Sacrifice to the Emerald God (2 page)

       Her new husband rolled over and looked at her pale, svelte, nude body glimmering with the reflected sun. Marjorie had thin, pale lips and a nose just a tad longer than would be called perfect. Her crystalline, blue eyes were set deeply, giving her a face a mysterious appearance. Her breasts were round and full with delicate, smooth, pinkish areolas and thick, flat nipples. Her hips were narrow and her thighs graceful. Her hair, which went down to the middle of her back was straight and thick and the color of ripened wheat. She considered her derrière to be too plump, but Tom would have given her an argument on that.

      “Welllllll…,” Tom answered in a slow, animated drawl, “if you give me a little time I might be able to reach deep down into my reserves and go for another round.”

     “That’s okay, honey,” Marjorie replied. “I was going to go down to that shop and buy that statue we saw yesterday. I think it would go great in our foyer. And if not, we really haven’t gotten anything for my mother. She’d just love it.”

      Tom had not been that impressed with the primitive green colored carving. He didn’t want to say no to his new bride but he would be damned if the practically naked, male figurine would sit in their foyer, the first thing that people would see when they came in. “Maybe for your office,” he suggested weakly. “You do realize,” he added, changing the subject diplomatically, “that you’re standing naked in front of the window. Half of Venezuela will be knocking on our door within the hour.”

      Marjorie laughed. Their room was on the twelfth floor of the hotel and the shops and other buildings looked like something from a monopoly game from up here. Off in the distance she could see the haphazardly constructed huts where most of the people lived, sprawling away from the town center. She imagined the little, brown men holding their hands across the tops of their eyes and peering up at the naked, lovely
gringa
blonde
, their hearts yearning with adoration. Margie didn’t often get the chance anymore, but she liked to display her body to men. She liked to see their eyes consume her with their lustful looks. In her younger days, she had always worn the smallest, most revealing bikini that she could find when she went to the pool or the lake. She liked the fact that Tom was looking at her now and that he was exhibiting a little jealousy at what others might see.

      “Oh, come off it, Tom. So what? You’d need a pair of binoculars to see me way up here and even if someone did, all they’d have to do is turn on their TV and they’d get to see a lot more. Did you see some of those TV stations last night? I almost blushed.”

      “But you’re my wife, now, Margie,” Tom retorted, half joking, “and all those other guys will have to get their own, beautiful, alluring, naked American university professors to look at.”

      Pleased at Tom’s reaction, Marjorie stepped from the window. “I’m gonna get dressed, honey,” she said. “You just take a rest and when I come back I’ll give you another test of your stamina.”

      “No,” Tom answered. “I’ll go with you. This is a pretty rough town and I don’t think that you should be out there walking by yourself.”

      “Don’t be silly, Tom,” Marjorie answered, a little piqued. She had handled herself pretty well in half a dozen towns just like this one before. She was a firm believer in the principle that you had to establish the ground rules pretty early in a marriage. She had led a very independent life and she wasn’t going to stop now.

      Tom, seeing her determination gave in. “Okay, sweetheart, but be careful.”

Chapter Two

The Twain Shall Meet

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.

      Pedro never saw the blade. It whistled across his neck in a flash and the next thing that the youthful constable knew his shirt was flooded with a steady stream of his precious blood.

      Tomas watched his friend and cousin hit the pavement with astonishment. He looked back at Diego just long enough to see the sparkle of the blade in the early morning sun before it plunged into his chest and pierced his heart. Before the aspiring Don Juan hit the ground, Diego Badoya was on the move. He had seen the other stupid,
pinga
policeman put the key to his handcuffs in his pants. He hurriedly rifled the dead youth’s right pants pocket and produced the small, silver treasure. An experienced habitué of the Venezuelan prison system, he was able to quickly remove the confining instrument from his wrists. He tossed it away even as the young girls who had been watching their heroes march him off to death had recovered from their shock at seeing the boys cut down and started screaming. Diego commenced his dash for freedom immediately.

      At that precise moment, Marjorie was standing in front of the store where she had seen the statue the day before. The shop was not yet open and the statue sat in the window. Marjorie stood there looking at it intently. She realized that the figure had some kind of strange power over her. Its visage was stern, yet inviting. If she hadn’t been a born rationalist, she would have said that it was calling her. For a moment, her head became light and she felt a little dizzy.

      She turned when she heard a commotion up the street. Unluckily for Diego, a sergeant of police had been leaving his mistress’s house when he saw the bandit hurtling down the
calle
. He pulled his pistol from its holster and his police whistle from the front pocket of his uniform and, after hesitating over which one to use first, blew the whistle, summoning any policeman within earshot to the emergency. He then raised his pistol to try and gun down the
desperado
, but the man had moved out of sight.

      Whistles and shouts were coming from all over as Diego sprinted towards the dock. He was about a block away from the river when he saw three policemen ahead of him fumbling at their holsters and pointing at him. He had to think quickly or he was doomed. But wasn’t it better to be gunned down on the streets of
Cotabaya
rather than be hung like a dog in the provincial capital, unwanted priests murmuring unwanted prayers, the sanctimonious and corrupt officials basking in the glory of his execution, a crowd of merry people watching while peasants sold hot
arepas
and crushed, fruit flavored ice to them. They would probably even deny him the use of a woman the night before his execution, a thing unheard of here in the south.

      But just then, the preternaturally lucky bandit took in the vision of his salvation. There, standing about like a dumb shit, was a tall, voluptuous
gringa
, looking around as if they were all putting on a quaint play for her. She was a typical American
tourista
, right down to the ugly sunglasses. She watched him, her mouth agape, as he ran towards her. When he reached her, he put one of his strong arms around her waist and, with the other, dug the tip of his blade into her pretty, soft, pale throat.