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Capt. Spaulding and the Missing Motor Capt. Spaulding grabbed his still soggy cigar butt from the tuna can ashtray, stuck it in his mouth, rolled out of bed, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and then opened his cabin door.
“Bad luck, hell. How many times have I told Luis to bring the motor on board at night? Of course it was stolen.” The Capt. went to the stern of his riverboat, El Resaca—The Hangover—to see the Johnson outboard he knew wasn’t there. El Resaca was a small, steel-hulled, triple-decked riverboat ported in Iquitos, Peru, a jungle city on the upper Amazon River. The Capt. went up to the dining room, poured a cup of coffee and sent Segundo to get Luis. “He’s going to be offended when I chew him out for leaving that motor on the boat and completely ignore the fact he fucked up. I don’t know why I bother.” “It’s the American way, man,” offered Segundo. “¡Gran puta carajo! Go. Get Luis up here.”
Knowing this day was lost, Capt. Spaulding poured a second cup of coffee and tried to light his cigar. It had been pre-smoked too many times and wouldn’t accept the flame. That Johnson outboard motor had cost him a lot of money and the idea of theft insurance in Iquitos was laughable. Luis timidly entered the dining room. He was in his 50s, walked with a bit of a stoop, and had brown, leathery skin and a round face. It was hard to see any skin, though, as his hands, arms and face were coated in oil and grease. “Where is the fifty-five, Luis?” “Which one, capitán?” Luis twisted a grease rag in his hands. “We still have the old one you say can’t be fixed. It’s in pieces down in the engine room, right?” “Sí, señor. It is there.” “Then I guess I must mean the new one we just bought.” “Oh, that one. That is a very nice motor, capitán.” “Do you know where it is?” “No.” The Capt. knew it was the local custom to provide answers devoid of any useful information. “Haven’t we talked about always taking the motor off of the skiff and stowing it on the boat at night?” “Sí, señor, so no one will steal it.” “And, Luis, did you put it away last night?” “I don’t think so. Maybe Segundo did.” “No, Segundo didn’t. It’s not on the boat and it’s not in the storeroom. What do you suppose happened?” “Do you think Segundo sold it?” “Luis, you knew somebody was going to steal that motor if we left it out. Did you really think the night watchman was going to be awake to prevent it? You just cost me a lot of money by not doing your job. Why didn’t you stow it away last night?” “Why are you yelling at me? I am older than you are, you should show some respect.” “I do respect you. It just saddens me to know how hard it is going to be for you to have the cost of that motor taken out of your pay each week.” “What?” “You don’t think I’m going to pay for your mistake, do you?” “You should have bought a used motor. They don’t get stolen as often.” “Go. Get back to work.” Luis shuffled out and Segundo entered trying to hide his smile. “You really going to take it out of his pay?” “Nah, he’d just do less work than he does now. Let me get the receipt for that motor and we’ll go see if the cops will help.” The Capt. gave Segundo a sad smile.
Capt. Spaulding and Segundo flagged down a motorcycle rickshaw—the standard form of transportation in Iquitos—and headed into town. The Capt. carried an old canvas briefcase that had an odd bulge. It was a nice tropical morning; hot sun glaring down and a hint of a breeze being pushed ahead of the white-gray rain clouds visible in the distance. On the way to the Comisaría, the Capt. stopped off at a photocopy place and made three copies of every document pertaining to the outboard motor, his passport, his residency card and The Third-World Universal All-Purpose All-Weather Document. This last was a document made up by Capt. Spaulding himself one gin & tonic evening after a day of dealing with the Customs officials at the post office over a box of American newspapers that had been sent to him. The Customs officer wanted him to pay duty on three-week-old newspapers. The Universal Document stated—in a flowery, convoluted way—the bearer:
The document had been rubber stamped no less than eighteen times with every stamp the Capt. could get his hands on including AIR MAIL, RECEIVED, PAID, 03 NOV 99, DO NOT WRITE IN THIS SPACE, STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE 75¢ and a large, round, quite official-looking stamp that he gave a gentle twist to as he stamped the document so it was barely illegible, but still intimidating by its very size. Two short strands of purple ribbon were held in place by a silver seal that had come in one of those You-Have-Just-Won… envelopes. The paper used by the Capt. on which to affix all of this third world officialness was a photocopy of the Capt.’s hand giving the bird, the universal symbol. Whenever he had to go through this notarized-copy thing he would always copy the Universal Document also, making sure he slipped it into his pocket and not in with the other documents. It was merely a stress reliever and confidence enhancer. Capt. Spaulding had the copies notarized and put into three manila folders. Now he was ready to call on the cops. The Comisaría looked like an old automotive garage with its cavernous doorway. Some cops were standing around, engaged in idle conversation, and they paid no attention as the Capt. and Segundo entered. They approached the one desk that was in the corner of a large, bare room. Lowering a soccer newspaper, the young officer looked up and blankly asked what they wanted. The Capt. explained that his boat motor had been stolen and handed over a folder of documents. “Momento,” the cop mumbled and went into another office. Knowing this was going to take a while, the Capt. leaned against a wall and lit up a cigar that was only half smoked. Seventeen minutes later the cop returned and led the Capt. and Segundo to an office that had a window looking onto a cement courtyard, a metal desk with two guest chairs and a floor fan. Behind the desk was a middle-aged, soft-featured man with a bushy black moustache. He had captain’s bars on his shoulders and was wearing his hat. Without even offering them a seat the captain said, “What brings you here today?” “Thank you very much for seeing us,” Capt. Spaulding said, “I’m certain you are very busy. Surely you have more important matters to deal with than my little problem. I am reporting that my boat motor was stolen last night.” “What kind of motor was it?” “It was a new, fifty-five horsepower Johnson outboard. I bought it three weeks ago.” “Where was it stolen from?” “My riverboat, El Resaca, is moored near the port of Bella Vista and the outboard was on my skiff, which was tied up to it.” “Do you not have a night watchman?” He had yet to write anything down. “I do, but he is a heavy sleeper. Excuse me, but it is a hot morning, do you mind if I send Segundo out to get us something to drink?” “Bien, that is a good idea. Why don’t you have a seat?” the captain said and showed a tiny smile. After Segundo left, the Capt. shifted in his chair and picked up his briefcase. Feigning surprise, the Capt. said, “Oh, look here. I was given a bottle of rum this morning. I’ve been carrying this heavy bottle around and I don’t even drink rum. Could I leave it here?” The captain motioned with his hand and the Capt. gave him the bottle, which the cop quickly, with the deftness that comes from much practice, slid into a drawer. “Do you have proof of ownership of the motor?” The Capt. handed over a second folder of documents and sat back. Segundo returned in ten minutes and served the Coke. Everyone toasted each other and drank it down. The captain leaned back in his chair, patted his face with a hanky, and pulled a pad of forms from a drawer. “You will need to fill out three of these. They cost twenty Nuevo Soles each. You know, señor, it takes a lot of resources to find a small thing like a boat motor in a big city like this. I am just one man.” “I would be willing to assume some of the costs of the investigation if necessary. I’m not a rich man, but I need to get my motor back.” The Capt. handed over the sixty Soles. “Fill out those forms and come back at five o’clock. I will investigate and see what I can find out. I think I might be able to help you. We will discuss it this afternoon.” Segundo headed back to the boat and the Capt. decided it was late enough for lunch. Walking the sidewalks of Iquitos was like walking a motocross course, but with sharp edges. A stretch of ten feet of unbroken sidewalk was a straightaway. The buildings in this area dated back to the rubber boom days and had once been quite elegant, with balustrades and gargoyles, but were now covered in hundreds of layers of paint and had had so many bills posted on them—campaign posters, notices of the next big fiesta, soap ads, etc.—that they appeared to be made of papier-mâché. He arrived at The Luziana Bar & Grill, a small establishment with both indoor and sidewalk tables. It had a book exchange and fiery-hot chili. The owner, Clete, was a half-Cajun retired oil field worker who knew all the gossip in town and how to separate the bullshit from what might possibly be true. The Capt. ate his chili and told Clete about his missing motor. Clete shrugged his shoulders and said, “Iquitos.” The Capt. returned to El Resaca for his siesta. This was his favorite part of the local culture. It was a break in the middle of the day used to putz around, read and have a fine nap, preferably coinciding with an afternoon rain.
Knowing how little the locals respected time, at ten after five the Capt. entered the Comisaría. He was shown into the captain’s office and was told that Captain Ruiz would be in right away. Right away meant pretty soon, pretty soon meant after while, and after a while meant might show up. Alone in the office, the Capt. turned the fan so that it blew on him and sat back to wait. There was a soccer newspaper on the desk, but the Capt. hadn’t gone native that far yet. When Captain Ruiz entered, the Capt. stood up and shook his hand. “Sit down. I may have some good news for you.” Captain Ruiz was being considerably warmer now. “I am very glad to hear that and I appreciate your efforts.” “I have made some inquiries. It could be that your motor is in Belen. There is a man there who has been selling motors lately. We will talk to him.” Captain Ruiz held eye contact with the Capt. and now had his game face on. Belen was the poorest area of Iquitos. “You will send some men to investigate?” “As you can see, we are very busy here and it might be hard to find anyone to go. Possibly…well, maybe I could find the time to do this for you.” “You are very generous to spare the time.” “There would be some expenses involved…I would need six hundred Nuevo Soles to be able to conduct this investigation.” The Capt. didn’t show any reaction. “I really do want to get that motor back before it is shipped off to Colombia or parted out. Okay, I will pay that. Half now and half when I get my motor back?” “No, I would need all of it before I could begin.” “I might have that much.” The Capt. removed six hundred Nuevo Soles from his wallet. “Would you be able to start tomorrow? I’m going to need the motor this weekend.” Captain Ruiz counted the money before stuffing it into his shirt pocket. “Be here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning and we will go find the man in Belen. Maybe he knows something.”
The Capt. showed up at the police station a few minutes after seven and only had to wait thirty minutes before Captain Ruiz arrived. With a cursory greeting Captain Ruiz motioned the Capt. to follow him. They walked outside and over to a 125 cc Honda motorcycle that looked like it had been beaten with a baseball bat. “We will take my motorcycle.” “Uh, I’ll be more than happy to pay for a motokar,” The Capt. said, backing away. “No, no, we can take this. It is easier.” “Capitán, I’ve been in two motorcycle accidents and I really don’t like being a passenger. I will pay for a motokar. No problem.” “Get on. We will take my motorcycle.” Knowing a lost cause when he saw one, the Capt. climbed on the back of the motorcycle. They took off and made a left turn, traveled two more blocks and turned right, then left at the next corner and into a gas station. “Do you have any money for gas?” Captain Ruiz asked. After a harrowing twenty minutes through the congested streets of Iquitos they entered the slum of Belen. The streets were badly rutted dirt and sand. In upper Belen the houses, shacks really, were built on stilts. Since the river hadn’t raised this far yet, the houses sat about ten feet above the road. Under the houses were mountains of trash, pigpens, chickens, canoes and assorted junk. The smell was awful. Lower Belen was a floating city and all the raft-houses were moved as necessary when the river level changed. Large groups of these rafts were lashed together to make a block and were positioned so as to form liquid streets. People moved around in canoes and small boats. Captain Ruiz commandeered a boat and driver for their use and they set off. This cost the Capt. twenty Soles. Captain Ruiz seemed to know where he was going and in a few minutes they pulled up to a small floating shack that looked ready to collapse at any time. The thatch on the roof was covered in blue plastic in two places. Following Captain Ruiz, the Capt. stepped up onto the porch and entered the building. Even though the windows and doors were open, it was still dark inside. Strewn all over the floor were boat motors in varying states of repair. From a windowless room in the corner stepped a thin man in his fifties who wore only a faded pair of red Nike shorts and cheap canvas tennis shoes. His dark brown skin served to highlight a small tuft of white chest-hair. Captain Ruiz interrogated the man in a harsh and intimidating manner. He told the man that he knew that every motor in sight was stolen, but he was only looking for a new fifty-five. The man continued to deny any knowledge of a stolen motor. After fifteen minutes of this Captain Ruiz told the man he was going to arrest him, take all of the motors and let the man think things over in a cell. “Please, señor Capitán, none of these motors is stolen. I am only a poor mechanic. But I might know someone who was seen recently with a new motor.” “Bien, that’s better. Tell us who this person is and maybe I will go easy on you. Maybe.” The man’s shoulders sagged. “It is difficult to think clearly these days. My wife has been very sick. The doctor says she needs an operation. I don’t have any money to pay for an operation. It is very hard for us these days.” The captain turned to Capt. Spaulding and said, “Give him one hundred Soles.” Grudgingly the Capt. handed over the money. The man then told them of someone named Norberto who dealt in used motors, saying Norberto had a small bar in Bella Vista. After another exciting, perilous motorcycle ride they arrived in Bella Vista and found Norberto’s bar, the Chupódromo. It was a filthy little place, with only 4 tables, crammed between a tire repair shop and a photocopy store. Inside the bar a TV and a stereo competed in a dual of decibels. The walls were off-white, with greenish mildew frescoes and the floor had been freshly mopped with diesel fuel to annoy the cockroaches. Along the back wall was a counter on which sat a small glass case that held cigarettes, wooden matches and saltine crackers. One could buy a single cigarette, but had to buy a full box of matches. There was a brand new freezer next to the counter and on the ceiling was a cobweb-covered fan, which was missing a blade. A wholly disinterested bar maid, most likely Norberto’s wife, came over and Captain Ruiz ordered a beer and a Coke. The beer in Iquitos was good and came in twenty-ounce bottles. Captain Ruiz told the woman he wanted to see Norberto. Saying she would get him, she let out a whistle that drowned out the TV and the music. “¡Norberto! ¡La policía!” She brought them the beer and Coke and two plastic cups. Captain Ruiz put a splash of Coke in his beer, a not uncommon custom, which Capt. Spaulding found disgusting as well as sacrilegious. A few moments later Norberto entered through a back door. He was a small man and quite light-skinned for a Peruvian. He wore threadbare slacks and a once-blue sports shirt that was missing a sleeve. Around his neck were both a plastic rosary and a Santo Cristobal medallion. He didn’t seem pleased to see Captain Ruiz, but pulled a stool over to the table and sat down. He yelled for his wife to bring another beer and glass, and then he and Captain Ruiz began a conversation that the Capt. couldn’t hear a word of over the din. The Capt. poured another glass of beer and lit up a fresh cigar. He knew this would take some time and wondered how much he would have to pay Norberto for information. He had to remind himself that these costs he was racking up were, in the long run, cheaper than buying a new motor. Finally the Capt. butted in. “Is there a place we can go where I can hear? I haven’t heard a word that was said. We can take a couple of beers with us.” Norberto called to his wife. She returned with two beers, and then led the men down a hallway and into a small room that was Norberto’s office. One wall was filled up with red plastic cases, each holding twelve beer bottles, stacked five high. On the opposite side of the room was a small wooden table buried under papers, a few wrenches, a boat motor piston and other assorted junk including a half-empty glass of beer. On the floor under the table were about a dozen empty bottles. But it was the third wall that drew the Capt.’s attention. In the middle of the wall— behind glass, in a large, ornate frame—was a large portrait of Jesus standing in the clouds. Jutting out from the bottom of the frame was a candle holder that held a flameshaped light bulb that flickered orange. Below this, at table height was a long shelf draped in purple cloth. At each end of the table was a burning candle stuck to a saucer. In the center of the table on a stand was a tall wooden crucifix with a ceramic Jesus that bore an uncanny resemblance to Ricky Martin. Also on the table was a pink rosary, two bibles, several small Jesus and Mary statues, and a pop bottle full of water, which had some leaves floating in it. A kneeling bench made from a cut-down beer case and padded with a folded towel sat on the floor in front of the table. “Señor Norberto, this is very beautiful and I can feel the strength of Jesus Christ in this room. Do you mind?” the Capt. said, pointing to the kneeling bench. “No, please, go right ahead.” Norberto looked surprised, but pleased. He and Captain Ruiz stepped over to the table and re-filled their glasses. The Capt. knelt down, placed his folded hands on the edge of the table and bowed his head. When he finished, he rose and turned to give Norberto a smile. “I humbly asked that el Señor guide me to my missing motor. I may be a gringo, but I am a poor gringo and have to work, just as you do, my friend, to put rice in my bowl and fish on my plate. I need that motor for my work. I am sure something good is going to happen because I have taken Jesus Christ into my heart. Don’t you think so?” “Oh, yes. Jesus looks over us and helps us along the path. If you pray enough your prayers will be answered.” Captain Ruiz was content drinking and ignoring the other two men. The Capt. gently picked up the rosary. “Next to my bed, on top of my bible, I have a rosary given to me by Mother Teresa.” Norberto’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth and a look of awe spread across his face. Captain Ruiz just rolled his eyes. Norberto looked into the Capt.’s eyes. “I was raised by missionaries in the small village where my mother gave birth to me. I am of the Huitoto tribe. They gave me a lot of things. The American priest who came in his air-conditioned houseboat gave me that rosary as a reward. I had removed the snakes that had been put in our church by the Evangelicals. The priest told me the Evangelicals were the Devil and the snakes weren’t really snakes, but were tools of the Devil. I was the only one brave enough to go in there with the snakes. But I am not stupid; I made sure to do it on the night of a full moon.” He paused to take a drink, and then continued. “The missionaries saved my soul and taught me the things a man needs to know to be allowed into Heaven. Someday I will be reunited with my first wife.” “Is this holy water?” the Capt. asked, pointing to the enshrined pop bottle. “No, that is water from the river by my village. The leaves—I am not permitted to tell anyone what kind of leaves they are—calm the waters and keep me safe when I travel by boat. The river spirits protect me. My shaman was instructed by the spirits on how to make it.” “With a priest and a shaman looking out for you, I guess you must be in pretty good shape, huh? I think we need more beer, don’t you?” “But of course. I will be right back. Do either of you want some crackers?” “Suppose you could grab my cigar on the way back?” When Norberto had left the room Captain Ruiz spoke up. “Before you brought Jesus into this I got Norberto to tell me he thought his brother-in-law had stolen a fifty-five Johnson the night before last. Norberto doesn’t like his wife’s brother. Or his wife, for that matter, because she lets her brother drink for free. We need to find out if the man still has the motor. Norberto will be helpful because I don’t bother him about letting the prostitutes hang out here after his wife goes to bed.” “Would you mind very much if I continued talking to him? I’m having a good time. I think he’ll talk to me now.” Captain Ruiz shrugged his shoulders just as Norberto returned with two cold beers in his hands. He refilled all three glasses while both Capt. Spaulding and Captain Ruiz went out back to pee. Once they were back and seated on wooden stools, the Capt. said, “I’m very happy to have met you today, Norberto. There are a lot of people in Iquitos who are not in touch with Jesus as you and I are. We are both honest people who try to do the right thing, no? Captain Ruiz, our friend here, tells me you know something about my missing motor? I would really appreciate any help you could give me.” “I know of a good eighty-five for sale at a low price. It has a new propeller.” Before the Capt. could get him back on track, Captain Ruiz interrupted. “Really? My colonel is looking for a motor for his boat. Where is this motor? I would like to see it.” “I can have it here tomorrow morning…” “OK, fine. What about my fifty-five?” “I was told my brother-in-law, who is a very bad man, took a fifty-five off a boat the other night. He would do something like that. He steals because he does not like to work. Don’t tell my wife I told you this.” “Does he still have it? Where is it, do you know?” Norberto thought about it while he filled has glass and handed the bottle to the Capt. “No, he doesn’t have it any more. He sold it.” Captain Ruiz asked, “Do you know who he sold it to?” “Yes,” Norberto said and then turned to the Capt., “El Señor works in mysterious ways, don’t you think so? I do not think you will get your motor back, but maybe you will be content knowing it is in a good place. Let me show you a passage in the bible.” “That’s okay, Norberto. Sit down. As a friend, please tell me who he sold the motor to. God will look kindly on you for this. And I promise not to tell your wife that you told me.” “The priest needed a new outboard for his boat so he could send the nuns up river to visit some villages and see if it was true that the Mormons had been there. He told me he needed to find a new motor very soon. I do not know, señor, but he must have found out my brother-in-law had a motor. My brother-in-law didn’t get as much as he wanted. I’m glad.” “Did you get a nice commission?” “He is a tacaño. He didn’t give me anything. Without me…” Norberto paused. “He stole the motor and sold it to the church. That is all I know.” Capt. Spaulding returned to El Resaca and, since it was only 11:30, he took a pre-siesta siesta that overlapped into the main event. When he woke up he felt like shit. At his desk, the Capt. was drinking coffee laced with an aspirin substitute when Segundo entered and flopped down in the extra chair. He looked at the Capt. and started to laugh. “What happened to you? Man, hung over before five o’clock. Wasn’t like that when you were young, was it?” “Shut up.” “What have you been doing? How much you have to pay the cop?” “This is Iquitos so think of the strangest place you can imagine for my motor to end up. This is the weirdest place on earth. A Latin bizarro world. Go ahead and guess.” The Capt. shook his head and almost chuckled. “I don’t know where it is now. But this morning it was on the church’s boat. I saw it when I went over to visit my wife.” Segundo was one of the few Peruvians who could look smug. “Which one?” The Capt. asked, as he removed the wrapper from a fresh Rocky Patel Vintage 1990. “The Catholic Church. They have that ski boat you call ‘Our Lady of Fiberglass.’” “I meant which wife. Jesus, if you knew where it was why then didn’t you tell me? I’ve been chasing around for two days. I even had to ride on Ruiz’s motorcycle. I could have been killed. You sure it’s ours?” The Capt. lit his cigar. “Yeah, the engine cover has that crack in it from when Luis dropped it. Are you going to be able to get it back? I don’t think so, man.” “We found the guy, a nutcase by the way, who sold it to Padre Javier. We’re supposed to go talk to him tomorrow. My passport number is engraved on the block, which might help. If it was anybody other than a priest I’d say I could get it back.”
At nine the next morning the Capt. and Captain Ruiz ran into Padre Javier just as he was coming out the back door of the church. Captain Ruiz explained that he had heard the priest had a new motor and he wanted to make sure it wasn’t the stolen one—just to avoid any problems for the church, of course. Padre Javier replied that he had bought the motor legally and had all of the required paperwork. Captain Ruiz hesitated and then boldly asked if it would be possible to see the paperwork. Padre Javier glared at the two men. “I sent all the paperwork to the bishop in Lima for approval. You will have to take my word for it that everything is in order. I’m sure you understand.” He then walked past them and with one motion of his arm hailed and blessed a motokar. “I’m afraid there is nothing more to be done. What can I say?” Captain Ruiz shrugged his shoulders. “I understand this is a delicate situation, but you did say you would help me get my motor back. Isn’t there anything that can be done?” “I said I would help you find your motor. We did find it, didn’t we? There is nothing that can be done, my friend. Good-bye. If I can be of help in the future, let me know.” He walked off and left the Capt. standing by himself.
The Capt. didn’t feel like chili so he went back to the boat and had fish soup, rice and boiled bananas in the galley with Segundo and Luis. The Capt. liked boiled plantains. After lunch the Capt. and Segundo retired to the hammocks strung up behind the dining room. “God, this is a strange place, Segundo. Nothing is ever straightforward or done in a logical manner. Every single person is out for himself, trying to squeeze money from any situation. Sometimes I think I’ve taken all I can of this shit.” “It’s a paradise, man.” “Yeah, it is that, isn’t it? But it’s no utopia. I love about ninety percent of this place, but the other ten percent sucks. We do have splendid weather, which is always my first criterion for a home.” He paused. “I’m going to have to buy a new outboard, you know.” Segundo snored in his sleep. Segundo was smart enough to live a simple life. That night the Capt. had a late dinner, mixed a gin and tonic, and then went out to the forward observation deck. About ten o’clock he was thinking about the anthropologist who was coming down to do some research on the indigenous people when he heard shouting over in the port. He got up and went to the rail. The shouting increased and a stream of people headed toward the center of the port area. Motokar drivers honked their horns just to be part of the activity. The Capt. could vaguely see a throng of people gathered, but little else. A few screams were heard and then two police cars arrived at the port entrance and headed in. The commotion died down. After twenty minutes the cops left. The Capt. decided it was time for bed. The next morning, after his coffee and cigar, the Capt. was at the computer in his office wiring down money to buy a new motor. Segundo came in and looked over the Capt.’s shoulder for a minute then flopped down in the chair. “I don’t know how you guys use those things. Man, I can’t figure out how to do e-mail. I don’t want anything to do with those computer things.” “You can operate your cell phone, can’t you? It’s not that much different, you just have to learn how to do it.” “Gotta’ keep in touch with my women. They get upset if I don’t call them.” “Hey, did you hear anything about some sort of rumble in the port last night? I could see something was going on, but not what.” The Capt. made the last click of the wire transfer and surfed over to the New York Times web site. “Two drunks got in a bar fight. One guy lost a tooth. Spilled a lot of good beer I heard.” “What were they fighting about?” “I told them I would pay their bar tab and a hundred Soles each to start a fight.” A big smile fanned out on Segundo’s face. “You paid them to start a fight? Are you Don King now? Why the hell would you do that?” “What’s donking? I wanted to create a diversion. I learned that from American TV, man.” “A diversion for what? What are you talking about?” “A diversion while I took a motor off of a boat. It worked good, man, everybody ran to see the fight.” The Capt. began to laugh. “You got the motor back? Oh, that’s perfect. Good man, Segundo. The most Iquitos solution of all.” “You owe me two hundred Soles for the fighters, plus sixty-three Soles for their bar bill. It would be okay if there was a little something for me, too, man.” The Capt. smiled. This was paradise. |
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“The fifty-five is gone, man. It was on the skiff last night, but
this morning it was gone. You finally break down and buy a decent
outboard and somebody steals it. Bad luck, man.” Segundo, who was
the Capt.’s friend, first mate and guide, had a smile on his face,
but then he usually did. 