Little Tiny Teeth

“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.”

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“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

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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

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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