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Right Now, Igor: A Belizean Adventureby Rick Zahniser (Señor Reek) PO Box 1283 Tombstone, AZ 85638 520-547-2408
Although the places described are real, and some real (important) people are mentioned, this is a work of fiction, and the principal characters are imaginary. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Igor, the Labweiler, looks just like my own dog, Brutus. Dedication To the Great System Designer To Wanda, who rekindled my faith in myself. To Brutus, who thinks I'm worth more than I am. Preface. In Belize, "Right now" means "Not right now". It's more complicated, but that will do, right now. (!) A Technical Note. A "Y2K bug" is usually caused by a 2-figure date which implies "19" as a prefix. Before about 1990, most data files stored dates in the format MMDDYY. When we (programmers) pointed out that these dates would not work in the next millennium, our bosses said "Don't worry about it." The "Y2K Crisis" involved changing the YY to YYYY everywhere before the year 2000 came in. Some people prophesied that Y2K – the year 2000 – would be TEOLAWKI – The End Of Life As We Know It. I went to Belize in 1999 to watch this event from a distance! Businesses spent about $300 Billion to correct these bugs (errors) so that nobody (except the programmers) noticed!! Prologue: Arizona-Sonora border. Feb l3, 2000 Nibbling on a Twinkie and humming "Margaritaville", Jack Arnold crossed the Arizona/Sonora border at Nogales, sixty-eight miles south of Tucson. He was driving a year-old maroon Nissan Altima, which he had just purchased for cash in Tucson. With bogus Arizona plates and a fake emission sticker on the window, he looked like the typical visitor. A small personal roller bag and a Conn trumpet in a nice case were stowed in the trunk. At the US exit gate, he smiled sheepishly as he told the Border Patrolman that he was going to Canal Street. He told the Mexican immigration official the same thing. However, instead of going to the well-known red-light district, he turned left and took a dirt road out of town which lead to the tiny town of Naco, sixty miles east, on the border just south of Bisbee. He squinted as he drove, keeping his right wheels on the shoulder to avoid the washboards. In Naco, he pulled into the empty courtyard of a small hotel which he owned with a Mexican friend. Locking the gate to the courtyard, he found his friend – an old college buddy – and was assured that his room was ready and the rest of the hotel was empty. He went out to the dusty car, changed the Arizona plates for Mexican ones, scraped off the emission sticker, and changed out some papers in the glove box, He carried his roller bag in, undressed, and took a long hot shower until the water began to turn cold. Turning on the cable TV to TeleMundo, he settled down for a good night's sleep before beginning the long drive to the Free Zone on the northern border of Belize. *** Jack would not have slept well if he had known what was going on at Arnold Enterprises in the Free Zone. A Belizean named Cholo Archeleta, bound and gagged with duct tape, sat, bug eyed, and watched two men dig their way into the side of a six by six cement vault in the office he had been guarding earlier that evening. The big steel safe door on the front was impressive, but they had just finished digging easily through the side wall with sledge hammer, pick and shovel. They filled black plastic garbage bags with the Pesos and dollars inside the vault, tied Cholo to a clothesline leash and, carrying the bags, made their way thru the darkness to a skiff beached on the water side of the Free Zone. The sky glow from the shops in the Free Zone lit their way. Cholo's heart beat like a trip-hammer as they dragged him into the boat. “One last trip for you, Amigo,” one of them said. *** The next morning, Jack loaded his personal roller bag and the trumpet case in the back seat. He opened a storage closet across from his room and took two big roller bags out to the car. Opening the trunk, he set one of the bags flat in the trunk and zipped it open. It was filled with poly-wrapped bags of 20- and 100-dollar bills. Looks like a million or so, he thought. Satisfied that things were in order, he zipped the bag shut, put the other bag in with it, and headed out of the courtyard, down the long road that led to Mexico City and then Belize. As he drove, he thought about the sweet set-up he and his brother had. His brother Dave ran a money-exchange business in the Free Zone and the two million narco-bucks would be exchanged for squeaky-clean Pesos. Those, in turn, would be invested in their land development in Quintana Roo. He put a CD in the car's player. Chet Baker! Jack was an accomplished jazz trumpeter and played a lot like Chet. He looked forward to sitting in with the local bands in Corozal, Belize. And, he looked forward to some beach time out on the Cayes, where he could count on a little "sun, sea, sand and sex." *** On the margin of Corozal Bay, a burly black dog lay with his head in the warm wet sand, and cried for his missing master. Chapter 1: Denver, Colorado. Tuesday, February 15, 2000. I had my feet up on my desk. "Think", the IBM sign on my desk directed. So I was thinking. The sign next to it said "Thomas Conklin, Manager." Indeed! Project manager of a project to catch and fix thousands of "Y2K" bugs (involving two-digit dates) in the massive data-based system which supported Consolidated Banks of Colorado. The new year was behind us; we had slain the dragon. "Now what?" I thought. "I'm sure ready for a break!" Tuesday is always status meeting time, but there was no meeting this morning. I sat, trying to decide which of the twenty-one Colorado ski resorts I would visit first, wondering which girl friend I might take. Not that I had a big choice. My phone beeped & flashed. I pushed the speaker-phone button. Filene Robb, the Program Librarian who served as my secretary said “Tommy, will you take a call from Lynette Conklin? She says she’s calling from Belize and it’s urgent.” “Sure, put her on!” I picked up the handset. “Tommy, it’s Lynette” I was staggered. Lynette was an old flame – my fiancée from six years ago. I tried to fake jolly cordiality. “Hey! Good to hear from you after all these years! What’s up?” “Your brother is lying in Karl Heusner Hospital here in Belize City. He’s in a coma. If you want to see him alive, you ought to come down.” She paused, and then… “I’d like to see you again, too.” Oh, my gosh, I thought. What that voice can do to me! I tried to remember where is Belize, but I didn't say that. Instead, “No sweat, Lynn. I’ll be there as soon as I can. How can I reach you when I get there?” “I’m staying at the Hotel Biltmore. Leave me a message in the morning and I’ll pick you up at the Ladyville airport.” Back in project manager mode, I began jotting down the things I would have to do to leave this job and get down to Belize in a hurry. And now, where is Belize? Some place south of the border. Someplace you can surely fly to. “Lynette, it’ll take me a day to shut everything down so I’ll probably leave Thursday if I can get a ticket. I’ll leave you a message with the details.” “Thanks, Tommy. I really need the help. I’ll wait for your message.” Click, beep, that funny sound that signifies an international call. I studied my notes on the yellow pad… + Put the Porsche in storage. + Let the housekeeper know that the condo is going on standby. + Get a ticket. Where is Belize? Mousing my laptop to the Internet, I googled "Belize." CIA Worldbook looked like a good place to start. “Belize: Population 247,323 (1998) Not including illegal aliens." Oh ho! That’s a problem there, huh? I studied the map. Latitude about 18 degrees, just south of Mexico on the Yucatan Peninsula. Caribbean coast. I could drive there, through Mexico, in a couple or three days. Not now – got to fly. Tickets now. I dialed my favorite travel agent. “Barbara, I need a ticket to Belize for Thursday." I waited while she checked. “OK, I repeated. “American all the way, Denver to Houston, Houston to Belize City. 10AM depart. I’ll pick up the ticket at the American ticket counter at DIA. Uh, do I need a passport?” "Yes," she told me. Good. I had gotten a passport in 1998, thinking I might go visit Philip and Lynette, and never used it. Tickets. Passport. Now, what to pack? For the tropics. Wow! How thrilling! *** I was sitting in Vance Prichard's big corner office. He had been my good friend for twelve years, and my immediate superior at CBC for the last two. I told him about Lynette's call. “So after six years, Lynette has called!” "Yup. It must be really serious, for her to call. She knows how I feel.” “Just because she dumped you and married your older brother? You hold a grudge?” He grinned at me. I nodded, thinking how I tried to just write it off to experience. “Yeah – I was pretty serious about Lynn. And I certainly didn’t think I had anything to worry about when I introduced her to my own brother!” “Well, you might have known. Good old Phillip -- one of the youngest millionaires in the Petroleum Club -- with more money than he knew what to do with!” “And I, Bozo that I am, didn’t realize that Lynette was actually tired of skiing. When he offered her that trip to sunny Belize, she jumped at the chance. Two weeks of snorkeling and SCUBA diving and she was hooked. On Belize AND Phillip!” I thought wistfully about Lynette and her charms. We seemed to have so much in common – music, skiing, movies – and I was so comfortable with her. I planned a future for the two of us, and then… “I guess I just took her for granted. Serves me right.” I drifted into silent reverie, thinking about possible lives with Lynette. “So anyway," Vance interrupted my reverie, "where is Belize? Isn’t it an island somewhere South?" “Nope. First country south of Mexico on the Caribbean. Little tiny country about the size of New Hampshire with maybe 250,000 people. Could be paradise.” “And you have an excuse to go down there and find out what’s going on? In February?” “Yup! She just said he’s in the hospital; sounds like it’s really serious. He’s my only brother, and I would feel terrible if I just let him lie down there and die.” Even if he did steal the girl of my dreams, I thought. “Well, we just need to cut a check for your bonus, and you can clear out of here. 200 grand! That won’t be too hard to take!” “Hey, that was my agreement with Jonathan.” I said with righteous satisfaction. “We brought it in on time, and there haven’t really been any hiccups that we didn’t anticipate. I’ll have to talk to the team members, but they’ve been pretty independent workers for the past six months, since we put the conversion plan in place, so it’s just a matter of patting them on the back again and saying ‘job well done’ and ‘see you around!’” “Tommy, you did a good job. I would never have given you that big a bonus, but Jonathan trusted you and knew how to motivate you.“ In early 1998, Vance's boss, Jonathan Constantine, summoned me to his office at the tope of the Bank Tower in downtown Denver. I put on my Brooks Brothers suit and cordovan shoes and reported. He said, “You know, Tommy, you turned me on to Ed Yourdon, and I’ve been reading Time Bomb 2000, his new book about the problems we’re going to have with two-digit dates in our old programs. If we let it, that bomb could blow this company to hell. I’ve decided that you’re the guy to save us. I want you to put a team together to fix all those bugs. Hire the best people, and set up a plan that will ensure success. I know you can do that, and you’re the only one I trust to pull it off. I’ll pay you $15,000 a month until February of 2000, and a $100,000 bonus if you pull it off.” I had just read most of the book and knew about the “death march" that the project implied. Sixteen hour days, working weekends, incredible pressure to meet an immoveable deadline. Well, if I’m going to do it, I thought, I might as well make it worthwhile. “Make it $200,000, and I’ll do it,” I countered, “and I’ll need to pay bonuses to the good people I’m going to hire, as well.” “Do it!” said Jonathan. * * * Now, things were rolling. By mid-afternoon, I had had received my bonus check, and deposited it in the Tech Center Branch of CBC. Getting $4,000 in Traveler’s Cheques had taken more time that I expected. Maybe I should take some cash, I thought, and went back to a cashier’s window and got another $4000 in hundreds and fifties. On the way home, I stopped at Cherry Creek and shopped for a money belt. In a luggage store, I found a cool one that zipped all that money into a normal-looking leather belt. At Calvin Klein, I bought two pairs of khaki shorts with cargo pockets, four muscle shirts, and two light blue short-sleeved button-down shirts. So much for tropical wear. Back at home, I checked the refrigerator for leftovers that might turn into lab projects while I was gone, emptied a couple of storage containers and threw them in the dishwasher. I called Allie, my housekeeper, told her that I'd be gone for a week or so, and asked her to stop by on her usual Thursday and check the place. Packing, I thought about footwear? Tennies? Sure. Jungle Boots? Probably not; hopefully I wouldn’t be trekking thru the bush. Pack light! Boat shoes, tennies, six pairs of white sox. Skivvies for a week. Four white T-shirts. Four shirts. An old pair of khaki shorts with a belt in the back. Toilet kit: razor, blades, shave cream, deodorant, toothbrush & paste, Imodium – essential for Mexico, and any place south of there. I stowed a little bottle of OFF -- left over from a fishing trip to Dog Lake in northern Canada. I hope the mosquitos won't be that bad, I thought. The stuff went in a medium-sized roller bag, part of a set I bought last year. Just right, I thought, for the well-equipped jungle bopper! Chapter 2: Corozal, Belize, Central America. Tuesday Morning Situated just south of the border between Mexico and Belize, the Commercial Free Zone is a Mecca for Mexican shoppers who cannot get cheap Chinese goods in their own country. They save for months, plan trips, and come to Chetumal, the city just north of the border. Then, they take a taxi to La Zona Libre, where they collectively spend over a million Pesos a day on Chinese trinkets. Dave Arnold had a nice business in the Free Zone. An American from Arizona, he exchanged Pesos for Dollars. Dave had lots of dollars. His brother Jack brought them down from Arizona and Dave sold them to Free Zone merchants for a very attractive rate. The merchants needed dollars to buy Chinese goods; he needed Pesos for his development on the coast just north of Chetumal. Right now, however, he had a big problem. Last Friday night, persons unknown had broken into his place, punched a hole in the side wall of his vault, and stolen about four million in US dollars and Pesos. And, because the money was waiting to be laundered, Dave didn't want to get the police involved. And God knows what had happened to Cholo Archeleta, the night watchman. So, he was out of business until his brother Jack arrived with more money. There's always a possibility, he thought, that the Mexican cops or army would discover the money in Jack's car. He tried to keep his mind occupied with the task at hand -- rebuilding the vault. It had an attractive steel front with massive hinges and a big dial. But his crew had used ordinary building blocks for the walls. He wished someone had told him that the blocks, built with smooth sea sand, were actually quite fragile. Now, he had the crew mixing cement, using construction sand and gravel, and putting up plywood forms. They would pour foot-thick steel-reinforced walls. A shipment of steel girders would support the ceiling, and he would space them 6" apart! And then he would feel a lot more secure. *** Seven miles south, in the Belizean town of Corozal, el Jefe (the chief) -– as he was called by his few employees -- was also worried. Big, olive-skinned, with lush black hair, he was dressed in a cream guayabera and had two heavy gold chains around his neck which signified that he was a man of substance. El Jefe's problem was an American expat named Phillip Conklin. He had become involved with this Gringo and his wife and loaned him some money. Phillip was developing a housing project on the Belizean coast, and it took lots of money – more than Conklin had. So el Jefe supplied him with money, but he kept worrying about where it came from. "Don't worry about it!" el Jefe would say. "It's Belizean politics, and you don't want to get involved." This past Sunday, things came to a head. Conklin came to his house and accused him of cleaning out Dave Arnold's vault and 'disappearing' the guard. Now, Philip was laying in a coma in the hospital in Belize City and that should have solved the problem, but it was more complicated than that. As it turned out, he had been making audio and video recordings of their meetings. I need to deal with that problem right now, El Jefe thought. I need to deal with you, Gringo. Right now. Chapter 3. Denver, Wednesday, 9:45 I had called a meeting of my team and I was early. Surveying the empty conference room, it seemed like my life had been defined by status meetings, separated by crises. And… that was over. For now. “The circus has left town” was the way Vance described it. I sat in the middle seat of a 16-foot conference table, my back to a couple of white boards. I had developed a particular style of collaborative teamwork and the room was built for me, but it was now used by several other teams at CBC.
Roy Alvarez, our data base programmer, came in and sat down next to Dilly. Roy, descended from a long line of sheep-herders who came into Colorado before the mountain men, was more Basque than Latino and was very proud of his heritage. "Buenos dias," he said to Dilly. "Como esta?" "Asi! Asi!" she said with a grin. The little ritual celebrated the fact that they both spoke Español. Dilly had made several trips to Acapulco and one year she and her husband went to Carnival in Rio, only to find that her Spanish didn't help – they spoke Portuguese! (They took a course right after that… found it pretty easy if you know Spanish.) Fred Plunkett came in and sat down next to Roy, where he had a good view of Dilly. He inspected her appreciatively. Recently divorced, Fred was always looking – but Dilly was happily married and pretended not to notice his daily checkout. Labeled “Phred, the Phireman” in many of the e-mail posts, he was often called in during the wee small hours when someone had broken something. As the system configuration guy, he applied changes every morning, and sometimes backed them off when they didn’t work. He was a hard-ass when he had to be, and a Godsend when he rebuilt the system. “Call Phred” was the watchword whenever something went wrong. He was tall, but like many programmers, he was pale and fragile-looking. Filene Robb marched in with her laptop and took the seat directly across from me. “Filene, the Filer,” she was called. An experienced program librarian, Filene was one the keys to my success on the project. She typed 90 words a minute, and kept everything in a personal database on her laptop so that she could lay hands on it at a moment’s notice. Everything about Filene said “efficient!” Because she knew everything about the project -- including my schedule -- she doubled as my secretary. Grabbing a Cat-5 cable hanging from a hook on the wall, she plugged it into her machine, and checked to ensure sure that she was networked. Roger “Fahrly” Farquar slouched in and took his seat next to Filene. He looked like he was staking out a place to sleep. Fahrly was hard-drinking, but hard-working too -- a “garbage programmer” who could keep hundreds of details in his head as he read and changed intricate operating system code. Fahrly had designed and built the bug trap that caught (and would continue to catch) 98% of the unexpected “millennium bugs” which occurred as the new century rolled on. Fahrly would readily admit that he wasn't in great physical shape, but he kept promising himself that next week he would enroll in a health club and start working out. Finally, Phyllis Quinn came in and took an empty seat at the other end of the table. “The Rock,” I called her, an almost non-descript but well-disciplined programmer who worked steadily throughout the day with measured breaks. Any time from 8 to 5, I could always count on her to be in her office working! Phyllis was diminutive and very trim; like Filene, her appearance proclaimed "I'm efficient!" I marveled at the team and its small size. Organization, I thought. Organization, keeping these people focused and working on just the right things at the right time. Teamwork! By golly, I deserve that big bonus! Earlier, in January, the team had formally wrapped up the project at a weekend "Checkpont" in Breakenridge. I believe that one of the keys to successful project management is a periodic weekend meeting every three or four months where everyone presents their work to date and shares their plans for the future. This checkpoint is a look backward – a chance for everyone to brag and pat everyone else on the back for a job well done; and then a look forward, with some serious planning sessions. Breckenridge was "The Last Checkpoint." After that, I worked on appraising each person’s performance and negotiating the bonus which they deserved. Now, as they sat watching me, their smiling faces told me that I had done a good job. “Folks,” I began, “I’ve got some good news or bad news. I’m done, and I’m leaving. In fact, I’m leaving tomorrow!” I waited a moment for the shock to fade and then continued. “Yesterday, I got a call from my sister-in-law in Belize. My brother’s in the hospital down there, in a coma, and I’ve got to go see him.” “Belize!” said Fred. “That’s an island somewhere in the Caribbean, isn’t it?” “Belize is the first country south of Mexico on the Caribbean. It’s not an island.” Phyllis, usually reticent, was speaking out positively. “It’s about 250 miles south of Cancun. My father lives there.” “I didn’t know that, Phyllis!” I exclaimed. “What’s his name, and where does he live?” “Charles Acres. He lives in Corozal, which is right up on the Mexican border, north end of the country. He’s been down there since 1996.” “Wow! Have you ever visited?” “Yes. Bob and I went down in 1997, when my Mom was still there. We spent about a week. Bob didn’t like it much – he’s a cold weather person – but I thought it was neat.” “How did you get there?” “We flew into the airport at Ladyville, and Dad picked us up.” “Yeah, that’s how I’m getting there.” As we chatted, Filene was looking up Belize on the Internet. She put a map of Belize up on one of the white boards, which was actually a large interactive display.
“OK. So we know where Belize is! Phyllis, I’d like to get some details about your Dad, but I’ll do that offline. Do we have anything else to settle before I go?” “Do they have e-mail down there?” Dilly asked. “You should take your laptop, and you can keep us informed.” “Good idea! Phyllis, do they have e-mail?” “Sure,” she replied. “BTL, the local telephone company, is pretty good, even if it is expensive. I think you can probably go to the local office and hook up your laptop. You ought to take it along.” “How long do you think you’ll be there?” Fahrly interjected. "I’ll have to find someone to fill in for you at our weekly poker games!” “Fahrly, I don’t have a clue. I don’t even know what’s wrong with Phillip yet. I’ll just have to let you guys know." * * * After the meeting, I drove to the downtown Headquarters of CBC; now the corner of the Banking District in Denver. I had phoned ahead and Muriel, Jonathan's secretary for 25 years, had assured me he could see me. Jonathan was a tall, well-tanned, white-haired man in his early 50's. He played golf and worked out regularly to keep fit. "So you're off on yet another adventure, eh, Tommy?" he said with a grin. "Yes, sir. I haven't seen Phillip since he married my fiancée and took her off to Belize." "Are you bitter about that, Son?" "To tell the truth, I’ve been so busy with Y2K, I haven’t had time to brood about it. After I got interested in Project Management, I started neglecting her." "Well, now, Y2K is behind us, and maybe you can make amends. I hope the salary and bonus we paid you will give you the wherewithall to do that properly." "It certainly should. I'm really grateful to you, Sir, for the opportunity to do something significant, and of course, to be rewarded for it." "I still owe you a lot, Tommy. If you need any help, you can always call on me!" They stood up and shook hands. "God speed," Jonathan said sincerely. *** I hung around my office, cleaning out my desk and making notes in my Day-Runner. I looked at my Timex 'nerd-watch'… seven o’clock in Denver; so what's the time in Belize? Central, probably, so it's eight PM. I called the International Operator, and gave her the number of the Biltmore hotel. Pause. British-sounding rings. Well, that’s right. According to the CIA book, Belize used to be British Honduras. “Belize Biltmore Hotel. Good night.” “I believe you have a guest there named Lynette Conklin. Could I speak to her?” “I’ll ring her room, Sir. Right now.” “Lynette Conklin!” I heard. “Lynette. This is Tommy. How is Phillip?” “No change, really. When are you coming?" “I just booked a ticket for tomorrow on American through Dallas to Belize City." “The American flight gets in about 2:30. I’ll pick you up.” “If it’s a problem, I can take a cab.” “No problem! Look for me on the second deck at the airport.” Chapter 4: Denver, Thursday Morning I stored my Porsche, buttoned up my digs and Vance was driving me to DIA. “The flight is at 9:10, right?” “Right. American 1122 to Dallas and a nonstop to Belize City. Looks like a nice day for flying.” “Yup. Nice day for skiing, too, Buddy. Wouldn’t you rather be going to my condo up at Breckenridge?” “Actually, I’m pretty jazzed about finally going to Belize. I put it out of my mind before, because of Lynette, but it’s a whole new world to me. The Marine Corps trained me for it, but they never sent me back to the jungle after I finished the school. So I’m finally gonna get to test my ‘legs.’” I thought about the jump training at Fort Benning that originally gave me my “legs” and the Jungle Warfare School in Panama after I came back from Lebanon. Vance glanced over at me, his eyes widening in perception. “You know, Tommy, I tend to forget that you’re a ‘trained killer'! Did you ever have to kill anyone?” “Well, we shot back in Lebanon, but we usually denied that we’d personally killed anyone. The jungle stuff was all training. We used to talk about that cartoon showing the two buzzards sitting on a fence. ‘Patience, hell’ – says one to the other. ‘I’m gonna kill something.’ We were all dressed up with no place to go." “Wait. You mean, you’d already been to Lebanon, and then they sent you to Jungle Training?” “Well, yeah. Everyone in MAU-22 went back to Camp LeJeune, and I had a choice of being a DI – because I had combat experience -- or going to another school. I picked the school. It was fun. Down in Panama, eating ants and cockaroaches, living off the land!” I laughed. “Well, now, you’ll find out if Belize looks like ‘the jungle’ in Panama.” “Yup. Hopefully, I won’t get to find out if my training was any good. I’m getting pretty old for that ‘Gung Ho’ shit. I am NOT taking my jungle boots!” “How old are you, now, Tommy?” “36. And I feel like an ‘old guy’" “Well, this ‘old guy’ is 50, and you look like a spring chicken to me!” “We’ll see, Vance.” Chapter 5: Corozal, Belize, Thursday Morning El Jefe closed up his cell phone. He had been chatting with Lynette Conklin, 65 miles south in Belize City. He sat back and thought about the situation. For years, he had been part of the shadow government's drug operation that began in the 80's with the Iran/Contra affair. In the 90's, the Columbians – discouraged by the US DEA from flying over Belize, had started dropping bales of powder in the sea, where it was picked up by a fleet of Belizean skiffs and trucked across Belize to the Mexican border. Belizeans took the powder across the river west of the Free Zone and handed it off to Mexicans who took it to the US. He didn't know any of the details and he didn't want to know. He did know a lot about the money. He laundered money that came down by boat from Florida. His favorite way of laundering money was putting it into projects; usually construction projects like Phillip Conklin's. Like so many naïve real estate developers, Conklin grossly underestimated the amount of money required to subdivide a property and sell it as lots – even in Belize where there were a minimum of amenities. Phillip thought he was rich, but he didn’t have nearly enough money to subdivide. There's never enough money! – thought el Jefe.-- but there's enough if you don't care where it comes from. And a real estate deal makes a wonderful laundromat. And Gringos have so many good ideas for development and promotion. Phillip wasn't really desperate for money but he began to cast about for solutions. He met el Jefe at a Rotary dinner, invited him to lunch, and they began to explore their mutual interests. Ultimately, el Jefe became a silent partner in one subdivision. They talked about the future, about sandy beaches and a golf course. El Jefe had his own priorities for the project, and he could subtly include these along with Phillip's. For instance, he wanted one road in the development to be long enough to be used for an air strip. Already rich, el Jefe could be charming. The Conklins invited him to some parties at their house. He met Lynette, Phillip’s very attractive wife, and began to enjoy her company. He took both of them to Chetumal – the Mexican city just north of the border. They watched some movies together and exchanged gifts – usually CDs and now DVDs. DVD’s – how much nicer than tapes, which mildew in the tropical moisture. Things went well for a while. Phillip got busy developing his first project. He spent a lot of time on the job site. El Jefe spent some time with Lynette. He took her to Chetumal, showed her the best restaurants, the best hotels… ah yes! Phillip, like many Gringo developers, was dreaming hard about his development. He envisioned a Club House, and started building one. He laid out lots, and started putting in streets. He arranged for BEL (Belize Electric Limited) to bring a major power line. He made plans to dig a deep well for water. He made plans for a sewer system – something almost unheard of in suburban Belize! And he needed more money -- more than el Jefe had on hand. But the Mexican Navy was patrolling the shore too well, and they had already captured one boat full of money. (No reports of that in the Press!) So, el Jefe was actually short of money! Johnny's excavating company needed a big payment. BEL needed another payment. Last week, Phillip cashed a half-million in securities, and told el Jefe that he needed a matching contribution. El Jefe had a competitor in the Free Zone. Arnold Enterprises supplied dollars to the merchants so that they could buy new goods. And, the Arnolds were doing well. So, last Friday night, a couple of his minions executed a "funds transfer" from the Arnold vault. On Saturday, he told Phillip he had the matching funds. Unfortunately Phillip had a desk in the offices of Arnold Enterprises. After he visited Dave Arnold, and heard about the robbery, he put two and two together. He came to el Jefe's house on Sunday morning, and there was a nasty scene. El Jefe was furious -- felt like killing him on the spot -- but he always showed great restraint in his own house. He knew that Phillip bought cocaine from a posse of boys at Miami Beach every Monday morning, and so he arranged for Phillip to get some really hot powder. The "hot dose" didn't kill him – it just put him in Karl Heusner Hospital in a coma. Then, Lynette told him that Phillip was accumulating evidence -- incriminating videos and audio tapes. Evidence which could connect el Jefe and Phillip and the Arnold robbery! Oh, my! She had found a CD under their bed. "Tapes?" he asked. "Where are these tapes?" Lynette didn't know. "What is this CD?" "Only Phillip knows," she said. He opened up his cell phone and speed dialed. "Paco, you and Flaco have to go to the Hospital in Bleece." Chapter 6: Houston, Thursday Morning The flight attendant was tall, dark, and beautiful. She smiled winningly as she looked at my ticket. “16C, Mr. Conklin” she said. “Looks like we’ll have wonderful weather for the flight” “Great, Louise,” I said, reading her nametag. “I don’t need any excitement right now.” "Let me know if I can do anything special for you," she said with a grin. Hmmm, I wondered. Is she flirting, or what? *** Louise and her partner made a pass down the aisle, handing out picnic style lunches and drinks. She came back to my seat. “Can I get you anything special?” “I guess you could bring me another Coors.” She brought back the beer. “Is this your first trip to Belize?” “Well, yes. Until yesterday, I wasn’t sure where Belize is!” “Well," she said conspiratorially, "I've got to lay over in Ladyville, and I thought maybe we could hook up.” I shook my head with a grin. “Aw, shucks, Ma’m, I really appreciate the offer, but I have an old girl friend picking me up at the airport, and I think she’s got plans for me.” I tried to give her my best smile as a consolation prize, but it wasn’t enough. Rebuffed, she turned swiftly and retreated to the food alcove. I studied the brochure on Belize in the seat pocket. The main tourist destination seemed to be San Pedro; an island off the coast. There was a map of the coast. San Pedro was a town on Ambergris Caye. The brochure was full of ads for hotels and restaurants there. The blurbs made it sound like Cancun, except maybe a little cheaper. Tourist trap, I thought. I’m not going there. *** As the 737 settled onto the runway, I looked out the window as we taxied by the low terminal building. Yet another airport. But this one seemed different! It promised adventure! I snagged my carry-on from the overhead and, after waiting for the aisle traffic to thin down, I headed up to the first class section and the exit. “Enjoy your stay in Belize” Louise smiled a mechanical smile and looked quickly past me to the next passenger. I ducked through the door and stood up on the stairway. Interesting little airport – no real 'gates' – a 75-yard walk across a glaring white-hot tarmac to the two-storied terminal building. Sweat was breaking out under my arms as I started walking. People on the second floor were waving to the passengers – to me! I looked for Lynette. By golly, there she was! Incredibly healthy looking – tan, tan, tan, everywhere. Brown hair sun-bleached at the ends. She waved and I nodded and waved back. Inside, thankfully cooler, a sign said 'Immigration.' I picked one of the lines and got out my passport. So far, not too different from any international airport anywhere. I looked at my fellow passengers standing in line. Conspicuously white! Well, thank goodness for my skiing tan! What do Belizeans look like? Brown, I suspected, thinking back to my experience at the Jungle Training Center in Panama. But Lynette is brown all over! It’s just a matter of time. Maybe we all turn the same color, given enough time in the sun! The very brown, very pretty young woman at the counter said “Passport?” brightly and I handed it over. She flipped it open expertly, looking for a blank page, stamped it, and then began writing in a book. No computer? I thought. Well, does Belize have computers? “No computers?” I vocalized the thought. “Not, yet! They keep promising, but meanwhile, we just keep writing.” She began stamping my passport energetically. “Will you be here long?” she asked. “I don’t know, yet.” “Well, your passport serves as a Visa, but if you stay more than 30 days, you’ll have to get it renewed,” she explained. “You can do that at any immigration office. It costs 25 dollah.” I thought about that. A dollah must be a Belizean dollar. How much is that in US money? As if she was reading my mind, she smiled and said “One US dollar equals two Belizean dollah. But everyone will gladly take your US dollars and give you change in Belizean.” “I hope you enjoy our little country” she said, as she handed back my passport with a big smile. In the large customs hall, beneath a sign that said “Incoming Baggage,” I found my roller bag. There were separate lines for 'Declare' --a red sign-- and 'Nothing to Declare' – a green sign. I chose Nothing to Declare – no line, really – and walked up behind a very dark man carrying a 19” TV. The officials had just stopped him, and were trying to look inside the TV. I thought, I wonder why the guy thought he didn’t have to declare the TV? One of the officials pulled out a screwdriver and started unscrewing the retaining screws on the back of the set. “Wait a minute” the dark man said. “What you doing, Mon?” “This will only take a minute, Sir,” said the man with the screwdriver, as he took out the last screw. As he pulled the back loose, US dollars began falling out onto the counter and floor. The TV was stuffed with money, and I couldn't help laughing. I handed another official the form stating that I had nothing to declare. “You can pass, Sir,” the man with the screwdriver said, to my relief. I stepped past the dark man -- who was obviously in a lot of trouble -- and walked through the narrow exit hallway to the outside. There she was! “Lynette!” I dropped my carry-on and the roller bag. “Tommy!” she said, as she gave me a warm hug. I felt her breasts against my chest, and realized how long it had been since I held a woman. Oh, my gosh! Now I was having lustful thoughts about my sister-in-law! “The car is right out here,” Lynnette said, as she turned toward the parking lot. She took my left arm, and started guiding me across the curbs and out to the parking lot. We worked our way through the waiting cabs and walked into the lot; fifty steps to a 1999 Grand Cherokee. As I walked, I studied Lynette. Tall, slim, brown legs, pink shorts and a starched white cotton blouse. She flushed under my scrutiny. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it,” she said. “Boy, I’ll say. I’m sorry we’re meeting again under such circumstances. I guess I should have visited earlier, but I’ve been pretty busy with Y2K.” “So, now it’s 2000. Is that all over with?” “You bet. My team can handle anything that comes up. I’m all yours!” She unlocked the back door, I swung out the spare tire, put my roller bag in the back, and carried my AWOL bag around to the right-hand door where she waited. I was squinting. “I think I need my sunglasses, and maybe some sun block” “Good,” she nodded, “I’m glad you brought some.” She unlocked her door, and handed me the keys. “Belizeans don’t approve of women drivers!” I helped her climb aboard, and then went around to the other side. I climbed into the driver’s seat, put my bag between the seats and put on sunglasses. “The exit is down here at the end,” she pointed. I backed out and headed in that direction. “We’re going out to the highway, and back down to the hotel. I’ll let you get a room, and then we’ll go over to the hospital.” At the exit to parking, Lynette handed me a Belizean twenty-dollar bill. It was orange, smaller than a US bill, and had a picture of Queen Elizabeth on one side. The other side had a bunch of animals and a big-billed bird. Jungle animals, I thought. I gave it and the ticket to the gate keeper and took the change. I handed it back to Lynette, and drove down the two-lane exit road that surrounded the parking lot. At the end, we turned right onto a road that Lynette pointed to. My view was full of lush tropical foliage. Jungle at last, I thought. “This heads for the highway and one of the worst roads in the country,” she said with a wry smile. “It’s a shame that it’s the first thing that most travelers see when they hit Belize, but it’s very heavily traveled during rush hours. Lots of wealthy Belizeans live in housing projects out here at Ladyville and drive into the city every day.” We came to a big modern Shell station and a stop sign. Lynette said “Right” and I joined the stream of cars as soon as there was a break. They were a mix; lots of old cars, but a few new ones, too. The car behind me tailgated us aggressively for a quarter mile, and then passed, barely missing an oncoming taxi. I backed off and gave him plenty of room. “What the hell?” I said. “Belizeans are very aggressive drivers!” Lynette explained. “You took his space. He owns that little space in front of his car, and he showed you that he’s a better man than you by passing you. It’s called machismo — ‘macho man’.” “Really! Well, I don’t mind him proving his manhood but I don’t want to die while he’s doing it!” “Belizean drivers take some getting used to. They haven’t been driving very many years, and they all drive like teenagers.” The traffic moved fairly smoothly, although the road was pitted with potholes and the margins were uneven. I watched the road carefully, trying to avoid the holes. “How much of this do we have?” “Only about five miles. The Biltmore is on the edge of the city. We’re almost to the city now. This bridge is the 'Haulover Bridge'.” “Haulover?” “Yes. In the early days, before the bridge, they used to haul freight over the river with ropes. This is the Belize River – the biggest river in the country.” “OK. So much for trivia! Tell me about Phillip.” “He’s in the hospital, in a coma!” “I know that! Give me a rundown!” “Well, it was Monday afternoon. Phillip promised to take me out for Valentine’s Day dinner, and he was upstairs in his office. I know now that he was snorting cocaine. I called him, and he didn’t answer, and when I went up, he was crumpled up on the floor beside his chair. His single-edged razor blade, the one he used to set up a line, was sitting on a mirror on his desk. I tried to wake him up, looked at his eyes and they were rolled back in his head. He was breathing, shallow, but I felt his pulse and it was obvious to me that that he wasn’t dying. I called the clinic and then Melody – my next-door neighbor -- and together we put him in the Cherokee and took him up to the clinic. They tried giving him an IV shot of caffeine but that didn’t have any effect. They decided that he ought to be seen by a specialist in Belize City. So, we brought him down here in an ambulance. He still hasn’t come out of it, unless something happened since I’ve been gone.” I thought about it for a minute. Phillip is tall. I’ll bet getting him down the stairs was a hassle. I asked her… “So, you stayed at the hospital with him?” “For a while. He just lay there, breathing slowly. I talked to him, but he didn’t move, didn’t show any sign that he heard. Dr Leslie came in and tried another shot of caffeine, but it didn’t really make any difference. Finally after three hours, I decided to go get some sleep and checked into the Biltmore. I went back to the hospital next morning. Went out and had breakfast after I saw that there was no change. Then I went over to BTL – which is right down the street – and called you.” “BTL?” “Belize Telecommunications Limited – the only phone company. They have phone booths so you can make long distance calls and pay with a credit card. After I called you, I came back to the hospital and stayed with Phillip all day. Dr. Leslie came in and examined him again, and talked to me about the circumstances. I told him that Phillip had been taking cocaine, and he suggested that it might have been an overdose – a 'Hot Dose' – they call it. He tried to ask me questions about the source, and Phillip’s usage but I really didn’t want to talk about it." “Well Lynette, you’re going to have to talk about it to me! I didn’t know Phillip was doing cocaine. How long has this been going on?" “Oh, Tommy, you’re so naive! Phillip used to use cocaine in Denver. Not all the time, but when he needed a lift. Lots of guys in the stock business use it.” “Yeah, well I guess I know that. I just always thought my Big Brother…” I thought about Phil and how much I used to look up to him. Before he stole Lynette! Lynette was watching me. I think she was trying to decide how much to tell me. “Phillip found out that both pot and cocaine were easy to get here in Belize. Illegal, of course, but really easy to get if you have the money. And of course, Phillip has always had the money! So he’s been a steady user since we got here. I guess he’s addicted. I use it occasionally, but I can take it or leave it." She paused and looked at me. "I thought you had done some of that?” “When I was younger, I tried just about everything. I guess I look like a straight arrow now, but I’ve had a couple of friends die because they were using cocaine or speed. Heart attacks. It’s a wonder Phillip hasn’t had any heart trouble.” “Except for the cocaine, Phillip is actually a health nut. He doesn’t eat a lot, and runs a couple of miles three or four times a week. Sometimes I run with him.” I looked at her long, brown, strong legs. “Yep. It shows!” She grinned. I guess she was used to me checking her out. “We do a lot of drinking, Tommy. The only way to keep from turning into a blimp is to exercise. Here’s the Biltmore coming up on the right. Pull in and park as close to the front door as you can, and we’ll get you checked in." Chapter 7: Belize City, Thursday Afternoon The Biltmore reminded me of the El Conquistador in Tucson where I once attended a database conference. My room on the second floor was spacious, with a ceiling fan turning over the bed, and a big tiled bathroom. I installed my roller bag on a folding shelf in the closet, changed my sweaty shirt and headed down the hall to the bar. Lynette was having a Rum & Coke. “Have a Belikin Beer” she commanded, “and then we’ll go see Phillip.” “Well, I’m pretty anxious to go now. I guess you’ve been waiting around for days here, and you’re getting pretty relaxed.” “Yes, well, this is Belize, and nobody gets very excited about anything. Charlie Acres tells everyone ‘If you can learn to relax, you can live to be 100.’ And he’s right. Phillip never has learned, and look where he is now.” "Huh! You know Charlie? His daughter worked for me in Denver!” “Well, Belize is pretty small – you’ll run into coincidences like that often. Anyway, Corozal is even smaller, and everyone knows everyone.“ The bartender handed me an ice-cold bottle of beer; smallish, brown, with a little collar of napkin folded around the top. I took the collar off, and tasted. It was light, a little hoppy, a lot like my favorite Coors. “What’s with the collar on the beer? Pretty fancy!” “Barry Bowen has trouble with his bottle caps rusting, so bartenders put the napkin on the bottle so you can wipe off the rust!” “Who’s Barry Bowen?” “Barry owns the only brewery in Belize, the Coke distributorship, and a big water purification plant. He’s one of the rich guys. His plant is the main thing at Ladyville besides the airport.” The beer tasted fine; light, ice cold, just about right for the climate, which seemed hot after Denver. I finished it in a couple of swallows and looked at the writing on the back. 248 ml. About 10 ounces. Just right for a "quick beer." “Let’s go see Phillip,” I said, getting up and heading for the door. Lynette slugged her Rum & Coke and came after me. “Slow down!” she said. “You always used to do that, run off and leave me. Damn old long-legged Okie!” I smiled ruefully. “Yeah, I guess I did. Always figured you were tall enough to keep up.” *** Lynette directed me to turn right out of the parking lot, and we drove down a congested street, packed with the same variety of old and new cars. I judged that we were going East, since the sun was behind us. Eventually we came to a traffic circle -- certainly not my favorite thing. There were traffic lights around the periphery. “You’re going to make a left, so get in the circle, but stay to the right, go around and come out over there” she said, pointing, as the light changed. I followed her directions, noting that the Belizean drivers were single-minded and non-defensive. If we have any defensive driving at all in this place, I thought, I guess it’s all up to me. The hospital was a little ways down the street on the right. The parking lot was nearly empty. We locked the car, and headed into the lobby. The hospital was a low building, two stories, cream-colored, and again, the architecture reminded me of Tucson. I slowed down and offered an arm to Lynette. “That’s better, cowboy!” she grinned. We entered the building and made our way across the lobby to a reception desk, where an old black gentleman in a guard uniform took my name from my driver's license and wrote it in a reception book. He knew Lynette, and wrote her name, and Phillip’s name as the patient. “There’s no ICU,” Lynette explained, “but they have him in a curtained-off area in a small ward ‘way down in the back. They haven’t mentioned any visiting hours for me, so far. I told them you were coming and were ‘immediate family.’ It’s actually a pretty good hospital for Third World. You ought to see the hospital in Corozal. It looks like something out of Doctor Mudd.” I searched my mind and recalled that Doctor Mudd was the Civil War era doctor who was sentenced to Shark Island because he had treated John Wilkes Booth’s leg. Lynette and I had watched the John Ford movie together at a Denver art house. “No wonder you brought Phillip to Belize City.” We arrived at Phillip’s curtained off area. He was flat on his back, very pale, shallow breathing, an IV dripping something – probably glucose – into his left arm. I grabbed his right arm and shook it. “Phillip!” I said loudly. “Phillip, it’s me – Tommy. Hey, Bro, I’m here! Wake up and let’s talk about things.” Nothing. It was like talking to the Sphinx. Phillip lay there, looking at the ceiling, breathing slowly. No signs of hearing, of being aware of anything. I sat sat down and studied him for a while. His body – mostly uncovered except for a sheet over his mid-section – was richly tanned; his hair was sun-bleached like Lynette’s. “Jeez” I finally said. “That’s it. huh? No wonder you don’t want to hang around.” Lynette shook her head. “It’s not easy. I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall, but he’s obviously alive, and some experts think that people in a coma actually hear and remember everything they hear. So I talk to him, and try to make sense when I do.” We sat together, silently, for thirty minutes or so, and I watched for any signs of recognition. Nothing. I thought about him, about how close we had been as teenagers. I was always ready to fight if someone said something bad about my big brother. Our musical paths diverged, and then Phillip went to stay with Uncle Albert in Philadelphia, and took two degrees from the Wharton School. I stayed in Hobart and was the high school football hero. Phillip came back to Denver and quickly established himself as a "mover and shaker" in the local stock market. I was in business now, but we didn't have much to talk about. When Phillip took Lynnette away, my feeling changed. I had my own code – The Code of the West – and that says "You don't steal your friend's girl" – much less your brother's. I felt violated, and buried myself in my work. And now, Phillip lay there, looking like he was dying. What a bummer. Tears filled my eyes as I began to think of the movies and books about people in a coma. Kept alive to be organ donors. Well, that's not likely here. So what do we do next? Sit here. Eat. I looked at my Timex. 7:30 Mountain Time, and I hadn’t had anything but a beer since the picnic lunch on the plane. “Let’s eat,” I suggested. “There’s no cafeteria here in the hotel. We’ll have to drive somewhere. We can go over to the Princess and get something. We drove through an attractive residential area to the Princess Hotel, a large six-story building on the sea-front, where we had fried fish and rice pilaf. I had another Belikin and decided I liked it about as well as Coors, maybe better! And I liked the cool breeze, the smell of the water, and the view of the sea. “No surf!” I remarked. “The surf is all out on the reef, about fifteen miles out. Bleece gets tides, and gentle waves, but no real pounding surf like beaches in the States. In fact, there isn’t much of a beach anywhere on the mainland except down south.” “No ‘white silver sands'? How can it be a tropical paradise?” “The beaches are almost all out on the Cayes”. (She pronounced that 'keys') Here, the shoreline is covered with mangroves, which serve as a breeding ground for the little ‘fitties.’ That’s one of the crimes the land developers are committing; cutting down the mangroves to make sandy beaches. Then the sandy beaches erode and basically disappear.” “You sound like an eco-freak!” I chided. “Well, down here, we learn to take the environment seriously since it’s the key to eco-tourism. If that makes me an ‘eco-freak’ then so be it!” I realized that I might have hit a nerve. Since Phillip was a land developer, maybe this was a bone of contention between them. I changed the subject. “A minute ago, you said ‘Bleece’. You meant Belize City?” “The city was just called ‘Belize’ when the country was British Honduras. Now, most people still call the city “Bleece.” It’s the same with Corozal. It’s actually named “Corozal Town” to distinguish it from Corozal District, but everyone calls it Corozal. Orangewalk Town is just Orangewalk.” “I think I need a map to sort all this out! Let’s get back to the hospital and talk about geography tomorrow.” Chapter 8: Belize City, Thursday evening Ron "Paco" Chin and Hector "Flaco" Valdez were driving down the Northern Highway from Corozal to Belize City. Ron was a Mayan, five feet four and built like a fireplug. His folks gave him his first machete when he was four. At eight, he began cutting cane. As he grew into manhood, he graduated to baling and moving bales of sugar cane, He was fond of showing his friends how he could lift the rear end of an automobile off the ground. In contrast, Hector was taller, but thin and quick. ("Flaco" means "skinny" in Spanish.) An ex-cop, he loved his nightstick and was an expert in its use. They chatted about their recent job in the Free Zone. In the dead of night, they had taken their skiff north along the coast to the Rio Hondo, up on the water side of the Zone, and beached the skiff in a cove. Carrying a sledge, pick and shovel, some duct tape and rope, they made their way on foot about three blocks to Arnold Enterprises. At midnight, Paco took the sledge and started beating on the back wall of the building, while Flaco watched the door, When Cholo came out and started around the building to investigate, Flaco followed him. Just when Cholo discovered Paco, Flaco hit him neatly on the head with his billy, and Cholo went down. They dragged him inside, secured him with tape, and broke into the vault. Everything went quite nicely, except that Cholo watched the whole break-in and had to be disposed of. "He didn't feel nothing," Flaco said. "I popped him with my billy before we dumped him and that concrete block into the Bay. Not a bad way to go." He smiled brightly. They stopped at the Haulover Bridge and Flaco walked down to the river bank and got a handful of mud. He used this to coat the front and back license plates on the van. No use making it easy for anyone who happens to see us, eh? By the time they reached the parking lot of Karl Heusner Hospital, the mud was drying and starting to fall off. The parking lot emptied out as workers and visitors left for dinner. They sat and watched for a while, and then debarked the van and entered the building. The lobby was empty as they walked up to the guard. “You have a Gringo in critical care. Where is that?” The guard turned, and pointed back to the back of the hospital. Flaco clipped him neatly above the ear with the nightstick and he fell softly to the floor. They moved him into the room to the left of the guard station and proceeded to the back of the hospital. It was easy to find the Gringo, lying comatose in a bed with an IV feeding his veins. Flaco unhooked the IV, and Paco, using a fireman’s move, loaded the man onto his broad shoulders. Hijole! Suddenly they were attacked by a tall man who tried to grab the Gringo from Paco’s carry. He had his back to Flaco, who simply clipped him behind the ear just as he had clipped the guard. The tall man went down. Paco shrugged, bouncing the Gringo a couple of times to center him on his broad shoulders, and they headed for the door at a trot. At the van, they dumped the body on the back deck, slammed the sliding door, hopped in the front and pulled out of the parking lot. Chapter 9: Belize City, Thursday Evening Back at the hospital, we went in and Lynette, spying a Ladies’ Room, peeled off to the right while I continued to the guard desk. No guard in sight. I walked down the hall to Phillip's area. The curtains were half back, and two guys were wrestling my brother onto the larger man’s back! I stepped in and tried to grab Phillip by the hips. Whap!! Something hit the back of my head and the room went black. I came to on the floor in a ball. Jumping up, I saw those two men at the front door. The larger one was still carrying Phillip. Staggering, I ran after them. As I came out the front door, they were closing the doors on a maroon Plymouth Minivan. As they pulled out of the parking lot, I tried to spot the license plate number; “CZL” and some numbers obscured by mud. Pulling Lynette’s keys out of my pocket, I debated whether to give chase. No use, they were gone. I ran back into the lobby just as Lynette was coming out of the Ladies’ Room. “Phillip’s just been kidnapped,” I shouted. “What do you mean?” “I mean, two guys just carried him out of the hospital, put him in a minivan, and drove away!” “And you let them do that?” “I tried to stop them, and I think one of them whacked me on the head and knocked me out for a second” “My God,” she said, looking around wildly. “Where’s the guard? We need to call the Police!” I looked around the empty lobby, went back to the guard station, looked through a windowed door to the left of the station. I could see a body on the floor. I vaulted the administrative counter and entered the room behind. The guard was alive, but sleeping soundly. I guess he had suffered the same treatment I had. I opened the door and called out to Lynette. . “The guard is in here, out cold. but he’s alive. We do need to call the cops!” And so I did. *** “Police” “I want to report a kidnapping” “Really! Where did this take place?” “At the Hospital. Two men kidnapped my brother!” “Really! Well, come in tomorrow morning and fill out a report!” “Hey! My brother was just kidnapped! You oughta get right over here.” “I’m sorry, we don’t have a transport available. Come in tomorrow morning!" “OK. Listen, we’ll come down there right now.” “No – there’s nobody here to take your report. Come in tomorrow morning!” *** Back in the bar at the Biltmore, I was furious, pacing back and forth. “Everyone knows the longer you wait after a crime, the colder the trail gets!” “Tommy, this isn’t ‘Hill Street Blues.’ This is life in the Third World. There aren’t that many cops, and they don’t do things the way you see it on TV." I sat down at the bar fuming; had a beer and a shot of Johnny Walker Black, and then another beer and another shot. Belize! A foreign country. What do you do when you can't count on the police? What do you do in the States? Buy a gun, if you don't already have one. "Lynette, where can I get a gun?" "Basically, guns are illegal in Belize. You have to have a permit to own one and it's hard to get a permit. It's a lot like Great Britain. Forget it, Tommy. You can't get a gun in Belize. Only cops and bad guys have guns in Belize." I chugged the second drink, got up and paced the floor of the bar, while Lynette watched in resignation. "Tommy! Relax! Play me a game of pool." She took some coins out of her purse and went over to the pool table in the center of the bar. I nodded and she put the coins in the table mechanism and began racking the balls. "I forget that you're a pool whiz! Do you stay in practice?" "Phillip bought me a table, and it's set up in the living room. We put a top on it and use it for a sideboard when we have a party. You break." I took a heavy cue and broke the rack, which sank a 'solid,' and then missed the next shot. As I watched, Lynette ran the table. "We have an 8-foot table, and this is a seven, so it's a little easier," she explained apologetically. I slugged the last of my beer. "Well, OK! I'm going to bed!" I went back to my room and thought about calling someone in Denver, but I didn't know who I'd call and what they could do to help? I felt very much alone. As I got ready for bed, I realized that it was only 8 o'clock in Denver. What a day! I turned on the fan. Turned on the TV, sat down and watched it listlessly for a few minutes, turned it off and lay down. I got up and did a hundred good pushups in groups of twenty, and lay back down. Lying on my back in the dimly lit room, I stared at the fan turning silently overhead. I rubbed the knot on the side of my head. I thought about Phillip; so unaware of this conflict around him. I wondered about myself. Can I do this? Can I handle these guys? Filled with doubts, I finally drifted off to sleep.
## TTFN
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Smiling,
Dillon “Dilly” Marshall came in and took her regular seat at the end of the
table to my left.
We all
studied the map.