“Sorry,” Franz said as he pulled out the knife and returned it to Omar. “She’s not herself. She wanted this to be the one. So did I.”

“It’s all right.” Carlos reinstalled himself in his seat next to Dutchie. “It’s understandable.”

Doña Antonia strode bruskly down the bar, wiping it clean, gathering plates. The place was starting to clear out, families drifting off to their huts, children held tight to their mothers’ skirts. “So you’re almost finished here, you two?”

Fat Carlos gave her a look. “Well, that’s not very friendly of you, Doña Antonia. We were all just catching up, getting to know one another. You know, I’m remembering more about Omar, here. Didn’t you tell me he hunted with the Tatinga? Omar, is that true? That’s impressive. That’s remarkable. You must speak Tatinga, then?”

Omar nodded, his own knife glinting from its hook on his belt.

“You must have gotten to know them pretty well. All their jungle secrets and so forth.”

Omar said nothing.

“That Beya. That batshit-crazy shaman. How well do you know her?”

“As well as anyone.”

“Now she,” he said, warming to his third glass of brandy. “She scares me. Got that look in her eye, like she’d kill you and it’d be nothing. Just a day’s work. Cast a spell on you, and you’d wake up with no teeth, your nose cut off and up your ass, some freaky shit like that.”

Dutchie guffawed, smacking his hands together with glee. “Nose up your ass, you’re so fucking funny, man. I love this guy.”

Carlos ignored him.

“She’s helped a lot of people here,” Omar said.

“Maybe. Maybe she’s changed. I’m sure not gonna visit her and find out.”

“Men,” Doña Antonia said, grabbing their glasses from them. “Leave us.”

“Whoa!” Fat Carlos’s hands flew up. “Okay, then. Overstayed our welcome. Clearly.” Grabbing the bottle of brandy, he pushed himself to his feet, wiping greasy fingers on his many-pocketed pants. The jaguar pelt rippled in the gloom. “Dutchie, shall we?”

Tipsily, they headed off down the bank to the shore, Dutchie dragging the squeaky cart laden with the slowly struggling tortoises, Fat Carlos arm in arm with Carmelita, who tottered, loose ankled, on her platform sandals. A clot of chickens scattered in front of them; the men howled in mock surprise, pausing to take potshots. The birds exploded in little fireworks of yellow, red, and white feathers, their heads and feet flying every which way. Dutchie squealed and blasted off a few more shots up into the starlit sky for good measure.

Under the cloak of darkness, the rusted hulk of a boat strung with Christmas lights looked almost pretty reflected in the oily black river.

Doña Antonia poked at Panchito, dead asleep on folded arms at the bar. He swatted her away and turned his head, resettling like a cat. She swore a fantastic string of curses as she wiped the bar one last time, then headed up the hill, the silver in her gray braids glinting in the moonlight as she walked. Only Omar, his brothers, and I remained at the bar.