Hazards
Hazards
Copyright © 2009 by Mike Resnick. All rights reserved.
Dust Jacket Copyright © 2009 by Bob Eggleton
Interior design Copyright © 2009 by Desert Isle Design, LLC.
All rights reserved.
Electronic Edition
ISBN
978-1-59606-357-0
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
www.subterraneanpress.com
Portions of this novel appeared in
Argosy, Subterranean, Adventure
, and
Son of Retro Pulp Tales.
Table of Contents
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Erich von Horst
, a con man’s con man.
Major Theodore Dobbins
, late of His Majesty’s Armed Forces, and more recently wanted in nine African nations for dealing in certain perishable commodities.
Baroness Schimmelmetz
, whose inheritance of $800 million does tend to offset some of her less desirable features, such as her face, her body, and her personality.
Jasper McCorkle
, who has modest plans to become the Emperor of Machu Picchu.
Rupert Cornwall
, who doesn’t travel quite as much as our hero, but is currently wanted by the police of three different continents.
Rama
, the Bird Girl.
Bella
, the Other Bird Girl.
Dr. Mirbeau
, who has found a profitable new use for science on his secret island.
Valeria
, a high priestess who is dressed for extremely warm weather.
Henry
, formerly of New Jersey, presently the god of a thoroughly lost continent.
Merry Bunta
, a charming girl who has perhaps unfairly high standards for her suitors’ intelligence.
José Alvarez
, one of many San Palmero presidential aspirants.
Culamara
, who is either a naked goddess or a naked lady of the evening, or possibly both.
Capturin’ Clyde Calhoun
, famed the world over for bringing ’em back alive. Not intact, but alive.
The Scorpion Lady
, an Oriental criminal mastermind with a truly exceptional pair of lungs.
Bubbles
, an anaconda with an attitude.
And our narrator, The Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones,
a handsome, noble and resourceful Christian gentlemen who has certain unresolved disagreements with nine separate South American governments over the finer points of the law.
To Carol, as always
And to B. J. Galler-Smith,
a fine writer and a finer friend
El Presidente
My first impression of South America back in 1934 wasn’t a whole lot different from my strongest memories of North America, Africa, Asia and Europe: a six-by-eight-foot room, a canvas cot along one wall, steel bars on the windows, and lousy grub.
There are some things that are the same the world over. Most people are friendly and trusting folks, they’re approachable even when you don’t speak the lingo, and they all love an honest game of chance. They also tend to get ornery as all get-out when you trifle with the laws of statistical probability by gently inserting an extra couple of aces into the game, which I did about ten minutes after stepping off the boat from Spain, and they tend to have the same disheartening way of demonstrating their displeasure.
Which is how I wound up in the calaboose in Ferdinand, the capital city of San Palmero. Over the years I had become quite a connoisseur of jails. This one didn’t have the quality of cuisine I found in the jails of Europe, but on the other hand it wasn’t anywhere near as crowded as the jails in China or as run-down and badly in need of repair as the jails of Mozambique and South Africa. The guards weren’t bad sorts, and as they happily confided, they belonged to the one sector of a sluggish economy that had always boasted full employment during the reigns of the last few rulers.
It was on my third morning there, while I was still awaiting a hearing before the local magistrate (which the guards assured me might well take place in something less than five years, especially — and here they kind of reached into their pockets and jingled their coins — if I could find some way to encourage them to bring my situation to his attention), when I suddenly got a roommate.
He was tall and lean and kind of swarthy, with a bushy black moustache, and he looked like he’d been roughly handled along the way.
“Good morning, Señor,” he said as the door was locked behind him. “I am sorry to intrude upon your privacy.”
“Truth to tell, I could use a bit of company,” I replied. “It gets a little lonely in here from time to time with nothing to comfort me except my copy of the Good Book. What’s your name, friend?”
“José Juan Domingo Garcia de Alvarez,” he said.
“That’s quite a mouthful,” I said. “You got any problem if I just call you Joe?”
“No,” he said. “But why not José?”
“Because so far, counting poker players and constables and prison guards, I’ve met thirteen citizens of your fair country and eleven of ’em have been named José.”
“It is a popular name,” he agreed. “Not as popular as Maria, but still…”
“You got a lot of guys called Maria, do you?” I asked.
“Women, senor. Hardly any men are called Maria.”
“Good,” I said. “I got enough problems as it is.”
“And what is your own name?”
“I’m the Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones,” I told him, “formerly of Moline, Illinois, and currently a citizen of the world.” Which was officially true, and certainly sounded better than saying that I had been banished from 33 separate countries due to our different interpretations of the finer points of the law, and had been forcibly requested to leave the last four continents I’d visited. Truth to tell, I was fast running out of major land masses that would tolerate my presence, which is why I wasn’t in no hurry to walk into the local magistrate’s courtroom.
“Of what church are you a minister?” asked Joe.
“The Tabernacle of Saint Luke,” I said. “Donations gladly accepted.”
“I have never heard of it.”
“Well, it ain’t quite got itself built yet,” I admitted. “I’m still scouting out locations.”
“How long have you been looking?” he asked.
“Oh, maybe ten or twelve years,” I said. “You can’t just rush into these things.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of Saint Luke,” he said.
“You’re talking to him,” I said. “You’d be surprised how calling it the Tabernacle of Saint Lucifer puts contributors off their feed.”
“Forgive an impertinence,” said Joe, “but just what religion is it that you practice?”
“A little something me and the Lord worked out betwixt ourselves of a Sunday afternoon back in Moline,” I said. “It ain’t got no name yet, though I been toying with calling it Lukeism after myself since I’m the guy who thunk it up.”
“So God really had nothing to do with it,” he said with a smile.
“Of course He did,” I shot back. “But He’s got a ton of religions named after Him already, and when all is said and done He’s a pretty modest critter.”
“I understand completely, Doctor Jones,” he said. “How did a man of the cloth come to be put in jail?”
“A simple misunderstanding, nothing more,” I said.
“You don’t seem too distressed about it.”
“I view it as an occupational hazard,” I answered. “It happens all the time.”
“I never realized that preaching was such a dangerous profession,” said Joe.
“It all depends on how you go about collecting donations for the poorbox,” I explained. “And how about you, Brother Alvarez? What are you in for?”
“I tried to assassinate El Presidente.”
“El Presidente?” I repeated. “Ain’t that a racehorse?”
“It is Ferdinand Salivar, the President of the Republic of San Palmero.”
“Now that’s a curious coincidence,” I said. “Your president is toting around the same name as the city we’re in.”
“It’s no coincidence at all,” answered Joe. “He renamed it Ferdinand when he overthrew the last dictator. It used to be Roberto.”
“Is that an old and honored tradition here — naming the capital city after yourself once you get to be the president?”
“Only for the past seven months.”
“So it’s already been Roberto and Ferdinand in just seven months?” I asked.
He shook his head. “It’s been Roberto, Ferdinand, Gabriel, Antonio, Luis, and six Josés.”
“I can see you practice a swift and vigorous game of politics in San Palmero,” I said. “Back where I come from they told us that any boy could grow up to become president, but mighty few of us were encouraged to do so without the benefit of an election.”
“You were not faced by a government that suspends all civil rights, taxes the people at an astronomical rate, executes its opposition without benefit of trial, and allows the president to loot the treasury at will.”
“Well, it does go a long way toward explaining why so many of your countrymen want to be president,” I allowed. “Were you another candidate?”
“Certainly not,” said Joe with all the dignity he could muster on the spur of the moment. “All I want to do is rid the country of its current tyrant. I have no desire whatsoever to rule San Palmero. I would remain in power only for a brief transition period, and would hold democratic elections and reinstate the constitution as soon as possible.”
“That’s right noble of you, Brother Alvarez,” I said. “How long do you figure this here brief transition period will last?” I asked.
“No more than twelve or fifteen years,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps twenty.” Then he paused and added, “Thirty at the outside.”
Well, I could see right off that I was in with a deep political thinker who planned far ahead and didn’t believe in rushing changes. I didn’t know exactly where he stood on the political spectrum, but I finally decided that he was a new type of conservative who wanted to conserve just about everything except maybe the president’s hide.
In midafternoon we heard a bunch of yelling and shooting outside, and about half an hour later the guards pulled a bunch of us out of our cells and marched us to the prison workshop, where they handed us a bucket of black paint and a bunch of brushes. Then still another guard brung over a pile of wooden boards and laid ’em down on a work table.
“Start painting,” he said.
“You want all them boards painted black?” I said.
“No,” he said. “I want you to paint
‘Welcome to Umberto, Capital of
San
Palmero’
on each of them. Have them done by dinner.”
He left, and I turned to Joe. “I guess that’s good news, Brother Alvarez,” I said. “It looks like they replaced old Ferdinand after all.”
“It is bad news, my friend,” said Joe. “I know Umberto Morales. He will be an even worse despot.”
“Maybe he’ll have a change of heart now that he’s got the top spot,” I said.
Well, maybe he would have had a change of heart and maybe he wouldn’t have, but as it happened, Fate didn’t give him no time to change more than his clothes. The next morning, right after breakfast, we were taken back to the workshop, where we painted up a few dozen signs announcing that the town was now Jesus, which at least gave the place a nice religious tone. We got to take the night off when it became José again, and they pulled out a bunch of old signs from some garage or attic.
By noon of the next day it was Riccardo, and that evening, before poor Riccardo even had time to eat his first meal in office, he was forcibly retired and Joe and I painted a few dozen more signs telling everyone that they were now entering the friendly city of Miguel, and I found myself starting to wonder why San Palmero didn’t produce more painters of worldwide renown, given how much free training they were supplied.
“I can see why you guys have given up on elections,” I said as Joe and I were chowing down our dinner. “The country could go broke just printing up the ballots.”
“I know you are just trying to cheer me up, my friend,” he answered, “but the situation is dire.”
“Miguel ain’t no better than Riccardo and the others, huh?”
“Worse,” he said. “I am forced to the conclusion that I am the only man fit to lead San Palmero out of the wilderness, and here I am, locked away in durance vile.”
“Try to look at the bright side, Brother Alvarez,” I said. “At least your current position ain’t such that people are lining up to take it away from you.”
“But the situation grows more desperate by the day,” he said unhappily. “The people are suffering, the trains are not running, the mines are not producing, and worst of all, the treasury is growing smaller with each passing moment.”
“Yeah, I can see where that makes being the president a little less desirable,” I said sympathetically.
“True,” he agreed. “Yet it is my sacred duty to save my country from this unending string of petty dictators.”
“I’m right favorably impressed with you, Brother Alvarez,” I said. “Especially given how little might be left in the treasury.”
“When Destiny calls, a man of honor must answer,” said Joe. “Besides, after the tax rate reaches 100%, I can always confiscate the better farms and factories.”
“It’s comforting to know that a man of vision will find a way,” I said.
“I owe it to my country,” he said humbly.
About two hours later we heard more shots, and then still more, and it kept on all night, which made sleeping kind of difficult, and then, just after sunrise, all the shooting stopped and it was suddenly so quiet you could have heard a pin drop if there’d been anyone around to drop one.
José — the guard, not my cellmate — came over a few minutes later and unlocked the door.
“More painting?” I said.
“No, Senor,” he said. “You are free to go.”
“I am?”
He nodded. “The magistrate was killed last night. In fact, the whole government was killed last night. There’s no sense keeping you here any longer.”
“Well, be sure to thank the new government for me,” I said, stepping out of the cell.
“I can’t,” said José.
“You ain’t on speaking terms with them?”
“It is difficult to speak to the dead, Señor.”
“I thought you told me the
old
government was dead.”
“They are
all
dead,” said José.
“Then I am free, too?” said Joe.
“I suppose so,” said José with a shrug. “My wife is the prison cook. I am taking her to the seashore, so there will be no one left to feed you.”
Joe joined me, and we walked out the front door of the jailhouse together and out into the street. Suddenly a single shot rang out, and Joe dropped in his tracks like a ton of bricks.
“Death to all tyrants!” cried a pretty young woman, stepping out of the shadows with a smoking pistol in her hands.
“He wasn’t no tyrant, ma’am,” I said. “At least not yet, anyway.”
“Well, he would almost certainly have been a tyrant if he’d gotten the chance,” she said without much show of regret. Suddenly she began eyeing me suspiciously. “And who are you?”
“I’m the Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones at your service, ma’am,” I said. “Weddings done cheap, and given the circumstances in these here parts, I’m willing to make a group rate for funerals. Who have I got the pleasure of speaking to?”
“I am Consuela Fransicsa Diego,” she said. “Whose side are you on?”
“From what little I been able to learn, neither side’s got a lot to recommend it these days, what with all of them being dead and such,” I said reasonably. “You got any other side I can choose?”
“Maria!” she hollered. “Raquel! Did you hear?”
Two more good-looking women stepped out into the street, each carrying a rifle.
“What do you think?” said the one that answered to Maria.
“He doesn’t carry a weapon,” said Raquel. “That’s a step in the right direction.”
“He looks like a simpleton to me,” said Maria.
“I don’t know,” said Raquel, studying my face. “He’s got a sly, shifty look about his eyes, and his weakness of character shines through like a beacon.”
“What do you think, Consuela?”
“I am trying to make up my mind,” she said. Suddenly she turned to me. “What do you think of San Palmero, Señor Jones?”
“Well, truth to tell, I ain’t seen an awful lot of it, except through the jailhouse window,” I admitted. “But you seem like pleasant sorts, at least when you ain’t blowing each other to Kingdom Come, which is just about all the time now that I come to mull on it.”
“But you like the country?”
“I like it just fine, except for all the bullets flying through the air,” I said.
“And you would be willing to stay here?”
“Sure,” I answered. “Though preferably not the same way Ferdinand and Umberto and Riccardo and all them Josés are staying here.”