Philip Kerr - The Five Year Plan (1998)

After a moment or two, he said weakly, 'Gotta get out.'

Chico glanced back across his shoulder, saw the color of his passenger's face, and steered hard to the right off the road, pulling up close to a steaming stew of swampland.

Al opened the door and forgetting the height of the car, half stepped, half fell onto the ground.

Chico watched as he staggered toward the edge of the swamp and then, laughing, lowered the window to call out after him, 'Watch out for crocodiles and boas.' He looked at Dave and let his eyes roll for a moment. 'Aiee. The boas, they are worse than the crocs. Very aggressive.'

'But they're not poisonous.'

'Maybe so, Senor Dave, but they still have teeth. Such teeth they have. You give me a choice between being bitten by a boa and a viper, every time I will choose the viper.'

Lurching to a halt, Al leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and began to throw up. Dave got out of the car to take a leak, and then meandered over to Al's one-man huddle.

'You all right?'

Al was still retching and Dave felt his nostrils prickle with disgust as a strong smell of nail polish wafted his way. It was the stink of guaro. The stuff was coming back up from Al's gut as neat as if he was pouring it straight from the bottle.

'All right?' Al groaned a bitter laugh. 'I'm about thirty fucking clicks west of there,' he said breathlessly and then retched some more.

Dave said, 'Someone ought to record that sound. A sound effects guy for a movie. Last night, on the hotel room cable channel, there was this movie with Mel Gibson? At the end they tear his guts out and burn them in front of his face. They could sure have used you in the recording studio, Al. That is one medieval sound. Could be the start of a whole new career for you.'

'Thing about throwing up... is not to give up on it... before you're done... otherwise it don't achieve what it's supposed to...' Even more retching. 'Matter of fuckin' stamina.' He belched, retched again and then spat several times. 'Don't quit on it... before you're through... less you have to...' A last heaving, coronary of a gag. '... Or you just have to repeat the process...'

Panting, as if he'd sprinted the hundred, Al straightened up, took a deep unsteady breath, and grinned horribly.

Dave swallowed uncertainly and said, 'Jesus Christ, Al, you should puke for America.'

Dave knew very little about the boat they had come down to fetch back to Miami. And every time he asked, Al told him to wait and see. But nearing Quepos, on a road so thick with dust Chico had the headlamps on, Dave said, 'This is a long way to come for a fucking boat.'

'Ain't you heard? Broke don't get to pick.'

'Yeah, but look at this place.'

They were driving past a warren of houses built on stilts and connected with a virtual freeway system of planks and corrugated iron sheets.

'Kind of a boat are we going to find down here anyway? Fucking banana boat. Sampan maybe. Jesus.'

The dirt road led past the fishing village and through extensive mangrove swamp.

'Fucking airboat is what you need down here,' complained Dave and irritably slapped something crawling on his neck.

'Told you to use that Avon shit. Me, I ain't been bitten once.'

'The bug that bit you would probably die of alcohol poisoning.'

Al shrugged and said, 'Feelin' better, as a matter of fact. A nice cold beer would slip down a treat.'

Dave caught a glimpse of a crocodile as, disturbed by the Range Rover, it slipped into some brackish water.

'The horror,' he muttered darkly. 'The horror.'

'The fuck you talkin' about? Relax will ya? We're nearly there.'

The road led south along a beach-front drag.

'Is Quepos,' grinned Chico. 'The town. It is nothing to write home about, no?' He turned into a large harbor north of a bridge. 'But here is better. Here has been a lot of development. Lots of gringo tourist fishermen. December through August. Snapper, amberjack.'

Suddenly Dave saw why they had come, for the bay was bristling with the marlin towers and flybridges of dozens of long-range luxury sport-fishing boats, some of them worth a million dollars or more.

He said, 'All right. That's more like it.'

'Wahoo, tuna. But mainly they come for the marlin and the sailfish.'

'Whad I tell ya?' said Al.

'Is more protected from winds down here than Guanacaste Coast, I think. But don't even think of swimming. Is contaminated. Not to mention currents and the fucking sharks.'

Al laughed and said, 'Swimming? Fuck that.'

'So why you come to Quepos?'

Dave said, 'To pick up a boat.'

'For the fishing,' Al added quickly.

Dave looked at Al and frowned. Al shook his head as if he didn't want Dave to contradict him.

'Most gringos, they come here, and bring plenty of rods and equipment. But you guys--'

'Ours got stolen at the airport,' explained Al.

'Is no problem. I can recommend somewhere. They will supply all equipment if you want. Good price too.'

'Thanks, but no. We made a booking with an outfit back in San Jose. Charter company called Vera Cruz. Somewhere north of the bridge is all I know.'

Chico asked the way at a gift shop and they were directed to a small ranchita on stilts over the water in front of the bridge leading into Quepos town. While Al paid off Chico, Dave strolled up the marina, relieved to be out of the car and getting some fresh air. Backed up against a thickly forested hill, with a muddy beach in front, Quepos looked a strange place to find a bay full of luxury yachts. A couple of kids were doing wheelies on ancient mountain bikes up and down the harbor in front of a row of shops and restaurants. When Al glanced in the door of the Vera Cruz office one of the bicycling kids came and told Dave that the Vera Cruz gringo had gone somewhere for lunch. Dave gave the kid a five-colon note and then went to tell Al.

Al nodded at the restaurant and said, 'OK, let's eat. My stomach feels like a basketball net. 'Sides, there are one or two facts of fuckin' life that I want to get straight between us. Like some do's and fuckin' don'ts till I say when, motherfucker. Savvy?'

'Since you put the invitation so graciously, I don't see how I can very well refuse you, Al.'

'You just stick with that attitude and you and I are going to get along just fine.'

They went inside the restaurant and straightaway ordered a couple of cervezas apiece, while they looked at the menu. After a few minutes Dave decided on the rice and the beans, while Al elected to have turtle, laughing unpleasantly as he made his selection.

He said, 'Jesus, I wish my kid Petey was here to see me eat this. Those fuckin' Ninja turtles he's always playing with, they drive me nuts. I hate the little green bastards. I hate the song, I hate the show, and I hate the characters. Leonardo. Donatello. What kind of a world are we buildin' for 'em, I ask ya? When a kid grows up and thinks that Michelangelo is a fuckin' turtle instead of a famous historical painter.'

'I had no idea you were so interested in art,' said Dave.

'All Italians are interested in great painters. It's part of our heritage. Soon as I get home I'm gonna tell him, I ate a fuckin' turtle.'

'But won't that upset him?'

'Damn right it'll upset him. Listen, you ain't a parent, you wouldn't understand. Thanks to Hollywood, there's hardly an animal that hasn't been turned into some cute little cartoon character. Whales, deer, rabbits, baby elephants, crabs, n' turtles.'

'A turtle isn't an animal. It's a reptile.'

'Whatever. Daddy, you can't eat Bambi. Hey son, just watch me.'

'But what's the point of that?'

'It's a tool for learning, that's what's the point. When you eat the animal you teach the kid about the real world. Half the problems kids have today are to do with their fuckin' fantasy worlds. Bite on reality, that's what I say. Food for thought. Helps 'em grow up. When I was a kid I saw my father kill chickens and turkeys all the time. My kids have never seen any kind of food killed. Not even a fish. Somethin' wrong there. I may not be able to kill the animal like my old man. But I can sure make a point of eating it when the opportunity arises.'