Part 12
The Americans took a long weekend in Tamiahua and rowed out to visit Captain Rodriguez on the boats working above the Santa Esquela. They had been gone a week by the time they returned to the office. Ramona was ecstatic, "We have deposited the first real income, 150 mil pesos for colonial artifacts."
Jorge seemed agitated when he reported, "The antique coins have been put on the market for auction. They will bring much more than precious-metal value." He tried to build suspense by saying with sadness, "The Santa Esquela contains no known treasure." Then, his face lit with happiness, "But the cannon have been raised — $40,000 to stay with the original vessel if the ship is sold to Marine World of Florida in the United States. We have been offered, from several sources, $30,000 for about half of them if they are sold separately. The figurehead alone is worth $25,000."
"What has Marine World offered? And how many cannon were there?" Rodriguez had been raising the guns when his sponsors visited.
The young attaché’s voice faltered to mention such figures, "The ship will bring $500,000, our share $180,000, if it can be delivered from Tampico Bay — it does not have to be floated but towed near the surface and merely deposited in an accessible place. There is another bidder, the City of Tampa Bay, Florida, who wants it badly, and that will insure the price. Sir, I must mention," Jorge wiped sweat from his brow and couldn’t believe their fortune, "Captain Rodriguez can easily bring her in, in two weeks, for only $2,000."
The lawyer-to-be collapsed into the nice guest chair Mona had found. "The cannon, there are 27 of them. Bill my friend, and Betty my patroness, what is happening here?"
Bill broke into laughter, at the young Mexican as much as their luck, "Darned if I know, Jorge. If we wake up, it was a fine dream."
Betty spoke to Jorge, "You look tired. Are you still taking classes? Keep your lawyer’s license in mind. You and Mona both need help." She turned to Bill, "We already talked about giving them a raise and hiring more help."
They discussed those matters and also decided on an automobile, to save time, and a new office location. "Can the books handle that, Mona?"
"Es easy for many months. Jorge thinks we can go forever with new business."
The Americans decided to combine time on the beach with business. On the drive to Tamiahua, Jorge briefed them on several salvage jobs for which Rodriguez waited approval and funding. A pre-Olmec deposit, now under water, and a Nazi submarine, located further up the coast, were low risk targets.
After consulting with Rodriguez, it was decided that he and Jorge would judiciously accept salvage jobs on consignment, with B & B as sponsor. B & B would become Olmec Venture, ltd., owned by Jorge Popachila. That way, a nice tax break would be realized.
Bill tapped at the witch’s door, "Señora Herrera? Por favor, es Gringo Bil y Bety."
cackle cackle "Come in my infidels, step into my parlor. Have you come to complain or to renew your prescription?"
"Your prediction about the high ground was correct, but the potion didn’t work the way it was supposed to . . . "
The crone screamed in rage, "You are here, so it protected you !" She rubbed her hands with fiendish glee and examined Betty’s midriff, "You are not pregnant, I trust." she went off into a fit of insane laughter.
"Uh, ma’am, the potion acted like an aphrodisiac on the woman and a priapism on me."
"Fry my chitlins." she hurled a cat against the door, "On the man too? I was right after all. I needed a human experiment to prove it." She took time out to pursue a roach across the floor, stamping at it with her foot. "You want more, I suppose. Step into the laboratory." she shuffled four feet in the direction of her cauldron.
"Well . . . yeah, for me at least. The mujer doesn’t really need any."
screech hee haw "The lost soul is a nympho."
Betty’s sexual drive was not an issue. But she had enough of the hag’s accusations of lost faith, "See here, you old prune, I believe in God and my Savior. They are the same as yours."
"Hmm, my pretty half-breed, I forgive you for being an oversexed mamma bear."
"Please tell me, Mother, what is the shelf life?"
"Eh. . .hh? Questions, questions. Love lasts forever, passion but a night, lust is for minutes, no harm in delight." The old woman blew a bat out of the air with a single-action revolver, "It will last as long as the perishable ingredients, mouse milk and tree-toad parts. Refrigerated, maybe a month."
"Adiós, Mother Herrera." Betty placed a 50-peso note on the table as the crone became occupied, cleaning spiders from corners with the 45-caliber pistol.
. . .
"How come you’re always so tolerant, concerning native tribes?" She proposed, "Must be the thought of those nubile Honduras Indian girls."
"I told you, I don’t remember a thing about that incident."
. . .
(Honduras) "Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, fortunately you have maintained your diplomatic status in Mexico. You could easily extend that to another country and aid us immeasurably in transporting sensitive material into Mexico." The speaker was a representative of the American CIA (Cuban Invasion Agency). He and his partner were cool and professional.
Betty and Bill had decided to return to New Mexico from their life of leisure on the beach at Tamiahua. They weren’t in the mood for more intelligence service. However, Betty couldn’t resist the details, "What is the nature of the sensitive material? And why can’t it be openly moved?"
"That is classified, ma’am. You don’t need to know and are better off not knowing."
"Well, I don’t like it. Sensitive stuff is usually classified because it is not in the best interests of the people. Anyway, you guys have more pull with governments than we do." She looked at Bill for agreement and got it.
The well-dressed men changed character and drew pistols, "Too bad. We really must have your papers, however. A couple of forged identities, and anyone can use them." One man went into the shack to search, and the other frisked the prisoners. Satisfied with their finds, they invited the couple to board their cruiser.
The ship was not so small to be without a bilge, and that’s where the poor old folks spent many hours. With no idea where they had landed, except that they were surrounded by tropical forest, they were herded ashore in the dark. They were advised, "Run if you feel like it, you will save us a lot of trouble." Without food or water, the prisoners were forced farther into the jungle. They seemed to be following a path, but that was little consolation to Betty, who was not much of a hiker. Her husband gave her what support he could.
As the sun came up, they entered the clearing of a native village. The captives were handed over to a group of naked Indian men who spoke no familiar tongue. The white men dealt with the chief and left with several small packages.
Bill guessed, "Probably not conventional narcotics. Something valuable though, possibly natural pharmaceuticals."
The Indians treated them gently but firmly. Their clothes were confiscated and they were consigned to a guarded hut. The structures seemed all the same size, shape, and construction; round, 15 feet in diameter, and made of tightly bundled grass.
The captives tried to signal for food and water, not having eaten for more than a day. Betty cowered behind the door’s edge, exposing only her head, shoulders, and hands for communication. Her sign language was ignored because lunch was forthcoming. "What is this stuff? Looks like avocado pudding." The women, who had brought the food, wore nothing but curious smiles; it was obvious that clothing was not part of this culture. Women and children all had full-length hair. The men wore porridge-bowl haircuts, an even hairline that ran all the way around, just below ear level.
Bill resigned himself quickly, "It’s all we’re going to get. Diarrhea, here we come." He wolfed his portion of the gruel and recommended it to his wife.
The native women squatted and showed great interest in whitey. Betty never felt less tanned in her life with every inch of herself exposed to scrutiny. She accused her spouse, "You don’t seem embarrassed about this."
The man replied, "Doesn’t seem to bother them." he pointed at the nearest woman, who giggled and twisted her head to see the color of his armpit hair. Another of the women gestured to Betty and indicated that her armpits were nearly bald. The Caucasian female didn’t know if she should be sorry or glad to have neglected shaving for so long.
People began to troupe in to view the visitors. For the rest of the day, the small hut was crowded with curious eyes. A kid, with a finger stuck in his mouth, had the temerity to step forward and point to Bill’s light-colored graying hair. With a grin, Bill took the child’s hand and placed it on his head so he could feel it was otherwise normal. The audience was pleased as though a great feat of daring and difficulty had been performed.
When they had emptied the water gourd, Bill left the shack with it. Showing that it was empty, he volunteered to refill it. He was also interested in the cleanliness of the source. The guard thought, what the heck, and led him to a stream. After that, there was no security guard.
The couple considered their situation. They had no idea which way to escape and could not anyway, nude and without survival knowledge. "I guess we will try to get along with the people here until Mister Stanley comes to rescue us. I’m going to work tomorrow, whatever a sixty year-old can do that’s productive."
"I’ll look around to see if I can help the women some way. Who is Mister Stanley?"
"The guy who, after incredible hardship and dangers, stepped into a native village in darkest Africa, saw a white man, and said, ‘ Doctor Livingston, I presume? ’ "