“Yes, sure, that was my man,” Guapo said. “Do you think I didn’t know what was happening? Do you think I would permit such a thing? Do you think anything happens in North Loreto Province about which I don’t know?”
“I guess not,” Gideon said, which seemed to please Guapo.
“How many coffee bags?” he asked Vargas.
“Forty or fifty, I believe.”
“Forty-eight,” said Guapo. “And how much paste?”
“About...about a hundred kilos, I think.”
“A hundred and fifty,” Guapo said, his voice hardening. “Be careful, my friend.” He sat back, slowly rotating the knife in his left hand, its point gently rotating against his right forefinger. “And for whom was it destined?”
“Destined? I—”
“Think before you answer. Tell the truth when I ask you a question, and you may yet get out of this with your life, and maybe even with all your appendages.”
Vargas fished in his pocket for his glasses and put them on, as if they might help him think more clearly. “Guapo . . .
“It was destined for Eduardo Veloso of the Cali cartel, whose carriers were to pick it up tomorrow night,” Guapo said, and Gideon began to think that there really wasn’t much going on, at least in this particular aspect of the regional commerce, that got by El Guapo. “And how is it hidden? Is there some in all the coffee sacks?”
“It’s in plastic bags—so I was told by the professor—not
“Thirty,” said Guapo warningly.
“Yes, thirty, that was it, that was it!” Vargas gibbered, the perspiration actually dripping off him onto the floor so that there was a little puddle on each side of his chair. Was he lying because he yet hoped to siphon off some of the paste for his own profit? Or was lying simply his instinctive reaction to stress? “Yes, thirty, that’s right, now I remember, of course. It’s thirty, all right. Now,
“That’s all right, Vargas. It doesn’t matter.”
Vargas licked his lips. “
“What, and have the Cali people find out I have their paste? No thank you. I have no interest in taking any of it from you at all.”
If wheels turning in one’s mind made a sound, the room would have been filled with grindings and squeakings from Vargas’s quick brain. His eyes darted right, then left, then right, as he assessed the rapidly changing situation. Guapo had practically said he would be allowed to live. Was he going to get to keep the paste—
Guapo could read Vargas’s thoughts as readily as Gideon could, and he laughed; a voiceless rumble that changed his expression not at all. “You are not going to keep any of it either, Vargas.”
Vargas blinked. “Ah . . . no?”
“No. You are going to throw it overboard. Into the river.”
“Into the—? But, sir, as I told you, I do not know which bags it’s in.”
“That doesn’t matter because you are going to throw
“I understand, Guapo, but
“Are you arguing with me? Negotiating with me, goddamn you? You should be thanking me for not burning your lousy boat and you with it,” Guapo said, looking as if it was still a distinct possibility.
“No, no, Guapo, of course not, Guapo,” Vargas mumbled. “Whatever you say. Thank you for your understanding. I can promise you—”
“And in case you’re wondering whether the Arimaguas have a number for ‘forty-eight’ (which was exactly what Gideon was wondering), I should tell you that they will have a bag with forty-eight pebbles in it. Each time a coffee sack goes in the river, a pebble is removed from the bag. When you have finished, you’d better hope that there are no pebbles left in the bag.”
“Of course, Guapo,” Vargas said glumly.
“And you,” Guapo said, turning to Gideon. “Now what are we to do with you?”
“I have some good ideas,” said a grinning Fox-face. The burning cigarette stuck to his lower lip couldn’t have been more than a half inch long.
“No, no, an American professor,” Guapo said, “I don’t think we want that kind of trouble. I’ll tell you what, Professor. You give me those pretty American dollars you have in that wallet of yours—you can keep the lousy
