It’s about ten feet long, five feet wide, and six feet deep, made of concrete, and covered by eight rectangular concrete lids.”
“How many chambers?”
“The owner, one Senor Serano, has no idea what’s down there. By the way, Serano’ll never be holding his breath when the Nobels are announced.”
“Noted.”
“Serano and his son, Jorge, remembered workers near the east end last summer, so that’s the lid they lifted. They found the tank nearly full, the jeans jamming the exit drain.”
“The entrance drain will be on the west.”
“That’s what we figured.”
“O.K., gentlemen. We’re going to need a backhoe to lift the concrete lids.”
“All eight?” Xicay spoke for the first time.
“Yes. Since we don’t know what we’re dealing with, we’ll uncap the whole thing. If there are multiple chambers, parts of the skeleton could be anywhere.”
Xicay pulled out his own pad and began making a list.
“A commercial septic service vacuum truck to pump out the scum and liquid layers, and a fire truck to dilute the bottom sediment,” I went on.
Xicay added them to the list.
“There’s going to be a lot of ammonia and methane gas down there, so I want an oxygen pack respiration device.”
Xicay looked a question at me.
“A standard full-face air mask with a single strap over the back O2 tank. The type firemen wear. We should also have a couple of small pressurized spray tanks.”
“The kind used to spray weed killer?”
“Exactly. Fill one with water, the other with a ten-percent bleach solution.”
“Do I want to know?” asked Hernandez.
“To spray me when I climb out of the tank.”
Xicay noted the items.
“And quarter-inch mesh screens. Everything else should be standard equipment.”
I stood.
“Seven A.M.?”
“Seven A.M.”
It was to be one of the worst days of my life.
4
THE LAST RED STREAKS WERE YIELDING TO A HAZY, BRONZE DAWN when Galiano arrived at my hotel the next day.
He was wearing aviator lenses blacker than a hole in space.
Galiano indicated a paper cup in the central holder, then swung into traffic. Grateful, I reached for the coffee.
We spoke little driving across town then inching our way through Zone 1. I read the city as it slid past the windshield. Though not the highest form of Guatemalteca conversation, the billboards and placards, even the graffiti on service station walls, allowed me to improve my Spanish.
And to block out thoughts of what lay ahead.
Within twenty minutes Galiano pulled up to a pair of police cruisers sealing off a small alley. Beyond the checkpoint the pavement was clogged with squad cars, an ambulance, a fire engine, a septic tank vacuum service truck, and other vehicles I assumed to be official. Gawkers were already gathering.
Galiano showed ID, and a uniformed cop waved us through. He added his car to the others, and we got out and walked up the street.
The Pension Paraiso squatted at mid-block, opposite an abandoned warehouse. Galiano and I crossed to its side and proceeded past liquor and underwear merchants, a barbershop, and a Chinese takeout, each establishment barred and padlocked. As we walked, I glanced at sun-bleached items in the shop windows. The barber featured big-haired models with dos that hadn’t been stylish since Eisenhower left office. The Long Fu had a menu, a Pepsi ad, a peacock embroidered on glittery fabric.
The Pension Paraiso was a decrepit two-story bunker made of plaster-covered brick, once white, but long since aged to the color of cigar smoke. Broken roof tiles, dirty windows, off-angle shutters, retractable metal grille
