The Suriname Job by Vince Milam

Author:Vince Milam [Milam, Vince]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kindel Press
Published: 2017-10-02T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Relief. Relief, lowered adrenaline, and full recognition of an aching ass wound. Out of immediate danger. Out of Suriname. They ought to make a movie.

Crabwood Creek, Guyana. An official greeting cow tied to the town’s sign. Welcome, Case Lee, Esq. A well-built house, one of the first in town, looked to be my best bet. I approached with caution, and several people on the front porch stopped talking.

“Hi.” There wasn’t much more I could add, other than I was damn glad to see them.

“Hello,” the matron of the group responded.

“I’m looking for a place to stay the night. I’ll pay. One hundred US dollars.”

The gathering, apparently a family, looked at each other and exchanged expressions of “Why not?” The matron spoke.

“That should be fine.” She turned to a young man—her son, it turned out—and ordered him to prepare his room for the stranger. It helped that I stood at the dark edge of the light cast by their porch. I would have looked a mess in the full light.

“And I need a ride to Georgetown in the morning. I’ll pay another one hundred US dollars for that.”

“That should be fine as well.” Whether the old British Land Rover parked nearby provided transportation or another village vehicle mattered little. The matron would arrange things and take her cut. Good for her.

I’d taken off the reporter lanyard and used another false name during introductions, in case any Surinamese crossed the river looking for a reporter. A simple lost tourist, and no further elaboration provided or asked for. Just another crazy American.

I was shown to the son’s room, and the shower was pointed out down the hall. The bloody gob of bandage protruding from the seat of my pants was pointed out as well.

“Fell. Cut myself. It’s nothing.”

The matron rolled her eyes, turned, and headed for the combination large kitchen and dining room. The first order of business—sew up the wound and get clean. Dinner would be served in an hour, and it was made clear my presence was expected.

The rucksack joined me in the bathroom. A large mirror hung above the sink. Standing on a short stool of the type kids used to brush their teeth, a decent view of the issue reflected back. Twisting to look over my shoulder in the mirror, orienting to the reverse view, I maneuvered my upper body sufficient for use of both hands. The medical kit held sutures, forceps, tweezers. The operating room was open.

Standing naked on a child’s stool in the boonies of Guyana, I smelled the barn. I’d use the satellite cell phone and reserve a seat on the first flight north tomorrow. Norfolk by dark. It took more tugging than I’d hoped to pull the cloth plug from the wound. Fresh blood oozed down the back of my leg. A small vial of hydrogen peroxide provided antiseptic, and a clean bandage pressed hard stanched the bleeding.

Georgetown, one hundred miles away. I held high hopes the road would become asphalt close to Crabwood Creek.

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