﻿ Mister Danger is my Name José Rodríguez Thank you for downloading this free short story. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This story may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided it remains in its complete original form. If you enjoy it, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support. Smashwords Edition Copyright 2012 José Rodríguez The sea breeze blows hot and stiff thorough Manuel's bar. The bar's impudent openness lures passersby who can stroll in from the street without really leaving the sidewalk. Cold beers sit on every table, and Manuel's patrons don't mind the breeze. On the loudest table four men play dominoes, drinking and taking pleasure in slamming their pieces against the tabletop when it's their turn to lay a piece down. "Here you have it!" Doctor Melquiades shouts in Spanish and slams the double six on the table. "Time to get rid of this piece of shit!" His partner, Mr. Danger, the town's Gringo-in-residence, boisterously laughs and speaks in a messed up Spanish, "Dammed it, Doc; I has been putting six down but them bastard," he points to Chacón, the ambulance driver, "He been blocking all one of them!" Chacón laughs, takes a good gulp of beer and belches, "I knew Doc had that double six!" He smirks, his little dark eyes shining under the surface of his thick glasses. Chacón's partner is Mario El Italiano; he slams a five-six piece down, "God damned, Chacón! I have been trying to unload this frigging piece, and you kept on blocking me!" Empty bottles pile up over the tables and new cold ones keep on coming; the game gets louder, the language fouler, and the sea breeze blows hard, but nothing matters; in Manuel's bar anybody can drink until he falls, and yell until his throat hurts; if there is cash in hand, Manuel stays open. These are the simple rules of a simple town, and that is why Mr. Danger loves this forgotten enclave stuck like a small flea inside the great jungle fur that borders the jagged edge of the Caribbean coast. Mr. Danger is not his real name; he doesn't care about his Christian name or about anybody knowing it. Doctor Melquiades renamed him, inspired by a Rómulo Gallegos' character, another Gringo fond of whiskey, hammocks and mules. This Mr. Danger has no mules, but he does show a robust disposition for good drinking and long naps. He's a self-proclaimed twenty-century pirate escaping from pagers, cell phones, alimony payments and the IRS. Life in the States had become too stiff with rules and know-it-all assholes. Here, a little bit of cash can do wonders, like buying friends in the local government who are conveniently forgetful about bothersome regulations. What a great country this is! Deals are struck at Manuel's bar, cold beer running and the jukebox going, and no suits, a guayabera shirt fancy enough. Yes sir. Fucking lawyers and regulations, who needs them anyway? The sun is setting as gorgeously as a travel agency poster but Manuel's customers don't care; those sunsets are a dime a dozen around here. The jukebox is cranked up at full power; Salsa, Merengues and Boleros blast the stucco from Manuel's walls; his customers are piling in, expatriates from the outside heat. The crowd grows louder and drunker. Mr. Danger longs for some Jimmy Buffet; one of these days he will get Manuel a few Buffet's records from Miami. "Say, Doc. Did you hear what happened to Francisco last night? Chacón asks Doctor Melquiades between the slamming of pieces. "Don't tell me; he passed out drunk on a pile of pig dung." "Well, not quite; he passed out on a park bench, on the one right below the big mango tree close to the cemetery wall." Doctor Melquiades slams a piece on the table and takes a sip of his beer. "He has woken up in worse places." "He says - listen to this - that he was asleep on the bench when he felt somebody sitting beside him," Chacón stops talking to let Mario express a few profanities after having to pass, then continues his story. "He opened his eyes, and there she was, a beautiful Indian woman almost naked, right there on the bench with him." Chacón's listeners laugh and make smart ass remarks at Francisco's alleged visions. "She was pretty, pure Indian; her tits stood straight like watermelons, and she had more curves than the Pan American highway." Mr. Danger speaks with a bottle to his lips, "Shit, I wishes I had dreams like it when I gets drunk." His blue eyes roll on his head in pure envy. "But not. Me instead dreams of husband. Bitch!" "Wife you mean," corrects Doctor Melquiades, quite used to Mr. Danger mixing up genders. "Yeah, wife. Bitch!" "Anyway," Chacón continues with his tale in a serious and dreary voice. "They start making up, you know, kissing and grabbing. Francisco is ready to go for it, but then she says, `No here. Come with me,' and she takes him to the cemetery." The table is now listening, the dominoes forgotten for the moment and the beer disappearing in short, slurping sips. Chacón has turned into quite a storyteller; his voice is rich with the right inflections and tones. "The Indian lady leads him to the cemetery where everything is dark. `I'm too shy,' she says to him. `Come with me, Francisco; we will make love on the green grass,' and he follows her like a calf following his mother." The doctor and the Italian listen with great attention, and so does Mr. Danger, but the Gringo has a wishful smile on his face. "We will make love on the green grass," thinks Mr. Danger, tenderly rubbing his bottle with his thumb. Chacón continues in a hushed, heavy voice, "They lie on the wet grass and start going at it . . . All of a sudden! He looks at her face . . . It has turned into a skeleton! He tries to run but he realizes he's face down inside an open grave!" Mr. Danger laughs, "I like skinny woman, but no them bonny." Chacón, and the doctor and Mario, ignore Mr. Danger's unruly remark. Chacón's voice is still dreary, "They say she's the spirit of a woman who committed suicide after her husband cheated on her, and now she's taking revenge on philanderers." The table remains silent, taking the tale in, except, of course, for Mr. Danger. "You know, in mine country cheated woman cuts men dick off, then threw it away." Mr. Danger's laugh rises above the jukebox music. Doctor Melquiades shakes his head, amused, "You cannot believe a drunkard like Francisco." Mario remains silent. "Ha ha ha!" Mr. Danger's laugh booms through the bar. "Do you believe this shit, Chacón?" "Go ahead and laugh all you want," answers Chacón with a trace of anger. "But there is a lot of stuff out there that cannot be explained. This town is full of stories of aparecidos, of dead people coming back for revenge or begging for mercy, asking for a prayer." "Me don't believe that shit," replays Mr. Danger, his laugh somewhat under control. Seeking an impartial approval, Chacón asks Doctor Melquiades, "Doc, do you remember that accident on the Güiria road? The one that killed four people when their car went off the cliff?" "Oh yes, I remember," answers Doctor Melquiades. "I treated the survivor." "Well, you remember what he told us, don't you, Doc?" The doctor takes a long sip from his beer, his black eyes growing intense. "That was the damnedest story I ever heard," says the doctor repeating a cliché. "And the man was sober too." Regaining his tale teller voice, Chacón recounts the story. "It's pass midnight and they are driving to Güiria. Their Jeep is going down this hill, the one that ends in a very sharp turn; if you don't make the turn, you end up flying and crashing on the rocks below, right by the surf". Chacón's eyes bounce from face to face around the table, checking his listeners. "They are going down; the headlights spot a few wild burros scattered on the road, just standing there. Close to the burros, by the side of the road, there is an old man. This old man is a hunchback wearing a coat and a hat." "He is making this up?" Mr. Danger asks Doctor Melquiades. "No. I heard this one from the same guy." Chacón clears his throat and continues, "The hunchback follows them with his gaze hidden under his hat's brim. This guy said that everybody in the Jeep got goose bumps as they passed by him. As soon as they went by, the damned Jeep lost its brakes." "Evil eye," retorts Mr. Danger in a ghostly, mocking tone; Chacón ignores him and continues narrating. "Just as the Jeep approaches the edge of the curve, our guy jumps out. The Jeep goes over, and he can hear it crashing against the rocks; people were moaning in pain, `Please help me!'; and then," Chacón pauses for effect. "Kaboom! It blows up. He can hear the guys at the bottom screaming for help, burning alive. Being in bad shape, he just lies on the dirt. He feels somebody nearby and looks up, and there he is, the hunchback." The doctor and Mario are engrossed by Chacón's story telling; Mr. Danger is playing with his beer bottle and singing in his head "Cheeseburger in Paradise" while attempting to look interested. "When he looked up into the hunchback's face . . . the hunchback had no pupils! His eyes were all white, white as a full moon. He got goose bumps all over again and couldn't move. Then he blinked and the hunchback was gone"; Chacón now looks at his listeners with an air of superiority as if his tale had achieved the status of irrefutable truth. "Is not that so, Doc?" The doctor takes another sip and answers, "Yeah, that is what the man told us." Mario now speaks, "I have heard tales about that hunchback on that road. It's said that he and his burros appear to people who are going to have an accident and die." "Oh yes," Chacón follows. "Doc, what about that night when Jacinto lost his steering gear box and crashed into that big avocado tree by the river? His peon died right there on the spot." "I remember," says the doctor. "He told us the same thing: burros on the road and that hunchback, and goose bumps." "Is burros spirits too?" asks Mr. Danger. "Maybe they was tax men in another life." His laugh booms across the bar. "This Gringo is a mess," concedes Chacón. "One of these days you're going to meet an aparecido. I would like to hear you laugh then." Doctor Melquiades' head has been skewed for a few seconds now, trying to listen to something above the jukebox's noise. "Can you hear that?" He questions his domino partners. "Hear what?" asks Mario. All four listen with hands cupped around their ears. It is clear now, the sound of a car's horn crazily blowing across town and approaching the bar. Doctor Melquiades stands, "I don't like that sound. I think I better start heading for the hospital." Money is left on the table and the four men leave Manuel's bar. Right across the street, surrounded by blooming acacias, stands the town's hospital; it's a humble single story block building adorned by a square water tank sitting on its flat roof. The hospital is empty almost all the time, except on the mornings when Doctor Melquiades receives patients. As soon as the four men reach the sidewalk in front of the hospital, a Jeep roars into the street with its horn blasting. The Jeep has no top; a shirtless man is being held upright on the back by another man. With a screech the Jeep stops right in front of them. Doctor Melquiades wastes no time in approaching the vehicle. "Shit!" He turns to Chacón, "Bring the stretcher!" A young man has a harpoon embedded in his gut. A trickle of blood seeps from the wound. Chacón rolls the stretcher in. By now a thick crowd, including Manuel's, is surrounding the Jeep. Many hands help place the wounded man in the stretcher, and he is wheeled into the hospital's modest emergency room. Doctor Melquiades sends for Rosa, the town's nurse, then disappears with the wounded man and Chacón into the emergency room, barring its door to the curious awaiting outside. Chacón comes out after a few minutes, "We need a pair of bolt cutters, big ones." Mario says he has a big pair at his shop so he rushes out to look for them. "How it looks," somebody from the crowd inquires. "Not too good," Chacón replies. "He needs surgery and Doctor Melquiades cannot operate in this place." Mario returns gasping for air, his face blushed by the sudden exercise; he carries a pair of huge, red bolt cutters. Rosa the nurse comes right after him. Rosa, Mario and the bolt cutters rush into the emergency room. Painful screams repeatedly escape from the room making the crowd vicariously frown. Mario steps out with the bolt cutters in his hand and an unhappy face. "No good. That harpoon is pure, solid stainless steel," Mario explains to the crowd when questioned about the screams. "The pain was too much when we started to wiggle it with the cutter." The police commander arrives in shorts and T-shirt accompanied by a uniformed cop. Doctor Melquiades meets him on the waiting room, out of the wounded man's ear shot. "Chief, it's bad. That harpoon has a tip like an arrowhead, four blades as sharp as razors," the doctor explains to the commander. "I cannot just pull it out. We even tried to shorten it but the damn thing is hardened steel. The only way to remove it is by cutting him open." The doctor wipes the sweat off his brow while speaking. "Can you do that here?" inquires the commander. "No. That's full surgery, and we are not equipped to do it." Both men stare at each other. Doctor Melquiades speaks again, "He needs to be taken to the hospital in Güiria right away; you need to call the capital and ask for a helicopter." "I will get in the radio and see what can be done." "Thank you, Chief." Doctor Melquiades spots Mr. Danger's rosy face in the crowd and motions to him to come over. "Yes?" "How steady are you hands, Mister?" Mr. Danger smiles, "Is as steady as a watchmaker." "Come with me." Both enter the emergency room. Chacón is standing by the stretcher, holding the long harpoon vertical over the wounded man's belly, shiny steel planted on a crimson spot. "Chacón is getting tired of holding the harpoon steady. We cannot let it drop; I'm afraid it's going to make a bigger hole if we let it wiggle around," Doctor Melquiades whispers to Mr. Danger. "Can you take turns with Chacón and hold it? Hold it straight and don't push on it." The Gringo's face is serious as he answers, "Sure Doc. I can do." He relieves Chacón and stands by the harpooned youngster who is softly moaning; his face is very pale; his lips are gray and his skin has taken a tawny coloration. Mr. Danger is surprised at how little blood seems to trickle from the wound. Any slight motion of the harpoon makes the kid grunt; Mr. Danger carefully holds the steel rod between his fingers because he knows that a human life is precariously tottering on its sharp end. The young man has been sedated by Doctor Melquiades and is slipping into a morphine induced torpor, a place to hide from the intense pain; "he cannot be over eighteen years old," thinks Mr. Danger, trying to remember what he looked like when he was eighteen. "You is gonna make it, boy," Mr. Danger whispers to the youngster; he doesn't know if the boy can hear him, or understand him, but for some reason he wants to believe that the boy is going to make it, and that he is listening to him. While Mr. Danger dutifully holds the harpoon and Rosa keeps an eye on the boy and his bandage and plasma bag, the waiting room fills with a loud cacophony of arguing voices. One of the men who brought the kid explains how it happened: the loaded harpoon was left leaning against the gunwale as the boat came through the surf. The boat hit ground hard with a jolt that jarred the harpoon and made it go off. The harpoon took off up in an arch, rising above the waves, arching over the foamy beach and landing in the belly of the vacationing kid who was playing volleyball. The door swings open and Doctor Melquiades and Chacón enter the room. The doctor's face is wrinkled with preoccupation; he wipes it clean with his handkerchief. "Bad news," he apologizes. "No helicopters until tomorrow morning," Doctor Melquiades sounds as if the lack of helicopters were his sole fault. "The Police don't fly at night - they say they're afraid of wires - and the National Guard doesn't have anything close by." "Why you are gonna do?" Questions Mr. Danger, his arms already getting tired. "If he stays, he's is going to bleed to death," the doctor explains in a soft voice. "We will have to take our chances in the ambulance." He then faces Chacón, "Get the ambulance ready; we are leaving for Güiria in a hurry." The Güiria road is very primitive, thinks Mr. Danger: a dirt path cutting across the jungle, fording through five rivers and skirting the rugged coastline. When the road is dry, Güiria can be reached in about two hours; during the rainy season only four-wheel drive vehicles driven by experienced chauffeurs can travel on it. Mr. Danger is aware that it had not rained for a while so the road was in decent shape, but due to the delicate condition of the patient, he reckons it would probably take about three to four hours to make the journey. The ambulance is a Ford pickup truck fitted with a metal box with tiny windows and rear double doors. The kid is placed in the rear head first. The plasma bag is tied with chicken wire to the top's frame. Mr. Danger is going to take turns with one of the kid's friends who has volunteered to hold the harpoon straight during the trip. Doctor Melquiades is also going, and he's taking with him a bag of bandages, morphine, antibiotics and saline solutions. Chacón will be doing the driving. It becomes undiluted darkness as soon as the ambulance's tires leave the town's paved and lighted streets and roll over the dirt jungle road. A dim light bulb illuminates the rear of the ambulance, its yellowness giving a ghastly appearance to its occupants, and more so to the wounded boy. Doctor Melquiades keeps on wiping his face off in the hot and stale air; "We need to open the windows," he complains. Javier, the helping boy, gets up and opens the windows, one on each side; darkness and a sultry air comes through. "Thanks," says the doctor with a tired voice. "This is going to be a long trip." Even though Chacón is careful, it's impossible to avoid all the pot holes on the road; each time the ambulance hits one, Mr. Danger feels the jolt coming through the harpoon into his fingertips, and he can hear a faint grunt. Javier and Mr. Danger take turns at holding the harpoon straight. Everybody is trying to make small talk; half the time Javier cannot understand what Mr. Danger is saying. "It takes a while to get used to it," jokingly explains Doctor Melquiades, making sure that Mr. Danger hears him. "He's getting better though; he used to talk like Tarzan." "Fuck you," retorts Mr. Danger in English, having taught the doctor a few chosen phrases, and both break into a big laugh; still, Javier doesn't get it. The old ambulance continues its trek through black jungle tunnels where no even daylight - if there were any - could penetrate the thick vegetation, through rivers where water noisily sloshes against the wheels, and through inclines that make the engine grunt in hard labor. The ambulance turns and shakes with the road, and it whimpers with metallic groans that shake its rust loose. Dust covers the old Ford with a thick tan sheet, but kilometers are slowly won and the boy's chances of making it increase with every additional number on the odometer. Chacón is tired of dodging holes, turning and twisting, shifting, pumping brakes, and breathing dust. The bandanna around his face helps but cannot keep all dust out. He emerges from the jungle; to his right is a small caserío, just a handful of shacks where a few lights are framed into square windows. At the end of the caserío the tree canopy ends and a step hill that turns the road into a ramp pointing to the starry sky awaits. Chacón downshifts in preparation for the slow climb. This section of the road slices through the hills like a giant groove; a deep drainage ditch runs on each side of the road. The bouncy headlights spot a shade on the road, then another. A herd of burros is standing in front of the ambulance, nothing too uncommon on this road. Chacón downshifts to first gear, afraid of what his headlights are going to spot next. The headlights keep on searching ahead, and Chacón's fears are confirmed: the hunchback is standing by the roadside, his wide hat hiding his face. Goose bumps tighten Chacón's skin, and he stops the ambulance, a cloud of dust catching up with it. The hunchback slowly starts to approach the ambulance with draggy feet. Chacón's hands are nervously gripping the steering wheel, not knowing what to do. He feels a hot and sweet breath around his neck; he turns to his left and lets a scream out. An old burro is sticking his head through the driver's window, its humid muzzle just a few inches away from Chacón's face. This is too much. Chacón shifts into first, revs up the engine and makes a U-turn to the right in an attempt to leave the donkey and the approaching hunchback behind. "What be happening?" Shouts Mr. Danger trying to reach Chacón in the cab. Chacón's U-turn is botched by the narrow road and the ditch in its side; the ambulance goes into the ditch and crashes against the hillside. Everybody in the rear is jolted forward and the wounded boy screams in pain. Doctor Melquiades immediately goes to work assessing the damage done; the jolt undoubtedly pained the boy; the harpoon is raked, almost flat on its side, and fresh blood is tricking from underneath the bandages. "Shit!" The doctor slowly lifts the harpoon and asks a befuddled Javier to hold it straight. "Me's going out look what be happening," advises Mr. Danger as he slides his way up towards the rear. "What did he said?" asks Javier. "He's going out to check," the doctor translates, his fingers covered with warm blood. Chacón and Mr. Danger meet outside. Chacón is clearly disturbed and points into the darkness. "Look! He's coming!" Mr. Danger looks in the direction Chacón is shakily pointing and can discern a dark shape slowly making its way towards them; it looks like a burro. "A burro?" asks a perplexed Mr. Danger. "No! The hunchback!" This said, Chacón runs downhill towards the caserío screaming, "He's coming for us!" In seconds Chacón disappears, swallowed by the darkness. Mr. Danger looks around: a dying kid in an ambulance stuck in a ditch in the middle of nowhere, and some weird ass hunchback coming; Mr. Danger spits, heads for the ambulance's rear, opens the door, and sticks his head in. "Chacón be gone, Doc. A burro scares him," Mr. Danger decided it was not prudent to mention the hunchback, or the doctor may take off after Chacón. "Me is gonna try to pull truck off the ditch. Hold on." The ambulance cranks up, "Thanks God," thinks Mr. Danger. He shifts into reverse and lets the clutch go, hoping for the better. The engine revs up; the wheels spin and the ambulance lurches. The acrid smell of burning clutch and tires fills the air, and Mr. Danger speaks in English, "Come on baby, come on." With a stiff jolt the ambulance breaks free from the ditch; Mr. Danger swings its nose and points it uphill. Doctor Melquiades is shouting from the back, "Easy! Easy, Mister!" A heavy dust cloud surrounds the ambulance. Mr. Danger looks forward and a dim amber glow reflects against the dust; he gets out and walks to the front of the ambulance and confirms what he had expected: the headlights are busted, only the marker lights are working. "Fuck," he kicks the dirt in front of him. "It's not a good night for being on this road," a tired voice speaks behind him. Turning around, Mr. Danger faces Chacón's hunchback; he is not really a hunchback; old age has made his back stoop forward so much that it looks like a hump. His face is hidden under the wide brim of his hat. Goose bumps cover Mr. Danger, but he doesn't let the apparition intimidate him. "We is going to Güiria, to hospital. Kid in back is dying if don't make it." The hunchback just nods his head as in agreement. Mr. Danger goes to the rear to speak to Doctor Melquiades, "Broke lights, cannot see good, but I can make to Güiria." "We don't have a choice, I suppose; just be careful," the doctor shrugs in resignation. "Who were you talking to?" "Oh, just old guy in a walk." Mr. Dangers hops behind the wheel; to his surprise, the hunchback is sitting on the passenger side. "Why is you doing?" he asks the old man. "I know this road," replies the hunchback in a husky voice, as if that were enough reason for him being there. Mr. Danger shakes his head in disbelief and says to himself in English, "Mr. danger is my name, taking chances is my game." He releases the emergency brake, shifts into gear and the ambulance restarts its troubled journey. The ambulance slowly climbs the hill in first gear. As it approaches the end of the slope where only the sky is visible because the road sharply drops on the other side, the hunchback commands Mr. Danger, "Go to the left and stay there." The hunchback's voice is old but has a ring of power to it. Mr. Dangers does as he says. From the left side of the road, hugging the hillside, the ambulance starts its descent. To the right is the unguarded edge that falls into the sea. As Mr. Danger descends, he notices that a good chunk of road is missing to his right. Half the road is gone, plunged into the sea below! Had they come on the right side as they should, they would have probably driven right into that hole, down to the rocks far below. "Me don't know who you is," says Mr. Danger with a relief. "But thank you, thank you." The hunchback just silently nods, his expression invisible. Driving on the open under the starlight is no so bad after the eyes get used to it, but driving under the jungle canopy proved almost impossible until Mr. Danger found the switch for the ambulance's red rotating beacon. Between alternate sweeps of red light he is able to discern which way the road goes, and the hunchback directs him around the nastiest pot holes and turns, as if the road's layout were embedded in his memory with a hot iron. Fording the wide and smooth rivers is full of frightening possibilities, the ambulance blindly plunging into the now black, now red waters; Mr. Danger by now fully trusts the hunchback's directions. The going is slow but sure footed, and the kid now has life on his side. Small talk with the hunchback is fruitless; he just nods or shakes his head. The only bits of information that Mr. Danger can get out of him are that he lives in a caserío called Vista Hermosa, and that his name is Juan Castro. Many times Mr. Danger tries to see into his eyes, searching for that white-on-white pupils, but the darkness and his wide hat make it impossible. "Chacón is full of shit," thinks Mr. Danger. "This old man is just a good guy trying to help. It's just his bad luck he happens to be around accidents which are not his fault." After endless turns and climbs and descents, the sky brightens with an electric luminescence atop a hill just ahead. Güiria's lights. Mr. Danger starts to knock on the glass behind him and shouts in excitement, "Us getting there! We there almost!" He hears clapping and shouting from the rear in response. On a flat stretch of road where the red sweeps of light brighten the hillside to the left and disappear into a vacuum to the right, the hunchback orders Mr. Danger to stop, and so he does. The hunchback opens the door and starts to get off the ambulance. "What is you doing? Nothing is here," protests Mr. Danger. "This is my road, and I stay here," responds the hunchback, his eyes under his hat. "Us take back to Vista Hermosa tomorrow. Too much walk from you, and the rivers . . ." Mr. Danger stops when the hunchback puts his right hand up in a halting motion. "I belong in this road. Pray for me"; the hunchback closes the door and disappears into the darkness behind the ambulance. Mr. Dangers hesitates; the wounded kid in the rear comes to his mind; he places the ambulance in gear and it lurches forward, towards Güiria and life. Late in the morning next day Mr. Danger and Doctor Melquiades start their journey back in the now empty ambulance. The kid made it. He had lost a lot of blood and was weak but his youth and vitality will give him a new start in life. Mr. Danger Had narrated the hunchback incident to Doctor Melquiades who found it hard to believe. "Then Chacón was right," concludes the doctor. "Chacón full of it," retorts the Gringo. "Old man were nice; he help I drive truck." "But, getting off like that in the middle of nowhere?" "He like walking, I reckon." Mr. danger drives; Doctor Chacón now sits up front with his arm hanging out of the door; a two liter bottle of good rum sits between them, Mr. Danger's token of appreciation to the hunchback. "You knows where Vista Hermosa be?" "Right behind that hill," answers the doctor, amused at Mr. Danger's intentions and very curious about meeting the hunchback; "Maybe Mr. Danger is right; maybe Chacón is full of it," ponders Doctor Melquiades. Under giant and lustrous trees lies a small caserío, just a few shacks dispersed among the huge trunks. The ambulance pulls off the road and stops in front of a small bar/store combo, its patrons sitting on the porch, wearily watching the new comers. Doctor Melquiades and Mr. Danger get out and approach; the bottle of rum is under Mr. Danger's beefy arm. Doctor Melquiades does the talking. "We are looking for an old man called Juan Castro; he wears a big hat, and is kind of a hunchback." His inquiry is met by blank expressions, as if he were speaking like Mr. Danger does. The doctor tries to be more specific. "He was on the road last night...” An old man, brown and wrinkled like a prune, shuffles forward. His eyes are malaria yellow. He crosses himself before speaking. "We buried old Juan Castro two years ago."