Series: Smile

Chapter Ten — The Judge Of Quilali

The next morning we met the Judge of Quilalí.

He was a little guy about the size of Jock, had a mouthful of shiny gold teeth, and he could speak English. I gave him the letter from Jones.

After he had read it he said, “I will help you all I can. You are welcome to our country. Ten years ago if you had come here to mine our gold, we would have killed you. Since the new highway has come through we realize that we need machinery and equipment to mine our gold. If you can supply this, it will put many of our people to work. It will help us, so we will try to help you.”

The Judge tried, and tried very hard.

For several days we prospected, but I could see that the job was much the same as it would be at Ocotal on the Coco. Gold in every pan but not enough. It poured down rain. We worked in the rain and slept in the rain. We were exhausted, very wet, and very discouraged.

For several days Chase had been moody and not his usual good-natured self. Jock and I were having dinner one evening with Nigger Woman. Chase had stayed at the hotel saying that he was not hungry. I asked Jock what was the matter and added that Chase looked sick, and did he think that Chase was home sick.

Jock shook his head, “I don’t think so.”

“Well, you find out what’s bothering him because I know something is wrong.”

After dinner we went to see the Judge again.

“There is one more place I would like to show you,” he said. “It is about a two-day trip. We will go there. Maybe we can find what you are looking for.”

The next morning Jock said to me, “Señor Joe, I have found out what is the matter with Chase.”

“What is it, Jock?”

Jock had a guilty look on his face. “Señor Joe, I must tell you, the night before we left Managua you gave me the money to buy the provisions, also an advance to Chase for a tire, and also a cash advance to Chase for wages.”

“Sure,” I said, “what about it?”

“That night Chase and I had a celebration. It felt so good to have money.” He gazed hard at the ground. “There are many Señoritas in Managua, and we had a contest to see who was the best man.”

I was amazed. I didn’t know what to say but I asked who won.

“Chase did. I hate to admit it but he only beat me by one. I think he cheated the last time.”

“Holy cow!” I didn’t know what else to say. “You lost the bet but you wore him out. Is that his trouble?”

“No, he is very worried. He is swollen up very bad. He thinks one of the Señoritas has given him a bad disease.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

“What makes it so bad,” Jock went on, “is that years ago Chase’s father had a very bad disease and he died from it. Now Chase thinks he has the disease and is going to die.”

“Don’t they have penicillin here?” I asked.

“No, there is none closer than Managua.”

I thought, “Well, the darn fool! Why hadn’t he mentioned it sooner?”

“Years ago,” said Jock, “there was much disease here, but since penicillin, it is very rare.”

“Are you sure he isn’t just tick-bitten? Those little black rascals make you swell up wherever they bite you.”

“I know,” said Jock, scratching himself.

“I think that’s what is the matter with Chase. A tick bite in the right place and a guilty conscience would scare a guy all right.”

So we went to see the Judge.

When you have trouble here you always see the Judge. He will know what to do.

Jock explained everything. The Judge was very solemn and nodded very wisely. He told us there was a doctor at “Five Points,” and that he would send for him.

Jock told Chase that the doctor was coming. Chase was very grateful.

That afternoon the doctor came riding in on a mule. He didn’t have a little black satchel. He just had himself. The Doc couldn’t speak English. I think he was a Mosquito Indian. There was always a crowd gathered around wherever we went, so the Judge suggested that we load Chase into the Jeep and drive down the river on the ox cart road. It would be more private there. We came into a little clearing that had to be the doctor’s office.

Chase’s trousers were dropped and he was given a short-arm inspection. The Doc nodded very thoughtfully. It was a bad case Indeed, but he would do his best. When Jock had bought supplies he had put in a good stock of Flor de Caña and there were several bottles left. The Doc had a sharp eye and had spotted these in the back of the Jeep . The treatment began. Doc opened a bottle, sniffed, then took a big swig — I guess to make sure it was the real thing. Then he handed the bottle to Chase and told him to drink. I didn’t know who was doctoring whom, but in a short time the bottle was empty. The Doc said that penicillin would be best, but as there was none he would use whatever was available. If it was the real thing or even a tick bite, I couldn’t see how the two of them drinking a bottle of Flor de Caña would help.

I was wrong.

I found out later that the good doctor was also a mechanic, and that he had made a study of the gasoline engine.

About twice a week, and if it is not raining too hard, there is a bus that runs from Ocotal to Quilalí. On several occasions the bus had failed to start, so they had called the doctor and he had made it run again. Indeed he was a learned man. I had underestimated the guy.

In the back of the Jeep was a tool box. There are no garages here so almost everyone carries his own tools. In the box was a battery hydrometer for testing the battery. The Doctor’s eyes lit up when he spotted this.

“I can cure him,” he said, “but it will be very painful.”

Being well fortified with Flor de Caña and in mortal terror of the disease, Chase said he didn’t care how much pain it caused if only he could be cured. In the next few minutes I witnessed one of the damnedest things that I ever hope to see. The Doc opened another bottle of Flor de Caña, took a gulp and looked around. In the center of the clearing was a pine tree about four inches in diameter and probably forty feet high. He nodded, this would do.

The Judge was head nurse and it was his project, so he started helping first with the Flor de Caña. Chase was backed up to the tree and his hands were tied behind him and to the tree. If he was going anywhere, the tree would go with him.

In the Jeep we also had our cooking utensils. The Doc selected a measuring glass. Very scientifically he poured in some Flor de Caña, then he picked up the battery tester. It had just begun to dawn on me what the rascal was up to.

I looked at Jock. “Jock!” I exclaimed, “For God’s sake, not that!”

“Señor Joe, we have asked for help. If we interfere now we will be in grave trouble.”

The Doc and the Judge were going ahead in a very professional manner. They raised the hood of the Jeep and the Doc sucked up the sulfuric acid from the battery until the little bulb was afloat and poured it into the glass. Some chicken feathers were in the Jeep and he picked one up. I glanced at Chase as he was standing bound to the tree with his pants down and his eyes closed. I believe he is the bravest man I have ever known.

I said to Jock, “Let’s go. Let’s walk to town. I can’t bear to watch.”

Jock nodded.

Cold sweat was running down my back.

The treatment began.

When I was a kid I was a great fan of Johnny Weismuller’s in the “Tarzan of The Apes” series and I remembered his weird cry — the cry of the jungle. I had heard stories of how this cry had originated, including, “The vine Jane, the vine! The director shouted. It was indeed quite a yell, and it must have taken a lot of imagination to perfect it, but if Tarzan himself had been there with Chase that day, he would have retreated to the jungle.

I didn’t know that the human vocal cords were capable of the sounds that I heard coming from the little clearing. There is no way for me to describe the terrible yelling. I cannot do it justice. I knew the hair on the back of my neck surely must be sticking straight out.

A flock of brilliant colored parrots awakened from their siesta. Suddenly they started screaming too, as if trying to imitate the horrible sound. When a parrot finds something he cannot imitate, it frightens him — and those birds were scared! They took off screaming their terror. I knew it would be a long time before they would come back.

Then the monkeys joined in with frightened chatter. Somewhere in the jungle I heard a jaguar scream, and a big black one passed Jock and me on a high lope. He acted as if he didn’t even see us, so apparently it wasn’t the sight of us that motivated him — he was just getting the hell out of there!

I glanced over my shoulder. The top of the pine tree forty feet up was quivering; the needles were coming down. Suddenly the cries ceased and there was a low moan.

Thank God, Chase had passed out!

Chapter Eleven — The Golden City

Jock, the Judge, and I went prospecting once more, and were gone for several days. The same luck — no luck.

When we returned to Quilalí our first thoughts were of Chase.

We pulled up in front of the hotel, and there sat Chase sunning himself and drinking a bottle of beer. He was smiling.

“How do you feel, Chase?”

“Fine,” he said. “I’m peeling off now. It was a very painful treatment, but he is a good doctor, and he knew what he was doing.”

I was truly astounded.

Chase grinned. “You know, Señor Joe, the last thing I remember before I passed out? This powerful m medicine had turned my skin just as white as yours!”

The Judge of Quilalí always wore a gun — he is the law. But you must have a permit from the government to carry a gun in his country. So as a result, there are very few guns seen. .22 caliber pistols and rifles are permitted, but for anything larger that might help in a revolution, a special permit must be obtained.

The Judge carried a .32 caliber automatic pistol, a Spanish brand, and he had a permit. He confided to me. “Señor Joe, I will tell you something if you will promise not to tell.”

“Sure, Judge, what is it?”

“My gun, isn’t it a nice one?” He handed it to me.

“Sure Judge, it’s very nice.”

“I have a beautiful gun but I have no shells.”

That about floored me. “Why do you carry a gun without shells?” I asked.

“Because I am the law. I must carry a gun.

“But if people knew I had no shells it would be very hard for me. You are going back to Managua where shells can be bought. Would you send me up a box of shells? Also, would you send me a sheet of lottery tickets? “

“Sure, I will send the shells, and ten tickets with all the same numbers. If you win, you will be a very rich man.”

“It is just as well that you did not find enough gold here,” he said.

This sure surprised me.

“Why Judge?”

“For hundreds of years, Nicaragua and Honduras have been quarreling over a big area of land north of the Coco. They call it ‘No man’s Land.’ Both countries claim it and no one knows where the border lies, but finally after all this time, the case is going to the world court. There it will be decided where the line should be made. Maybe you would start mining in Nicaragua and end up in Honduras. Also this land — No Man’s Land — is full of bandits. No one knows who owns it for sure, so all the bandits hang out there. This is the area where the notorious Bandido Sandino made his headquarters. He had caused so much trouble the United States sent the Marines down to capture him. That has been almost thirty years ago. You will notice that many of our people here about twenty-eight or twenty-nine years old have blue eyes and or light hair.”

Matter of fact I had noticed it, considering that only a small percentage of the guys could come up with a blue-eyed baby or blond hair with these dark-skinned beauties for mothers. Those Marines certainly must have gotten around.

The Judge said, “Señor Joe, you must go to Siuna. There are some North Americans from Canada. They have been there quite some time, and they are mining much gold. They are in the mining business, so you go see them, and they will help you. I have been watching the stars, and it is written that you will find what you are looking for.”

I decided that we must return to Managua and start over. So Jock and Chase helped me pack the Jeep and we prepared to leave. The Judge wanted to ride with us as far as Ocotal. He had some business there to take care of.

Chase had the Jeep in four-wheel drive and low gear as we climbed the high mountain range. The recent rains and the many ox carts had cut deep ruts in the road. There were many big puddles of water and much mud; but Chase was a good driver, and the Jeep had lots of power.

The Judge indeed was a learned man, and there was one question I must ask him. Maybe he could answer it.

“Judge, this probably will sound a little silly to you and very likely you have never heard about it, but if you have, will you tell me the true story?”

I told him about the old history book and the city built of gold.

He smiled. “Señor Joe, so you have heard of the city built of gold!”

“Then there is something to it?” I asked.

Again he smiled. “All of my people know the true story and they have kept it a secret for hundreds of years.”

“Then there is a city built of gold?”

For quite a while he was silent. Then he said, “I can see no harm in telling you the true story. Yes, now the story can be told.”

He was enjoying himself. He leaned back, closed his eyes.

“For thousands of years, Señor Joe, our people here have mined for gold. The gold had no value except for its beauty. Our people have long known the art of making beautiful jewelry and ornaments. As the gold was brought out, it was made into many beautiful designs. Each year the stockpile grew. Almost every family had many pounds of beautiful trinkets. Many of the temples of worship were adorned with golden idols. Tons of gold were melted, and then hand-carved into many designs of great beauty.”

He paused for a moment. “Then the Spaniards came. They looted our temples, robbed our people, and raped our women! More and more of them came demanding more gold. Our people were tortured, and made to tell where it was hidden. We fought them, but they had many guns and our people were no match for them. Many meetings were held. Our people had to find a way to get rid of these bandits!”

I glanced at him. His eyes were open, and there was a strange light in them. Suddenly he laughed. “Señor Joe, we sent those bastards clear to what is now Mexico, looking for that city of gold!”

So I had heard the true story.

It was no wonder that these people did not welcome everyone here to mine. I remembered some other words of the Judge; “Ten years ago we would have killed you!”

We came down off the mountain to the Rio Coco. It must have been washday. Dozens of women were out in the river doing their scrubbing. In the river were many big boulders, and next to them were women washing clothes. The big rocks had been used for so long that the tops were worn flat. The women were standing in water up to their waists, and some of them wore blouses; but others were naked. What was under the water we could not see. One thing for sure, they took a bath at the same time.

The banks of the river were covered with clothing of all colors — red, blue, pink, green, yellow — all the colors imaginable. These people lived in mud houses with the pigs and chickens, but strangely enough, all the clothing they wore on the streets was spotless.

Chapter Twelve — The Poker Game

Chase, Jock, the Judge, and I put up at the Hotel López. I will never forget that night.

We had walked about town looking it over. About a block from the hotel a bingo game was going on. Jock and Chase got themselves a seat and began to play. I didn’t care much for bingo, neither did the Judge, so we wandered back to the hotel. It was getting dark and suddenly the lights came on. In these towns back in the jungle there is no electric power in the daytime. A diesel power plant is turned on at dusk and shut off at ten o’clock in the evening. The few refrigerators here are run by kerosene.

In the lobby of the hotel there was a serious game in session. Five guys sat around a table, playing draw poker. I watched and got interested. Here was a game that Joe Parker knew how to play! The game was much the same as ours in the States, but with a few exceptions. The dealer starts dealing first to himself then to the man on his right and on around the table; but instead of dealing from the top of the deck, he deals from the bottom. In this game each player had a handful of buttons, some beans and a few cordobas on the table before him. I asked the Judge how big the stakes were, and he said that to me they would seem very small. The buttons were worth half a cord and the beans were ten cents in their money. To me, the stakes were small all right, but to these people it was a pretty stiff game. Anyway, I seldom pass up a chance to join a poker game.

I said to the Judge, “ask them if they would mind if I sat in for a while.”

He talked to them in Spanish — none of them could speak English.

They all looked up at me and smiled in friendly fashion.

I had begun to understand a little Spanish, and the looks on their faces were plain to read. Between their chattering and expressions they had only one thing in mind, “Get the North Americano’s money.”

I bought in for five cord, and soon this was gone. I bought ten more. The men still were all smiles. When the ten cord was gone, I put down a fifty cordoba note. These guys were lousy poker players, each one trying to win every hand by bluffing, drawing to inside straights and betting on lady luck. I don’t play that way. Surely, soon I would get a hand, so I kept enough money in front of me at all times to cover all the money on the table. It only takes one hand, and eventually that hand would come, I thought.

It came sooner than I expected. The big guy on my right was dealing, and I was watching him closely. So far he was the big winner. He was a wicked looking guy with his left ear missing, and a big scar running from where the ear had been, up over an eye. This old boy had been in a few machete fights all right.

I picked up the hand he had dealt me. There was an ace, king, queen, jack of diamonds, and another card. The Judge was sitting behind me and I showed him the hand. The big guy on my right opened the pot with a sizable bet. Almost everyone called. I could make a flush, straight, a straight flush or a royal flush. I called and drew one card, and it was the ten of diamonds. For the first time in my life I held a royal flush! Now, I thought, I hope someone else has a good hand. The big guy was smiling and had drawn two cards. He pushed in several cordobas. Two of the men called. The others dropped out. I called and tossed in the fifty cord note.

“I raise,” I said.

The big guy had about fifty cord in front of him. There was an evil smile on his face now. He put the money in and the others dropped out. He turned up four fours and reached for the pot.

“Four fours is a good hand, buddy,” I said, “but not good enough!” I laid down my royal flush.

It was my turn to smile.

A look of disbelief was on each of their faces. Probably none of them had ever held such a hand. The scar over the big guy’s eye had turned white, and there was a malicious gleam in his eyes.

On the wall was a little blackboard with something written on it in Spanish. I couldn’t read it but noticed that these fellows kept glancing at it. “What’s the writing on the blackboard,” I asked the Judge.

“It says,” he read, “that to anyone holding a royal flush, each player must pay him fifty cordobas.”

I had hit the jackpot all right. “Well, tell them to dig up. Let’s follow the rules.”

Many vicious looks were given me as they paid off. This was quite a bit of money to them. In fact it was a lot of money. They borrowed from each other and they borrowed from the bartender. At last they had me paid off, and I had a stack in front of me that would choke a cow.

I ordered a bottle of Flor de Caña. I would buy them a drink to show them that I was a good sport.

None of them would drink with me.

I poured drinks for the Judge and me, and the game started again. No more draw poker. They would play stud. The deal would not be passed around the table. One of the fellows would do all the dealing.

I grinned at the Judge. I was really having a fine time. These guys were out to get my money! Everything had been great when they were winning, and they had been all smiles, but they were not smiling now.

“Judge,” I said, “I’m doing all right, eh?”

The Judge had his solemn look. “No, Señor Joe, you are in very grave trouble. They are saying among themselves that you are very fast with the cards. They are saying that you have cheated. Besides, they have lost much more money than they can afford. You will not leave here with all of that money. They will kill you!”

I looked them over and they were an evil looking bunch of characters. Five big machetes stood in the corner, all with three foot blades. Some or them had a hook on the end. I shuddered.

“You can play here, but don’t win. Is that it, Judge?”

“You have won far too much. Money is hard to come by here and life is very cheap.”

A cold trickle of sweat started down my back.

“Well, hell, Judge, I didn’t mean to win so much. I don’t intend to hurt anyone. If this will work a hardship on them I will give them their money back.”

He shook his head. “No, if you did that it would be admitting that you have cheated them, and they would kill you for sure.”

“What shall I do?”

“Lose the money back to them,” said the Judge. “Lose it back to them gracefully, then you might live.”

I looked at the clock on the wall — it was nine o’clock in the evening. At ten o’clock the lights go out and mine would go out with them if I didn’t lose. So for the first time in my life I played poker to lose. I could not lose! Almost every time I was being dealt a winning hand. My pile was getting larger. Here they play so that you must show your hole card, so I couldn’t lie and throw away the better hand.

The hands of the clock were winding around to nine-thirty.

I felt cold but the weather was hot.

I looked at the players and they looked like a pack of wolves ready to pounce on me.

I had no weapon. The Judge with only a little pistol at his side — and no shells — wouldn’t be much help. God, I had to do something, and do it fast! Then a thought came to me.

“Judge,” I said, “I must go to the rest room. Will you play for me for a few minutes?”

The Judge nodded. I was careful. I left all the money on the table, and went out the back door as the rest room was outside.

The fresh air felt good, and I kept going. I walked down to where we had left Jock and Chase. They were still there and I told them what had happened, and that in a few minutes the lights would go out and the Judge was taking my place. He would get his head clobbered off unless we got back there fast. I wouldn’t run out on him. Jock carried a .22 pistol, Chase had a knife with a six inch blade, I had my fists and we would give them a fight. Yes, that night Jock, Chase and the Judge had proved to be true friends. If I were going to die, they would die with me.

At five minutes to ten, Jock, Chase and I walked into the lobby of the Hotel López, over to the card table and looked down. The natives were all smiling. My big stack of cordobas, the beans and the buttons had diminished. Only a small amount was left. Each player had a pile in front of him. Somehow the Judge had managed to lose it back.

The game was breaking up, and he counted out to me what was left of my pile — sixty-five cordobas. Exactly what I had bought in with.

That night as I lay on my bunk I couldn’t sleep. Bill had said, “Go to Nicaragua, Joe. Go down and find the gold. I know you can do it.” Bill had made it sound very easy. I had come here to find gold and it wasn’t going to be easy but I must find gold for brother Bill and Maria. Yes, I would find gold for Maria. I had promised her. Tomorrow we would go back to Managua and from there we would fly to Siuna.

“Life is a game,” Bill had said, “like a game of cards. When you learn to play the game of life like you play poker then you will find happiness.”

There was one thing for sure, the Judge knew how to play the game — the game of life, also the game of poker.

I guess I finally drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Thirteen — Managua

The next day we drove back to Managua. I paid Chase for his services, and got Jock and myself a room at the Gran Hotel. At least we would enjoy the comforts of a good bed for a couple of nights.

“We will stay in the city for a day or two,” I said to Jock, “then we will fly over to Siuna and try our luck there.”

We were both very tired from our long trip, and the thought of a restful night’s sleep got us to bed early.

The next morning I asked Jock to show me around because I hadn’t seen the city yet, and we began the tour.

“The main street running in front of the Gran Hotel is Roosevelt Street. It is named for the late Franklin D. Roosevelt,” said Jock.

“How come?” I asked.

“Over thirty years ago the city was destroyed by earthquakes and fire, and your President Roosevelt sent down much help and much money to rebuild it. So, they named the main street after him. Didn’t you know that?”

“I guess I am pretty ignorant,” I said. “A month ago I couldn’t” even spell Nicaragua.”

He looked at me in astonishment.

We walked down Roosevelt Street a couple of blocks and there was Central Park and Lake Managua. “What a beautiful lake for boating,” I said. “Are there many boats?”

Jock shook his head. “There is only one boat.” He pointed to a large yacht anchored several hundred feet out. “That boat belongs to President Somosa. It was a gift from President Roosevelt. They were very good friends.”

“Why aren’t there more boats?” I asked.

“People here cannot afford pleasure boats. Some have small rowboats for fishing and that is all.”

It didn’t seem right; a big city, a lake and no boats.

We walked back uptown. The stores here were quite modern.

“This is practically a new city, built since 1930. There are many dry-goods stores stocked with big bolts of cloth piled high. Cloth of every kind and color. Most everyone here makes their own clothes. Nearly every home has a sewing machine,” Jock explained.

We came to a sewing machine shop. Some of the machines were late model electric, but most of them were the old treadle type that are run with the feet — all brand new machines. There were some modern hardware stores and almost everything they had to sell had been made in the United States.

Farther up was another street that crossed Roosevelt. “This is ‘Fifteenth of September Street,'” Jock said. “That is the day Nicaragua gained independence from Spain.”

Farther on was another street crossing Roosevelt, named Market Street. This was a sight to behold. Anyone who had something to sell could bring it here. The natives from all over the surrounding country brought in their pigs, chickens, vegetables of all kinds, pineapples as big as water buckets, iguana lizards, and armadillos tied up with buckskin thongs. There was clothing of all kinds. Women were carrying trays of lemonade and baskets of fruit on their heads.

Small foreign built taxis were dashing everywhere. It didn’t take me long to learn that the automobile has the right-of-way. The drivers didn’t seem to care if they ran over you or not. Jock suggested that we get in one and look the town over. We climbed aboard and had a wild ride about the city.

On a hill I saw the Presidential Palace, the home of President Somosa. It was really a palace, this huge stone building surrounded by high walls and many soldiers stationed at their posts. The blue and white Nicaraguan flag was flying from a pole high on the palace roof.

Next to the palace was another beautiful building and from a pole on its top another flag was flying. I couldn’t quite believe it. There was the good old red, white and blue United States flag flying proudly alongside the blue and white of Nicaragua.

“That is the United States embassy,” Jock explained.

A warm feeling came inside me and I felt good seeing the two flags flying side-by-side.

Jock had been an excellent guide. To reward him I suggested that we go to see our old friend Fermin, and kill a few bugs in our belly.

To this Jock readily agreed, for tomorrow we would fly to Siuna.

Chapter Fourteen — Connie

The following morning Jock and I packed our suitcases and took a cab to the airport. We bought our tickets and boarded the Lanica Airline plane to fly to Siuna.

Siuna lies almost on the eastern coast of Nicaragua whereas Managua lies almost on the west coast. It would be a trip across the continent. Nine o’clock, almost time for the takeoff but as usual here in Nicaragua it would be at least a half hour before departure. The front part of the plane was for freight and the back section for passengers. Through the opening between we could see very clearly. Piled high in the front were many musical instruments; a bass drum, bass fiddle, violins, and trumpets. There was a last minute rush and then we took off. We circled the city several times and out over the lake, then headed high over the mountains.

“What a beautiful country,” I said to Jock. “How many volcanoes are there in Nicaragua?”

“About twelve or thirteen,” he replied. “There are about six that are active, I believe. Look far to the south. There is Lake Nicaragua. Some day the United States is going to build a big canal joining the Pacific ocean with the Caribbean Sea.”

“What’s the matter with the Panama Canal?” I asked.

“The Panama Canal is getting very crowded and will not accommodate your large aircraft carriers and other big ships.”

I looked at the little guy curiously. He was wising me up on things I hadn’t known before. “Tell me more,” I urged.

“The United States has a ninety-nine year lease to build a canal across Nicaragua, and I think the lease was taken before the Panama Canal was built. Someday they will build it and it will help this country very much. It will not be too big a job for your people to cut a canal across the continent here. The water runs from the lake to the Caribbean, but it is only a few miles from the lake to the Pacific Ocean. With the modern machinery your country has today it would be a very easy job.”

I thought to myself, “These people down here think we North Americans can do anything and do it damned easy.”

Jock went on, “This is the only fresh water lake in the world that has man-eating sharks. Long ago the lake was part of the Pacific Ocean and a perfect place for sharks in the salt water. Gradually the shoreline was shut off by the rising coast, and a lake was formed. The water changed from salt to fresh, and the sharks in the lake became accustomed to it.”

As we settled down to enjoy the scenery, I glanced around and saw a very pretty girl sitting a couple of seats behind me. Her long auburn hair hung in curls to her waist. She was looking at me and I smiled at her. She smiled back. There were small gold dots on the very tips of her white teeth. For decorations, I concluded. Probably she didn’t have a cavity in her mouth.

I turned to Jock and said, “Back there is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Do you know who she is?”

Jock took a quick look. “Oh yes, oh yes, that’s Connie Oro. She’s the sweetheart of Nicaragua, very famous. She sings with Pedro Max Romero and his orchestra. All the men are artists. They’re on this plane on their way to keep an engagement in Siuna.”

I felt compelled to take another look. I saw her eyes were on me, so I had the nerve to smile again. Afterward, during the flight over the mountains, I couldn’t keep my mind off this girl.

Finally we were over Siuna circling to land. What a landing field! Nothing but a narrow upgrade strip cutting through the ridge with a jumping off place at the other end. Barely wide enough for the wings of a plane. Setting an airplane down here would be next to impossible.

I held my breath. The pilot was a genius. He landed it perfectly.

I turned to Jock who had my camera. “That girl, Connie. I’d like a picture of her. Will you ask her if I can take her picture?”

“Ask her yourself,” Jock said. “She speaks just as good English as you do.”

We hurried down the ramp and over to the wing tip to wait for our luggage. When the girl appeared, I went up to her. “Would you mind having your picture taken with me?” I asked.

She smiled. “I would be very delighted.”

I signaled to Jock and led her to stand by the nose of the plane. I put an arm around her, and she snuggled up close to me.

After Jock snapped the picture, she said sweetly, “I am glad that you have come.”

That startled me. I thought I must have misunderstood her.

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

“Hotel America.”

She gave me another sweet smile, and said, “how nice, so am I.”

It was about a half mile walk into town, and the day was very hot. Small boys ran up to take our suitcases to the Hotel America where we were to stay. Somehow Connie and I lagged behind, walking along the dusty road past the big gold mine the Canadians were working.

Several thousand Nicaragua natives were employed here. At the top of the mine was the staff house, and other buildings, all handsome in their white paint. This was a much bigger mining operation than I had expected to find here.

As we went down the trail our hands seemed to naturally clasp together on their own. Neither of us seemed to mind. In fact, I felt proud to be walking with the “Sweetheart of Nicaragua.”

At last we arrived at the Hotel America. What a hotel! This town didn’t have houses built of mud such as I had seen in Quilalí and Ocotal. The construction was frame — the boards hand-sawed, and most of the houses had tin roofs. The streets were paved with heavy cobblestone. No one here owned automobiles except the Canadians who had several pickup trucks that they drove to and from another mine they had recently opened.

Hotel America was built of boards and bats, but most of the bats have been torn off. On the first floor was a theater. A stairway on the side of the building led to the hotel above. Connie and I climbed the stairs and found Pedro Max Romero and his orchestra in the hotel lobby. Jock also had arrived ahead of us.

As I looked around I saw that the floor was made of one-by-twelve boards that must have been laid while the lumber was green or wet. There were big cracks in it, some of them an inch wide. The walls were in the same condition. On the far side of the lobby was a bar and a kitchen was partitioned off from it. A Negro woman cook stood beaming at us from the kitchen doorway. Several small rooms were boxed off at one side of the lobby and a balcony faced the upper front of the building. Small cots were scattered all over the place. On several of them men lay sleeping; fellows that worked the night shift at the mine. There was a crude table built of plain boards with a bench on both sides and a chair on each end. That was all the furniture I saw. In a corner of the room was a shower and toilet to accommodate both male and female. Hung on one wall was a large picture of President Somosa, and nothing else.

Connie and I sat down at the table, and I ordered a bottle of rum and some ice. Then I proceeded to get acquainted with the bartender, a Chinese Nicaraguan who spoke English. I soon discovered most of the people on this east coast speak English.

“That’s quite a runway you have out there,” I said to strike up a conversation

“Yes, quite a runway,” said the bartender. “We call it the Golden Runway. When mining for gold was started, the machinery had to be brought in by airplane. In cutting the ridge in two for the landing strip, a vein of gold ore over a hundred feet wide and very rich was hit. When the veins they are working on now are mined out, mining the Golden Runway will begin.”

“Well, I’ll be doggoned! Some people have all the luck,” I sighed. “Here where they have already found rich veins of ore, they chop a mountain in two and hit another one!”

The beautiful Connie Oro was still sitting beside me. She explained that the orchestra was on a barnstorming tour, and that they would play for two nights here in Siuna. There would be a movie in the theater below tonight, and then a floor show. After the floor show there would be a dance across the street. And, if I would come to the floor show tonight, she would sing one song especially for me. “Would you like that?”

“I would certainly be honored, Connie. Will you sing in Spanish or English?”

“Spanish. I shall sing for you, ‘Sabor a Mí,’ a love song.”

I sure felt flattered and promised to be there.

Finally, Jock and I had to be about our business. We were eager to talk to the Canadians, so reluctantly I left Connie and followed him out of the hotel.

Soon we were climbing the mountainside leading to the staff house. Here the superintendent of the mine had very comfortable living quarters. He was about to go to Rosita, the other mine they were opening, and he invited us to go along in his pickup with him and his men.

About sixty miles pf road had been built. This mine would produce gold and copper, and soon it would be in operation.

As we came out into a clearing near Rosita, I saw something incredible. Here in the middle of the jungle was a beautiful eighteen hole golf course with a lush, green grass carpet!

One of the men grinned at me. “Kind of surprised, huh?”

I should say I was!

“As soon as the golf course is completed we will start mining the ore,” said the superintendent.

I laughed. This was sure pleasure before business.

Jock and I were taken to the new staff house which was painted a gleaming white. We were grateful to find hot and cold running water here. We could finally take a hot shower.

After hot showers we went eagerly into the dining room with a bar in it. We had a scotch and soda with the other men and ordered our dinners. Colored boys in white uniforms wheeled out small carts laden with food. It was obvious these mining guys really believed in living well while they had to stay down here. They refused to let Jock and I spend a dime of our own money.

I explained that I was on a prospecting trip, and asked if they could lead me land I could lease. They didn’t know of anything more in this area, but one fellow said if he were going to look for gold, he would go to Santo Domingo.

“At one time Santo Domingo was a great mining country,” he said. “A company from Italy put in a mill and bought ore from the natives. Many mines were opened, but they had too much trouble. The gold shipments were always getting robbed. The natives watched for the bandits and one day they caught them. The bandits admitted that they were working for the Italians — the owners of the mill! There was a terrible fight and many people were killed, so the mill was closed. There should be lots of gold left in that area.”

All this interested me even if it did mean a return trip to Managua and a fresh start.

We got into the pickup and drove back to Siuna, arriving there about dark. The movie was being shown in the hotel was a real western from the United States — Hopalong Cassidy and his crowd. We could even hear the galloping horses and pistol shots from outside the walls of the building.

The crowd was cheering and it sounded like they were going wild. The stairway on the side of the hotel was lined with kids who didn’t have money to pay to see the show so they were peeking through cracks in the wall. All around the building kids had their peep holes. Jock and I went up the stairway to the hotel lobby. Here were more kids looking down at the movie through cracks in the floor.

The bartender told us we had arrived just in time to see the floor show. It would start in a few minutes, as soon as the movie was over.

We took a cold shower and got into clean clothes. Then we went downstairs, bought our tickets and entered the theater. It was so crowded we couldn’t find a seat so we stood up at the end of the stage. The band played and Pedro Max Romero sang a couple of good Spanish ballads. The crowd cheered. There was a quartet and then a duet. These boys really had talent.

Then came the star of the show — Miss Connie Oro. The crowd roared when she stepped up on the stage. She circled the microphone, wiggled her shapely figure and the crowd cheered again. She was dressed in a long yellow silk gown that came all the way to the floor. She wore dainty high-heeled yellow shoes and long gold earrings that hung to her shoulders, and gold bracelets on her shapely arms. What a picture! Then she sang a popular jazzy number. The crowd loved it. She walked back to the mike again, took a few steps around it, wiggled provocatively and glanced at me.

“This next number, she said, “will be played for Joe Parker, who is my guest from the United States, North America.”

I felt embarrassed as the crowd stood up and gave a rousing cheer.

“They are cheering for you,” said Jock.

My face burned. I knew it was the color of red brick.

Then Connie sang, “Sabor a Mí.” It was a beautiful tune all right, but I didn’t understand the lyrics. When she finished there was more loud applause and the show was over.

Jock and I were the first ones out the door. We went back up the stairway and I ordered drinks. Pedro and his band joined us. They needed a drink before they started playing for the dance that would last for hours.

Connie was in a little back room changing her clothes. At last she appeared wearing a beautiful blue evening gown. She came over to the table and took one little sip of Flor de Caña and one puff from a cigarette. “Too many cigarettes and too much Flor de Caña are not good for my voice,” she said laughing.

The crowd was already gathering across the street so the band members left for the dance and Connie with them. Jock and I sat around talking to the bartender and sipping Flor de Caña. I wasn’t especially in the mood for dancing, and it was getting late. Jock said, “If we’re going to make an appearance at that dance, we’d better get going. They close up at midnight.”

We went across the street. We sat down at a vacant table and listened to the band. Connie was visiting all the tables, talking and laughing with people and having quite time. She was indeed a very popular girl. The dance was about to end when she came over and sat down beside me.

“Señor Joe, I have saved the last dance for you and I am so glad you have come.”

Connie was a fine dancer — light as a feather. In the middle of our dance she startled me by asking, “Do you have a bathing suit?”

“Sure. But what th’…?”

“The music is stopping,” she interrupted, “we’ll have to leave. There is a pond at the edge of town. Will you take me swimming?”

It was a warm night and swimming seemed like a fine idea.

“Sure, I’ll take you. Let’s go.”

I went to my room and got into swimming trunks and an old pair of sandals. Connie came out in a purple bathing suit. “Wow!” She was real all right, every inch of her. Her curves were not a bunch of padding. They were Connie, herself. She had a complexion that girls in the States from Florida to California, kept trying to acquire with suntan oil. This little gal had it naturally — been born with it!

We walked along the main street of Siuna to a beautiful pool where the creek had been dammed for use as the town’s swimming pool. We were all alone and the night was very still. Not a ripple on the water and the moon was shinning so brightly that when we looked down at its reflection in the water it was as if we were gazing into the moon itself. We kicked off our shoes and sat on a log, our feet in the cool water. Connie sat very close to me and my arm was around her.

“Did you like my song tonight, the one I sang for you?”

“Yes, Connie, it was very nice. ‘Sabor a Mí.’ Jock says it means ‘taste me.’ What else does it mean?”

“Oh, you’ll find out,” she said. “You must learn our language.” She stretched out and laid her head in my lap, looked up at me and smiled. “Sabor a Mí, taste me, taste me, Joe.” Her arms stole around my neck. “I am so glad you have come.”

“What did she mean by that?” I wondered. My posture straightened. “Connie,” I said, “When we got off the airplane, and now again, you say that you are glad that I have come. What do you mean by that?”

“Mama Morales told me before I left Managua this last time that I would meet you here.”

“Who is Mama Morales?”

“Mama Morales is very wise. She has raised me since I was a little girl. She can read the stars. She told me I would meet you, that we will be married.” She grinned at me. “We will have one blue-eyed baby — one blue-eyed baby girl.”

“How do you know I’m not already married?” I asked.

“If you had been already married, Mama Morales would have told me.”

“No, I’m not married, but I have a sweetheart in the States and someday I intend to marry her.”

That didn’t phase her a bit. She dabbled one foot in the water.

“Señor Joe, you have come here searching for gold, and it is written in the stars that you will find much gold. You will stay here and make your home. Do you think your sweetheart from the United States would be happy among my people?

That sort of floored me. I hadn’t thought of that.

“Your people are very smart. You have very much money. You have powerful bombs, and are sending rockets around the world. You are getting ready to put a man on the moon, yet there are many things your people have forgotten.” She reached down, took hold of my left foot and pressed a finger on its side.

“When you forget me,” she said, “right here your foot will hurt you very much, then you will remember me again”

I laughed. “You little witch, enough of this hocus pocus.”

I jumped up and threw her in the water, then went in after her. She could swim like a muskrat. We frolicked around like a couple of seals and had a good swim.

After a while we put on our shoes and walked back to the hotel. The bartender was still there, so we drank some cold beer and ordered sandwiches.

Connie went to her room and came back with a one cordoba note. This she tore in half and gave one part to me.

“Anytime you should forget me, Joe, and you see your half of one cordoba, it will remind you of me. Someday we will put them back together and they must fit, or I will know you have been very untrue to me.”

I laughed, kissed her little tan hands, called it a day and went off to bed.

Chapter Fifteen — Gold And Kisses

The next morning Jock and I flew back to Managua. We looked up Chase, bought supplies and provisions, and packed for another expedition. Then the three of us headed for Santo Domingo.

We drove out the highway past Tipitapa and on to the Rama road. President Roosevelt had tried to help build the Rama Road by getting a loan for the country, but the road was never completed. It runs from the west to the east and although nothing but a graveled surface, what there is of it is good to travel on. We drove for miles and miles until we came to a smaller road leading left into the jungle, and at last arrived at the town of Libertad.

Libertad is an abandoned town. The houses are built of whipsawed lumber and tin roofs like those in Siuna. The streets are paved with cobblestone, and many vacant homes are scattered about the area. We went on another ten miles and came to Santo Domingo, also a run down locale with many vacant buildings.

We stopped at what looked like a hotel but there was no name on it. It was built on the bank of a creek, with the front part of it on the street level, and the rear built out over the creek on long poles. It had two bedrooms, a kitchen, a combination lobby and dining room. One bedroom was occupied by the widow who operated the place, and the other was for her guests.

By this time we three men were really hungry, so Jock asked the lady to cook us some food. There was a table in the main room with benches beside it. Under the table lay a big black-and-white pig. We sat down on the benches, laughed and planted our feet on the hog’s back while waiting for dinner to be served. The lady spread a clean white cloth on the table and set down a pitcher of water which she said she had boiled especially for the “North Americano.”

I had been scratching the hog’s back with the toe of my boot and he was grunting contentedly. Shortly in walked a big brown-and-white spotted hound. He halted as if looking over the situation. The contented grunting of the hog seemed to annoy the hound, and the expression in his big brown eyes implied that he alone belonged under that table with his back being scratched.

With a fierce growl he attacked. He grabbed the hog by the rump and the hog leapt up squealing. The dog made another leap for him and all hell broke loose! The pitcher of water crashed to the floor and over went the table, benches and all three of us. We were laughing our heads off when we got up and could watch the fight.

The hog, not ready to leave without a struggle, backed into a corner. The bristles on his back stood straight up. The dog crouched low, waiting, snarling and showing his teeth. This was too much for the hog, so he attacked head-on. The hound sidestepped and bit the hog’s rump again. Mister hog squealed and took off. He’d had enough.

We straightened up the table and benches and sat down again. The dog crawled under the table, so we put our feet on his back and rubbed gently and he seemed content. The food was excellent, consisting mainly of fish caught from the nearby creek.

It was soon time for us to get some sleep so we took advantage of the luxury of a creek bath before going to our cots.

The news spreads fast that a North Americano was in town inquiring about gold and the next day several men came to see us saying they had mines they would like us to work. I explained that I would like to find some placer mining property if there was any in this area.

One older fellow said there was land over the hill back of Santo Domingo, but it could not be mined. “It’s a lake of mud,” he said. “The gold is all settled to the bottom many feet down. It caved in when we tried to dig holes in it to pan for gold. The mud keeps caving in on us. It is very bad.” This sounded interesting, so Jock and I went up over the hill with the old man guiding us.

There was the big mud lake just as he had said, with a stream of water running through the middle. We hired some natives to whipsaw some boards and we built a box. We sank it down through the mud and had a hell of a time all right. The mud kept coming in. Down about ten feet we hit bed rock.

Using my fingers I scooped up a pan full of the heavy silt. I sloshed it around a few times spilling the dirt and light sand over the edge. I rinsed it with some fresh water then repeated the process several times. I whirled the remains around the outside of the pan a few times; first fast, then slowly letting the remains separate by density into a rainbow of colors. At the leading edge was red sand, then a sparkling mixture of gold and silver. This was iron pyrite — fools gold. Next a bead of dense black sand and at the end of that, yellow-a ribbon of pure yellow gold! Yes! The end of the rainbow! My hands were shaking like a leaf.

We spent about a week digging more holes. Meanwhile, we had found out that a fellow by the name of Price, in Managua, owned the property, and we would have to see him about leasing it.

“How will you get the gold out?” inquired Jock.

I explained to him that in the country where I came from, we have big suction dredges. In Florida and other low areas huge housing projects are built by pumping sand out of the ocean to construct islands and bayous. “All we need here,” I said, “is a suction dredge to pump up this mud and water, then run it through the sluice box and we will have our gold.”

We returned to Managua. I placed a long distance telephone call to Bill. I couldn’t keep the excitement from my voice. It sure was good to talk to him. “Bill, we’ve got it-acres of it.” I told him about the mud lake. “I’ve made an agreement with Mister Price, the owner, and as soon as the papers are drawn up, I’ll grab a plane and come back. Don’t tell Maria that I’m coming home.”

I took the few ounces of gold I had to a jeweler up the street and asked him to make a set of earrings, and a ring in the form of a rosebud with a hollowed out place in the center for a diamond I would get for Maria when I got back to Reno.

When the papers were finally in order, I boarded a big plane and headed toward home. I arrived in Reno the second evening, rented a car and drove out to Maria’s apartment.

There was no one there, so I asked the girl who lived next door where she thought Maria might be. She said that she had heard her mention something about Honeymoon Lodge. Oh yes, bless her dear little heart, she would be there.

That thirty miles to the lodge seemed a long way, but finally I got there. I parked by the path and walked down toward the house. The little parcel was in my hand. As I came nearer I saw that the front door curtains were slightly parted and I decided to peep inside. Maria would certainly be happy and surprised to see me. My heart was in my throat. She was there all right, curled up on the davenport and Lynn, my friend, was curled up with her. He was giving her fervent kisses and she was returning them passionately.

I felt sick inside and stumbled blindly back up the trail. I tossed the package into a bush and with it went my love for Maria.

Chapter Sixteen — Yaqui Gold

Had it not been for Bill and Nell I would have had a sad homecoming. I drove out to their house and Bill about rung my hand off. Nell hugged me and wept on my shoulder. At least these two hadn’t let me down. Tears came to my eyes.

“So you came through Joe,” said Bill. “Why th’ hell are you looking so depressed?”

I told them about Maria. I could always talk to them about my personal problems for they were an understanding pair.

“Aw, Joe,” Bill said, “go back and kick the hell out of Olsen. Maria didn’t know you were coming and she was probably lonesome. You shouldn’t have sneaked up on her like that. Besides, what’s a few kisses?”

“Maria doesn’t stop at kisses,” I said, “I know!” I got up and paced the floor. There was a pain in my foot.

“What’s the matter with your foot. You got jungle rot or something?” asked Bill.

“No, I must have stepped on a rock coming up the trail”

I sat down and took off the shoe. It didn’t look swollen but it hurt like the dickens.

I told them about the big mud lake. “There’s millions there. Now all we have to do is take it out.”

We sat for hours making plans for the dredge; a suction dredge powered by a diesel electric plant, the best that money could buy.

“I’ve kept the Texans informed,” Bill said, “and they’re ready to go. It will take some time to have the dredge built and get everything in order. That’s my job. The financing is available and the two old boys are still enthusiastic.”

I gave Bill the contract we had with Price and he examined it carefully. “You did a good job Joe, I’m proud of you. Now, I’ll report to you. I’ve been busy too. I’m having a new camper built. Not just a little pickup truck, but a full-sized job installed on a new two-ton Chevy truck, all modern with hot and cold water, gas stove and refrigerator — the whole works. It’s being built over in Los Angeles by the Sport King Company and it’s almost a palace. You can drive back to Nicaragua in it.”

“Sport King” I laughed, “The natives get everything backwards down there so I’ll be the King of Sports.”

“While you’ve been away,” Bill went on, “I spent quite a bit of time down in Mexico. There’s a fellow here in town named Child, Orren Child. He’s part Yaqui Indian and he has spent years in Mexico. He told me about a place where there’s a whale of a lot of gold, a cave full of it, melted into forty pound bricks. It belongs to the Yaqui Indians. They’ve had it for many years but if they sell it to the Mexican Government they will get very little out of it, if anything. It would probably be seized as treasure. This fellow Child has a deal with the Yaqui Chief to buy the gold for twenty dollars an ounce and I can sell it for thirty-five. Each brick is worth about twenty thousand dollars and can be bought for about fourteen, leaving a nice profit. Child doesn’t have any money so I made a deal with him. If the gold is really there, I would put up the money to buy it, a brick at a time, as this would be the safest way. Besides, that is the only way I can afford to handle it. Once the first transaction is completed, it will be a simple matter to dispose of the gold, and I have everything worked out with a gold buyer. Child and I flew down to Hermosillo and I met the man in charge. His name is Cortez.”

“Did you see the gold?” I asked eagerly.

“No, they’re cautious — won’t bring out any of the gold until they see the money for it.”

“I can understand that all right.”

“I have the money to buy the first brick, so you will be able to make the transaction on your way to Nicaragua. You’ll have plenty of time because it will take a couple of months to get the dredge built and shipped down. We get two-thirds of the profit and Child gets one third. Okay?”

I nodded, and thought to myself, “good old Bill.”

Chapter Seventeen — The Curse

Later one evening Bill and Nell and I were sitting in the living room talking. Nell asked, “Joe, your foot. What in the world is the matter with it? You’ve been limping around something terrible.”

“I don’t know,” I said, “I went to see a doctor today and he can’t find a thing wrong with it. Probably it will be all right in a few days.”

Nell came over and sat on the edge of my chair. “Joe, all you guys do is talk about gold. Surely, you can find something else to talk about. Tell us more about your trip. I know you must have had some exciting experiences.”

I told them about the doctoring of Chase and I thought Bill would split laughing. Also I told them about the poker game at Ocotal.

“Did you take any pictures?”

“Sure,” I said, “lots of them,” and hobbled to my room to get my suitcase.

The first album I opened to show them had a picture of Connie and me standing by the airplane at Siuna.

“She’s beautiful! Who is she?” asked Nell.

“Wow!” said Bill. “Looks like you’d been doing okay down there.”

I told them about Connie, the theater and that night when we went swimming. Then added, “She’s a witch though. She reads the stars. She says we will be married and have one blue-eyed baby girl, and she put a curse on my foot, She said….”

Stopping mid-sentence, I thought to myself, “Good Lord, could it be possible?”

I opened my billfold and showed them the half of the one cordoba note Connie had torn into two pieces. I got up and walked across the room, I must have looked stupid.

“That’s the matter, Joe?” asked Bill.

“The pain in my foot is gone!”

Then I told them the whole story. “In that country they believe in witchcraft and voodoo. When Connie put the hex on my foot, I’m sure she believed it would work.”

Bill remarked, “Maybe she hypnotized you. They call it ‘the power of suggestion.’ There is a lot more to it than most people realize.”

Maybe she had hypnotized me, the little witch.

Chapter Eighteen — Tijuana

The “Palace on Wheels” was finally finished; and a real palace it was. I would be the “King of Sports” for sure.

“You’ll probably have to run the señoritas off with a club,” Bill laughed.

“Oh no, I’m through with women; well, maybe I’ll let one in occasionally for a cup of tea, but no more of this falling in love. I’ve learned my lesson. As you said, “life is like a game of cards,” and from now on I’m going to do the dealing.

“Good sense,” he said. “You’ll need someone to go with you on the trip. I wouldn’t think of letting you go alone. Know anyone you’d like to take along?”

“Well no, I don’t.”

“I’ll introduce you to a guy who’d like to go. If he suits you, you’d better take him. He’s an ex-prize fighter Chuck Blotz.”

Chuck had also been a wrestler, and a welder, and he could run a tractor or a dredge. There didn’t seem to be anything physical that he couldn’t do. He was big and blond with baby blue eyes, and he had a protruding belly that suggested he was sort of out of fighting condition but he was eager to take the trip and could probably land a felling punch or two, if needed.

“Take your time, don’t be in a hurry,” Bill said. “When you get to Hermosillo give me a call and I’ll come down there and we’ll buy the Yaqui gold. If for some reason I can’t make it, I’ll send the money and you can go ahead with the deal.”

With the experience of Maria still fresh in my mind, I wanted to move or go somewhere.

“Bill, if you say he’s okay, then he is okay with me.”

Chuck and I took off. Over four thousand miles to go. Chuck’s clothes and personal things were in Los Angeles, and although it would be out of our way, we would go there to get them. But we didn’t have to hurry. That evening when we arrived in Los Angeles, Chuck went to spend the night at his sister’s house, so I had the Palace to myself.

About noon the next day we started south again and I asked Chuck if he had ever been to Tijuana. He said he had never been any place in Mexico. I suggested that we run down there for the evening because I had never been there either.

The Mexicans at Tijuana have just one thing in mind, “Get that U. S. dollar!” In fact very little Mexican money is used there. They know every trick in the book to get your dough. They will even get you married in record time, and if you don’t have a woman they will supply one. A divorce is just as easy, but it costs money, real United States money.

As we walked along the little main street, we came to a Mexican with a little jackass hitched to a big covered cart that had “Tijuana” written across its front. The little jack was painted with white stripes like a zebra. The guy grabbed hold of my coat, halting me.

“Get in the cart, Señor,” he urged, “and I will take your picture for only one dollar then I will take your friend’s picture for only one dollar.”

Chuck and I shook our heads and started to walk away, but he came after us.

“Señores, one moment. For you, my good friends, I will take both your pictures at one time for only one dollar!” We started to walk off again, but the guy was hard to shake. “Señores,” he said, “for fifty cents I will make the jackass take a leak in the bucket.”

Chuck laughed so hard I thought he was going to choke. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a quarter.

“That ought to be worth two bits,” I said, not wanting to miss anything.

The Mexican grabbed a bucket. Whether it had water or something stronger in it, I didn’t know. He splashed some of the liquid in the jack’s face to wake him up, I guessed. Then he set the bucket under the animal’s rear. The Jack humped his back and produced! I gave the Mexican the quarter.

We went on and came to the Moulon Rouge, apparently a night club. A barker out front invited, “Come on in boys! The floor show starts in just five minutes!” We went in and had a couple of drinks. Many Señoritas kept bumming us and smiling, trying to lure us to their rooms. They were a sorry looking lot.

As we started out the door, the barker said, “Don’t leave now, boys! The floor show starts in just five minutes!”

“Sure,” I said, “in a Mexican five minutes.” I don’t believe they even had a floor show.

Down the street the Stork Club’s neon sign featured Johnnie Hot Nuts and Juicy Lucy. The crazy names lured us inside. Johnnie was a character and the audience applauded like fury when he came on stage. He wore a long coat that hung below his knees and baggy pants; a real zoot suit. After several filthy jokes he introduced Juicy Lucy. She would dance, he said.

Juicy Lucy must have weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds. She came wiggling out with only a pair of scanties to cover her fleshy lower parts. No one was looking below anyhow for she had the biggest breasts of maybe any woman anywhere; each one of them about the size of a twelve quart milk pail.

She didn’t dance. She just stood there twirling those enormous breasts, first to the right then to the left. Then she twirled them both in opposite directions; first one way then the other! The crowd howled with delight.

When the show was over and Chuck and I were on the street again, a cab stopped in front of us.

“Get in, boys!” The driver had a big smile for us. “I’ll take you where there are many girls — one hundred girls. Look, here are their pictures.” He pulled out a photograph There were a hundred as he said; all in the nude.

“How much do they charge?” Chuck asked looking interested.

“Only about three American dollars. Here in town they will charge you five. Get in, I will take you there.”

“Don’t go with him!” said a voice behind us.

Chuck and I turned around. An American stood there shaking his head.

“Last night,” he said, “I went with that man to a place over the hill. He charged me seven dollars for taking me there and the price out there is not three, it’s five dollars or more. After I paid the girl, in came a big mean looking Mexican and made me pay three dollars extra for the room, and that wasn’t all. This character. . . .” he pointed to the driver. “He charged nine dollars to bring me back to town!”

The cab driver could see he would have no fare here. He spit at the guy. “Gavacho son-of-a-bitch!” he snarled, and drove off.

Yes, everyone should go to Tijuana once — and only once.

Chapter Nineteen — Crossing The Border

Chuck and I retired to the Palace. That night I made a horrible discovery. Chuck snored! Not the usual run of the mill type; but, how can I express it? His big chest heaved up and down and great blubbering noises came out. It sounded like a hog with its nose in a bucket of mud. At the end of each snore there was a whistle then a moan. I couldn’t sleep so I rose up and turned on the lights. After the third or fourth regular combination he started smacking his lips just as if he were eating something.

I got up and rolled him on his side but even this didn’t awaken him. He certainly was a sound sleeper and the more I rolled him around the more he gurgled, blubbered and wheezed. I finally gave up, crawled back on the upper bunk above the cab, pulled the covers over my head and tried not to listen to him.

The next morning we came back to San Diego and put a fine supply of groceries in the Palace. There were cases of canned meats such as ham, Spam, salmon, tuna fish, oysters; about everything we could think of. Also dozens of canned vegetables, soups and fruits, and a variety of spices. We didn’t intend to let hunger catch up with us.

We drove across Southern California into Arizona, and entered Mexico at Nogales. We had a hell of a time getting through Customs.

The big, blue and silver camper with “Sport King” in big letters across the front caused quite a sensation. I thought it was going to literally be torn apart. Neither Chuck nor I could speak Spanish, and the customs officers went through the Palace very thoroughly, opening all of the drawers and cupboards, and even the refrigerator.

An American who was just returning from Mexico City saw that we were in trouble and came up to us and said, “Look fellows, the only way you will ever get through is to lay down a few American dollars. These guys are a bunch of bandits.”

Now, an official looking Mexican was going through our groceries, marking each can with a piece of chalk. If he continued at this snail’s pace, we were going to be here a week! I climbed the little ladder into the Palace, smiled at him, and laid down a five dollar bill. He smiled, put away his chalk away and left.

Another Mexican came in and started going through our clothes. And, with another five spot handout he was gone. One more five dollar bill, and we had made it! It took a few minutes to get through Customs once we found out what to do.

We left Nogales and headed south. Our windshield held a sticker, “Turista.” We would go as tourists to Mexico City, and there we would get our visas for the remainder of the journey.

Chuck enjoyed driving and this suited me fine. He felt important. Being the driver of the Palace was an honor for anybody. Despite his one bad habit, his snoring, Chuck was a grand guy. Nobody is perfect so I couldn’t blame Chuck for what he couldn’t help.

The country was hot and dry, and the corn fields were burned brown by the sun. indeed it was a pitiful sight. Even the cactus looked shriveled and ready to give up. We stopped at many little cantinas by the side of the road. The places were filthy and contained flies by the millions. Freshly killed meat hung over wires for dry killed meat hung over wires for drying in the sun. The people would eat what the flies did not.

“One thing,” said Chuck, “their beer is good.” It was darned good beer and it cost only one peso, or eight cents in U. S. money.

Sometimes there would be a dead cow or calf by the side of the road. Miles before we got there we knew something was dead. The buzzards circled, some of them going down, and others going up their bellies full and bulged.

Chuck said, “The national bird. Men in this country are too lazy to clean up the mess. They leave it to the buzzards. It’s against the law to kill one. You might just as well kill a man as a buzzard. You’ll get the same punishment.”

In Mexico and Central America there are many types of buses. A bus might be anything from a passenger car to a modern type, and one thing for sure, everyone who was waiting for one jumped to the middle of the road when the Palace came into view. They were sure it was a bus! With their pigs, chickens, turkeys or sacks of corn they stood ready to flag us down. We had to be careful not to run over them.