Aaron Elkins - Little Tiny Teeth

But for the time being, the elegant hotel bar served his purposes. It was where he had first met with the famous professor, Scofield, to negotiate the terms for the Adelita ’s maiden voyage as a passenger ship. It was where he was sitting with him today to iron out the final details. But the meeting was not going well. Scofield had taken exception to Vargas’s intention of having three additional passengers aboard: the man from On the Cheap and his two associates.

“I don’t know about that now, Captain,” he said pleasantly enough, digging at his cheek with the bit of his pipe. “That wasn’t the arrangement, as I recall. Didn’t we agree that my party would have the ship to themselves?”

“True, professor, very true, you’re right about that. But these men, you see, are not passengers at all, not in the usual sense of the word. They will be there only to look at life aboard the Adelita. It’s going to be in a travel book, you see – that is, if they are favorably impressed – and as you can imagine, this can be a great asset to my business.”

They spoke Spanish. Although Vargas could converse quite well in English, he was more comfortable in his native language. Scofield was equally at ease in both.

“We can’t have them interfering with our activities, you know,” Scofield said. “That wouldn’t do at all.” He was a stocky, apple-cheeked man, handsomely boyish and twinkle-eyed, and he was speaking, as usual, with a playful, jokey air, but Vargas knew from their earlier meetings that he was not to be taken lightly. Underneath the pleasantries there was a man who was used to getting what he wanted.

“No, no, I can assure you that they won’t. They are observers only. You’ll hardly be aware they’re there.”

“All right, but I must require that the ship pursue our itinerary. Your eventual aim may be tourism, but on this trip it’s strictly botany. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly, perfectly, professor. On that you have my word.”

Despite the hotel’s air-conditioning, Vargas was sweating. Scofield was a difficult customer, had been from the start. But he was also Vargas’s only customer, with no others presently in sight. If he insisted that he didn’t want Phil Boyajian aboard, Vargas would have to accede. But it would be a blow to his hopes and plans. “Flowers and shamans, that’s what it will be about,” he said jovially. “Don’t give it another thought.”

Scofield pointed the pipe bit at him. “ Plants, captain,” he said merrily. “Botanicals. Not ‘flowers.’”

“Yes, yes of course. Did I say flowers? Plants, I meant to say plants, nothing but plants and shamans.” He hesitated. “Well, that is…”

One of Scofield’s eyebrows lifted. “Yes?”

“Well, I’m sure this is already understood, but perhaps it’s best to be perfectly clear. I am at present still in the cargo business. In addition to your group, we will be carrying a consignment of coffee, along with a few miscellaneous items – a little lumber, a little mail, a generator, a few pairs of rubber boots, a dining room table and chairs, a wooden door, and so on. The coffee is bound for a warehouse in Colombia; the other items will be dropped off on the return-”

“You use one of the warehouses on the Javaro tributary, do you not? The one not far from, what is it, San Jose de Chiquitos?”

Vargas was astonished. “Yes. How is it that you know that?”

Scofield laughed again. “A little preliminary research. Naturally, I wanted to know your regular routes and your stops.”

“Oh, very few stops, and I can promise you there will be no inconvenience to you, no interference with-”

Scofield brushed his concerns aside. “That’s fine, Captain. An excursion along the Javaro will be just the ticket.”

Bernardo, the shirt-sleeved, bow-tied barman – very likely the only person in Iquitos who wore a bow tie, let alone owned one – brought their second round of drinks: a bourbon and soda for Scofield, and an Inca Kola for Vargas, who was too nervous to trust himself with anything alcoholic.

“All right then, I think we’re all set as far as that goes,” Scofield said after swallowing some of his whiskey. “Now that I think about it, I can see some real advantages to having these guide book people along taking notes on everything. At any rate, I imagine we can look forward to some excellent meals.” He chuckled, shoulders shaking and face pinkening a bit more.

Vargas played it safe and responded with a neutral smile.

“So then, on to other matters,” Scofield said. “Have you found us a decent guide?”

“Indeed, I have, senor.” Vargas was relieved to change the subject. “There is a local man, a fine guide, much in demand up and down the river. He knows the jungle trails like the back of his hand. He is-”

Scofield was shaking his head. “Knowing the jungle trails is all well and good, my friend, but we require something more. We need someone who is something of a botanist himself, who knows what he is looking at; we don’t want simply to wander blindly in the jungle. And we need someone who can give us access to the curing shamans in the area-” He waggled a finger. “I mean the real shamans, not the ones that stick a feather in their nose and put on a dance performance for the tourists.”

“Yes, yes, I’m trying to tell you. This is a person who has actually studied with the curanderos and who has learned many of their secrets. The White Shaman, we call him, the perfect man for you. As luck would have it, he finds himself available, and I have secured his services for your cruise. You are very fortunate.”

Scofield cocked his head, weighed this information. “He speaks English? Because some of my people don’t speak Spanish.”

“English, Spanish, Yagua, Chayacuro-”

“Chayacuro!” Scofield exclaimed. “I don’t want anything to do with the Chayacuro! I don’t want to go anywhere near the Chayacuro.”

“No, no, certainly not, why should we have anything to do with the Chayacuro? No, I was only describing this highly accomplished gentleman to you.”

“Mmm.” Scofield’s tone indicated that he was well aware of Vargas’s tendency toward hyperbole. “And how much will this paragon of virtue cost us?”

“His fee is one thousand nuevos soles.”

“A thousand?” Scofield’s bristly eyebrows shot up. “For taking us on a few walks and introducing us to one or two-”

“Well, but you see, professor, it’s a whole week of his time, after all. He can’t very well get off the boat in the middle of the trip, can he? Ha-ha-ha. He has to stay aboard. Really, it’s a bargain.”

“All right, all right. A thousand soles. Soindollars, that’s another-”

Vargas was ready with the answer. It was his ace in the hole. “It comes to about three hundred American dollars, professor, but it will cost you nothing. His fee has already been arranged, as part of the service provided by Amazonia Cruise Lines.”

Considering that his take from Scofield’s people would come to over seventeen thousand nuevos soles – more than five thousand dollars – and that there was the sweet, added promise of a possible On the Cheap recommendation, it was an investment he was happy to make. Besides, he was, naturally, not paying the guide a thousand soles. Three hundred was the agreed-upon fee, and the man was glad to get it.

Scofield had spent a lot of time in Peru. He knew the way things worked here, so he almost certainly knew that Vargas was conning him. Still, he looked pleased, and why not? A thousand, five hundred, four hundred, whatever it was, it wasn’t coming from his pocket. “Very good, Captain. I appreciate that.”

“It’s my pleasure, Professor.”

Well, not quite. The man known as el Curandero Blanco was in fact a disreputable and notoriously unreliable misfit called Cisco – a fitting name, with its faintly disparaging connotations. What his last name was, if he had one, nobody seemed to know, not that that was any great rarity in Iquitos. He had been hanging around the city, on and off, for as long as Vargas could remember, having come from who-knew-where. His Spanish wasn’t Peruvian, but what he was was in dispute. Some claimed he was a colocho, a transplanted low-level Colombian drug-dealer who had hurriedly left Colombia in advance of a gangland reprisal for offenses unspecified. Others were sure that his accent was Catalonian; a Spaniard. Still others believed he was Argentinian, which went along with the rumor that he was the grandson of Nazis who had escaped to Argentina in 1945. Cisco himself was known to have told each of these stories at different times. Vargas suspected he was simply one of the many lost souls of the Amazon, a rootless drifter from Ecuador or Colombia who had settled in Iquitos the way a stone settles wherever it falls in a stream. More than likely, Cisco himself might be a little confused as to who he was and where he’d come from, and where he was when he wasn’t in Iquitos.