American Drifter

by Heather Graham

Logic warned him not to. He heard another voice speaking.

  “River, calm down, it’s me, Beluga!”

  He blinked—and saw that Beluga stood by the officer. And he realized, just as he saw Beluga, that he had reacted by instinct. A soldier’s instinct.

  He’d reached into his bag and drawn his gun. A gun he shouldn’t have had as an ex-pat in Brazil.

  Again. Again—he’d drawn the gun again!

  “He’s all right; he’s all right. Post-war stress—that’s all. The gun isn’t even loaded,” Beluga told the officer. “Right, River?”

  It wasn’t right, but River nodded.

  The police officer smiled sympathetically. “Olá. Bom dia,” he said. He seemed to struggle searching for words for a minute, seeking English in his mind. “You’re a friend to Beluga. It’s all right. He’s friend, I’m friend. I did not see.”

  “Ricardo just stopped by to see me to say hello. And to help me get bums like you up and out so that we can clean for the day,” Beluga said.

  River scrambled up, tucking his old service weapon into his backpack, and quickly took the police officer’s hand. “Bom dia,” he said. It was his turn to struggle, trying to remember his Portuguese. “Como está?”

  Ricardo was pleased. He shook River’s hand.

  River looked at Beluga. “Ah, well, I’ll get Convict and get out of your hair,” he said. “Where is he?”

  “Where do you think? In the kitchen with Maria.”

  River nodded to the policeman, smiling.

  Backpack over his shoulder, he realized that he was almost bowing as he left the two men in the back room.

  He hurried out to the kitchen.

  “Café?” Maria asked.

  He really needed to behave normally. “Sure. Thank you, Maria.”

  CHAPTER 14

  It was a good thing, River supposed, that Beluga’s police friend Ricardo had been at the hostel—and that River was up and getting on his way.

  There was no telling when police who knew about the dead man in the restroom would come around. And if they came around when River was there, it wouldn’t be good.

  But he did his best to act normally. Beluga told him he could have a shower and his coffee and have a few minutes, but everyone else was up and gone and River needed to be gone too.

  River tried to behave as he always did. He thanked Beluga, grabbed his pack, and he went to accept coffee from Maria.

  While he was in the kitchen, Beluga came in. Convict trotted over to his friend, who slipped him a piece of sausage.

  “Where’s your friend?” River asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Ricardo? He went on to work.” Beluga was quiet for a moment. “I thought about telling him what you told me the other night. About the body. Ricardo—he’s always been a good man. But…”

  “You didn’t tell him.”

  “No—because you never really know another man.”

  “No, you never do,” River agreed.

  “Hey,” Beluga said, “you know, the dog doesn’t take up a bed. He can stay.”

  River allowed himself to smile at that.

  “I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” he warned. He hated leaving Convict, and yet …

  It might be best, under his present circumstances. What if he was picked up and thrown in jail? What would happen to Convict? He could be put in a pound—or he could wander the streets and starve or be hit by a car or …

  “Doesn’t matter,” Beluga said with a shrug. “Convict is okay. He’ll be here when you come back—and I know you. It won’t be that long.”

  It could be forever, River thought.

  And if so, wasn’t that best for the dog?

  He nodded, squatting down and patting his companion. “You’re the best,” he told Convict. “But Beluga needs company. He talks about a woman, but he hasn’t gotten one for himself yet, so … you keep him company.”

  “I can find a woman, you know.”

  “One to keep!” River teased.

  Beluga waved a hand at him.

  He’d tarried too long at the hostel, River thought. He thanked Maria and Beluga and then headed out.

  “You’re going to find your woman today, you think?” Beluga called as he was leaving.

  “There’s always that dream!” River called back to him.

  Natal.

  He winced as he hurried down the path from the hostel.

  Natal.

  Would she miss him?

  Would he ever find her again?

  He had to believe, he thought. Belief kept a man going.

  As he hurried away, he was glad that he hadn’t said anything to Beluga about the previous night—he would hate to ever put Beluga in a bad position. Beluga was probably a lousy liar—and River didn’t want his friend to have to lie for him anyway.

  He took the road toward town; he needed to hear what had happened and if the police had or hadn’t found the man and if they were after him—if they had any idea that the act had been carried out by an American drifter.

  He wasn’t going to get on a bus and he wasn’t going to hitchhike. Not today.

  Nearing the city, he kept a sharp eye out for police. He zigzagged his walk, ever vigilant.

  He passed one coffee stand where several policemen were enjoying an espresso. He thought about sprinting quickly to the other side of the street, or into traffic—anywhere—but controlled the impulse.

  The policemen didn’t even notice him.

  He decided to find an out-of-the-way café where he could buy a large coffee and scan a newspaper. He chose one he knew and ducked into it.

  It was a busy place. They had newspapers there that were in Portuguese and English as well as Spanish, Italian, and German.

  So many people, of so many nationalities, came to Rio.

  And many stayed.

  He bought a double espresso and a pastry and almost bought another for the dog—and then remembered that Convict wasn’t with him.

  He found an outside table where he could keep his back to the wall and his eyes on the street. As in many areas of the city, he could look up—look up to the Christ the Redeemer statue. When he did so, the sun seemed to be brighter and golden light streamed back down at him. In the light, he could see Natal, see her smiling face, and hear her laughter.

  The laughter seemed to change suddenly. It was a child’s laugh—as sweet as only a child’s laugh could be. Natal, he saw, in his golden-sunlit vision, was holding the hand of a little girl.

  For a moment the vision was so sweet and beautiful and real that he felt he could almost reach out and touch the two. Something stirred in his memory. Something he should be able to grasp—but just couldn’t. The sun shifted—he was looking at nothing but the distant image of the statue. Everything—the tinkle of laughter, the golden visage—was gone.

  He gave himself a mental shake and quickly began to read the paper. There was no mention of a death or a murder the night before.

  Tension began to ease from him.

  Then it returned.

  His eye fell on an article stating that someone had found the body of the big man who had served Tio Amato, left in a pool of blood. Could the witness have been the other man who had been going to the men’s restroom, the man who had hailed him?

  River leafed through the paper, searching for the rest of the article. At last he found what he was searching for.

  “‘Victim of assault hospitalized; comatose, he can give police no leads to his attacker.’”

  River quickly scanned the article. The police were not giving out information regarding the victim pending notification of his next of kin. While he remained unconscious, his vital signs were good and doctors were hoping for a recovery.

  Relief flooded through him.

  I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill him. River reread the article, searching for anything that would indicate the police were looking for him. There was nothing.

  Just as he was beginning to feel a bit at ease, a hand fell o
n his shoulder.

  He instantly froze.

  Instinct kicked in; the instinct to jump to his feet, grab his knife—which was no longer there!—and swing around to fight.

  Somehow, logic intervened. He was in a busy coffee shop on a busy street. A fight would get him nowhere—and innocent people could be hurt.

  “So, here you are!”

  Only seconds had passed while he’d considered his options. And now, he was glad he hadn’t moved.

  It was Theo. Theo, who took the chair opposite him, grinned, and helped himself to River’s double espresso.

  “I’ve missed you, my friend!” Theo said. “Where have you been? Not at the track. And let me tell you—the track is not good without you. But I tell you—today is my day, now that I have found you. I have a lottery ticket. You must touch it—blow on it for me. Give it some River magic!”

  River let out a breath. “Okay, hand over the ticket.”

  Theo did so. River put it between his hands. “This ticket—I give my luck to this ticket. Well, I give my gambling luck to this ticket—not the rest of my luck.”

  He held the ticket up then and softly puffed out a breath, then handed it back to Theo. “There you go—lucky ticket.”

  “You didn’t need to give me all your gambling luck,” Theo told him. “I wanted you to come to the track with me.”

  “Not today, my friend.”

  “Why? You suddenly decided to get a job in the city? What—are you going to become a member of the nine-to-five establishment?”

  River shook his head. “No. And I’m not sure there is such a thing anymore. But, I’m just not in a gambling mood. I am in a rambling mood. You go to the track. You have luck now. You’ll do well.”

  “I’ll do well to keep my head down. What if that big gorilla is there—Tio Amato’s henchman? What will I do without you?” Theo asked.

  River felt the tension sweep into his muscles. He willed it away.

  “It’s your lucky day. I’ve decreed it. If it’s a lucky day, you won’t see him. How’s that?”

  Theo sighed. “All right, but I will miss you. Ah-ha!” he said suddenly. He laughed, got up, and ran to the street. He stooped down where a group of people had just passed. He came up with a cigarette that had barely been lit. He grinned and walked back to River’s table. “Smokers—and supposed smokers who have quit smoking—they light up and then see someone they know. Then they toss the cigarette down as if they were never holding it—as if no one can smell the smoke.” He inhaled deeply. “Ah, this is good, very good. American and very long.”

  River folded the paper. “Enjoy. And enjoy the rest of the espresso.”

  “Obrigado.”

  River grinned and looked around. He’d been sitting in one place too long. And he’d made a decision. Maybe he wasn’t being pursued.

  But maybe he shouldn’t take chances. He was going to get a train ticket and move on for a few days.

  As his eyes roamed the crowd, he suddenly did a double take.

  Maybe he was being pursued!

  There, at the service window, was a man. A man wearing a blue suit and a blue hat.

  The same man who had been heading toward the men’s restroom last night.

  The same man who had called out to him.

  The same man who had seen him.

  He got to his feet abruptly.

  “River, you okay?” Theo asked.

  “Yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to jiggle the table. I gotta go.”

  “You got a train to catch or something?”

  “I just gotta move. You know that feeling.”

  Theo shrugged. “No, not really, but—”

  “Bye, Theo,” River said, starting to weave his way through the tables.

  “Ciao, my friend!” Theo called.

  River waved. He headed quickly down to the street and along it.

  Turning back, he searched the crowd again.

  There was no sign of the man in the blue suit.

  Maybe he was just having coffee.

  He had seen River the night before. Had he gotten a good look? River didn’t know—it didn’t matter. He had to keep moving.

  He saw more police on the street and noticed every officer he might not have paid the least heed to in days gone by. One officer directed traffic at a broken light. Two more walked the street. He saw a patrol car pass by.

  He walked directly in front of a police car when he crossed the street to the train station.

  No one paid him the least heed.

  River zigzagged through the streets until he arrived in front of a kiosk offering train tickets. He stared at it a moment, then walked to the counter and in his faltering Portuguese asked, “Fala inglȇs?”

  He noted the girl behind the counter. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties. She had a beautiful face with elegant cheekbones, long sweeping auburn hair, and friendly hazel eyes.

  The girl looked him up and down and cracked a smile. “Oh, yes. I speak English. In fact,” she said, lowering her voice, “it’s the only language I speak halfway well. I should speak Portuguese better—I’m a grad student here. But I’m not that great. Still, I’m okay with advice about Brazil and I can crank out a train ticket easily enough.”

  It was nice to hear her voice and see her smile. She seemed the best of those to be found in his homeland. “Where are you doing your grad work?” he asked.

  “Observatório Nacional,” she told him. “Actually, one day, I want to work at NASA. And I will have a chance to go back and work at the Goddard Space Flight Center. But, I mean, I want to study the universe, so studying what’s learned in other countries seems important too. Anyway, where would you like to go? São Paulo?”

  São Paulo was a huge city—a great place to get lost. But it was also a place with a large police force, and perhaps too obvious a choice. Many people went south to São Paulo. “No, I think I’ll go north.”

  “Ah, toward Natal—Rio Grande do Norte, Brazil!”

  His breath hitched in his throat. “Pardon?”

  “Natal, Rio Grande do Norte—it’s a very beautiful area.”

  He lowered his head for a minute. Of course. He’d seen the area on his map of the country. He hadn’t been there yet. But Natal. That was perfect. While he laid low, he could dream of the woman who had captured his heart and his imagination. He could enjoy the place that bore her name—and conjure a way to win her from Tio Amato. Even if the venture was doomed.

  No. He could do it. He knew that he could—convince her she needed to be free of her fears—and she’d then be a truly free spirit who would come with him.

  “You like it there?” he asked.

  “I love it there. Beautiful beaches. I mean, it’s Brazil. Beautiful beaches are everywhere. But I can promise you, it’s nice, even more laid-back than it can be here. The people are very bohemian, very artsy. And friendly—natives and tourists.”

  He leaned closer to the window. “Where should I get the train?”

  “I’ve convinced you?”

  “Yes, sounds great.”

  “Well, there are three stations.”

  River’s brow furrowed. “Not a lot of tourists—not where people would usually go,” he said. “I like the smaller, local stations or stops.”

  “Go to the little station right on the outskirts of the city; the train makes a brief stop there. Don’t take the train out of Méier station—not if you want to avoid a mass of preppy types. There will be throngs of tourists and suit wearers.”

  He lowered his eyes.

  Yes, let me avoid the suits, he thought.

  She produced a map. “You can slip on here at nine. Locals take the train here. It’s very charming.”

  “Thank you,” River told her. “How much—and when?”

  “I’ll sell you a ticket that you can use any time in the next twenty-four hours. Will that work? And I’ll show you on the schedule where you should get on.”

  “When is the next?”

  “Not
until evening, I’m afraid. It is a ‘night-owl’ train and it will be there at five tomorrow. It seems like you’re in a hurry, but if you miss the train you’ll have all day tomorrow to pick up another. It leaves at eight; you must be on it.”

  River dug in his backpack for the money to buy the ticket. He paid her and she smiled.

  “Obrigado to you, sir!” she said.

  He left her and looked at one of the clocks atop the façade of an old building.

  He had hours to kill even to take the first train.

  Walking in the direction of the station the American girl had suggested, he sought out another coffee shop. It was in an alley shaded from the sun. If he sat in the back, he wouldn’t be noticed. And there was a large clock on the newer building across the street—nowhere near as pretty as the old one, but it seemed to tell time correctly. He could watch it while he waited and not miss his train.

  He bought more coffee—Theo had managed to snag most of his espresso anyway and he had a long time to stay up. He hadn’t slept well; his sleep had been plagued by dreams.

  Rio, he thought, had always been a dream for him.

  For a moment, he paused, hearing the child’s laughter in his mind again. Then it faded, as sweetly as the last savoring of a sugar drop on the tongue.

  He gave himself another shake, opened his backpack, and took out his sketchbook.

  He was secluded; he felt safe.

  He began to sketch, not knowing his intent. Most of the time, he didn’t.

  Sometimes, he did scenery. And he loved to draw people. Beluga had always made a good subject. And Maria too.

  No one had been as easy to draw as Natal. No drawing had ever come out as beautifully as the one he had done of Natal.

  But he didn’t draw her then. His pencil moved rapidly over the paper. He began to draw a scene of upheaval and horror. There were servicemen in it—cold, dusty mountains in the background. The ground was exploding again, men flying in the air as if they’d been tossed as easily as basketballs.

  A chill seemed to have settled over him as he drew. Then, as suddenly as he’d begun, he stopped. He studied what he had created. It was a war scene—one he knew too well. Combat had often been hand to hand; they went into villages where insurgents had dug in. And when they did …

  There were grenades exploding, buried mines bursting into flames, men …