pickup that is parked across the road. We end up off the side, with the nose of our car in the jungle undergrowth.
“Man on the road,” says Herman. One hand is off the steering wheel; when it comes back up, it’s clutching Herman’s big stainless forty-five automatic.
“Herman. Put the gun away,” says Adam. “Julio.”
Without another word Julio is out of the car, slamming the door behind him, his hands out in front of him, showing anyone who is looking that they are empty. He holds them above his shoulders, spouting Spanish a mile a minute.
The dust begins to settle and I see a man, faded running shoes, dark pants, and a yellow shirt. He is pointing a rifle at Julio’s chest. Another one pops out of the jungle on the other side of the road. When I turn, two more are coming out of the bushes right next to our car, one of them with an AK alternately pointing at my window and then sweeping the back of Herman’s head.
Fortunately Herman has reholstered the forty-five, both hands now on the steering wheel.
“Everybody stay cool,” says Adam.
The conversation seems to go on for a long time. Julio with his hands up, the other guy with his rifle pointed. After what seems like an eternity, Julio makes a tentative move with one hand toward his belt. He reaches very slowly down and lifts his walkie-talkie out of its carrying case. He holds it up so the other guy can see that this is not a weapon, then talks into it, the other man watching and listening. Finally, the other man nods, waving the muzzle of his rifle in the direction of travel.
Adam takes a deep breath. “Well at least it looks like they’re not going to shoot us here.”
Julio comes back to the car and gets inside, his face shimmering with sweat. “It’s all right.” He is breathing heavily, wiping his face with a handkerchief from his pocket. “I have been told that we are to follow him.”
The pickup pulls back and clears the road.
Herman starts backing out of the bushes, tires sliding on green vegetation, pulls back onto the road, and drives past the truck.
We slow down for a second, just long enough for another vehicle, a beat-up rusted-out Toyota pickup, to pull out in front. Two men are riding shotgun in the back, rifles laid across their laps pointed in our direction. They are sitting up on the side wall, one hand on the rifle’s grip, finger in the trigger well, while they hold on with the other hand and the truck bounces along the road.
“What did he say?” says Adam.
“Private property,” says Julio.
“All that talk for two words?” says Herman.
“Yeah, well. Next time you can do the talking.”
“You did fine,” says Adam. “You kept us alive. Better than your friend pulling out his goddamned gun.” Adam pats Julio on the shoulder.
He kept us from getting our asses shot off, and Adam knows it.
A few seconds later, we pull into the sunlight, a big open area. From here the clearing is much larger than it appeared from the jungle road up above. Herman and the driver in front instinctively swing off to the left in a wide arc that ends up skidding to a stop in front of the trailer.
“Un momento.” Julio is out of the car before it can stop, his hands in the air again, talking to the man in the yellow shirt, who has climbed out of the passenger seat of the Toyota. The two gunmen from the back jump out and train their weapons on our vehicle. They are soon joined by three more who seem to materialize from out of nowhere. One of these, the closest to the window on my side of the car, is pimple-faced, a boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old.
The man in the yellow shirt holds up a hand, palm out, the universal gesture to stay put, talking to Julio.
He calls to the trailer, and a couple of seconds later the door opens. My vision doesn’t penetrate the shadows inside. Whoever it is talks from there.
“Por favor, senor.” Julio is now interceding, his hands still raised. I can make out a few words. “Norteamericanos, hombres de negocios.”
Questions from inside.
“Si.” Julio nodding his head. “Si.”
Then silence. Julio stands there, sweating in the sun.
The kid outside keeps waving the muzzle of his assault rifle past my head.
More conversation between Julio and whoever is inside, Spanish too fast for me to comprehend much of anything, though I make out the words: pueden entrar.
Julio comes back to the car. He opens Adam’s door and sticks his head in. “Both of you can go in,” he says. “We must remain here. They will want to search you. You have no weapons?”
Adam shakes his head.
“No,” I tell him.
Julio holds the door while we get out. I slide across the seat and follow Adam out his side to avoid Pimples with his cannon standing beside my door.
They do a thorough frisk on both of us, all the way down to the ankles, smalls of our backs, and crotches. They take the folder notebook out of Adam’s hand and check to see if anything is in it besides paper and a pen. They give it back to him, then one of them moves us toward the door, pushing with the rifle in my back. We step up onto the plywood platform and toward the door.
As Adam walks inside, I can feel a rush of cool air escaping from the rooftop air conditioner running at full bore.
The second I clear the doorway, it slams closed behind me. I feel another set of hands checking from under my arms down to my belt, another quick check for weapons.
Instinctively, my hands go up. Then whoever it is pulls the wallet from my back pocket.
Inside the trailer it is dark as a cave, small windows with venetian blinds pulled closed. One small floor lamp in the corner. Coming in from the brightness, I can’t see much of anything for several seconds.
The guy behind me moves around to the front. He is older, harder, an edge to his face that the kids outside have not yet earned. Even in the shadows, I can see that his face is pocked by acne.
Across the room in the corner a man sits behind a desk, slick dark hair, shirtsleeves, and a tie. I am guessing in his mid-thirties. He is leaning back in an old wooden swivel desk chair that groans as he moves. His hands are coupled behind his neck, feet planted in the middle of the desk, on top of the blotter with papers and ripped-off slips from an adding machine underneath his alligator loafers.
There is a tumbler of what looks like whiskey and ice at the edge of the desk.
He watches with cool disinterest as his man finishes checking Adam, pushing hard enough that Tolt is wobbling around with his hands in the air. He finally finds what he is looking for, Adam’s wallet. Then he steps away.
The guy behind the desk says: “You can put your hands down now.” Perfect English. “So you’re American businessmen. You have business cards?” Acne flips him both wallets and he catches them on the bounce off his desk, one of them landing in his lap.
He opens one wallet and looks inside. “Paul Madriani.” He looks. I nod. Then the other wallet. “And Adam Tolt.”
My eyes are on the large blanket laid over the object lying on the floor against the wall two or three feet from where I’m standing.
He starts fishing inside the wallets and comes up with business cards. “Both of you are lawyers. What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“May I ask who you are?” says Adam.
“You can. You may.” But he doesn’t offer a name.
“We, ah, we’re down here scouting properties for development,” says Adam. “Real estate along the coast. The Riviera between Cancun and Tulum. Looking for opportunities.”
“I see. What everybody wants, a good opportunity. Have a seat. Where are your manners, Jorge? Get the gentlemen a drink.” He is still picking through our wallets as he chides his subordinate for his lack of hospitality.
Adam takes a seat on a hard wooden chair across from his desk. I try the couch a few feet away, nearer the
