacked his lips, and set down the glass. “All right then, Captain, we have ourselves a deal.” His left hand went into the pocket of his neat plaid shirt, from which he withdrew a blue leather checkbook. His right hand clicked the top of a ballpoint pen and held it, poised, above the top check.
“Five thousand four hundred dollars, correct?”
“Perfectly correct,” said Vargas, his heart in his mouth. Five thousand four hundred dollars would almost cover what was still owed for the Adelita ’s refitting. The pen remained poised.
Write, write, damn it!
Scofield began to scratch away at last. “Let’s round it off and say fifty-five hundred, shall we?”
“Thank you, professor.” Vargas started breathing again. They were actually closing the deal. “I do have many expenses that-”
Scofield completed the check, tore it off with just about the sweetest sound that Vargas had ever heard, but then practically stopped the captain’s heart by drawing it back across the table before Vargas could snatch it.
Now what? “Is something wrong?” he said, managing what he hoped was a smile.
“I wonder, Captain,” Scofield said slowly, gently waving the check, “if you would be interested in earning an additional five thousand dollars?”
Vargas’s heart started up again. At about a hundred beats a minute. “You’re thinking about another cruise?”
“No, not another cruise. Something more in the nature of a simple favor on this one. No additional trouble on your part at all.” He leaned closer, smiling. “I have a proposition in which I think you might be interested, Captain Vargas.”
Twenty minutes later, the two men stood up and shook hands, Vargas having first used a cocktail napkin to surreptitiously wipe the sweat from his palm.
“We’ll look forward to our departure on the twenty-sixth, then,” Scofield said. “Thank you for the drinks.”
“Thank you, professor.”
Once Scofield had left, Vargas flopped back into his soft leather chair. With the thousand soles he was being paid for the mail and cargo deliveries, he would gross almost $11,000, an incredible sum, enough to outfit his beloved Adelita in the manner it deserved, enough for a down payment on a second ship! Yet all the same, an edgy panic, as thick and turgid as cold mud, pressed painfully on his heart. What had he gotten himself into?
He shoved his Inca Kola aside, and limply signaled the barman.
“Bernardo, a double aguardiente.”
FOUR
In the elevator on the way to his fourth-floor room in the Dorado Plaza, Arden Scofield was experiencing a mixture of excitement, relief, and self-congratulation. The arrangement he’d just concluded with Vargas was the final element in an elegantly contrived plan. Had Vargas not agreed, it would all have come to nothing. But really, there hadn’t been much chance of that. His choice of Vargas was hardly random. He had chosen him with care, had meticulously researched him and liked what he had discovered: a cash-pressed boat owner with big dreams for the future; an ambitious, cunning, but basically simple man; not a hardened criminal by any means – certainly not “connected” – but definitely money-hungry and not above the occasional skirting of the law when expedience demanded it. Perfect for what Scofield had in mind.
And what Arden Scofield had in mind had little to do with ethnobotanical expeditions. What he was
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