Chapter 3: The Twain Shall Meet I

Fifteen minutes later, Marjorie was strolling down the Calle 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 in Caracas 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 an Americana 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 into Calle 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 the Rio Ciora were legendary. Two weeks ago, an Army patrol had run into him and three of his fellows camping about twenty miles inland. His compadres 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 in Cotabaya.

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 fourteen times, but that was likely an exaggeration. He had a thick, bushy, black moustache and stringy, long, black hair that he kept under a sombrero. He walked with a strolling, bow legged gait dictated by a small bullet fragment that was still lodged in his spine. His clothes were dirty and ragged. He had not been camping in the rain forest because he was living high on the hog. As with most bandits, the tales of his exploits greatly exceeded their reality and he and his boys hadn’t made a decent score in months.

The infamous bandit was being escorted down to the docks by two of the local gendarmerie. They were nephews of the Captain of Police and had fought for the honor to deliver the bandido to his fate. They smiled politely at the young girls who peered out of the houses and shop windows to admire their bravery and élan. There was a dance Friday at the Municipal Hall and Pedro and Tomas knew that they would have no trouble getting the prettiest and willingest young senoritas to dance with them and, perhaps, take a walk into the park and surrender their virtue. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, something they would tell their children and grandchildren: the day they had fought and captured the great bandit, Diego Badoya. Of course, it was a tale that would grow in stature and improvisation over the years.

Being held in a local jail and being guarded by these buffoons was an insult to Diego. He swore that someday he would come back and slice the throat of that pompous and officious Captain of Police and fuck his daughters too. But the informal, relaxed style of law enforcement in this backwater town had its advantages.

Last night, around three A.M., the constables had hauled in a man who had been found wandering around the statue of Simon Bolivar that sat in the town square, cursing and swearing at it. He was drunk, of course, what we would call ‘drunk as a lord’. After receiving a perfunctory and obligatory beating by the constables, he had been brought into the jail and thrown into the cell next to Diego to sleep it off. The man was not known around town, but it was not uncommon for peasants from the highlands to come into the big town once every year or so, to get drunk and get arrested. The sergeant at the desk did not even write the man’s name down. At 6 A.M., he was roused from his post celebratory torpor and thrown out. Regulations were that they had to feed breakfast to anybody who was incarcerated at 7 A.M. As per custom, the expense of his meal would be written down in the ledger and pocketed by the Captain of Police. There was nothing wrong with that, it was just the way that business was done.

What the guards did not see after they had thrown him into the cell was that the man, once they had gone back to their game of dominos, had flashed a sign of recognition at Diego. He reached between the two hundred year old bars that separated their cells and slipped him a long, sharp blade embedded in a handle of coarse wood. Diego slid the blade up the sleeve of his loose, tattered, long sleeved shirt and placed it in the special pocket that he had sewn there many years ago for such an emergency.

The desperate bandit knew that once he got on the boat and was handed over to the much more attentive and businesslike authorities there, it was all over. The trip to the boat was the only opportunity to make his move. Certain other arrangements had been made with his compadre during the night. Foolishly, before he left on his march to destiny this morning, the guards had braceleted his hands in front of him when he complained of a hurt in his shoulder as they tried to attach them behind his back. It was a simple matter of shrugging his shoulders while they walked to slip the knife out of its pocket in his sleeve and catch it in his hand. When they reached an appropriate spot about two blocks from the docks, Diego made his move.