Free Red Jungle by Kent Harrington

all the do-gooding, only because he felt charity—no matter how well intended—was just that, charity, not a solution for the country’s chronic underdevelopment.
    “We’d have to leave early tomorrow,” she said.
    “I don’t mind,” he said, but he was lying; he would have just as soon stayed in bed and screwed all morning.
    “You can stay at my place,” she said. “Tonight. That way you don’t have to get up so early . . . it will be a lot easier.” It was the invitation he’d been hoping for.
    “Sure,” he said. “Okay.”
    Mahler appeared with a drink in his hand. When he saw Russell, he took him further out into the garden, and they sat on the edge of the fountain. Mahler gave him a report on Tres Rios, and Russell listened carefully. They’d only been able to survey the river on horseback before Russell had to go back to work.
    They smoked a joint together. As he spoke about the work, Mahler’s blue eyes were intense, the fountain’s light catching them. Russell listened to Mahler talk about east of the river, Amargo. It was exciting and it was dangerous because he was working alone, he said. They had to keep the search a secret or they would run the risk of losing out to others, Mahler told him.
    Russell agreed. He tossed the roach into the fountain and looked around the garden. The whole place seemed straight out of some MTV video.
    “If something happens out there in the bush when you’re alone, you’re fucked,” Russell said.
    “I’m blessed. Nothing ever happens to me. Let’s go talk to Carl before he gets too busy buggering some choir boy,” Mahler said. They went, and found Van Diemen talking to some girls. Carl took them into the house, to a library full of Mayan antiquities. The room had green leather club couches and dark red walls. Mayan statues and Olmec heads rested on a huge mahogany coffee table, along with a few tiny solid gold figurines. Mahler whistled out loud as they walked in.
    “I’m so glad we can do business,” Carl said. “I mean, I buy the Jaguar. If you guys find it. I buy it. We get rich.” Carl smiled and looked at them happily. He was a little drunk.
    “You’re already rich,” Mahler said, looking at the stuff on the coffee table.
    “Great,” Russell said, impressed.
    Mahler crossed the room, picked up a huge black obsidian knife from the bookcase, ran it across his throat, and smiled. “Fucking Mayans,” he said.
    “You’ll buy all that stuff in the garden at Tres Rios? I need the money,” Russell said.
    “Yes, of course. I buy all of it. Don’t worry . . . just find the Jaguar,” Carl said, watching Mahler.
    Mahler tossed the knife on the couch. It was a heavy knife, and bounced. Carl picked it up and put it back on the shelf. Mahler was jealous of Carl, it was obvious, and it suddenly made Russell uncomfortable.
    He went back outside to Katherine. She’d been looking for him, standing on the edge of the garden in one of the corridors, young men and women dancing behind her in the yellow light, swaying to the trance music that someone had turned back on.
    Katherine had a Snoopy doll on her bed. He threw it off, and she got them something to drink. Some men had tried to stop their car on the way out of Antigua. She’d driven through them, not willing to stop and find out what they wanted. Shots had been fired. She was still upset, but was pretending not to be, he thought. They’d barely spoken on the way back into the city.
    She lay down next to him, and he felt her shake. It was like a cat shakes when it’s scared. Later, they made love between the fresh cold sheets of her bed.
     
     

SEVEN
     
    The general’s wife is very, very beautiful. I’ll warn you,” Katherine said suddenly. “And everyone thinks she’s crazy. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. All the guys I’ve brought up to work on the project can’t stop talking about her. I suppose you won’t be any different . . . guys are so predictable.”
    On the drive