Judas Journey. Lee Roberts
dumb as hell. They didn’t pay no attention to the mahogany, and Simpson didn’t tell anybody about it—just us. He was trying to find somebody he could trust to go in with him, and we show up. He made a map of the location and he wants to go back, to see if there’s a way to get the wood out to the coast, but he don’t have enough money, and besides it’s a job for at least three men—the supplies to carry, and all. There’s a road part way, but it peters out and we’ll have to walk in. There ain’t no roads back there, Simpson said, and no places for a plane to land, just swamp and hills and jungle. But it’s there, Rack, all that mahogany. Think of it—the money!”
A little of Pete’s excitement was communicated to Ramsey. He had respect for Simpson’s education and intelligence, and he gazed thoughtfully at the sleeping geologist. “We’ll talk to him when he’s sober,” he told Pete. “But we can’t leave him here.”
“He’s got a room upstairs,” Pete said. “He told me he’d been here a week.”
Ramsey reached into Simpson’s coat pocket, found a tabbed key and said to Pete, “Two-o-six.” He paid the check and a sympathetic waiter told them they could take their friend up a back stairway. They got Simpson out of the bar, ignoring the amused glances of the other patrons, and up the stairs. Pete supported Simpson while Ramsey unlocked the door of room 206. As they laid Simpson on the bed, his wallet fell from his coat pocket. It lay open on the floor and when Ramsey picked it up he saw the contents of two cellophaned sections. A card in one certified that Nevil H. Simpson, of St. Louis, Missouri, was a member in good standing of the Geological Society of America. The other compartment held a faded snapshot of a pretty dark-haired woman in a white dress standing in bright sunlight beside a palm tree with the white roofs of a tropical village on the far hills behind her.
Pete peered over Ramsey’s shoulder. “Must be his wife.”
“Ex-wife,” Ramsey said. “Pretty, huh? Must have been taken in the days before she divorced him, before she decided she wanted to settle down in one place.” He sighed and replaced the wallet in the coat pocket. They undressed Simpson to his underwear and covered him up. As they left, they heard him mumble, “Fabulous . . . Virgin . . .”
The clerk called them at six o’clock, as they had instructed. Sleepily and mechanically they dressed in their working clothes of blue jeans, flannel shirts and heavy shoes. Years of conditioning had hardened them to getting up and going to work after a few hours sleep, or no sleep at all, often with wicked hangovers. It was part of the life they led, and they accepted it without complaint. Ramsey had long ago learned that there was a price for everything and that it was merely a matter of choice and how much you paid, in one way or another, for pleasures of goods received. This morning he was tired, but his head was clear, and he was faintly annoyed to realize that he was thinking of the little dancer at the Jungle Tavern. What was her name? Sara something.
Pete yawned, picked up his leather jacket and metal lunch box. “Well, come on. If we wanna eat, we gotta work.”
They left the room they shared and as they passed Simpson’s door, Pete paused and listened a moment. “Not a peep,” he said, grinning. “He’s still dead to the world.”
Ramsey merely grunted. It was funny, he thought, still thinking of the dancer. She had let him pick her up, and then pulled the innocent, hard-to-get act.
In the restaurant down stairs they ate ham and eggs, fried potatoes, brown bread toast and drank hot coffee from thick mugs. The Gulf Hotel catered to oil field workers, and the cook filled their lunch boxes with sandwiches, pie and coffee. Then they went out into the fresh morning and caught a bus to the field.
It was almost six o’clock when they returned to the hotel, tired and muddy. After a bath and a change of clothes they went down to the bar. Simpson was sitting at a table with a full glass before him. He stood up as they entered and smiled a little ruefully. He was wearing the same blue suit, but his shirt was fresh and white, his yellow mustache was neatly trimmed, and his blue eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were bright and clear.
Pete waved, grinning, “Hi, Simpson.”
Ramsey thought with affection that if Pete had been a dog his tail would be wagging. Life was simple for Pete, and he didn’t ask or expect much. He was friendly and easy-going, but fiercely loyal to Ramsey. On a number of occasions Pete’s hard fists had helped to get them out of unfriendly and even dangerous situations in which they sometimes found themselves, usually in a bar.
“Good evening,” Simpson said in his grave voice. “I have been waiting for you, to apologize for my disgraceful conduct last night, and to thank you for putting me to bed, where I most certainly belonged. I am afraid that I sometimes misjudge my capacity for alcohol, especially after a dry time in the field. Who paid the check last night?”
“I did,” Ramsey said, “but forget it.”
“Thank you, Rackwell. I wish to reimburse you.”
Ramsey said, “You bought us plenty of drinks in Pittsburgh.”
“Then I insist upon buying now. Will you join me?”
They ordered drinks—another Scotch and water for Simpson, Bourbon and soda for Ramsey and Pete. As Ramsey relaxed in the chair he became aware of the tiredness of his muscles and he told himself that right after dinner he would go to bed. Then he thought of the dancer, Sara—what was her last name? Colvin, that was it—and he stirred restlessly.
Simpson said, “Have you two thought over what I told you last night?”
Ramsey smiled. “I’m afraid not. After all, you didn’t give us a very clear picture.”
Simpson smiled wryly. “Again I apologize. But what I told you is true. It seemed natural to tell you and Pete. I’m all alone now; my friends are scattered around the globe. My wife, as you know, divorced me and I can’t say that I blame her. A woman wants roots and security.” He paused and sipped moodily at his drink. “I presume I have told you about Angeline?”
“Yes,” Ramsey said, remembering the days in Pittsburgh.
Simpson sighed, “Angeline wanted a permanent home, and children—all the trite and maybe wonderful things that every woman wants. I don’t blame her. But geology is my work, my life, and I had to go where the work was. Oh, I could have taken a professorship at some university, and Angeline would have loved being a faculty wife, but I guess I’m just a rover at heart, like you, Rackwell, and you, Pete. The far horizon, you know, the view from the next mountain-top, the turn in the road and all that foolish and romantic nonsense.” He drank again. “Maybe I’m sorry, now that I’m getting along in years. I still write to Angeline, and she writes to me. She’s teaching natural history in a high school in St. Louis, and living with her parents.” He reached inside his coat. “I have a photo of Angeline, taken years ago in Brazil. . . .”
“What about the mahogany?” Ramsey asked gently.
“Ah, yes.” Simpson’s hand came away from the coat pocket and he wiped his glasses on a paper napkin. “It’s there, Rackwell, truly. A virgin stand. Acres of mahogany trees, sixty to eighty feet tall, in a remote and desolate country. I staked it out and made a preliminary survey. There will be complications—with the Mexican government, for one—but they can be worked out. The important thing now is to make a complete survey and plan a method of transportation to the coast. We will need financial help, but that can come later. It won’t be easy, but if we succeed I would not attempt to estimate our gain. . . .”
Simpson paused, hooked the glasses over his ears, and continued in a soft voice. “Maybe Angeline would take me back then, if I would settle down and live the kind of life she wants. With the mahogany money, we could do that.” He smiled at Ramsey and Pete. “You see? This means much more to me than mere financial gain.”
“I see,” Ramsey said. He had never thought of mahogany before, except as a wood from which the costlier furniture was made, but listening to Nevil Simpson’s precise voice had given it an illusive glamor. “How much would it cost?”
Simpson