Chapter Two

The Twain Shall Meet

Fifteen minutes later, Marjorie was strolling down theCalle Major, Main Street, her new, woven, native pocketbook on her arm and a broad, straw sun hat on her head. The hat she had bought in Aruba and it had two, long, fine cotton straps that wound around above the brim several times and then tied around the chin to hold it on. She had thrown on the long, multicolored, striped skirt she had bought inCaracas when they had flown in and a bright orange, stretch, tube top that was held up by the fullness of her breasts, revealing the pale skin of her chest, the fullness of her mounds and just an inch or two of her firm, flat belly. She had on her round, oversized, UV rated sunglasses and a pair of well worn, comfortable, low heeled, cork bottomed, Italian sandals she had brought with her from Chicago. She knew that she looked the model of anAmericana tourista, but she didn’t care. It was a beautiful day and she was looking forwards to a beautiful life. Everything was working out as she had planned. What could go wrong?

The river was an eight block hike from the hotel and all the main streets of the town ran down to it like spokes in a wheel. Every block or so, the street on which Marjorie was walking would merge with another, less important street and become one, the sidewalks forming little triangles at the corners. Most of the area through which she was strolling languidly was bordered with tourist shops and cafes. But even the rougher parts of town had streets leading here and, if you wanted to reach the main dock where the boats going down river came and went, you eventually would run intoCalle Major.

Diego Badoya was also walking his way to the river that morning. But Diego was no tourist. And he was not strolling happily along thinking about how wonderful life was. In fact, Diego Badoya was a notorious bandit and murderer whose depredations on theRio Ciora were legendary. Two weeks ago, an Army patrol had run into him and three of his fellows camping about twenty miles inland. Hiscompadres had been gunned down, but he, as befitted his legendary status as lucky son of a donkey, had just had his head grazed by a bullet. When he came to, he was bound hand and foot and strung over a mule being hauled away to the nearest civilian authority, which was inCotabaya.

Politics being what they were, the army colonel who had captured him was obliged to turn him over to the local constabulary. It had taken ten days to get the authority to ship the motherfucker down river to the provincial capital so that he could be tried and hanged.

Diego was maybe 40 years old, but his weathered face made him look much older. He had a long scar down the left side of his face and several others liberally distributed about his muscular frame. It was said that he had been shot fourte