American Drifter

by Heather Graham

  There was a car on the bridge—a black car like the one that had approached the fountain the day before.

  The trunk was open. River had the feeling that something had just been taken from it.

  And thrown over the bridge.

  Three men were out of the car, looking over the wall of the little cement bridge.

  They were all big, muscled, and wearing almost identical blue jackets. All looked to be somewhere in their late thirties or forties, dark-haired, heavy-set.

  Paid thugs?

  From his vantage point, River could see the water—but not what had been thrown into it. The river was fast-moving, churning in little white waves and bursts.

  It seemed the men were looking at something, or for something—and that they were satisfied by what they saw.

  A fourth man rose from the backseat of the car; he was about six feet tall with dark wavy hair and a lean, muscled build, dressed in a suit that even at a distance appeared to be designer apparel. He looked strong, impressive, even; but when he turned slightly, River felt there was something in his face that kept him from being attractive when he should have been very handsome with his dark hair and well-honed physique. There was a twist to his mouth and a hardness in his eyes. It seemed like cruelty was stamped into his features.

  Tio Amato? he wondered.

  The drug lord who ruled much of the city?

  He’d never met the man and looks could be deceiving, he knew.

  The three thugs approached what appeared to be their leader and spoke in hushed tones that River couldn’t begin to hear. Then they returned to the car, which promptly revved into gear and continued over the bridge.

  Carefully, River shuffled back down the hillside and walked to the bridge, to the point where the men had looked over the water. He saw nothing. Nothing but water, white-tipped as it rushed over stones, beautiful beneath the sunlight.

  He stepped back, still puzzled, still uneasy. His eyes flickered to where his hands had touched the concrete wall.

  There was something there. Tiny droplets of liquid, in a burned crimson color.

  Blood?

  He didn’t touch it, but he stared at it. He felt something curling inside him.

  Was it blood? Could the man who considered himself lord of Rio kill—and dispose of bodies in such a manner?

  He debated telling the police what he had seen. But he was an American. For all he knew, the police could be on Tio Amato’s payroll as well. Furthermore, he wasn’t sure what he could really say. These men were on the bridge. I think there are blood spots there now?

  Had he seen the man kill anyone? Had he seen a body?

  No, and no.

  He stood still for a moment, debating.

  Maybe someone as bad—or worse—had been killed.

  No, that was rationalizing a lack of action.

  But would he be believed by the authorities—or by anyone—if he tried to tell them what he had seen?

  And even if he was believed, would it matter?

  He had no proof. There was no one else here. He had no video. Nothing.

  After a moment, he decided that he would tell Beluga what he had seen; Beluga had been born here and had never gone far. He’d know the lay of the land.

  Beluga would know what to do.

  CHAPTER 2

  As River debated, a middle-aged woman with a few children at her side, carrying a straw bag of market purchases, walked by him on the bridge. He smiled at her. Somehow, she set his mind at ease.

  Mouthwatering aromas filled the air; River had reached the market. Fresh-fruit vendors were the first he saw, and then stands where all kinds of meat sizzled on grills or skewers. He bought a mango first, pulled out his Swiss army knife to peel away the skin, and bit right into it, enjoying the sweet, succulent taste and fibrous texture. Brazil offered a wide variety of cultures and their cuisines—the natives had made good use of fish and the abundance of the land, while Africans brought as slaves had contributed with various spices and the Portuguese had brought in their love for meat and cheese.

  At his next stop, he bought a bundle of chouriço, seasoned sausages, and at another stand, salgadinhos, delicious little cheese buns. Though River was capable of surviving on very little, he happened to be fairly flush at the moment. For some reason, he had good luck at the track. He knew how to pick a horse, even though he didn’t know how he knew how to pick a horse. He just could, and it paid off. He could buy himself an expensive suit or designer jeans—he just didn’t want to. He liked his appearance; it allowed him to get to know the country and the people. He preferred the countryside and the rainforest and the outskirts of the massive city to the concrete jungle and civilization. Rio was cosmopolitan, but, somehow, it also had a way of holding on to what was old and natural and good.

  With plenty to eat, River wandered the market; a lot more than food was sold at the many stands placed haphazardly, as if by a child, on the clearing that bordered the city streets.

  Even here, Carnaval was in the air. Music competed from a number of boom boxes and iPads with speakers. Samba competed with the American top forty and ballads and even the Brazilian national anthem, “Hino Nacional Brasileiro.” Children kicked soccer balls through the aisles; busy vendors either admonished them sharply or just shook their heads in dismay.

  Tourists were abundant—they’d found the market.

  Handsome men flirted with young women—and old. Flirting, River had learned, was complimentary here. He smiled as he saw a charming young man tease a middle-aged woman. She laughed, enjoying his words.

  He passed a stand of leather goods and negotiated the price of a new belt, the vendor pretending he spoke no English and River pretending that he believed him and using his broken Portuguese. It was while he was trying on this new belt—with comments of approval from the vendor and his wife—that he heard the whining.

  Along the same jagged aisle, busy with locals, tourists, and children, there was a stand where a man sold trinkets and jewelry. His display of goods was covered by a glass dome; obviously, he thought that his goods were precious. Maybe they were.

  The goods didn’t draw River’s attention; the dog did.

  He saw the creature that had made the pitiful noise; a large, bone-thin hound of some kind, with German shepherd thrown in. The man was busy extolling the virtues of a necklace to a customer. River bent down to pet the dog.

  He was starved, but a beautiful creature, the best of genetics combined. He had massive brown eyes, a long shaggy coat that couldn’t quite hide his bones and, in the midst of it, a beautiful shepherd-shaped face that might have graced the best of the AKC competitions. The dog seemed friendly, despite the fact that he was starved and had probably been abused.

  River crouched low, close to the dog, and reached into his bag for one of the chouriço sticks he had purchased. The dog lapped it up eagerly, wagged his tail, and bathed River’s face with a slew of sloppy kisses. River laughed, then started as the owner screamed at him.

  He rose; the man was speaking so quickly that he couldn’t follow his Portuguese.

  “It’s all right,” River said in English. “I just gave him a chouriço … just a bit of food.”

  The man continued to rant at him.

  Then he kicked the dog.

  The creature yelped in pain.

  River stared at the man, feeling his temper start to burn. He’d gone to war; he’d met the enemy in hand-to-hand combat and he had killed because he’d had no choice. He’d never purposely lifted his hand against another to do harm of his own accord.

  He was ready to change that mantra. This guy deserved the vicious kick he’d given the dog.

  With significant effort, River controlled the impulse to step forward with his fists flying. Hitting the man wouldn’t help the dog—and he might wind up in a Brazilian jail.

  But neither could he leave the abused animal.

  In a flash, he pulled his Swiss army knife from his pocket and slit the piece of rawhide tyin
g the dog to the stand. The owner lurched forward, but River grabbed the makeshift leash first and fled.

  In seconds, he was flying through the crowded pathways that led through the market, the dog excitedly running at his side. People jumped out of his way as he ran, but still he almost plowed into a woman who sold brightly colored blouses in a kiosk near a jewelry stand.

  He could hear the man screaming behind him. Cursing, raging about River being a thief, urging others to stop him.

  But no one did. People made way for him.

  He thought that the man would keep coming after him, but he stayed with his stand. His jewelry was more important to him than his beaten dog.

  River kept running anyway, until he cleared the market, turning onto the dirt road that led to Beluga’s hostel. There was a copse of trees there just before another bridge that crossed the river.

  He ran with the dog until he reached it, then paused at last, breathless.

  He looked at the dog. The dog looked at him and wagged his tail. It was a big tail.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re happy. Now I’m a thief!” River muttered, though he kept his voice light. His back against a tree, he sank to the ground, trying to catch his breath. The dog began to slather his face with his tongue again.

  “Okay, okay! Let me get into the bag—I have more food. You poor thing; you are just a beautiful pile of bones.”

  He fed the dog slowly, afraid that after starving for so long, the dog would choke and vomit if he ate too fast. When the chouriços ran out, he went for the salgadhinos until those were gone too.

  “What do I do with you?” River mused, petting the dog. “I guess you’d be a good-enough companion, huh? You need a name.” He paused. “I’ll call you Convict, since I may have just become one, if that bastard really cares about you. So, Convict, what do you think? Do you like that name?”

  He didn’t know if the dog understood him—especially since he was speaking English and the dog had probably learned any commands in Portuguese. But Convict barked happily, his fan of a tail flying again.

  “We’ll head to Beluga’s. What do you say?”

  Convict barked.

  River removed the biting chain from around the dog’s neck and walked a few paces experimentally.

  To his relief, Convict kept pace, pausing now and then to inspect and sniff at a tree or a bush—and doing what dogs did.

  After stopping at the stream for Convict to drink, the two of them started uphill, on the dirt-and-stone road that would take them to the hostel.

  When at last the ground plateaued River spotted his destination on the outskirts of the clearing. It was composed of three buildings: Beluga’s own little house; the barn—though there were no horses anymore; and what Beluga called the longshed—it housed up to twenty guests a night. Beluga’s house was whitewashed, one story and two rooms, with planters that always seemed to offer flowers in a variety of colors at both windows. The longshed was whitewashed as well, with a funny little L-shaped add-on where Maria, Beluga’s housekeeper, lived and worked. The kitchen was there too. Sometimes, the sounds of Maria making coffee in the morning were a bit loud in the shed—but that was all right. Travelers were supposed to be up, drinking that coffee, and on their way—or paying for a second night’s stay.

  The barn, where River sometimes slept, was to the right of the shed.

  River always thought it touching that—as with Beluga’s own little house—Beluga kept flower beds around the shed and the barn.

  Beluga loved flowers. To see him smile when he touched one was something that made everyone else smile as well, those giant hands of his so delicate as he gave a rose petal a gentle brush.

  Beluga worked the place himself, alone except for Maria, a tough but kind widow who had lost her husband and two of her children in a flood, but still lived with her faith intact. She had salt-and-pepper hair and had obviously been very beautiful in her youth, though time had brought wrinkles to her face and a thinness to her body.

  Beluga’s property sat on a little hillock with lots of land surrounding it, plenty of space for Maria to hang her laundry in the sun and for Beluga to keep a gathering of ragtag chairs where he could sit and puff on a cigar, sip his coffee or brandy.

  As River approached, Convict in tow, he saw three backpackers ambling away and Maria coming out of the longshed with a bundle of laundry. Beluga was helping her with the work, hanging sheets on the line.

  He looked up and frowned as River walked toward him. He was a massive, broad-shouldered man, six-four or -five and muscular.

  “No dogs, you know that.”

  “I had to take him, Beluga. He was being beaten and starved.”

  Convict sat politely looking at Beluga and wagging his tail.

  “I can see the starved part,” Beluga said. “Still, he’s a dog. No dogs. You keep him out here. Besides, I don’t know if I have a bed for the night.”

  “I didn’t know you started taking reservations,” River countered.

  Beluga rolled his eyes and went to hang another sheet.

  “Want some help?” River offered.

  Beluga shrugged. River shifted out of his pack and went to hang a sheet.

  “So where did you get the dog?” Beluga asked.

  “At the market. Come on, Beluga, look at him! He’s a great dog. Obedient and affectionate. And not prissy—I wouldn’t have come here with a prissy little dog, I would have known much better,” River teased. “This is a manly dog. And I had to. The guy kicked him—because he was mad at me for being decent to the poor thing and feeding him. I really had no choice. Honestly—anyone half human really didn’t have a choice.”

  Beluga kept working in silence. Then he paused when he went to pick up another sheet. “Probably old fat José. He’s been through a few dogs. Thinks they’ll protect his jewelry—half of it’s fake—and then when they want to be fed, he beats them. Did you hurt José?”

  River wasn’t sure if Beluga was hopeful that he had hurt the man or just worried that he might have done so.

  “No.”

  Beluga hung the sheet and went and sat down in one of the lawn chairs. Convict went to him, shyly, wagging his tail.

  “You’re a big boy, you stand tall!” Beluga said, patting the dog. Convict set his nose on Beluga’s lap. “No, no, none of that. You’re not staying here.”

  But he kept petting the dog. River grinned. It hadn’t taken long; Beluga could say what he wanted, but he had already been befriended by the dog. But that was Beluga. He was truly a gentle bear of a man, not at all pretty—he had a really crooked nose and his eyes were too small. But River had seen him find a way to help people by pretending they’d paid enough or telling them that a three-for-one-night special was going on when he knew they were really broke.

  Better not to say too much at the moment about the man, the market, or the dog.

  River sat next to Beluga and pulled out his drawing pad. He didn’t know why, but Beluga liked to watch him draw—he thought that River was good.

  Every once in a while, River thought he was okay himself, but he didn’t draw to become a great artist. He drew scenes because he enjoyed drawing, and if he could capture the essence of something that was beautiful or that intrigued him, it was incredibly satisfying.

  Once, he’d drawn Beluga, and the sketch was one of his favorites; he was really proud of it. The man’s immense size—and his gentle nature—had somehow come through, along with the character lines in his face and the innate wisdom in his eyes.

  Sometimes, Beluga told River that he’d take a few of the drawings in lieu of cash when he wanted a bed for the night.

  River hadn’t wanted any kind of a trade, though, for his likeness of the man. That had been his gift to Beluga.

  Now, he had something to convey.

  River began to sketch the scene at the bridge that morning. He made broad strokes to create the Brazilian scene, the sky, the jagged hilltops, and the mountains beyond. He drew in the foliage and then the b
ridge with the men standing on it, looking downward, and the man he assumed to be Tio Amato standing by the car, waiting. He could picture Tio Amato’s face in his mind’s eye, and the drawing became more detailed as he drew him in.

  Beluga watched him.

  “You saw that man—you didn’t take anything from him, did you? That man—he is not like fat Jose.”

  “Yes, I saw him. No, I didn’t take anything.”

  Beluga tapped the pad. “You don’t mess with this man.”

  River turned to him, serious now. “Beluga, what should I do? I think that he killed somebody.”

  Beluga waved a hand in the air. “You think? You think? You leave him alone.”

  “Beluga, I saw him and his henchmen or thugs or whatever parked at the bridge. They had taken something from the trunk, I’m pretty sure, and they threw it over the bridge into the water. Then those guys,” he stopped to point at the three men, “those guys stared into the water before coming back to this guy—Tio Amato?—and saying something. When I went on down to the bridge, there was nothing in the water but there was something on the wall. Blood, I’m pretty sure.”

  Beluga was dismissive. “You’re pretty sure? What, you got some scientists who do those tests in your pockets or something? You know nothing.” His voice grew intense. “River, you’re a good guy.” He patted his chest. “You got heart. You stay away from that man.”

  River was thoughtful a minute. “I can’t just stay away. He killed someone. He stole a human life.”

  Beluga groaned. “Yes. I know he killed someone—several someones,” the big man said, scratching Convict’s head. “I stay away from Tio Amato. He lives in a big house on a little hill right in the city. It has high gates—and a swimming pool and a movie room and a dozen guards. He pretends he does good things, giving money to churches and schools. He gives to the churches so that the padres will let him in and ignore what they know in their hearts—that the money he has comes from selling drugs—bad drugs, heroin, opiates, street mixes with poison—to the young people. He gets them hooked, and they need more drugs. Then Tio Amato has more money and cars and planes—and he sells the drugs in other places. And when people get caught working for him, they know never to say his name because he reaches into the police stations with his money too, and those who would talk against him wind up in ditches—or thrown over bridges. I had friends … friends who were excited to work for him, excited for the money they would make. Friends who believed he was just a rich man who was misunderstood. Maybe they needed to believe that—the poor can be desperate. But these friends I’ve had over the years … some of them just disappeared one day and were never seen again. River, listen to me on this. You stay far away from him, my friend.”