American Drifter

by Heather Graham

  “You want me just to forget that I saw a body dumped? The body of a murdered man?”

  “You don’t know what you saw. If you try to report it—you’re dead.”

  “Okay, Beluga, I was heading to the little bridge. I heard a splash. I crawled upward on the cliff and looked down and the men were staring over the bridge—and the car’s trunk was open. What do you think?”

  “I think you forget what you saw and mind your own business.”

  “Come on, there have to be honest police in Rio.”

  “There are—but which ones? The ones who are honest would do something—maybe—if they could. They never have anything that will allow them to search Tio Amato’s house, to prove that he sells the worst drugs. That he kills at will. If they ever had proof—which you do not have—they could do something. Look, River, I like you. I want you to live, I want you to draw. Forget this—you’re a foreigner. There’s nothing you can do. There’s definitely nothing you can do with what you have.”

  “It’s not … right,” River said.

  Beluga was quiet for a minute. “Years ago, I managed a hostel in the city. It was a little place—no pretty land and trees like this, but travelers came and I enjoyed meeting them and seeing them come and go. I could tell them all about Rio de Janeiro, tell them when the best entertainment was going on, what to see, what to do—how to see the magnificent Christ the Redeemer statue at the most beautiful time of day, when the sun rose and the mist cleared.”

  River waited for him to go on. After a moment, Beluga shrugged and lifted his hands, stretching them outward in a helpless gesture. “River, Rio is different; Brazil is different. People are the same—we want to live and let live, have children, watch them grow, sleep, eat, and have sex with those we love. But there are the very rich and the very poor. I was born very poor; I grew up hauling and working for others. When I was little, I was shoved out of lines. When I grew up, I learned that the rich expect to be at the front of the line. I worked my way through school as a farmer; I grew up then to box and fight—for the pleasure of the rich. I got tired of fighting for the amusement of others, but I made some money doing it. I had a wife, and she died, and I didn’t want another—but I still loved and needed people around me. I made enough to buy my own business. I’m still a big man,” he said quietly. “A strong man. I felt I no longer had to prove it—or that I had learned about the rich and life. But I made a comment to a tourist, a young fellow, telling him to stay away from the house on the hill. He had come to Rio to party, and he was looking for something more than a drink. He didn’t listen to me—but he must have mentioned my name before he disappeared. I was walking the city a few days later, asking if he had been seen. The next thing I know, five men attacked me in an alley. I hurt them; I can do that. But in the end, I was beaten to a pulp and broken in many places. I’m surprised I was not simply shot—and tossed over a bridge. I learned from that; I stay away from the city and from that man. Do you understand me?”

  River listened gravely, thinking that he could not imagine Beluga in the ring; he was so gentle despite his size. He had known Beluga a long time, or so it seemed, or maybe he had just liked him so much that it seemed they had been friends forever. He hadn’t really known much about the man’s past.

  He did understand Brazil. Money did matter; money had power.

  But he couldn’t accept that money could buy murder; as Beluga had said, the majority of the people were good; they wanted lives filled with enough to eat, good music, and love and happiness.

  He also knew that no matter where you were in the world, there were those who were more than willing to hurt others—to kill, even—for their own gain.

  “I understand, Beluga. But there must be a way.”

  “Not for you, not for me. Don’t you see? It cannot be you. Maybe some government agent who is good and honest will figure out a way to bring him down. All that can happen between you and Tio Amato is that you are hurt and broken—and perhaps tossed in a river yourself. No!” Beluga’s voice changed and he straightened to his full, impressive height. He obviously wanted to change the subject. He tapped on the paper. “Who is this?” he asked.

  “Huh?”

  “There—that man a bit in the distance.”

  River looked at the drawing. At the far side of the bridge—looking up at where he would have been himself—was another man.

  He was in casual clothing: jeans, T-shirt, and a hoodie. He wore dark glasses and had sandy hair. Many of the Brazilians were light-skinned—people of German and other European descent were plentiful in the city—so he might have been Brazilian, and he might have been a foreigner.

  River didn’t remember sketching him on the paper—and he sure as hell didn’t remember seeing him.

  “I don’t know,” River said with a shrug. “Artistic license, I guess.”

  “There was no one else on the bridge?”

  “No, I passed a woman and a few children as I traveled on in, but I don’t remember seeing another man. I just conjured him out of my imagination.”

  Beluga considered him for a moment, brows furrowed. “Maybe it is you, watching him? I like this drawing. I will take it for your stay tonight.”

  “You just told me that there might not be room.”

  Beluga shrugged. “I’ll find room for you—in the barn or on the back porch of my house. But, no dog.”

  Convict whined, setting his nose on Beluga’s lap.

  “You’re a dog; you can stay outside,” Beluga told him.

  “I’m calling him Convict,” River said.

  “Advertise the fact that you’re a thief!” Beluga shook his head.

  River grinned.

  “What you need, my friend, isn’t a dog. It’s a girl. A pretty girl. A Brazilian woman, someone with the sun racing hotly through her veins, who loves to dance. Beautiful and seductive. Yes, that’s what you need. You should pick flowers to bring to a pretty girl and maybe find a guitar and serenade her.”

  “I can’t steal a girl from the market, Beluga—that would just be wrong.”

  Beluga groaned. “Let’s finish these sheets. Then make the beds up for tonight. After that you can sit and draw, and Maria will have some dinner ready. You fed this dog already?”

  “I gave him my breakfast.”

  “We’ll have to go slow, but maybe there’s an old roast bone inside. That would be good; he could savor the taste and then we’ll get him something else later. I’ll have Maria stop at the market and find real dog food—you are not to go back there for a while!”

  River nodded. “Thank you—and I’ll thank Maria.”

  “You will do more than thank her. You will give her money for food—and for taking the trip,” Beluga said, wagging a finger at him.

  “Of course.”

  Beluga snorted and disappeared into his house. River smiled and leaned back, feeling the warmth of the sun and patting the dog.

  A minute later, Beluga returned with a massive bone for Convict.

  So much for going slowly. The bone was huge.

  The dog seemed almost afraid to go to Beluga to take the bone, but Beluga spoke to him softly in Portuguese and, in a moment, Convict moved to him, his tail wagging low at first, and then higher as he accepted the bone and began to gnaw upon it.

  The dog was not accustomed to kindness.

  River studied Beluga as the giant man watched the dog, pleasure in his eyes as he saw how much the animal enjoyed it. Beluga, he thought, is an amazing man. He’d endured hardship and he knew pain. He had not become a cruel man because of it; he’d become a better man.

  River marveled at how the dog’s life had changed, now that he was here.

  A man’s life could change too, he thought.

  Yes, he determined. His life had changed as well.

  CHAPTER 3

  River could feel the cool caress of an air conditioner against his skin and hear the hum of its motor.

  Music played lightly in the background. It sounded li
ke an old Fleetwood Mac CD.

  The room where he dozed was in shadow. It was daytime, but the blinds had been drawn. Little streams of light seemed to peek through the blinds, bringing in a touch of golden warmth and a slight display of pastel colors; dust motes seemed magical in the little rays of light. From outside, he could hear children laughing as they played, a bouncing ball, and cars rolling by on a distant highway.

  He felt a touch on his shoulder, as gentle as a balmy breeze. Smiling, he opened his eyes.

  Her face was caught in shadow.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispered, her voice a brush of tenderness that stirred his heart.

  He reached for her. “I should be awake; it’s day.”

  “Yes,” she teased, her fingers on his brow, sweeping back the lock of hair that fell across it. “It’s daytime, but you need some rest.”

  Catching her by her shoulders, River drew her down to his side and rolled atop her, smiling. She was warm, living, vital, and he needed her so much. “It’s daytime, and the shades are down and…”

  His whisper faded. He still couldn’t see her face; it was caught in a burst of light from outside the window.

  Then he heard it; the whistle of a bomb. He cringed, trying to hold her close, bracing for the fallout that was sure to come. He held nothing; the gentleness, the cool whispers—gone.

  He was alone on hard ground.

  Pastel shades faded to the harshness of desert brown. He heard a scream of terror ripping through the air and suddenly, all was gone, and it seemed that he was caught in the stygian darkness of night …

  River awoke in a flash, bolting to an upright position. He looked around, shaking off the remnants of the dream. The light in the room was shadowy and dim, but outside, the sun was just beginning to peek out. It was early morning—too early to be awake. He gritted his teeth and gave himself an irritated mental shake—and hoped he hadn’t screamed aloud.

  He was on a cot in the back hallway of Beluga’s house; at his side, Convict whined softly. Beluga had given in on the dog and River had made him a bed out of one of his dirty shirts. There hadn’t been room in the hostel but, true to his word, Beluga had seen to it that he had a place to sleep. And since Convict had followed River and Beluga about—behaving with incredible manners—as the two men had worked together repairing window frames during the afternoon, River and Convict were both Beluga’s guests that night.

  There were actually four cots in the back of Beluga’s house—in what he called his Florida room, since the floor was tiled and the walls were lined with frosted-glass windows and a giant mural of downtown Miami.

  River was usually alone back here. But as his eyes adjusted and his mind cleared, he saw that the farthest bed was occupied.

  It was a young woman—a strikingly beautiful young woman with rich dark hair that fell around her shoulders in tousled waves. She leaned on an elbow, watching him, almond eyes narrowed in concern. She was so striking, such a vision of absolute and ethereal beauty. He hadn’t expected to see someone like her, sleeping—or trying to sleep—in the same room.

  He felt breathless.

  She nodded and looked at him for another long moment. Then she turned around, cuddled her pillow, and adjusted her position on the cot, ready to go back to sleep. He flushed, sorry that he’d awakened her. At his side, Convict gave a little whine.

  He set his hand on the dog’s head. “Pretty girl, huh, bud?” he whispered to the dog.

  He lay back down himself, eyes open, intrigued. He couldn’t talk to her; she’d made it apparent that she wanted to go back to sleep.

  Of course, there was the morning.

  He wouldn’t bombard her. He would just hope to meet her.

  He didn’t think that he’d sleep again, though. He lay awake, constantly aware that she was close, so close. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone who had intrigued him as she had.

  Was she Brazilian? Or a traveler from a faraway nation? Was she on an adventure …

  Or escaping from something—or someone?

  He rolled to face the wall—and not her sleeping form.

  He didn’t think that he would sleep again.

  But he did.

  This time, there was no gentle trailer running before the onset of the nightmare. He was in a small, sand-covered desert town, moving carefully from house to house. It was a mission he hated; insurgents abounded in the mix of families just trying to survive. Most had abandoned the town, but he could turn a corner and find a cowering mother and child—or an enemy bearing an Uzi.

  And the enemy could be a child—yes, a child carrying an Uzi.

  And it was so very wrong. He knew, and he was afraid. He knew, and his heart seemed to bleed even as he feared, because children should be innocents; they shouldn’t face war, they shouldn’t face evil.

  He felt the heat, the weight of his pack, and his military-issue rifle. The air tasted like grit. He dropped down, turning—praying that the noise behind him was one of his fellow soldiers. He heard gunfire, a spate of automatic gunfire. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. He searched for the source.

  He breathed in smoky, acrid air and dirt. The dry dust of the country was everywhere, constantly, and now it was joined with the awful smell of burning and gunfire and …

  Pancakes.

  Yes … pancakes and bacon, delicious things cooking, and he wanted the dirt and the black powder and all the horror to go away.

  But the war was the reality. The gunfire … raging again.

  Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

  Muscles clenched, he dropped lower to the ground. He looked everywhere, all around him.

  The enemy could be anywhere.

  “River!”

  He woke, instantly ready, digging into his pack for the military weapon he kept in his bag along with his clothing, money, and sketchpad.

  “River! Whoa, it’s Beluga!”

  River froze, his fingers curled around the gun. He winced. Maybe he shouldn’t carry the damned thing. The nightmares should have been receding; they weren’t.

  No, he was all right. In Brazil, he might need to defend himself, especially since he considered himself to be on an adventure—and he traveled roads less taken.

  “Sorry, Beluga.”

  “Sorry!” Beluga roared. “You’d better be sorry!”

  “I wouldn’t have shot you, Beluga,” River said. “Honestly—I know how to use a weapon. I’d have never shot you.”

  “How do you know what you would do?” Beluga demanded. He waved a hand in the air. “You were half asleep!”

  “You’re one of my best friends,” River said quietly.

  “And there’s a sadness,” Beluga said, shaking his head. “All right, then. You wouldn’t have shot me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are. Now it’s time to be up. Everyone is out and gone.” Beluga was angry. River couldn’t say that he blamed him.

  “Everyone?” River asked.

  “Everyone.”

  He’d blown it. He should have just stayed awake through the dawn. He would have met the beautiful young woman.

  He wouldn’t have had the nightmare—again.

  River was startled by the depth of disappointment he felt. He glanced quickly to the cot at the far end of the room, near the back door. But, of course, Beluga was right—everyone was gone.

  Including the beautiful young woman with the eloquent almond eyes and the stunning face.

  “I’m getting up, Beluga. Who was the young woman you had here last night?”

  “What young woman?” Beluga was clearly annoyed. “You want me to know about a particular young woman? The place was full; there were a dozen young women.”

  “But this one was special.”

  “All women are special. Now, you get up and out so that we can clean up this room in case we need it for tonight.”

  “Okay, okay!” River rose, gathering his belongings quickly. “Hey, I’m sorry. Really sorry, Beluga.” />
  “I know,” Beluga said, softening for a moment before shaking his head impatiently. “You should go do something for yourself today. Hey—meditate! Did you know—I meditate. Makes me a nicer man, yes? Take some time and sit on the beach, feel the breeze, feel the strength of the mountains behind you. You forget how much Rio has to offer. Carnaval is coming—watch the jugglers or the stick walkers—or the women in costumes and feathers or costumes that are feathers. No, I know what you’d love! You should go to the Christ the Redeemer statue and meditate there. Ride the cable car and see the strength and beauty of the mountains while you look down at the valley and the city. Yes, that’s what you need to do—these dreams of yours are not good for you. Or me—when you brandish a gun.”

  “Beluga—”

  “Yeah, yeah, you wouldn’t have shot me. I should take it away from you!”

  “If that’s what you feel,” River conceded.

  His friend sighed. “No, I won’t take it. With the way you live, you hold on to it—but don’t wag it at me again, friend.” He reached down and tossed River his backpack. “Theo came by; he said to tell you he was going to the track. Maria is going into town; she’ll drop you there if you wish. It will be good for you to see Theo—but then you find somewhere that makes you happy and find yourself some peace. Me, I sit—I watch the mountains. They give me peace.”

  “May I at least use the bathroom?” River asked.

  Beluga waved a massive hand at him impatiently. “Yes, yes. Then you meet Maria outside!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “I will see you when I see you.” He hesitated, looking at Convict.