This jibed with what Paul Garret had said, which was that I didn’t have to worry about any paperwork—no visa, no vaccine records, no customs form, nada. All I had to do was make sure I had $200,000 in cash when I landed.

On that note, Roth seemed pretty nonchalant about aiding and abetting the commission of an international crime. Had he done this before? Was this not as big a deal as I thought it was? Did this stuff happen all the time?

I buried these thoughts for the time being. Who knows how long I could keep this guy on topic. I asked, “Did this Papagayo tell you why I needed to get down here?”

“Something about a missing chick?”

“A missing doctor, actually.”

“Right, doctor.”

I added misogynist to Roth’s growing list of accolades and asked, “So, how well do you know this Papagayo?”

“Not great. He’s what you call a fixer. It’s hard to get anything done in these shithole countries, so you need a guy who speaks the language and can grease the right palms.”

“What’s he like?”

“Straight shooter, from what I could tell. Though rumor has it he’s got some serious skeletons in his closet.” He slapped me on the arm and said, “But don’t we all.”

Old Thomas probably would have told him, “If you touch my arm again, the next skeleton in my closet is going to be that I once beat someone to death with a travel magazine.” But New Thomas—Uncle Thomas—bit his bottom lip and nodded.

“Anyhow,” Roth continued, “Papagayo got all our permits squared away with the Ministry of Culture and Tourism and nailed down a few other things I was told would take months, if not years, to clear the red tape.” He paused a moment, then added, “Or should I say brown tape?”

No, you should not say that.

Ever.

“I wouldn’t worry much about anything,” Roth said. “Bolivia is shit poor. A little green goes a long way down here.”

“Good to know,” I said.

It was also good to know that in two short minutes, Jonathon Roth had checked all the boxes: narcissist, misogynist, elitist, and racist.

I needed to get away from him before I committed a felony or, at the very least, multiple misdemeanors, so I pulled my passport out of my pocket and offered it to him. He nodded behind him and said, “Give it to Blondie.”

“Right. Thanks.”

I ducked into the second row and waved for his assistant’s attention. It took a moment, but she finally glanced up from the blue binder. Her blond hair was cut short, there were dark circles under her eyes, and she had that slightly annoyed, just-get-through-this look of a mom with three kids at the grocery store.

“I’m Thomas,” I said.

“Libby,” she said dryly.