Hot Ice

town quickly. There were a few little shops with handicrafts arranged in the windows. Colorful hammocks hung on hooks from porch rails and a row of shark’s teeth were lined on a stoop. Obviously, the people were accustomed to tourists and their odd penchant for the useless. The scent of fish was strong as he wandered down toward the wharf. There, he admired the boats, the coils of rope, and the nets spread out to dry.
    If he could figure out a way to keep some fish on ice, he’d bargain for it. Miracles could be accomplished with a fish over an open fire if one had the right touch. But first, there was a matter of the miles he had yet to travel up the coast, and how he was going to go about it.
    He’d already decided that going by water would be the quickest and most practical way. From the map in the guidebook, he’d seen that the Canal des Pangalanes could take them all the way to Maroantsetra. From there, they’d have to travel through the rain forest.
    He’d feel safer there, with the heat, the humidity, and the plentiful cover. The canal was the best route. All he needed was a boat, and someone with the skill to guide it.
    Spotting a small shop, he wandered over. He hadn’t seen a paper in days and decided to buy one even if he had to depend on Whitney to translate. As he reached for the door, he felt a quick flash of disorientation. From within, he heard the unmistakable tough-rock sound of Pat Benatar.
    “Hit me with your best shot!” she challenged as he pushed the door open.
    Behind the counter stood a tall, lanky man whose dark skin gleamed with sweat as he moved to the beat pouring out of a small, expensive portable stereo. While his feet shuffled, he polished the glass in the windows to the side of the counter and belted out the lyrics with Benatar.
    “Fire awaaay!” he shouted, then turned as the door slammed behind Doug. “Good afternoon.” The accent was decidedly French. The faded T-shirt he wore read City College of New York. The grin was youthful and appealing. On the shelves behind him were trinkets, linens, cans, and bottles. A general store in Nebraska wouldn’t have been better stocked.
    “May I interest you in some souvenirs?”
    “CCNY?” Doug questioned as he crossed the bare wood floor.
    “American!” Reverently, the man turned Benatar down to a muffled roar before he held out his hand. “You are from the States?”
    “Yeah. New York.”
    The young man lit up like a firecracker. “New York! My brother”—he tugged on the T-shirt—“he goes to college there. Student exchange. Going to be a lawyer, yes sir. A hotshot.”
    It was impossible not to grin. With his hand still caught in the man’s grasp, Doug shook lightly. “I’m Doug Lord.”
    “Jacques Tsiranana. America.” Obviously reluctant, he released Doug’s hand. “I go there myself next year to visit. You know Soho?”
    “Yeah.” And until that moment, he hadn’t realized just how much he missed it. “Yeah, I know Soho.”
    “I have a picture.” Digging in behind the counter, he brought out a bent snapshot. It showed a tall, muscular man in jeans standing in front of Tower Records.
    “My brother, he buys the records and puts them on the tapes for me. American music,” Jacques pronounced. “Rock and roll. How about that Benatar?”
    “Great pipes,” Doug agreed, handing the snapshot back.
    “So what are you doing here, when you could be in Soho?”
    Doug shook his head. There had been times he’d asked himself the same question. “My, ah, lady and I are traveling up the coast.”
    “Vacation?” He took a quick glimpse at Doug’s clothes. He was dressed like the humblest Malagasy peasant, but there was a look of sharp authority in his eye.
    “Yeah, like a vacation.” If you didn’t count the guns and the running. “I thought it might give her a kick to go up the canal, you know, scenic.”
    “Pretty country,” Jacques agreed. “How far?”
    “To here.” Doug drew the map out of his pocket and ran a finger along the route. “All the way to Maroantsetra.”
    “Some kick,” Jacques murmured. “Two days, two long days. In places the canal is hard to navigate.” His teeth shone. “Crocodiles.”
    “She’s tough,” he claimed, thinking of that very sensitive, very soft skin. “You know the kind who digs camping out and open fires. What we need is a good guide and a strong boat.”
    “You pay in American dollars?”
    Doug narrowed his eyes. It looked like luck was indeed