shanties of plastic and tin, splashing in puddles and stepping over a few drunks passed out in the alleys. There weren’t any sidewalks in the shitty Shangri-La.
The Vicuña Roja sign showed just that—a hand-painted red animal that looked a lot like a llama, its larger, domesticated cousin. Jack’s original schedule precluded a visit here, but with the rain knocking down his plans for the day, he figured it might be the only place in town to find a room for the night. He headed inside. Heavy chopper blades beat the air in the distance.
The hotel’s first floor was a run-down little bar, dark and depressing, and stinking of cigar smoke. Waylon Jennings twanged on the jukebox speakers. Dusty trophies of stuffed rainbow trout, geese, and ducks hung on the smoke-stained walls.
The Anglo man behind the bar was leaning on the counter, fixated on a newspaper and nursing a whiskey. A cigar smoldered in an ashtray near his elbow.
Jack had shaken off as much rain as he could outside, but he was still dripping onto the faded vinyl flooring.
A mestizo woman with bad makeup, a too-small dress, and the figure of a Christmas ham sat in the back corner with a brooding Quechua man seated next to her, his arms folded across his round belly, staring bleary-eyed at the wall. Tall bottles of Peruvian beer stood on the table in front of them. She flashed Jack a propositional smile through heavy red lipstick, but he declined with his own polite smile and a slight shake of his head.
Another patron in a cheap suit and cowboy boots was passed out in the other corner, snoring on his folded arms. A half-empty bottle of sweet, clear pisco sat on the table near his head.
Jack approached the barkeep, still bent over his newspaper. His long dark hair and beard were shot through with gray. He closed the paper and rose up, his keen brown eyes drawing a quick assessment.
“American?” It wasn’t really a question.
“That obvious, eh?” Jack extended his hand. “Name’s Jack.”
“Sands.” They shook. A firm grip. He was an inch taller than Jack and leaner, but not in a good way. The crow’s-feet around his eyes were deeper than they should have been. Busted capillaries around his nose and rosacea on his forehead told the rest of the story. Sands was an alcoholic.
“Where you from, Jack?”
“Virginia.” Jack avoided references to D.C. whenever possible, especially with strangers.
“Whereabouts in Virginia?”
“Alexandria.”
“Never been. So what the hell brings you to this shithole corner of the world?”
“You talking about the bar or the town?”
Despite the alcoholism, Sands looked like he could still handle himself in a fight. But Jack was beyond caring what anybody thought about him.
Luckily, Sands laughed. “Same difference.” He eyed Jack again. “Nobody ever comes here unless they got a story.”
“Maybe so.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. There was something weighing on Sands like a lead blanket. “But the people who stay here have got the best ones.”
That earned Jack a begrudging smile. His eyes searched Jack’s for a moment, but for what, Jack couldn’t tell.
“Pull up a stool. I’ve got cold beer and warm whiskey and all the time in the world. What’s your poison?”
Jack normally didn’t drink this early, but he was angry and depressed at the prospect of the climb delayed.
“Beer.”
“Dark or light?”
“Wet.”
“Coming right up, pardner.”
Sands reached down and pulled a beer out of the ice and popped the top as Jack grabbed a stool.
The distant helicopter now roared overhead, its staccato thunder hammering the air and rattling windows. It passed by quickly.
“What the hell was that?”
“A Halo,” Sands said. “Big Russian bird. Mi-26. A real heavy hauler.”
“What’s it doing up here?”
“Haulin’ heavy shit would be my guess.”
“For who?”
“Whoever needs heavy shit.”
Jack started to push back but decided he really didn’t care.
“I think I’m gonna need a room.”
“Hourly or nightly?”
“Nightly. You got one?”
Sands set the Cusqueña Dorada in front of Jack. “Depends. You got cash?”
“Yeah.”
Sands grinned, flashing tobacco-stained teeth. “Then I’ve got a room. How long are you staying?”
“Depends on the rain.”
“Supposed to stop tonight.”
Jack did a quick calculation. If he could hike tomorrow, he could pull out on the noon bus the day after. His return ticket out of Lima was open-ended. He just needed to change the reservation.
“Two nights.”
“That’ll be . . . fifty, American.”
“Each night?”
“Total.”
Jack lifted his beer. “Deal.”
Sands clinked his whiskey glass against the bottle. “Skol.”
Jack took a long pull as Sands tossed his off in a single slug.
“Carlita back in the corner will take care of you right nice,