The Last Match Read online

  I said, “Do you want to sleep now?”

  “Not yet.” She went on talking with her eyes closed, drowsily. “What he wanted was for me to go back to the States with him. When I realized at last that my husband was the devil on earth, I swore I would never go back until he was dead. I promised him I would see him where he belonged first, burning in the everlasting fires of hell. As he had burned those poor children. To punish me, and because I defied him, he—he—he—”

  Her head drooped again. Her body swayed. I didn’t know whether she was going to drop off to sleep, fall off the bed or what. She was almost gone. But she stood up—creaking, as she always moved—to lift her skirt, high above her waist. She wore nothing underneath. On the insides and front of her upper thighs, on her belly, I would judge also within the perimeter of her pubic hair from its patchy moth-eaten look, were burn scars; some old and healed, white-puckered cicatrices, some new, still fresh and sore, still leaking serum. They were just the right size to have been put there by the red-hot coal of a burning cigarette pressed into the flesh.

  While I stood there staring, my mouth open, unable to comprehend for a moment the awfulness of what I was looking at, she turned around to let me see her buttocks. He had used a whip on her there; something fine and limber, a thin cane perhaps, that had cut the flesh, scarred it and stung it cruelly. When she had let me see what there was to see, she dropped the skirt and sat down again. Creakily.

  After a while I could talk again, although it took a heavy shot of lubricator to moisten my mouth for it first. I said, “You must have been able to escape him somewhere along the way. Even here on the boat, you could have turned to any of us for help. We would have protected you.”

  “I didn’t want to escape him.” Her voice was as dull and emotionless as it had been ever since she started talking. “I wanted to kill him before he could escape me. I’ll go to hell for him willingly, now.” A moment later she added, “Thank you for helping me do it.”

  “Thank me for—what?”

  “You made him drunk. He wasn’t used to drinking. He didn’t realize how strong those drinks were you gave us. You’ve made me drunk, too, haven’t you?”

  “It will do you good, help you rest. You ought to try to get some sleep.” I was still shaken by her thanks.

  I took her back aft to use the excusado before locking her in again. She was almost out before I got her into the bottom bunk. I don’t think she even heard me when I said I’d be back in a little while.

  About that time the jaula was putting into Obidos to unload the body and load firewood. It was getting along in the day and the channel was tricky. I figured the captain would be eager to get in and out of port and back on the river again before nightfall trapped him until daylight. To make sure, I checked with him when I gave him back the padlock key, before he went ashore with the body and the cops. (They would have been just as happy if he had kept the murderee as well as the murderess on board as far as Santarem, but recognized his pressing need to unload one if not both in view of the heat.) He said, Yes, he’d be back just as fast as he could get through the papeleo. Anybody else who went ashore could count on one free hour. It would take at least that long to get a load of wood aboard. More than one hour was strictly at the passenger’s risk. The jaula would push off just as soon as he could arrange for it to do so, not one minute later.

  An hour was plenty for what I had in mind. I went ashore as soon as we tied up, walked into town, made a few purchases, asked a few questions, went back to the river bank with a package under my arm. The deck-crew was loading fore and aft, carrying big loads of three-foot billets up the springy gangplanks on their shoulders. They all wore split-out gunny sacks draped over their heads and down their backs for padding as well as for protection against the fire ants, tarantulas, ticks, centipedes and other wildlife that crawled out of the wood to feed on them during the fueling operation. Most everyone else aboard had jumped at the opportunity to go ashore to explore for something edible. The práctico was doing a repair job of some kind on the forward deck, the engineer was at his deathbed watch below decks as usual. Buchisapo was on the river bank checking the wood as it went aboard. I unlocked the padlock with my private key and went in, after first arranging the padlock and hasp in a way to give the impression that the cabin was still locked if nobody gave it more than a casual glance.

  She was sound asleep, sprawled half on her side, half on her back in what I supposed was the nearest she could get to a comfortable position. She didn’t wake when I went into the cabin, or even twitch. She was drugged by fatigue, pain, emotional stress, cachaça, you name it. So drugged in fact that she still didn’t wake when I lifted her skirt and went to work on the burns with the ointment I had bought in town. Her breath was bad, her teeth were bad, her skin was bad, her hair was dirty, her dress was filthy, she stank of sour body-sweat, she was as skinny as a starved rat. All in all she was a pretty miserable Christian missionary. I hoped the wrongo had had time to wake up and feel the knife going in before he died. I didn’t have her faith in the fires of hell.

  When I had finished with the burns, those I could get at without shaving her pubic hair, and bandaged those that needed bandaging, I woke her. I couldn’t turn her over without hurting her enough to wake her anyway, and I wanted to look at her behind. When she had turned over as instructed, I saw there was nothing much to do for it but put on more of the ointment, which I did. Then I took a pair of panties out of the package I had brought.

  “Put these on,” I said. “And this.” I took off the money-belt, which I wore next to my skin, and gave it to her. “Strap it around you under your dress, where it won’t be seen.”

  She still didn’t give a damn, one way or another. She put on the panties, wincing a bit, then the belt. But she was curious enough to ask about the belt, “What is it?”

  “Travel insurance,” I said. “Cinch it up as far as it will go.”

  She was too thin to fill it, even cinched up to the last hole, but she had woman’s hips to hold it up. It wouldn’t fall down to lasso her around the ankles.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “Listen close. If I say something that isn’t entirely clear to you, stop me. Otherwise, don’t interrupt. In that belt around your middle is a fair chunk of cash; not a fortune, but enough to carry you a good way; mostly dollars, some soles, some cruzeiros. In this bundle you’ll find a dirty pair of pants and a dirty shirt like those the crew wear, with a gunnysack hood like those they pull over their heads to load wood. As they’re doing now.” We could hear the thumps and bangs of the billets being dumped on deck. “Your own shoes are ratty enough to pass inspection. Also in the bundle you’ll find a clean dress, another pair of underpants, a pair of sandals that should fit you more or less, a few other things; cosmetics, a comb, soap, a towel. In about one minute I’m going to take you and the bundle to the excusado. Lock yourself in there, change into the pants, the shirt and the gunnysack. I’ll allow you the time you need. When things are right I’ll knock twice on the door, like this.” I rapped on the table, one, two, to fix her attention. I could see she was about to interrupt. “When I do that, you come out, hand me the clothes you have just taken off and go down the gangplank like any other deckhand who has just brought a load of wood aboard. Don’t move too fast, no hurry. Keep the gunnysack pulled forward and your face turned left, because the sobrecargo will be out there on your right as you come off the plank. He’s nothing to worry about, but look away from him.”

  “No,” she said. Still dull, still dopey, but definite.

  “No what?”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “What won’t you do?”

  “I won’t run from punishment. I have sinned. I must atone for my sin.”

  “Killing that scum was no sin. You did a public service.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “You consider yourself a Christian, don’t you?”

  She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head again.
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  “No. Not anymore. Christ preached forgiveness. I am an instrument of the Lord’s vengeance.”

  “You could be an instrument of the Lord’s mercy as well, now that you’ve completed the other assignment. There are plenty of illiterate Indian kids that need schooling and mothering right here in Brazil. Why throw yourself away? If you want to atone, atone that way. Don’t just quit your job without finishing it.”

  I worked on her like a fundamentalist preacher thumping the Bible at a revival meeting. It took some doing and more sweat, but I knew I had her when she said, “What’s going to happen to you when they find out you’ve helped me?”

  “They won’t find out. I’m going to fake your presence aboard ship until the last possible minute, then make it look as if you got away on your own just before we reach Santarem. It will give you a fair head start. After you go down the gangplank, keep moving, no hurry, until you can get under cover without being seen doing it. Change to the new dress and sandals, wrap the cosmetics and things in the towel, ditch your shoes. A mile or so to the other side of town there’s a little airport where planes leave now and then for a few other places, all of them on the river. You can’t get out of any of them except by boat or plane, so take the first flight—it leaves at noon tomorrow—for Belem. From Belem you can take another plane to someplace where you can go on by train or bus. You’ll probably have to give a name to buy plane tickets, but—”

  “I want to know—”

  “You’ll know all you have to know when I’ve done talking. Stop interrupting and listen. You’ll probably have to give a name to get plane tickets. Make it something like Jane Jones, here, but in Belem and afterwards change it to something Spanish. It might be a good idea to change the name from time to time as you move around. While you’re here in Obidos don’t show your face any more than you have to. Staying out of sight until tomorrow and getting out to the airport are your own problems, but there’ll be a ladies’ room of some kind at the airport where you can hide out after you’ve bought your ticket. Use the time to clean yourself up. Wash your hair, comb the rats out of it, put on some lipstick, make yourself look like a human being. Got it all straight?”

  She still wanted to argue about running off and leaving me, as she thought, holding the bag. It was a good sign that she had enough spunk left to put up an argument, but time was running out. I beat her down. Any time I couldn’t con a bunch of simple backwoods Brazilians I’d turn in my conning suit. I didn’t tell her that, though. Instead, I lied freely about the money, friends and political clout waiting for me in Santarem (a town I’d never seen before and would just as lief never see again). Still talking, I took a quick peek out the door of the cabin, made sure the coast was clear and led her back to the portside excusado after carefully locking the cabin door behind the stolen horse.

  She made it. At least I never heard that she failed to make it, and if they didn’t catch up with her during the first few days while they still had a chance—working as they were without a photo, fingerprints, a proper description or even a phony name to go on after she stopped taking planes—they never would. She’d need papers of some kind to get out of the country if she wanted to get out of the country, but I couldn’t help her there. All I could give her was a sendoff and a running start.

  This I accomplished by conning the whole boat for the best part of two days and nights, the time it took us to get to Santarem. Working for me I had the advantage a successful hustler always has over the marks; their confidence in the hustler. Particularly the captain’s confidence, which was of prime importance. When he came back from town, still with the key to the padlock in his pocket, I borrowed it so I could look in on the prisoner and see how she was doing. She’d been quiet a long time. Sleeping, I thought, but I wanted to make sure. When I had made sure, I gave him the key back, reporting that she was very tired, emotionally drained, asking to be left alone but O.K. I thought I’d try to get her to eat something a little later on. If it was all right with the captain.

  He was preoccupied with working the ship out of the channel into the river before the light faded— night comes down like a quick curtain that close to the equator—and more than willing to leave the prisoner’s feeding to me. She ate a bowl of canned soup and some crackers later that evening. By proxy, in a manner of speaking. I reported her dinner to the captain, and that she’d asked for a cup of tea. Tea I had among my supplies, but I had to go to the galley for hot water. Carefully and conspicuously locking the cabin door behind me each time I left it.

  We talked for a long time after she’d had her tea, with the door barred from the inside so we wouldn’t be interrupted. I suppose my voice was more audible than hers from outside the cabin, and I did most of the talking anyway. We spoke English, of course. When it was dark enough and the generator seemed to have pooped out for the evening, I reported to the captain that I’d just taken her back to the excusado before locking her in for the night. I didn’t think she’d be needing anything more that night.

  When I gave him back the key, he suggested— hesitantly—that maybe I ought to keep it in case she did want something during the night.

  “No, sir, captain,” I said firmly. “Thank you for the gesture, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable with it. If anything comes up, I’ll ask you for it.”

  It just goes to show how dumb you can be if you work at it.

  He wanted to look in on her himself the next morning. It was a bad moment. I was keeping watch on the door, and I stepped in front of it before he could unlock it. Her plane wasn’t due to take off from Obidos for another two hours, and wouldn’t get to Belem for at least another couple of hours after that. The jaula had no radio communication, of course, but I didn’t know how close we might be to some dump of a river port where there might be a telegraph or phone, or even radio. If he went into the cabin prematurely, we were both cooked.

  I said earnestly, “Captain, I don’t think you should try to talk to her. I’ve calmed her down, encouraged her, lied to her about her chances of getting off with a short prison term. I know she has no such chance, but I did it to give her peace of mind. You can’t lie to her as I have. You are a man of honor. If she asks you questions, you’ll have to tell her the truth. Let her have peace and hope for the few hours left to her. I ask it of you as a personal favor to me.”

  He looked at me for a long moment without speaking. I squeezed every- drop of chicanery in my whole being into the man-to-man look I gave him back. After a moment he said, “Señor, it is a privilege to know such a caballero,” and went away. I went into the cabin and had a quick jolt of the lubricator to quiet my jangling nerves.

  By one trick or another I kept the hoax going until the following morning. It came to an end when we had only hours to go to Santarem.

  My plan had been to fix it to look as if she had jumped ship at our last fueling stop before Santarem. How she might have managed it was someone else’s job to figure. I meant to help the someone else to a conclusion by leaving her discarded clothes in the cabin. It shouldn’t be too hard to reason that she had gone down the gangplank disguised as one of the wood-loaders. Her escape from the cabin would almost certainly be blamed to my carelessness, which I would freely confess. I might pull a couple of weeks in the bin for that, but a couple of weeks in the bin never hurt anybody. I could do a couple of weeks standing on my head.

  I had it all figured, as smooth as silk, when I got the key from the captain for the last time. As usual, I opened the cabin door just enough to slip through, and barred it behind me immediately. Also as usual, I went into my spiel immediately, with, “Good morning, my, you’re looking well this morning, I’m going to bring you your tea in just a minute—”

  That’s as far as I got. Turning around from the door-barring, I looked Buchisapo in the eye. Without a word he brushed past me to unbar the door. The captain came in.

  Neither of them seemed to want to say anything. The stricken look on their faces made me think of a couple of kids who’d
just seen someone murder Santa Claus. I said, as brightly as I could, “Why, she doesn’t seem to be here, does she? I wonder what could have happened to her?”

  It was no good. They had me with los pantalones bajados. The captain, good guy that he was, hadn’t been able not to say a private goodbye and apologize again for having to do his duty in turning her over to the cops. He’d entered the cabin while I wasn’t watching it, guessed the true situation immediately, planted Buchisapo as a witness when I gave myself away. The possible two-week holiday I had planned to spend standing on my head began to look like something more than a holiday.

  Magro and the other passengers lined the jaula’s rail when the cops took me away wearing that old wrist-jewelry they lend you without charge. Nobody said goodbye, although Magro and Buchisapo did come to see me in jail before the jaula went on its way downstream. Buchisapo brought what was left of my stuff from the cabin, Magro his guitar. I thought jail was an odd place for us to have a final songfest, but that wasn’t what Magro had in mind. He gave me the guitar as a present.

  “It will keep you company,” he said, and when I tried to decline the gift, pushed it at me. “Take it. I will get another.”

  “I don’t know how to play it,” I said.

  “You will have plenty of time to learn. Take it.”

  I took it, together with what Buchisapo had brought. Things were a little awkward after that, but they didn’t stay long. They had to get back to the jaula, which the captain was holding for them. I asked them to thank him for the gesture. Magro and I shook hands, my hand disappearing to the wrist in his great black mitt. We gave each other an abrazo, the Latin embrace exchanged between male friends like a handshake. Then I went through the same routine with Buchisapo.

  Nothing at all was said about the deception I had brought off or its consequences until just before they left. I should say until just before Buchisapo, who lingered for a moment after Magro, followed him.