The Second Bat Guano War Part 30

I was on top of her and in her before she could cry out. "Ditch Victor," I said, my face in her hair. "We can be happy together again."

She lifted my head and looked me in the eyes. "Hold on to me till morning," she said. "Then I am yours."

"And if I fall asleep?"

She pulled me down into her. "Then this will be goodbye. Forever."

Two Bolivian guns.h.i.+ps. Cannon pointed at me.

I rounded the corner of the island and there they were, gray behemoths armed by sailors with salt.w.a.ter envy. They were anch.o.r.ed just offsh.o.r.e, blocking my path to the south beach, the main landing area for the island. I nudged the rifle under a pile of life preservers with my foot.

A narrow s.p.a.ce between the two s.h.i.+ps. I slowed the engine, aimed the launch toward the gap.

"Quite el motor!" a megaphone trumpeted.

I cut the engine, let the momentum carry me alongside. A potbellied dwarf looked down at me. He wore a blue uniform and his cap, weighed down by mountains of gold braid, tilted low over his nose. Two grunts in camouflage and helmets dangled their rifles over the side, loosely pointed at my vital organs.

So this was the mighty Bolivian navy. The guns were real though. I smiled and put my hands in the air.

"Si, senor," I said. "Que esta pasando? I want to visit the island."

"No one gets on or off the island today."

I winced. Two meters above me, the dwarf leaned over the gunwale, shouted straight down at the crown of my head through his megaphone.

I said, "Friend of mine is on the island. Want to know if he's OK."

"No go, gringo," growled one of the grunts cheerfully.

"No soy gringo!" I thrust my fist in the air. "Viva la revolucion! Death to the American imperialist tyrants!"

The two marines ducked their heads, chuckling. A yellow hand touched the braided dwarf on the shoulder. The dwarf turned. From the way his shoulders twitched, he was arguing with someone. He turned back to me, megaphone still glued to his lips.

"Proceed to the island. Land at the eastern end of the beach. Report to the federal police." An unamplified expletive. "That is all."

The marines withdrew their weapons. "Viva la revolucion," one said to the other. The dwarf smacked the back of the marine's helmet, then hopped about, shaking his palm.

I performed CPR on the motor, puttered at low throttle between the s.h.i.+ps. I looked back. An Asian man next to the dwarf turned away as I did so, a blue baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

A Cubs cap.

EIGHTEEN.

I landed on the beach as instructed. Puttered in on low power. Cut the engine. Paddled the boat into sh.o.r.e, then jumped out, pulled the launch onto the sand.

The beach was swarming with backpackers. Happy-go-lucky souls who seemed to think the world was a beautiful place. Foreigners untouched by the world's true misery. They strutted like peac.o.c.ks on the sand, colorful backpacks and expensive waterproof, quick-dry, zip-off pants. Prestidigitation made easy: look, Ma, now they're shorts!

The beach was not long. A few hundred meters. A backpacker per square meter, or thereabouts. How many spoiled middle-cla.s.s brats was that? I suppressed what remained of my math cortex for once, lest the answer result in nausea.

A group of tall, blond, dreadlocked Swedes surrounded a pair of midget policemen in oversize peaked caps. All the Swedes' worldly possessions lay at their feet. They spoke Spanish with an Argentinian accent.

"Terrorists try to blow us up, here on the island, and you won't let us off?" one said.

The police officers simultaneously opened their arms wide in sympathy, a Bolivian sister act in camouflage drag. "But we feel the same way, senor. No one gets on or off the island. This is all we know."

I edged my way through the crowd, avoiding the cops. A huddle of girls spoke low in English, a thick British drawl.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Like you don't know," said one with sunburned cleavage and Liverpudlian tw.a.n.g.

I hooked my thumb over my shoulder. "I just landed. Got my own boat."

The girls sat upright, a festival of perky mammaries. Soft Liverpudlian fingertips caressed the back of my hand. "Can you get us off?"

"Sure," I said, rolling my jaw. I tried not to look down their s.h.i.+rtfronts, failed. "As many times as you like," I added.

They groaned. Fists went to mouths, covered sudden smirks. One was not amused, however. "You got a boat or don't you?"

I smiled at their discomfort. "Of course." I pointed. "Right over there. What's with all the cops and stuff?"

A redhead with freckles scratched her cleavage, pulled down on her s.h.i.+rt so I could get a better view of her green bikini top. "You didn't see it last night?"

"See what?"

"The b.l.o.o.d.y fireball, mate. The explosion."

"Hotel Finski went f.u.c.king boom," said another, a blonde with a smoker's throaty voice and a T-s.h.i.+rt that showed stick figures engaged in various improbable s.e.xual acts. "Must've killed a dozen people."

You can live in fear or you can live, Pitt had said. Your choice, bucko.

"Holy c.r.a.p."

"Bucket brigade's been running up and down that b.l.o.o.d.y hill since before dawn." The redhead nodded over her shoulder. Stone and gravel steps led to the top of the island, four hundred meters above, where most of the hostels and hotels perched.

"Looking for a friend of mine," I said. "Name of Pitt. Any chance you seen him?"

"Pitt," puttered the Liverpudlian. "Pitt Pitt Pitt."

What was it about the man that left women and children stammering his name?

"American," I said. "Long blond hair, surfy looking? Shark-tooth necklace?"

"Pitt!" squealed the redhead.

"Everybody saw him." A roll of the eyes. Toss of blonde hair.

"Why? What happened?"

"Disgraceful." Her intonation and vocabulary verged on Valley Girl. "Total scene. Two girls got in a total clawing match over him."

I grinned. "That's Pitt, alright. What'd he do?"

The redhead held out a hand to silence her companion. "Told them both to f.u.c.k off."

"Let him drink his beer in peace."

"Too right."

The Liverpudlian and the redhead looked at each other, then at the sand. I got the feeling they were the two girls in question.

I raised my eyebrows. "Seen him since, by any chance?" My voice trailed off into the upper octaves.

"Not since yesterday."

"Oh. My. G.o.d." Naked palms caressed bare cleavage. "You don't think-"

"I don't," I said. "I just want to know." I craned my neck up at the hill. "They taken the bodies out yet?"

"No," said another, a silent scornful brunette with a tattoo of a p.e.n.i.s on the side of her neck. "Still up there. b.l.o.o.d.y Bolivians. You know how they are."

I turned and made for the stairs.

"Hey!" the redhead yelled after me, her green bikini-clad b.o.o.bs falling out of her s.h.i.+rt at this point. "You gonna get us off or not?"

"Count on it," I said, and to my dismay they whipped their heads in mosh pit giggles. I heaved myself through the crowd to escape from the sound.

The Escalera de las Incas, as they are known, are steep. At four thousand meters, even without luggage, the climb was strenuous. I panted to a stop halfway up. An eruption of yellow hair quivered on a stair, the body beneath it curled into a fetal ball.

I gasped for air. "You're blocking the path."

A sob shook her. I squatted on my heels, pushed the hair out of her face. "Hey," I said. I patted her cheek. No response. I patted harder. I shook her shoulder roughly.

"You filthy pig!" she shouted, her accent Swedish, and swung a bare-knuckled punch at my face. I ducked. Her fist crashed against the back of my skull.

I grabbed her wrists. "Girl. Chill."

She clung to me, her head on my shoulder. "Why won't they let me see him?"

"See who?"

Her tears trickled down my neck. "Go away," she growled into my shoulder. "Let me die."

"Happy to," I said. "Do unto others and all that. First tell me what's the matter."

She clung to me tighter. "It's Sven."

"Who's Sven, baby?"

She sat back, dug her wrists into her eye sockets. "Sven is Sven." She tried to smile but failed. "Burnt and crispy. Toasty, even." She lowered her head into her hands.

"Where? How do you know?" I shook her. "Tell me."

"The f.u.c.king Finski. Boom." Her fingertips traced an explosion in midair.

"What happened?"

"We had a fight. Told him I was sick of traveling. He said I could go back to the hostel if I was tired."

"Did you?"

She nodded, lips pressed together, a trumpeter preparing a high note. "He went to have a beer. Finski's got a bar."

"I know." I'd gotten drunk there many times myself. "And?"

Her lower lip cavorted like a whirling dervish. "The last I saw him alive."

"And the bodies?"

This triggered the garden sprinklers for a second time.

I shook her. "The bodies. Where are they?"

"The f.u.c.k you care?" she wailed, chest heaving with sobs. "He's dead. Don't you see?"

"Hey," I said. She was yabbling away to herself in Swedish. I raised my voice. "Hey," I said. "I know how you feel. But I need your help."

She beat her forearms against my head, a toddler's tantrum. She screamed, "You don't know s.h.i.+t how I feel!"

I slapped her. Hard. She went still. Back straight, mouth open. I said, "You think you're the only one who's ever lost someone?"

She stared at me in wonder. A little voice came out of her face. "Have you lost someone too?"

I sat on the stair next to her. "Look. Just tell me where the bodies are. I'll leave you alone then. Promise."

"Who're you-you-" she stammered, and swallowed some snot. "Who're you looking for? Who did you lose?"

Below, black dots milled about on the beach. The wars.h.i.+ps stood offsh.o.r.e. I tried to block the memory. Failed. I said, "Who I lost is none of your business. I'm looking for a friend of mine. Name of Pitt. Blond hair, shark-tooth necklace?"

She shook her head. Pursed her lips to catch a sob. Her hair stuck to her face.