Hot Ice

rivers here are full of crocks.”
    “I guess that kills the idea of skinny-dipping.”
    “We’re bound to run into some of the natives. There are several distinct tribes, and according to this everybody’s friendly.”
    “That’s good news. Do you have a projection as to how long it should be before we get to where ‘X’ marks the spot?”
    “A week, maybe two.” Leaning back, he lit a cigarette. “How do you say diamond in French?”
    “Diamant.” Narrowing her eyes, she studied him. “Did this Dimitri have anything to do with stealing diamonds out of France and smuggling them here?”
    Doug smiled at her. She was close, but not close enough. “No. Dimitri’s good, but he didn’t have anything to do with this particular heist.”
    “So it is diamonds and they were stolen.”
    Doug thought of the papers. “Depends on your point of view.”
    “Just a thought,” Whitney began, plucking the cigarette from him for a drag. “But have you ever considered what you’d do if there was nothing there?”
    “It’s there.” He blew out smoke and watched her with his clear, green eyes. “It’s there.”
    As always she found herself believing him. It was impossible not to. “What are you going to do with your share?”
    He stretched his legs onto the seat beside her and grinned. “Wallow in it.”
    Reaching in the bag, she plucked out a mango and tossed it to him. “What about Dimitri?”
    “Once I have the treasure, he can fry in hell.”
    “You’re a cocky sonofabitch, Douglas.”
    He bit into the mango. “I’m going to be a rich cocky sonofabitch.”
    Interested, she took the mango for a bite of her own. She found it sweet and satisfying. “Being rich’s important?”
    “Damn right.”
    “Why?”
    He shot her a look. “You’re speaking from the comfort of several billion gallons of fudge ripple.”
    She shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m interested in your outlook on wealth.”
    “When you’re rich and you play the horses and lose, you get ticked off because you lost, not because you blew the rent money.”
    “And that’s what it comes down to?”
    “Ever worried about where you were going to sleep at night, sugar?”
    She took another bite of fruit before handing it back to him. Something in his voice had made her feel foolish. “No.”
    She lapsed into silence for a time as the train rumbled on, stopping at stations while people filed on or filed off. It was already hot, almost airless inside. Sweat, fruit, dust, and grime hung heavily. A man in a white panama a few seats forward mopped at his face with a large bandana. Because she thought she recognized him from the zoma, Whitney smiled. He only pocketed the bandana and went back to his newspaper. Idly Whitney noticed it was English before she turned back to a study of the landscape.
    Grassy rolling hills raced by, almost treeless. Small villages or settlements were huddled here and there with thatch-roofed houses and wide barns positioned near the river. What river? Doug had the guidebook and could certainly tell her. She was beginning to understand he could give her a fifteen-minute lecture on it. Whitney preferred the anonymity of dirt and water.
    She saw no crisscross of telephone wires or power poles. The people living along these endless, barren stretches would have to be tough, independent, self-sufficient. She could appreciate that, admire it, without putting herself in their place.
    Though she was a woman who craved the city with its crowds and noise and pulse, she found the quiet and vastness of the countryside appealing. She’d never found it difficult to value both a wildflower and a full-length chinchilla. They both brought pleasure.
    The train wasn’t quiet. It rumbled and moaned and swayed while conversation was a constant babble. It smelled, not too unpleasantly as air drifted through the windows, of sweat. The last time she’d ridden a train had been on impulse, she recalled. She’d had an air-conditioned roomette that smelled of powder and flowers. It hadn’t been nearly as interesting a ride.
    A woman with a thumb-sucking baby sat across from them. He stared wide-eyed and solemn at Whitney before reaching out with a pudgy hand to grab her braid. Embarrassed, his mother yanked him away, rattling a quick stream of Malagasy.
    “No, no, it’s all right.” Laughing, Whitney stroked the baby’s cheek. His fingers closed around hers like a small vise. Amused, she signed for the mother to pass him to her.