Chapter 4: Road Trip
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I have slept well, unfortunately. The combination of an active day and the warm presence of Dick Grayson beside me. Perhaps we should have passed on the moonlight ski-sailing. Not that it wasn't ... fun. I allow myself a few moments to compare that word with my memories of Dick by moonlight, and feel a slight yearning for telepathy. Language is really regrettably limited.
Not that Dick's suggestion seemed like a bad idea at the time. We both did need the exercise. And Dick does deserve some time to just...be young. And this *is* a vacation. But...
Stop that!, I command myself.
It is not Dick's fault that I overslept. I know what travel can do to my internal clock, and could have meditated. Or asked for a call from the front desk. Or even set an alarm. None of which occurred to me last night when we came in from skiing. When I had Dick damp and laughing sprawled across a bed. When I had his lips on mine and his strong young body laying over me. Or I could, and this is a thought so foolish that I don't even bother to rebuke myself, have gone back to my own room and gotten a good nights sleep. Or at least more then the four hours I ended with last night.
And I *could* beam up to the Tower and go line dancing with Orin and Eel. Which is just about as probable as the thought of my *voluntarily* leaving Dick when he's in a frisky mood. Or less. I consider the point. Definitely less. Clark *has* be able to talk me into line dancing. With Lois. Once. Even Alfred couldn't persuade me to give up Dick.
Dick. Dickie. My eyes wander over his body, shadowy in the darkened room. The moon is down now, and only the faint reflection of the few lights beginning in the allow me to trace the prefect lines of his back. Tempted to delay, I allow myself one soft stroke of his gleaming shoulders before firming my touch into a shake.
"Morning, Dick."
He blinks, half-considers, the settles back to sleep.
I turn on the lights.
He pulls a pillow over his head.
"0:500. One hour to departure."
I miss whatever he mutters back. Sounds like 'vaasion'.
"We leave, or we stay here and take the garden tour with Mrs. Alvarez." That gets him moving. And they say *I'm* spooky.
I head back to my own room to shower and dress. We'll meet in the living room when everyone is ready.
I reach the living room first. Twenty minutes for Dick to stroll in, grumpy but dressed. Dinah seems chipper, but she takes five minutes more. We drink our coffee in silence, then head out.
Dr. Jones is waiting by the car, munching on a chorizo and egg burrito and watching two of the hotel staff finish the loading. I give it a glance. Good job. Food and water on top, rifles to the front. Invisible, but assessable. Just in case.
We leave the hotel at dawn. Even though the countryside is quiet, the roads are not safe in the dark. There are always bandits. At least in Santa Amoza it's only the bandits. In Santa Prisca you worry more about the cops.
Miguel Alvarez has come over to see us off, although he's rather talk me out of the whole thing. Still, he has some useful information. "Here is my cousins address. He has a estancia up towards San Tomas Xecul , and he would welcome you."
"If we have any trouble," I reassure him, "I won't hesitate to call."
"And here." He hand me a pistol in a shoulder harness. I hate guns, but given local customs it's wiser if all the men in the party are seen to carry. "Take this with you. It is my own favorite pistol. Very popular against bandits."
I thank him gravely. It is easier to go along then to argue. No one says I have to fire it. And Dick should appreciate my tolerant attitude. The improbability of that thought puts a definite smile on my face. From Sr. Alvarez's delighted expression, he clearly assumes the pleasure is for his gift. Let it go. I have no reason to correct him.
It takes some adjustment to get the straps to fit, but I work it out. I'll wear it until we are out of town, then stash it in the glove compartment. That's just as handy, and a lot more comfortable.
Dick smiles as he comes up. I know he will tease me about his later. "Ready to roll. Time to load on in."
I leave Alvarez with a hand shake. "Thank you, Miguel. You have been a great help."
"Este caulelso, Sr. Wayne." He leaves shaking his head slightly.
Be careful? I always am.
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
Outside the city the pavement varies from dreadful to nonexistent. Our hum ve is well sprung, but it's also heavily loaded. Two vehicles would have been more comfortable, but a convoy is always a slower target.
I am not worried about the incompetent local banditry, but the explanation of their attempt would take up valuable time. Better to avoid the necessity for now.
Dinah takes the front seat. This close to the city the map should be sufficient. Later we'll need guides, but Dr. Jones assures us they won't be difficult to find. I accept that. If not, we can navigate by positional satellite. We are all linked through Dinah, and Oracle is on standby. Not that we should need her for a river cruise.
I take the back to catch up on some sleep.
It takes an hour to leave behind the lights of the city. Out here the countryside is green, sometimes with crops by more often with pampas grass and wild peppers. The land is rich here, but the people lack the tools to manage it well.
Memo: Talk to Clark. What is being done for farm education.
We pass a mercader pushing a load of pots. Dick asks Jones to slow down so we can offer the man a ride.
"Vamos a Santa Balama de Vit, y entonces a rio." Dick calls out to him.
That brings forth a big smile. "Voy al mercardo en Santa Balama."
Dick waves the man on board. "Nostros le daremos un paseo."
Jones stops the car. We have gained a passenger.
With Dick's help the man ties his load to the roof and happily jumps inside. A good sign, I suppose, if the locals are unafraid of strangers. Fortunately the windows are open. "Soy Ramon Quesada."
Dick waves at us. "Soy Richard Grayson, y esta mis amigos, Bruce, Dinah, y Indy."
"?Va usted al rio a la caza?" He thinks we are hunters.
"No, somos estudiantes americanos que van alli a pajaros de conde."
That gets a laugh. 'Estudiantes' is the local cover for anything from politics to drugs. It even on occasion refers to people who go to school.
Quesada is a bit of a local shaman. That interests Dr. Jones. Dick? I think he's interested in everybody. At least the man speaks decent Spanish, and keeps us entertained with a flow of local gossip.
Even out here, the hot news is the museum theft. Quesada's theory is that it is Aztec royalists have stolen the dagger to prevent the return of Mayan power. If his pots sell well, he plans to buy a chicken and add his own sacrifice to the mix. On which side, I can't quite make out. I would laugh, except that it is no more improbable than the political conspiracies of my supposedly more sophisticated business associates back in Ciuad Santa Amoza.
Dr. Jones seems willing to take him seriously. At least, he asks him to repeat several times the names of the local deities. Which confirms my opinion of liberal arts majors.
Still, it does pass the time.
By nine o'clock - local breakfast time, we reach the mountain town of Santa Balams de Vit. The usual crumbling church and hard mud square. Cantina, clinic, post office - what passes for civilization.
Tomorrow is market day, but with our help our passenger has arrived a day early. He decides this gives him the opportunity to set up early as well. The tavern keeper objects, and the local constabulary is called to settle the matter. Along with Father Juan Valdez, the local priest.
Dr. Jones buys fruit and gossip while Dick and Dinah and I do the tourist bit.
Father Valdez offers us coffee and a tour of his building. Perhaps I should say a prayer...of thanks. The mayor is out of town, to at least I won't have to tour the city all as well. Jean-Paul would call that thanks for small graces. Fortunately, no one has placed the last name - yet. So it's just the usual rich-tourist spiel and not the World Bank full court press.
Actually, the tour is interesting. Years of sermons have evidently taught the good padre how to tell a tale. He knows this area, and he connects the locals with more significant national events by way of 'this man's father' or 'her sister's son'. The church reflects better times, with some decent murals. Someone had talent, and it's a shame to see his work vanish into a mess of fly spots and paint chips.
Memo: Find out what preservation groups are active locally.
Interesting theme, though. The usual saints but also - I move closer to make out the details in the dim light - a haloed cat, siting on top on a pyramid. That wasn't in my book of Children's Bible stories. I'm getting the impression that this Jaguar God is a bigger deal than Mrs. Alvarez was willing to admit. I ask about it.
"Madre Santa." Father Valdez crosses himself. "That is Santa Balama la Chel. A local saint, you understand. She was to be the bride of Olmec, but she was a Christian. So she stole the jaguar's pelt. Without it, he could not take her to Xibalba. So she stayed in the mountains all her days, going good works and healing the sick." The priest smiles, then shrugs. "An amusing story, No es?. I doubt it is very historical, but the local people, they believe in la Santa." He shakes his head. "It is not a wise thing to argue with peoples beliefs."
I snap a few pictures. Just in case. I have been hearing a bit too much about this Jaguar God for my comfort. A call to Oracle might be in line.
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
The local bananas are excellent - once carefully pealed. Dr. Jones assures me the local beer is too. I'll take his word on it.
The trouble between our merchant friend and the cantina owner being settled to no ones satisfaction - as most such things are - the policeman decides it is his duty to check an out the visiting American VIP's. Or at least to impress them with his diligence. More so when he learns that Dick is also an officer.
"?Tan, usted cuidara de a nuestros visitantes americanos?", he asks Dick.
I smile at that. He thinks Dick is here to take care of me? Good idea. I've at least been hoping that Dick would take care of me. With the interruptions we've had, I can't say it's quite worked out as often as I had hoped. Still, there is always tonight.
"Si peudo. Entiendo que la policia de Santa Amoza hace a trabajo myy bueno. ?Piensa usted que tendremos la problema?" Dick is flattering in his inquiry, but it's true that, by South American standards, the local police are admirable.
"Hacemos nuestro mejor, Oficial Grayson, pero aun con nuestros mejores esfuerzos que el campo puese ser a veces peligroso. Apenas hace algunos dias otros visitante americamo, un Sr. Kit Walker, fue asalto por bandidos en este muy camino. Tres de ellos." The constable holds up three fingers to emphasize the number of thieves. "Afortunado el fue armado. Los bandidos estan en la carcel de Santa Lucia aun ahora!" He finishes with a broad gesture to emphasize the scope of the crime.
My sympathy is limited for this Kit Walker, if in fact the man did face an attempted robbery. More likely he brought trouble on himself. These 'adventure' tourists would be wiser to stay at home. Or at least back at the Pearl Beach hotel. And to leave the local girls alone. I doubt our larger party is at much risk. And, of course, I *do* have Dick to protect me, as the constable has so kindly pointed out. I am quite sure Dinah will enjoy sharing that line with Barbara the next time they chat.
The local officer is finishing up. "Eso es bueno. Yo le prestaria un oficial comp una escolta a San Dimas, pero son cortos en el personel."
"Grasias." Dick smiles. And he even means it. Dick is pleased even with ineffective kindness.
"Es nada. Pero ellos seguros si ellos lo tienen."
"So, Dick?" I comment as we enter the car. "You are going to keep me safe from bandits?" Sometimes I cannot resist the chance to tease him a bit.
"Hey," he snaps back, "I could always go back and ask for the *local* cop."
That brings a laugh from Dinah. She knows us well. Too well, I sometimes think, but I would still rather be with a friend then have to evade some hired watchdog.
It's time to shift drivers. I'm rested, so I take the wheel. Dr. Jones moves over to navigate. Since Dr. Jones is supposedly an expert on the past, I ask him about this Balama.
"The corn goddess , with a touch of escaped Aztec sacrifice thrown in for good measure." He seems quite confidant on his subject. "Both the Aztec and the Maya practiced human sacrifice, but in for different reasons and by very different means."
"The Aztec generally flayed their victims. That's the bit about the skin. And they were generally willing to offer up prisoners and slaves. That's the important part. Balama would never have qualified for a Mayan altar. They preferred to sacrifice royalty. People who deserved to be Gods."
Fascinating, to be sure, although not a prospect I can view with an archeologist's enthusiasm.
"That's the real local religion, Mr. Wayne," Jones continues. "They may build churches, but take the warab'alya just as seriously. Most of the time, the locals don't bother telling them apart." He waves a hand to encompass the neighborhood. "Which is what makes this whole dagger thing so dangerous. One wacko from the mountains, and the local police could have folks chopping out their neighbors hearts to bring about the return of Christ." A cynical snort at that. He's seen weirder, it implies. "Trust me, you don't want to see that."
The road down the mountain is worse, and conversation falters as I keep my mind on the driving. It's lunchtime before we reach San Dismas. It's not much of a city. A farm town at the edge of Bosque Grande. But it does have a gas station and a decent restaurant. Just across from the police station, which Dick points out as a recommendation. He is convinced cops always find a good source for cheap food. Dr. Jones recommends the fried iguana, which is excellent with a side of deep fried chili peppers. Very hot, but the thick local arapas cuts the burn. I pass on the coca leaf tea. It may be legal, but it's too close to a drug for my comfort.
I settling back with my coffee when Dick jumps up. "Hey!" he shouts. Then he's out the back door without another word.
END CHAPTER FOUR
Thank you Stuart. Here is another chapter.
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
I have slept well, unfortunately. The combination of an active day and the warm presence of Dick Grayson beside me. Perhaps we should have passed on the moonlight ski-sailing. Not that it wasn't ... fun. I allow myself a few moments to compare that word with my memories of Dick by moonlight, and feel a slight yearning for telepathy. Language is really regrettably limited.
Not that Dick's suggestion seemed like a bad idea at the time. We both did need the exercise. And Dick does deserve some time to just...be young. And this *is* a vacation. But...
Stop that!, I command myself.
It is not Dick's fault that I overslept. I know what travel can do to my internal clock, and could have meditated. Or asked for a call from the front desk. Or even set an alarm. None of which occurred to me last night when we came in from skiing. When I had Dick damp and laughing sprawled across a bed. When I had his lips on mine and his strong young body laying over me. Or I could, and this is a thought so foolish that I don't even bother to rebuke myself, have gone back to my own room and gotten a good nights sleep. Or at least more then the four hours I ended with last night.
And I *could* beam up to the Tower and go line dancing with Orin and Eel. Which is just about as probable as the thought of my *voluntarily* leaving Dick when he's in a frisky mood. Or less. I consider the point. Definitely less. Clark *has* be able to talk me into line dancing. With Lois. Once. Even Alfred couldn't persuade me to give up Dick.
Dick. Dickie. My eyes wander over his body, shadowy in the darkened room. The moon is down now, and only the faint reflection of the few lights beginning in the allow me to trace the prefect lines of his back. Tempted to delay, I allow myself one soft stroke of his gleaming shoulders before firming my touch into a shake.
"Morning, Dick."
He blinks, half-considers, the settles back to sleep.
I turn on the lights.
He pulls a pillow over his head.
"0:500. One hour to departure."
I miss whatever he mutters back. Sounds like 'vaasion'.
"We leave, or we stay here and take the garden tour with Mrs. Alvarez." That gets him moving. And they say *I'm* spooky.
I head back to my own room to shower and dress. We'll meet in the living room when everyone is ready.
I reach the living room first. Twenty minutes for Dick to stroll in, grumpy but dressed. Dinah seems chipper, but she takes five minutes more. We drink our coffee in silence, then head out.
Dr. Jones is waiting by the car, munching on a chorizo and egg burrito and watching two of the hotel staff finish the loading. I give it a glance. Good job. Food and water on top, rifles to the front. Invisible, but assessable. Just in case.
We leave the hotel at dawn. Even though the countryside is quiet, the roads are not safe in the dark. There are always bandits. At least in Santa Amoza it's only the bandits. In Santa Prisca you worry more about the cops.
Miguel Alvarez has come over to see us off, although he's rather talk me out of the whole thing. Still, he has some useful information. "Here is my cousins address. He has a estancia up towards San Tomas Xecul , and he would welcome you."
"If we have any trouble," I reassure him, "I won't hesitate to call."
"And here." He hand me a pistol in a shoulder harness. I hate guns, but given local customs it's wiser if all the men in the party are seen to carry. "Take this with you. It is my own favorite pistol. Very popular against bandits."
I thank him gravely. It is easier to go along then to argue. No one says I have to fire it. And Dick should appreciate my tolerant attitude. The improbability of that thought puts a definite smile on my face. From Sr. Alvarez's delighted expression, he clearly assumes the pleasure is for his gift. Let it go. I have no reason to correct him.
It takes some adjustment to get the straps to fit, but I work it out. I'll wear it until we are out of town, then stash it in the glove compartment. That's just as handy, and a lot more comfortable.
Dick smiles as he comes up. I know he will tease me about his later. "Ready to roll. Time to load on in."
I leave Alvarez with a hand shake. "Thank you, Miguel. You have been a great help."
"Este caulelso, Sr. Wayne." He leaves shaking his head slightly.
Be careful? I always am.
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
Outside the city the pavement varies from dreadful to nonexistent. Our hum ve is well sprung, but it's also heavily loaded. Two vehicles would have been more comfortable, but a convoy is always a slower target.
I am not worried about the incompetent local banditry, but the explanation of their attempt would take up valuable time. Better to avoid the necessity for now.
Dinah takes the front seat. This close to the city the map should be sufficient. Later we'll need guides, but Dr. Jones assures us they won't be difficult to find. I accept that. If not, we can navigate by positional satellite. We are all linked through Dinah, and Oracle is on standby. Not that we should need her for a river cruise.
I take the back to catch up on some sleep.
It takes an hour to leave behind the lights of the city. Out here the countryside is green, sometimes with crops by more often with pampas grass and wild peppers. The land is rich here, but the people lack the tools to manage it well.
Memo: Talk to Clark. What is being done for farm education.
We pass a mercader pushing a load of pots. Dick asks Jones to slow down so we can offer the man a ride.
"Vamos a Santa Balama de Vit, y entonces a rio." Dick calls out to him.
That brings forth a big smile. "Voy al mercardo en Santa Balama."
Dick waves the man on board. "Nostros le daremos un paseo."
Jones stops the car. We have gained a passenger.
With Dick's help the man ties his load to the roof and happily jumps inside. A good sign, I suppose, if the locals are unafraid of strangers. Fortunately the windows are open. "Soy Ramon Quesada."
Dick waves at us. "Soy Richard Grayson, y esta mis amigos, Bruce, Dinah, y Indy."
"?Va usted al rio a la caza?" He thinks we are hunters.
"No, somos estudiantes americanos que van alli a pajaros de conde."
That gets a laugh. 'Estudiantes' is the local cover for anything from politics to drugs. It even on occasion refers to people who go to school.
Quesada is a bit of a local shaman. That interests Dr. Jones. Dick? I think he's interested in everybody. At least the man speaks decent Spanish, and keeps us entertained with a flow of local gossip.
Even out here, the hot news is the museum theft. Quesada's theory is that it is Aztec royalists have stolen the dagger to prevent the return of Mayan power. If his pots sell well, he plans to buy a chicken and add his own sacrifice to the mix. On which side, I can't quite make out. I would laugh, except that it is no more improbable than the political conspiracies of my supposedly more sophisticated business associates back in Ciuad Santa Amoza.
Dr. Jones seems willing to take him seriously. At least, he asks him to repeat several times the names of the local deities. Which confirms my opinion of liberal arts majors.
Still, it does pass the time.
By nine o'clock - local breakfast time, we reach the mountain town of Santa Balams de Vit. The usual crumbling church and hard mud square. Cantina, clinic, post office - what passes for civilization.
Tomorrow is market day, but with our help our passenger has arrived a day early. He decides this gives him the opportunity to set up early as well. The tavern keeper objects, and the local constabulary is called to settle the matter. Along with Father Juan Valdez, the local priest.
Dr. Jones buys fruit and gossip while Dick and Dinah and I do the tourist bit.
Father Valdez offers us coffee and a tour of his building. Perhaps I should say a prayer...of thanks. The mayor is out of town, to at least I won't have to tour the city all as well. Jean-Paul would call that thanks for small graces. Fortunately, no one has placed the last name - yet. So it's just the usual rich-tourist spiel and not the World Bank full court press.
Actually, the tour is interesting. Years of sermons have evidently taught the good padre how to tell a tale. He knows this area, and he connects the locals with more significant national events by way of 'this man's father' or 'her sister's son'. The church reflects better times, with some decent murals. Someone had talent, and it's a shame to see his work vanish into a mess of fly spots and paint chips.
Memo: Find out what preservation groups are active locally.
Interesting theme, though. The usual saints but also - I move closer to make out the details in the dim light - a haloed cat, siting on top on a pyramid. That wasn't in my book of Children's Bible stories. I'm getting the impression that this Jaguar God is a bigger deal than Mrs. Alvarez was willing to admit. I ask about it.
"Madre Santa." Father Valdez crosses himself. "That is Santa Balama la Chel. A local saint, you understand. She was to be the bride of Olmec, but she was a Christian. So she stole the jaguar's pelt. Without it, he could not take her to Xibalba. So she stayed in the mountains all her days, going good works and healing the sick." The priest smiles, then shrugs. "An amusing story, No es?. I doubt it is very historical, but the local people, they believe in la Santa." He shakes his head. "It is not a wise thing to argue with peoples beliefs."
I snap a few pictures. Just in case. I have been hearing a bit too much about this Jaguar God for my comfort. A call to Oracle might be in line.
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
The local bananas are excellent - once carefully pealed. Dr. Jones assures me the local beer is too. I'll take his word on it.
The trouble between our merchant friend and the cantina owner being settled to no ones satisfaction - as most such things are - the policeman decides it is his duty to check an out the visiting American VIP's. Or at least to impress them with his diligence. More so when he learns that Dick is also an officer.
"?Tan, usted cuidara de a nuestros visitantes americanos?", he asks Dick.
I smile at that. He thinks Dick is here to take care of me? Good idea. I've at least been hoping that Dick would take care of me. With the interruptions we've had, I can't say it's quite worked out as often as I had hoped. Still, there is always tonight.
"Si peudo. Entiendo que la policia de Santa Amoza hace a trabajo myy bueno. ?Piensa usted que tendremos la problema?" Dick is flattering in his inquiry, but it's true that, by South American standards, the local police are admirable.
"Hacemos nuestro mejor, Oficial Grayson, pero aun con nuestros mejores esfuerzos que el campo puese ser a veces peligroso. Apenas hace algunos dias otros visitante americamo, un Sr. Kit Walker, fue asalto por bandidos en este muy camino. Tres de ellos." The constable holds up three fingers to emphasize the number of thieves. "Afortunado el fue armado. Los bandidos estan en la carcel de Santa Lucia aun ahora!" He finishes with a broad gesture to emphasize the scope of the crime.
My sympathy is limited for this Kit Walker, if in fact the man did face an attempted robbery. More likely he brought trouble on himself. These 'adventure' tourists would be wiser to stay at home. Or at least back at the Pearl Beach hotel. And to leave the local girls alone. I doubt our larger party is at much risk. And, of course, I *do* have Dick to protect me, as the constable has so kindly pointed out. I am quite sure Dinah will enjoy sharing that line with Barbara the next time they chat.
The local officer is finishing up. "Eso es bueno. Yo le prestaria un oficial comp una escolta a San Dimas, pero son cortos en el personel."
"Grasias." Dick smiles. And he even means it. Dick is pleased even with ineffective kindness.
"Es nada. Pero ellos seguros si ellos lo tienen."
"So, Dick?" I comment as we enter the car. "You are going to keep me safe from bandits?" Sometimes I cannot resist the chance to tease him a bit.
"Hey," he snaps back, "I could always go back and ask for the *local* cop."
That brings a laugh from Dinah. She knows us well. Too well, I sometimes think, but I would still rather be with a friend then have to evade some hired watchdog.
It's time to shift drivers. I'm rested, so I take the wheel. Dr. Jones moves over to navigate. Since Dr. Jones is supposedly an expert on the past, I ask him about this Balama.
"The corn goddess , with a touch of escaped Aztec sacrifice thrown in for good measure." He seems quite confidant on his subject. "Both the Aztec and the Maya practiced human sacrifice, but in for different reasons and by very different means."
"The Aztec generally flayed their victims. That's the bit about the skin. And they were generally willing to offer up prisoners and slaves. That's the important part. Balama would never have qualified for a Mayan altar. They preferred to sacrifice royalty. People who deserved to be Gods."
Fascinating, to be sure, although not a prospect I can view with an archeologist's enthusiasm.
"That's the real local religion, Mr. Wayne," Jones continues. "They may build churches, but take the warab'alya just as seriously. Most of the time, the locals don't bother telling them apart." He waves a hand to encompass the neighborhood. "Which is what makes this whole dagger thing so dangerous. One wacko from the mountains, and the local police could have folks chopping out their neighbors hearts to bring about the return of Christ." A cynical snort at that. He's seen weirder, it implies. "Trust me, you don't want to see that."
The road down the mountain is worse, and conversation falters as I keep my mind on the driving. It's lunchtime before we reach San Dismas. It's not much of a city. A farm town at the edge of Bosque Grande. But it does have a gas station and a decent restaurant. Just across from the police station, which Dick points out as a recommendation. He is convinced cops always find a good source for cheap food. Dr. Jones recommends the fried iguana, which is excellent with a side of deep fried chili peppers. Very hot, but the thick local arapas cuts the burn. I pass on the coca leaf tea. It may be legal, but it's too close to a drug for my comfort.
I settling back with my coffee when Dick jumps up. "Hey!" he shouts. Then he's out the back door without another word.
END CHAPTER FOUR
Thank you Stuart. Here is another chapter.