by A. D. Flint
He stared out at the thick, black clouds that had started to fill in the sky around lunchtime. Around the time he had started drinking, immediately after emerging from his motel bedroom. The atmosphere was close and uncomfortable. It suited him.
Lowering his gaze from the sky, he noticed a flyer pasted to the lamp post outside. It was advertising a rodeo that was coming to the big town nearby. He had seen others pasted all around town – the rodeo seemed like the only half-intriguing thing he had come across here. The few good memories Jake had of his father mostly involved watching old cowboy movies with him as a kid. His father had been crazy about them, and it was a Saturday-afternoon ritual between his lunchtime and evening sessions in the pub. His father’s all-time favourite was the one with Dean Martin playing the town drunk who finds redemption. If Jake’s father had possessed half the charm of a drunken Dean Martin maybe it would have worked out differently with his mother. Probably not though. Jake smiled grimly. It felt to him that for the last couple of days he had been blundering through the set of some low-rent Brazilian version of a Western that was falling a long way short of the simple code of good beats evil.
The sky darkened more and, when the rain came, it was sudden and hard, hammering the thin roof. The downpour was so intense Jake could scarcely see the other side of the street. The raindrops bounced and danced off the concrete and tarmac in an angry mist.
A tremendous crack directly overhead. The white glare of a lightning strike. The lights in the bar winked and wavered, the overhead wires in the street crackling and fizzing with static. The woman behind the bar cursed.
Cold air rushed in around Jake’s bare legs and he could feel the splashes from raindrops against his skin.
A giant fork of lightning burned up the sky somewhere outside the town, the deep roll of thunder following it. Within minutes there were torrents running down the gutters on either side of the road.
Jake was beginning to enjoy himself. This was breaking up the day.
A pickup drove past, up the hill into town, the tyres slashing rainwater aside.
Jake was about to take another lug, the beer bottle hovering at his lips. It was the same old, blue VW pickup he’d seen out at the farm. He was sure of it.
He put the bottle down and followed.
“Are you crazy?” the woman behind the bar called out. “You can’t walk out into that.”
The rain drummed into his skull, stinging his bare skin. His hair and clothes were plastered to his skin in seconds. The rain felt like it had blown in from somewhere colder than Brazil. He was shivering within a minute.
The market on the church square now looked deserted on the lower side, just the stallholders and a few strays sheltering beneath the stall tarpaulins.
The rain eased and visibility instantly went from twenty metres to fifty. He thought he could see the pickup parked at the end of a line of cars on a side street. Then the rain came back just as hard and the road disappeared.
He hugged his arms around him and walked toward the side street.
He saw the pickup, battered, with soaked litter and old feed sacks in the back. It was just houses on this street. Empty of people.
He went back to the square, checking the stalls along the upper side. At the end was a makeshift bar, a long, low marquee. Scaffolding poles draped with a heavy green tarpaulin, water pouring off the sides in tearing sheets. There were older men, drinking and smoking, and mixed groups of young people crowding in away from the open front of the marquee where the rain splashed in.
Jake pushed through the bodies and smoke, ignoring the looks and comments.
He found the farmer in a far corner, sitting with a couple of older men in plastic chairs. He was slouching, outstretched legs crossed at the ankles, a cigarette between his fingers, beer bottle hanging from the same hand. The sleeves of his checked shirt were rolled up to show strong forearms. A dripping stockman’s coat hung off one of the scaffolding poles behind him. His straw cowboy hat was pushed back on his head, water droplets clinging to the rim. He looked like a bit-part baddie from one of those Westerns Jake’s father had loved so much.
Jake stood in front of him. The farmer let his head drop to one side, staring past, chewing at the inside of his cheek.
“I can stand here for as long as it takes,” Jake said. He couldn’t stop himself shivering.
The farmer took a drag on his cigarette and his eyes rolled onto Jake. “Get out of my face, gringo,” he said thickly. “Go on, beat it, I’m relaxing.”
“Yeah, well, I bet those people out on your farm aren’t. Do your friends here know what’s going on out there?”
“Shut your mouth.” The control disappeared.
Jake had touched a nerve. Now he was getting somewhere. “You’ve got a hold on those people, haven’t you? And it’s not just your natural charm, is it?”
“You dare come in here? You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” The farmer rose from his plastic chair and jabbed a finger at Jake. “You get out of here before I have to teach you a lesson in front of all these people.”
Jake smelled the beer and tobacco on his breath.
The chatter in the marquee had petered out, just the hollow drumming of rain on the tarpaulin remaining. Everyone had turned to stare.
The anger was boiling up. He had to keep control. Let the farmer go first and then unleash the dogs. He looked around at his audience, raising his voice. “I’m guessing your workers don’t get much in the way of afternoons off, or wages, do they? I don’t know the Portuguese word for what they are, but maybe you can tell us all.”
The farmer was quicker than he looked. Flipping the beer bottle up, he caught it by the neck, upside down, the dregs splashing out, and whipped it into the side of Jake’s head.
Chapter 22
Vilson
He didn’t resist as the cop pushed him ahead into the courtyard of the gringo’s apartment. He hunched his shoulders and dropped his head, playing his part.
It was dusk and fairy lights were strung around one of the little trees. It was a warped fantasy world here. He would let the cop give his lecture and he would nod along. It was the cop routine, Babão had always said that. They did it to make themselves feel more important.
He would need to plan better, get all the money he needed before he went for it again. There was no time for mooching around the streets, chatting people up with the sob story he had used at the bus station. He would have to take.
He had buried Babão’s old revolver in a plastic bag in the undergrowth up behind their shack. There was no way he could go back for that. He would have to knock over an easy target, maybe some old tourists. They would hand over with the threat of one of the gringo’s kitchen knives. Or maybe he could snatch a purse or rip a gold necklace from a neck.
Just thinking about it made Vilson feel cold and hot at the same time. But there was no choice. He had been given the sign. This was his time. It had to be.
The cop unlocked the front door, checking around the courtyard as he did so. He shoved Vilson through. “You stay here and you stay quiet. One of us will come by tomorrow with food and to check up on you, okay?”
He shut the door.
No lecture?
Vilson heard the set of heavy mortice bolts clunk home down the length of the reinforced door frame, and the key turned in the lock. And then silence.
He heard the faint creak of the exterior gate opening over the hum of traffic and the clang as it swung home.
The bastard cop had locked him in. He raced around the apartment, turning on all the lights, but he already knew he was trapped. All the windows in the apartment had a lattice of wrought-iron bars set into the exterior walls. He was in jail.
He paced back and forth, checking and rechecking the bars on the windows, checking the doors, hoping there might be something loose, something to prise. He cursed them all. What the hell were they going to do? Keep him in this place forever? What did they want from him?
Pac
ing around, he tried to figure out his escape. He couldn’t think of anything. He hadn’t had any water since he’d left this morning and finally he gave in. He couldn’t concentrate on anything other than making himself a squash using the tin of Suco de Maracujá – passion-fruit syrup. He flopped on the couch. The TV screen was blank. It was dark outside now.
Uga Uga would be starting soon. The frustration was like a crushing weight. He cursed himself.
Chapter 23
Jake
He woke up on a hard bed, plain white tiles close to his face. The temple on the good side of his head was throbbing and he had a killer headache. He was in a small cubicle. Dread snaked around his insides and gripped tight. He ran through his mental index, trying to find a match. But there was no hospital smell, just the tang of unwashed bodies. He rubbed the bleariness from his eyes and focused. His stomach lurched. It was a jail cell.
Tiles on three sides, iron bars made the fourth, a pocked, whitewashed wall across the corridor. The bed was just a wooden slab with a rough blanket covering it. A cracked plastic bucket in the corner the only other feature.
He dabbed his fingers at the sore points around his head and face. There was a tender lump over his temple. A thin bandage tied round his head had blackened scabs of dried blood flaking from it. His hair was matted.
His tee shirt was ripped and had rust-red bloodstains. Lower lip split, nose swollen and his body felt scraped and bruised. His injured jaw seemed intact. That was a plus.
He was soaked in sweat and had a raging thirst. Swinging his legs slowly to the floor, everything stiff and hurting, he hobbled to the bars, pressing the less painful side of his face between a gap. Swivelling his eyes, he could see another cell diagonally across the corridor. Three pairs of arms were hanging through the bars. Part of a face appeared, pushing between the bars, eyes straining in his direction.
“Wow, Sleeping Beauty finally woke up,” the prisoner announced over his shoulder. He spoke to Jake with a harsher note. “Hey, gringo, how come you get the special attention?”
“I’ve stayed in better.”
“You know, they cleared us scumbags out of your place and shoved us in with a whole load of other scumbags here. You’re in the presidential suite compared to us, fucker.”
Jake couldn’t muster the bile for another row. His headache was cranking up to piledriver level and there was a dark flicker at the periphery of his vision. He went back to the wooden bed.
“Hey, gringo, I’m not done with you yet.”
Leaning back against the tiles, Jake closed his eyes, the flickering becoming an invasive red pulse.
“I don’t like rudeness, gringo, it’s disrespectful. You might find yourself taking a long holiday here, and they might decide you’re not so special after all, and we might end up as roomies. You won’t like that.”
There was a lazy roar of approval and laughter from his cellmates, and something hard was rattled over the bars.
“Glad I could break up the boredom,” Jake said to himself. He was just a novelty. He hoped he wouldn’t be sticking around long enough to become something else.
A voice shouted from the other end of the corridor. “Hey, keep it down back there.”
Jake went to the bars again, but he couldn’t see to the end. “Excuse me, sir, please can you tell me what’s going on?”
His friend across the way chimed in: “I think our gringo guest isn’t happy with his upgrade, sir.”
His cellmates guffawed and whistled.
“Shut the hell up, all of you,” the guard shouted. A door slammed.
Jake’s friend across the way wasn’t put off. “Disappointed with room service, gringo? I’ve got a number you can call.”
More guffaws and insults and whistles.
There were no lights inside the cell, and no windows. No night and day, just the bled-out glow from the corridor lights. He lay back on the wooden bed. Even with the pain and the buzzing in his head it wasn’t long before he fell asleep.
When he woke up he had no idea whether he had slept for minutes or hours. The lights were still on and he could hear the odd cough and shuffle from the neighbours over an electrical hum coming from somewhere. He was still sweating, hair plastered to his head, tee shirt clinging to his skin. His face was close to the wall tiles. They would be good and cool, but he didn’t touch them. There was a chill deep in his chest, a damp shiver penetrating his lungs that the deadening, stinking heat could not burn away. It was what he was left with sometimes when the anger faded.
The two trays of brown slop with a congealed lump of rice that were pushed under the bars with a mug of water might have been any one of breakfast, lunch or dinner. The guard serving the food was not much interested in his existence, let alone his questions.
Some hours later the same guard unlocked his cell and wordlessly ushered him out, pushing him on through the gauntlet of the shouting and spitting neighbours.
“You’re out,” the officer at the main desk said. He looked disillusioned, elbow on the desk, chin resting on his hand. “I’m glad to be rid of you – we’d have probably had a riot on our hands if you were here much longer. Seems to be a thing with you, huh?”
“How long have I been here?”
“Since the night before last.”
“Two days?” It didn’t make sense to Jake.
“We had to stick you with a tranquiliser – you were still causing a scene when we got you in here.”
“I was just arguing with a guy.”
The desk officer looked at his notes. “Yes, Senhor Torquato was the guy, I believe. It must have been quite an argument.”
“He swung a bottle at me and knocked me out – I don’t know why I’m here.”
“Oh, you weren’t knocked out then, for sure. A couple of local cops got there pretty quick, but they called us for backup straight off. The party was still in full swing when we arrived.”
“He smashed a bottle over my head and I blacked out.” Jake repeated the least-worst version, the one that made some kind of sense.
“You caught the bottle all right, there was blood everywhere. They said you went down and they expected you to stay there. But you? No. You jumped right up, smashing everything and throwing chairs around – crazier than a shithouse rat – screaming and foaming at the mouth.”
Jake could see that person, he could see that it was him, but it seemed like he was on the other side of a thick wall of glass. When the dogs were loose and anger became fury and everything seemed to stop. Impossible to communicate with, impossible to understand.
The officer was looking at Jake’s scars. “Seems like this stuff is getting out of hand with you, huh? You scared the shit out of a lot of people. They had you on the ground when we arrived but it still took five of us to get you in the patrol truck. You’re just lucky you’re a gringo and you got the nice treatment with the tranquiliser. Only one time I’ve seen anyone put on a show like that before, and that was a guy who was so high he didn’t even know which way was up for three days.”
“I wasn’t high.”
“So what the hell is wrong with you?”
Jake stared at the counter, trying to think about something other than what was wrong with him. “Do you realise that guy is probably using forced labour out on his farm?”
He had put the pieces together as he had lain in the motel bed, unable to sleep, after returning from the farm. He had remembered seeing a TV news report in his apartment in Rio about migrant labourers who were often lured thousands of miles from home with the promise of good work and then trapped. Their documents taken from them, no money to get home.
The officer shrugged. “That’s a pretty serious accusation to be levelling at someone.”
“So you’ll go after him?”
“Not our department. There’s a whole government agency that deals with that.”
“How do I get in touch with them?”
“I think you’d do better to concentrate on looking after yourself for
a while,” the officer said. “I’m letting you go, but you go galloping back into Cruzeiro like the Lone Ranger and your next stay here will be longer and less pleasant. I should charge you now, but with you a gringo, it’s more trouble than it’s worth. And besides, you got bailed.”
“Bailed?”
“That’s right, gringo, your lawyer bailed you.”
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
“Her card was in your wallet.”
“Oh, shit.”
When they brought Eliane in to sign the papers she barely glanced at Jake.
She marched to her VW Polo parked outside the station and unlocked it. They weren’t in Cruzeiro, this town was bigger. Jake hovered by the station entrance, unsure.
“Get in, before I change my mind,” she said.
“Can we stop by the motel so I can get my things?”
“You need to take a shower too.”
“Thanks for getting me out.”
“I drove fourteen hours to get here and only because they said you were injured. I’m going to get a couple of hours sleep before driving back. Don’t say another word to me until I’ve calmed down. That could be a long time from now.”
*
Marinho
Nogueira’s wife led Marinho through to the dining room where Nogueira’s granddaughter had her schoolbooks spread over the dining table in front of her. Nogueira was in uniform, sitting beside Ana Lucia. It was just after midday and Marinho was a little early to pick up his boss to take him in to the station.
“A moment, cabo,” Nogueira said, “we are just finishing off here.” He sucked on a pencil, making a face at Ana Lucia.
