Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [32]
Montoya had tried his best to attach himself to some of the thousands of credits that spilled from the bulging credcards of the laughing, wide-eyed visitors, but despite his most strenuous efforts he never seemed quite able to cement any valuable contacts. He was always a little too slow, a step behind, left fumbling for the right word or phrase, like the fisherman who never manages to pick the right lure to attract the fish that surround him on all sides.
But if he had failed to cash in on the bounty offered up by the regular loads of visitors, he had succeeded in making a few potentially useful contacts among the less reputable denizens of Golfito’s waterfront and rain forest suburbs. Among these sometimes agreeable, sometimes surly specimens was one who dangled promises in front of the struggling immigrant like sugarcease before a diabetic.
Surprisingly, the ever-hopeful but always realistic Montoya had received word that one of those promises might actually be on the verge of being fulfilled.
Ehrenhardt’s place hugged one of the steep rain forest–covered hillsides that rose above the town. As he rode the silent electric lift up to the gated enclosure, Montoya gazed down at the exquisite blue of the bay and the dark Pacific beyond. Monkeys, jaguars, quetzals, and all manner of exotic creatures inhabited the carefully preserved lands on both sides of the city. They interested him only to the extent of their cash value. Not that he would dare to compete with one of the known poacher consortiums. He knew better. Try, and he’d end up a skin at the bottom of somebody else’s trophy case.
A lanky Indian with a prominent sidearm and expressionless eyes met him at the top. Beckoning for the intimidated guest to follow, he escorted Cheelo out onto the porch that overlooked the sultry panorama below. Rudolf Ehrenhardt did not rise, but he did offer Montoya a drink from the iced pitcher sitting on the lovingly polished purpleheart table before him. He did not, however, gesture for his visitor to take a seat, and so Montoya remained standing, drink awkwardly in hand.
“Cheelo, my friend.” The fixer squinted behind his polarizing glasses, eyes completely hidden. It was like conversing with a machine, Montoya thought. “You really should invest in some nose work.”
Montoya flinched inwardly. It was not his fault that over the course of a difficult life that distinctive protuberance had been broken and reset more times than he cared to remember. “If I could afford it, Mr. Ehrenhardt, sir, I’d certainly consider it.”
The older man nodded approvingly. It was a good reply. “What if I were to tell you that the opportunity to afford that, and many other good things, has finally arrived for you?”
His guest put the already empty glass back down on the table. He had been unable to identify any of the contents beyond wonderful. “Ay, you know me, sir. I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
Ehrenhardt chuckled, enjoying himself, drawing out the suspense even though he was quite aware that his guest was in an agony of expectation. A harpy eagle soared past below, skimming the treetops in search of somnolent monkeys. Somewhere an indolent pet macaw screamed.
“You’ve always told me that you wanted to do something big.”
“Just the opportunity, Mr. Ehrenhardt, sir. All I want is for someone to give me a chance. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
The fixer smiled condescendingly. “There is an opening in Monterrey that has come about through…let us say attrition.” Ehrenhardt did not add the word natural before attrition, and Montoya did not question him as to the reason for the omission. “I have been asked to recommend someone suitable to take over the franchise. It is exceptionally lucrative, but it requires the attention