by Bill Schutt
MacCready tried to make out what Thorne was saying but he could only register a phrase or two—“Todo bom!” (Everything’s fine!) and something else that either meant “I’d like another pillow” or “He’s a scientist, not a chupacabra.”
I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, Mac thought. But not goat-sucker.
The arm-waving and loud discussion went on for three long minutes, during which MacCready smiled and tried to appear as nonthreatening as possible. Pay no attention to the Russian submachine gun slung across my back, he thought.
Finally the jefe shot MacCready a look of disgust, then mumbled something to Thorne before turning away. As the group dispersed, MacCready could sense their disappointment as easily as they could sense his relief.
Thorne watched the group warily—as if not quite convinced that they had at least postponed hacking his friend into easy-to-string pieces. “Now, Mac, you have put the kibosh on this mook Raza’s entire day. So in that regard it appears that you ain’t changed a bit.”
“You call that a ruined day? I almost kneecapped Señor Raza. Now that is what I call a ruined day.”
Thorne gave a grudging nod of agreement. “Granted, but you still have a way with people.”
“I’ve got a way with people?” MacCready jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “What’s with the legs? And what are you doing alive? I spoke at your funeral.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad I missed that one.”
The two men grabbed each other simultaneously in what turned out to be a bear hug instead of a handshake. Thorne’s bearded face was suddenly an inch away from the muzzle of MacCready’s machine gun and he motioned toward the weapon as they pulled away. “Interesting new gear. Let me guess, all the zoologists are wearin’ iron this year.”
MacCready shook his head. “Yeah, this one makes a nifty club and you can shit down the barrel.”
Thorne shot his friend a puzzled look, but MacCready waved him off. “Don’t ask. I’ve got other problems.”
“So I hear.”
“Oh yeah, Jap subs, maybe Nazis, early-stage schizophrenia. The normal stuff.” He motioned toward the arch. “Those legs are an interesting touch.”
Thorne let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh that MacCready hadn’t heard in five years, instantly recalling a time that now seemed to be part of someone else’s life. Before Thorne’s sudden disappearance, he had been one of America’s most brilliant young botanists. They’d met as graduate students and, though they attended different schools (MacCready at Cornell and Thorne at Atlantic Tech), it was a mutual love for the Neotropics that brought them together at a scientific conference in Manhattan. But while MacCready had put much of his attention into vertebrate zoology, Thorne split his time between Brooklyn and the Brazilian Amazon, investigating medicinal plants at both locales. He’d actually written and passed the defense of his Ph.D. thesis (“The Urucu Plant as an Insect Repellant with Comments on Possible Psychotropic Effects”). Then, at the age of twenty-four, he was on the verge of taking an assistant professorship when, as his mother, Ashley Thorne, later put it, “He saw something shiny and got distracted.”
Thorne sat down on a stone bench outside the church and patted the space next to him. “So, answering your second question first. Let’s just say it started out as a little tax problem.”
“A little tax problem?” MacCready said, sitting down next to his friend with a laugh. “I heard they wanted to boil you in oil.”
“Yeah, well, it’s all relative—if you’re reading your Einstein. A double sawbuck actually, from a student grant. Seems I somehow forgot to declare it. Big fuckin’ deal, right?”
MacCready shook his head. That can’t be right, he thought.
“That is what I was thinking, too. But for some reason the feds start squawking like it is some nut-crusher of biblical proportions.”
“And . . . ?” Mac said, still shaking his head, doubt sliding into disbelief.
“And . . . a nut-crusher is what it turns out to be.”
A double sawbuck? “Only twenty dollars?” This could only happen to Bob Thorne.
“Now that is what I call relativity. So I says, ‘Hey let’s talk about this.’ And the fed says, ‘Yeah right,’ and he heads like an arrow straight for the rest of my grant money—the chunk he could lay his mitts on, that is.”
“What did the school have to say about that?”
“Hah!” Thorne said, throwing up his hands. “They were a big help. Their response was something along the lines of ‘You’re lucky we are letting you into the school in the first place—Jew!’”
That was it, Mac thought. That’s why they rescinded his Ph.D. credits. The fuckers had even downgraded his master’s degree. Now it made sense. All of it.
MacCready had heard of this type of thing happening to other Jewish-American students, in colleges across the United States, about the time his friend had turned up missing. He knew how the public groundswell that raised the Nazis to power had not been entirely unique to Germany. And despite proclamations against the Axis powers overseas, a number of prestigious American academic institutions began writing their darkest chapters.
Shaken by his friend’s response, MacCready decided that this was not a good time to tell Thorne what had happened to his academic credentials.
“Now this is a nice long story with exciting escapes and this and that,” Thorne continued, “but I now give you the much abridged version. Basically, I got to thinking about it. And before these feds could get their hooks into the entire head of lettuce, or worse, toss me in the canaroo, I decided to skip.”
“To Brazil?”
“I figure, Hey, Brazil has got plenty of plants to study and less than a few Jew-hating universities. Now at first I’m thinking this will only be temporary, you know, to allow some time for the shit storm to blow over. But as time goes by—which is a great tune, by the way—the more I think about being dead, the more I like it. And all things considered, is anyone as free as a dead man?”
MacCready paused. “I’ll give you that one, but I still think you’re tying your ponytail a bit too tight.”
“Yeah, well . . . dead or not, eventually the feds found me down here anyway, and now it seems I am working for them on something they will not tell me more than half about.”
“Everybody’s doing his part, I guess,” MacCready said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Speaking of machete-wielding mobs, what the hell’s going on with the legs?”
Thorne avoided looking at the flyblown limbs, which were twisting synchronously in the breeze. “Mac, this is no time for ‘information please’ unless of course you wanna swing with the locals—if you catch my drift.”
“I’ll pass.”
“I figured as much. Personally, I am thinking more in terms of breakfast. Jeet?”
MacCready shook his head.
“In which case, we should head back to—”
“And what’s Joseph doing with boots on in your church?”
Thorne gave an embarrassed shrug. “Yeah, that would be the less than subtle influence of the gold miners on the artist they commissioned to do the sculpture. Seems that after a night of much pinga—which is the local bug juice—these guys all decide that boots would be a nice touch. Funny thing is, after they start talkin’ up the benefits of premature burial, the artist gets all enthusiastic about it, too. Now, personally, I think he got the laces all wrong but what do I know from sculptures? So, did you bring those cigarette papers?”
Mac could not suppress a laugh. His friend might have gone native, but the basics had apparently remained unchanged. Thorne had always been a congenial guy, yet even his friends acknowledged that he was also a guy whose brain had some “unique rewiring.” MacCready knew this was primarily due to the botanist’s legendary penchant for smoking or eating most of his subject matter on a regular basis. He also knew that Bob Thorne had learned many things as a graduate student in New York—most of which had very little to do with being a graduat
e student in New York.
“You’ll get your papers, but not until you answer the leg question.”
Thorne shook his head. “The legs, huh,” he said quietly. “Ya know, Mac, I’m not sure I know how to Begin this Beguine but believe me, this is yet another long story. Let’s talk about it somewhere safer—like my place—over breakfast and a smoke. And speaking of which, there is someone I am very pleased to have you meet, which is the real reason I’m stayin’ here.”
As they crossed the plaza, Thorne threw an arm around his friend’s shoulder, “So tell me all about my funeral—was it cheery-like, or was it heavy on the waterworks?”
CHAPTER 6
Yanni
God gives all men all Earth to love,
But, since man’s heart is small,
Ordains for each one spot shall prove
Beloved over all.
—RUDYARD KIPLING
Chapada dos Guimarães, Brazil
Bob Thorne had indeed settled in. His house was simple—a single-level, wooden construction that was almost impossible to see through a blanket of flowering vines. MacCready noticed that, in addition to the brilliant colors, there was movement everywhere. Hummingbirds would suddenly appear, hover over a flower for a moment, and then, just as suddenly, disappear. There were butterflies as well—dozens of intermingling species that formed a swirling dance of blue, yellow, red, and black.
Stepping onto the porch, MacCready saw that it too was full of flowering tropical plants of seemingly infinite variety—each contributing to a captivating smell that managed to avoid being overpowering. Most surprising of all, the place was spotlessly clean. Housekeeping had never been one of Thorne’s strengths, but his habits were apparently changing. MacCready was about to discover why.
A young woman stepped out of a back room. She had waist-length, shiny black hair and moved with a strange grace that MacCready found to be vaguely feline. As Thorne rushed over and took her arm, Mac noticed that she was at least three inches taller than the botanist.
“Mac, this is Yanni. Yanni, this is Mac, my old friend from New York.”
The woman stepped forward and bowed slightly. She was dark-complected, with features that seemed distinctly Asian, clearly those of some indigenous Indian tribe.
And her eyes—were they really violet?
Thorne cleared his throat and Mac realized, too late, that he had been staring. “Bom dia,” he blurted out, returning Yanni’s bow, while mentally running through his list of Portuguese phrases.
She seemed to be examining him as he might examine some new species of insect. MacCready glanced down at his filthy jungle attire.
Great first impression, he thought, deciding to charm his way out of it. “Yanni, meu nome é Mac,” he pronounced slowly.
“Yankee fan, right?” Yanni replied. The accent was one hundred percent Flatbush Avenue.
MacCready’s double take nearly caused him to pull a neck muscle. Did I just hear that? he thought; but the broad grin on his friend’s face all but screamed “setup.” He decided to play along. “Yep, Bill Dickey’s number-one fan,” the zoologist announced.
Yanni waved her hand as if shooing away a bothersome fly. “Dey stink even more den you,” she said, before turning away with a smile that only her husband could see.
“Now, of course, Yanni prefers da Bums,” Thorne said, struggling to keep a straight face. “So Mac, about these cigarette papers.”
The two men sat down for breakfast on a layered mat of multicolored cotton, both of them occasionally glancing at Yanni, who was in the kitchen area, slicing fruit.
“I am dizzy with the dame, Mac,” Thorne said, passing his friend a cup of fresh-squeezed juice. “Here, dip your bill.”
“Seems like a dilly,” MacCready said, noting just how much of an understatement that really was. In fact it was hard to believe that this was the same guy he’d known in college. (Back then, it was said that Bob Thorne would have screwed a snake and that he’d have screwed a pile of rocks if he thought there might be a snake hiding in it.)
Yes, things have changed, MacCready thought, stretching out somewhat uncomfortably in a set of his friend’s too-small clothes. Soon after his arrival, Yanni had passed his own filthy jungle gear off to a teenage girl who did not bother to hide her disgust at the task ahead.
Yanni finished up, then nonchalantly flipped the knife toward a tin washbasin, where it stuck into a small block of wood.
“Good with a blade, too,” Thorne piped in, taking the fruit from his wife.
“Yeah, that seems to be a real plus round here,” MacCready replied. “And speaking of which, where do you think my clothes are by now?”
“You need to relax, Mac. At least they are not hangin’ in the square—with you in ’em.”
He’s right about that, MacCready thought, managing a smile.
“Of course I am right,” Thorne replied, reading his friend’s expression once again. “And speaking of which, you need to lighten up before we get to the serious talk, and I am just the man to light you up.”
With that he produced an herbal cigar that seemed as thick as his index finger. “I know you don’t like coffin nails,” he said, referring to MacCready’s odd dislike of cigarettes. He struck a match. “But this is . . . how do I put it? Something unique.”
MacCready waved him off, watching as Thorne drew hard on the dangerous-looking stogie. “Thanks, but I’m on duty, remember?”
After holding his breath for what seemed to be a perilously long time, the botanist released a lungful of blue-gray smoke toward the ceiling. As MacCready watched, several house geckos were momentarily enveloped by fog before disappearing under a wooden beam, presumably compelled to seek out something eight-legged and crunchy.
“So this mission of yours,” Thorne wheezed, “spill it, because I know a little less than jack shit.”
Although the Army had apparently worked out some kind of tit-for-tat deal with the botanist—allowing Thorne to remain in Brazil as long as he functioned as their eyes and ears in the region—it became apparent that much of the information Mac began to relay to his friend was new to him, including everything about the stranded Japanese submarine. Evidently, Army brass hadn’t wanted to provide any more than the barest, “need to know” details to a civilian. Mac learned that Thorne had met with the Rangers on their way in, but they had not told him what they were up to. To Mac, that level of secrecy was foolish given the circumstances. Maybe if the Rangers had relied more on the advice of a local—even one from Brooklyn—they would have made it back out.
Mac finished his tale just as Thorne finished rolling another magic cigarette. “And here I thought I was supposed to pump information from you,” he said to Thorne.
“You want information? Not for nuttin’, Mac, but there is definitely something goin’ on out there near the plateau—strange sounds and such.”
“What type of sounds?”
“Rumbling, like thunder but not really. Starts right before those Rangers passed through here.”
“So what was their response when you told them about this rumbling?”
“‘We got it covered,’ one of them tells me—all smart ass-like. Then in two shakes they are heading off into the valley.”
“These sounds . . . what else can you tell me about them?”
“Well, at first they were like once every few weeks. Now, more like every other day.”
“Artillery?”
“No . . . more sustained. Like thunder . . . but . . .”
“. . . not really.”
“Exactly! Although I will tell you, this shit will get you on edge but it’s not what had Raza and his machete crew so distressed today.”
“Huh?”
“About a month ago, something starts knockin’ off their livestock at night.”
Mac looked puzzled, “Come again?”
“Croaked. You know . . . iced.”
Mac nodded. “And?”
“So the local brain trust decide
s to tie their mutts out—to keep an eye on these potentially former livestock.”
“Let me guess: The watchdogs ended up dead.”
Thorne gave a funeral laugh. “Without so much as a bark. And Mac, we are talking serious watchdogs here.”
While MacCready’s thoughts drifted back to the dead village in the woods, his friend continued: “Now at first, these guys blame the mess on the Xavante—which is no great surprise since this tribe generally takes the rap for everything from missing laundry to constipated chickens. Now, personally, I find this accusation more ridiculous than slightly—especially since most of the locals would not know a Xavante tribesman from Carmen Miranda. Their ancestors eventually drove these Xavante deep into the forest, and from what I hear they were not pleasant about how they went about it. Anyway, once the Xavante took a powder, it also seems they took on a new role.”
“What’s that?”
“As boogiemen. You know, ‘eat your peas or the Xavante will get you.’”
Always hated peas, Mac thought.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Peas—bad example. So for a while things stayed quiet—until recently, which is when the locals started seeing these boogiemen in the flesh.”
“Is that whose legs were strung up from that archway?”
“No, that was what we call an unlucky stranger. You on the other hand are a lucky stranger. Now, you gonna let me finish or what?”
Mac nodded.
“So now Raza and his boys are thinkin’ these Xavante are being flushed out of the woods by the chupacabra.”
Chupacabra? MacCready remembered the name from his run-in with the machete crew that morning. “Any chance we could we be talking about Japs here, or Krauts? Whatever assholes brought in that sub?”
Thorne shook his head. “Not possible. According to local legend, these chupacabra are night demons—now busy killing livestock and scaring the Xavante out of the bush. And whatever these things are, they are not Japs or Krauts. Apparently, though, they do not take lightly to people squattin’ in their backyard—which, if you have not noticed, is exactly where we squat.”
