“Him and Dutchie stole that dredge,” Franz said. “They were working the rig for the owner, but figured there was more in it for them with him dead. Not that he was some kind of angel. I mean, for years these guys poisoned a whole branch of the Beni, looking for gold. Everything’s dead there now, for many, many kilometers up that river. They got the tribes killing each other for territory; hell, these two were the ones who pushed the Tatinga so close to us. Now we’re competing for game like we never have before.”

“What about the law?” I said. “Isn’t someone going to come after these guys?”

Franz looked at me with something like pity. “Do Americans think there are laws in the jungle? Huh. Interesting.” He took a contemplative swallow of his brandy. “Nobody steals canoes. That’s the only law I know of.”

“What about the gold? Why are they bothering with game?” Omar said.

“They hit some veins early on, but ever since they killed their boss, nothing. Not one gram. It’s like they cursed themselves. So they’re back here, hunting whatever they can, steering clear of the Tatinga, who’d kill them on sight.”

A gust of relatively cool, wet air swept up from the river. The moon slipped behind the clouds, and in minutes a savage onslaught of tropical rain sealed us in the wall-less bar.

“It’s different now, Omar,” Franz continued. “Remember when we were fifteen, sixteen? Hunting trips were a day, maybe two, then we were home. And the fish! We could scoop them out of the water with our hands. Not anymore. Now, to find tapir, peccary, boar, spider monkey, anything, we have to go deep in. We’re gone a week, sometimes two.”

Omar peered at the shoreline; the lights of the dredge were smeared looking through the downpour. “How many men are with them?”

“I counted five this time. Sometimes he’s got a dozen, more. They’re animals, every one of them.”

Franz woke Panchito; they took off in a trot in the rain toward the longhouse. Finally we were alone, nursing an odd quiet between us. I couldn’t get the words, we’re gone a week, sometimes two, out of my head. I took a big swallow of brandy, it burned a sweet, hot path down my throat.

“What if we took a trip together? You could take me to the mahogany grove.”

He gave me a quizzical look. “You think knowing everything is good, Lily. Is that an American thing?”

“What’s wrong with wanting to know everything?”

A huge beetle, maybe two inches long, landed on the bar near my glass. It lifted half its carapace and fluttered it as if to dry the shiny brown wing from its flight through the rain, rotated its antennae as if sensing us there, then lifted and shook its other wing.

“I’m protecting you,” he said more softly.

I took a few more sips as a balm on the distance between us, which I didn’t anticipate, then held out my empty glass. He poured me just a finger more, holding my gaze.