Aaron Elkins - Little Tiny Teeth

Nada? Nothing? Was it possible? He opened one eye. They were still sifting through the beans with their feet, but it was clear that there was nothing to find. Beans, only beans. The dog was happily sniffing at them. A dog that liked coffee, that was all it was. Vargas’s soul returned to his body. His heart soared. He opened his other eye.

“Look what you’ve done,” he told them severely. “How am I going to explain this? This is going to cost me a lot of money. I’m warning you, you’d better not damage anything else. I’ll file a complaint with Colonel Malagga, I’ll-”

“These boots,” the one holding the knife said. “Are they extra?”

“Extra?” He was so thickheaded with fear and relief that it took him a few moments to understand. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he said more agreeably, “two of the pairs happen to be extra. I wonder, would you gentlemen like them? It would save me the trouble of transporting them.”

They grinned their acceptance, the knife was folded up and put away, and the worst, the longest, twenty minutes of Alfredo Vargas’s life came to an end.

After leaving the hold, the two soldiers and the dog started going through the cabins, as instructed by Malagga. Vargas went joyfully up to join the passengers, where he opened the bar early and offered a free round of drinks to make up for the inconvenience of the check. In a few minutes, the young soldier returned to the salon.

“Cabin six, whose is that?”

“Mine,” said Tim in a voice from the tomb.

The soldier motioned to him. “Come with me, please.”

Tim, with panic in his eyes, looked to Vargas for help, but all Vargas could do was shrug. “Go with them, don’t worry.”

He was back in two or three minutes, in even deeper distress. He took Vargas aside. “They found my stash. They want to arrest me.” He looked every bit as frightened and desperate as Vargas had been a little while ago. “They told me to ask you for advice. They told me you understood the law, you’d know what to do.”

“Your ‘stash,’ what is it?”

“It’s just pot.”

“Nothing else? No coca? No cocaine? Are you sure?”

“Yes, marijuana, that’s all, I swear. Captain Vargas, I can’t go to jail here. I couldn’t-”

Vargas gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Relax, amigo, they don’t care about marijuana.” He smiled and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, much as Malagga had earlier.

Tim frowned. “I don’t understand. They want money? A bribe?”

“A gift, let us call it. Not necessarily money. Did they admire anything in your cabin?”

“No, they just… wait, I’ve got a big bag of Jelly Bellies – jelly beans – on the shelf. They were asking about them. I gave them a couple to try and they really liked them, but – no, that’s stupid-”

“There you are, then.”

The young man stared at him. “They want jelly beans? That’s the bribe?”

“Offer them and see what happens.”

“You mean, just… go back and… offer them? Just say, ‘Would you like these jelly beans?’”

“That’s as good a way as any,” Vargas said, laughing. He was feeling marvelously relaxed, and even somewhat paternal toward Tim. “You’ll see, don’t worry. They’re not interested in putting you in jail, my friend, trust me. It’s too much work.”

As Tim began to understand that he was not really going to rot for the rest of his life in some jungle hellhole of a prison, other matters came to the front of his mind.

“Will they let me keep my stash?”

“That I cannot tell you. Be polite and hope for the best. Now go back and do as I say. These people are not known for their patience.” He waved him affably on. “Go go go.”

An hour later, the Adelita, having stopped to pick up Cisco and Porge, was on its way once more, lighter by six bottles of Scotch, two pairs of rubber boots, and a twelve-ounce bag of jelly beans. There were, as well, a number of lightened moods: Vargas’s because he’d actually come through this horrible experience in one piece and his additional $5,000 was now as good as certain; Scofield’s, because the coca paste was safe in the hold and, having been sealed and certified by customs, was immune from further official prying and his $120,000 was as good as certain; and Tim’s because he had his freedom, his stash, and a deeper understanding of the Colombian system of criminal justice.

The main dish that night was something a little different: freshly caught piranha. While the Adelita had been tied up at the checkpoint, the crew had passed the time fishing from the deck. Using bloody gobbets of lizard as bait (according to Vargas, the bait, if untaken, had to be changed every couple of minutes; as soon as the blood drained away, it was of no interest to the piranha), they’d hauled them in by the dozen. The piranhas were served up from the buffet table in filets of firm, white meat, much like halibut in taste and texture. In addition, a sort of centerpiece for the dining table had been made up of four whole ones arranged in a circle, with their tails together in the center, and their ferocious little sharp-toothed mouths facing out.

Gideon had seen photos of them, and some dried specimens as well. Still, he was surprised at how small the celebrated “cannibal fish of the Amazon” were: six or seven inches long, chubby and pink, and almost cute when looked at from the side. But seen head-on, there was nothing cute about that open mouth crammed full of those justly famous little teeth, as sharp and pointed and vicious-looking as a shark’s.

Because Scofield was the only one at the table who had any personal knowledge of piranhas, they were naturally a subject of curiosity to the others. Scofield, feeling his oats – he was almost manic – was regaling them with scientific and not-so-scientific piranha lore. These particular specimens were Pygocentrus natterreri, the infamous red-bellied piranha, that could strip an unlucky live cow or human down to a bare, white skeleton in thirty minutes or less. As far as Gideon knew, this was an exaggerated account. He was fairly certain that there were no verified accounts of human beings having actually been killed by piranhas, although many a barefoot native fisherman had less than his full complement of toes as a result of standing in a dugout and continuing to fish while freshly caught, still-living piranhas flopped about on the floor. And there was no doubt about their ability as scavengers to peel the flesh off an already dead creature in short order (even if thirty minutes was pushing it a bit). But tonight it was not an issue. The piranhas were the eatees, not the eaters, and it was they who were being made short order of.

Cisco showed up late for dinner, as he did now for most meals – when he bothered to show up at all. As usual, he was weaving a little, as if the boat were on the high seas and not on a slow, brown, jungle river. Also as usual, he ignored the main dishes and went straight for the dessert, which was local finger-length bananas sliced up in honey. He loaded up a good four servings’ worth in a soup bowl, the tip of his tongue sticking out with the effort at eye-hand coordination that was required. Holding the bowl carefully in both hands, he wandered unevenly back to the others, where he took his usual place as not quite part of the group, his chair pushed back from the table, so that he had to hold the bowl in his lap, where it claimed his whole attention while Scofield continued regaling the others.

“What’s more…” Scofield continued, “this is known to be the only species-”

Cisco laughed abruptly. “Hey, piranhas,” he mumbled, apparently his first notice of them. “Whoa. How you doing, little guys?” He put his emptied bowl aside and leaned forward to run his fingers over the razor-sharp teeth.