A HOT wind blew. All about there was the chatter of the macaws. From somewhere upriver came the tom-tom rhythms of the natives. Mr Lenihan, in his khakis, raised an iced gin to cool his cheek. He lounged heroically in the seedy bar — the ceiling fans churned, the lizards raced the walls — and he took a smoky glance from the one-legged chanteuse as she rose to sing. A Frenchie, in her 40s, a woman with a past and a Gitane rasp. Mr Lenihan swayed gently as she sang. No regrets…