American Drifter

by Heather Graham

  “The dog can’t go to the track,” River said. “Hey, maybe I’ll just—”

  “Just go to the track and meet your friend. You spend too much time alone. I will watch out for the dog.”

  “Wait!” River said, digging into his backpack for money to hand to Beluga. Beluga looked at him, arching a brow.

  “For Convict; I’m sure you told Maria to buy him dog food.”

  Beluga hesitated, then took the money. “The dog is all right. I don’t mind buying him food.”

  “Yes, but I brought him here and you’re watching him for me.”

  Beluga shrugged. “All right. I will take this. He’s a big dog. We’ll buy a lot of food.”

  “Beluga—”

  “Get ready; Maria will go soon.”

  There was no sense asking Beluga about the young woman right now; he was in a mood and River didn’t really blame him. Anyway, she was obviously gone. And he was glad—glad that she hadn’t witnessed the way he had awakened from yet another nightmare.

  Beluga turned and left, and River glanced at the empty cot at the rear of the room again. He didn’t remember being so fascinated in a very long time.

  Ten minutes later he headed out the front door. While he waited there for Maria, his eyes wandered to the steel rack of free local papers; they were there for the tourist trade to know what was going on and they contained editorials as well—all in English. He glanced at the top of the paper in the rack … and his heart stopped.

  There she was!

  There was an editorial in the paper. It began on page one with a small picture of the writer and continued onto the next page, placed among advertisements for a samba school and a Venetian-style ball and a picture of one of the parades that offered scantily clad women with great feather headdresses throwing kisses to the crowd.

  He quickly picked up the paper, ignoring the pictures and ads.

  The name under the picture was Natal—no surname, just the first name. The article was titled “The American Dream—is it truly freedom?”

  So she was a writer!

  There was going to be a way to find her.

  He heard a beep. Maria was ready to drive him into town. She was in the driver’s seat, watching, waiting for him.

  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to make you wait,” he told her as he climbed into the truck; she spoke to him sternly—but in a motherly fashion—and he was sure he was being chastised for his lifestyle.

  “Ah, Maria, you know you can never stay angry with me,” he teased.

  He smiled at her—she smiled back. Begrudgingly.

  CHAPTER 4

  As they drove, he read the article in the paper. It was beautifully written, he thought, and humorous as well. The article focused on the census taken in the U.S.—how people were asked about their color, religion, and ethnicity. Yet, the article stated, there should be only one answer that anyone should have to give, whether they were born in the country or naturalized: American. Because, obviously, being born there made you American. But if you swore an oath, you were also an American. On top of all else. And being American should mean that none of the rest mattered. “Until the government and the people stop discerning between color, faith, and original ethnicity, not all Americans will truly be free to chase their dream. Still, as a foreigner, I applaud the country for the ideal of equality so many hold true—and speak to its citizens, for somewhere in there, that dream does still exist.”

  He thought he was in love already, just reading what she had written.

  Maria dropped him off in the Gávea district near the Hipódromo de Gávea. In Rio, the track was known as a jockey club, and deserved the name. The track was beautiful and offered spectacular views. Corcovado, the mountain where the beautiful and giant Christ the Redeemer statue stood, could be seen from the track, along with other mountains and stunning geographical features. It was near the Jardim Botânico, or botanical gardens, and the area swarmed with locals and tourists alike. Gávea had taken its name from the Pedra da Gávea, a gigantic rock formation that towered above its surroundings. In Portuguese, gávea meant “topsail,” and the rock formation could certainly resemble the topsail of a mighty sea vessel. Much of the area was affluent, but still, beer and roasted-peanut vendors were here and there on the streets, along with the restaurants and cafés. Students abounded as well—Pontifical Catholic University, one of the most important universities in the Rio de Janeiro state, was not far from the Hipódromo. Baixo Gávea, an artsty, bohemian area, was also close by.

  Not only were the locals intriguing, but also the people who came from miles around, their numbers swelling with the approach of Carnaval. No one in the world—not even the Italians in Venice or those at Mardi Gras in New Orleans—celebrated the time before the coming of Lent as they did in Rio. But then, nowhere else in the world was like Rio, where joy and dance and music were the pursuit of life and happiness.

  The track was impressive—handsomely set and well maintained.

  The races had started, but with his paper in hand, River stopped first at a coffee bar, ordered his espresso, and sat, fascinated. He stared at the picture of Natal. Then, he reread the article. She was smart—and philosophical. Natal reminded people that material desires could get in the way of living. She wrote about the wonderful things in Rio that cost nothing: the sights to see, the things to do and, how, just taking a walk at night could be the greatest freedom.

  He rose at last, thinking that now he’d have a way to find her. Of course, she might not be interested in him at all, but he had to at least meet her.

  Feeling exceptionally cheerful, he walked the short distance to the track.

  He found Theo easily enough; his friend liked to stand down by the rail. Theo was actually Thiago Norway, a Brazilian local with long hair, a scruffy chin, and scruffier clothing, thin as a reed and always smiling. His background had to have contained a mixture of almost all the people who had ever come to Brazil—Indian, Portuguese, maybe German, and probably some African. Somehow, all those genetics had combined to give Thiago a strangely compelling face. His eyes were almost golden against his brown skin, his hair dark and curly. His cheekbones were high like those of a classic Greek bust, but also broad—as if he carried the blood of ancient indigenous princes. In sum, he never had two cents to rub together and he was still the happiest, most generous man River had ever met.

  They’d met at the track when River had placed a bet on a horse. Theo had been behind him—extolling the virtues of another horse and jockey. But River’s horse had won the race, and Theo had been convinced that River knew something special about horse racing, horses, or jockeys. River had never been able to convince him that he didn’t—but Theo had a tendency to bet on the wrong horse anyway. He liked to buy lottery tickets as well.

  Most often, not a single number that he picked came in.

  He didn’t have a problem in the world with picking up a half-smoked cigarette someone had discarded and puffing on it as if it were one of the wonders of the world. River was pretty sure that he actually did all right working all kinds of odd jobs, but he was ever on the lookout for easy money and dreamed that one day he’d hit it big at the track or win a lottery.

  Thiago had told him once that he barely remembered his parents; he’d grown up on the streets of Rio and had often survived by eating what the rich and the tourists left behind. Just as he had no problem picking up cigarette butts, he had no difficulty finishing another man’s beer or the three ounces of steak a man left on a plate.

  “So many men think that they must order the biggest steak on the menu!” Thiago had told him once. “I have worked as a busboy many times, and I have fared very well on the meat left over.” He’d laughed. “To be a man, they must order the most meat, yes? And yet, especially as they grow older, they can’t eat it all! It’s the challenge, my friend, it’s the challenge. I keep the world from wasting what should not be wasted!” He’d grown serious. “And I teach the new breed of street urchins to survive. It’s not
so bad, really. I am immune to all things—I have so many of those … what do they call them—”

  “Antibodies,” River supplied.

  “Yes, yes, those!” Thiago had told him happily. “I have tons of those! And it’s good, you know? They say that Americans can’t even drink water in Central and South America. Me, I can eat anything, drink anything, anywhere.” He shrugged. “Well, at least, I think. I haven’t been that many places. One day, maybe. I wouldn’t mind traveling. Maybe one day, if I’m a rich man, I will travel and then…” He paused to grin. “Then, I will see what Americans are like in America!”

  “Would you ever want to be one of the rich men, Thiago?” River had asked him.

  “Sure! Why do you think I play the ponies? But money is not life, my friend. If I have it, I will share it. If I don’t have it—I will still feast and dream on.”

  Theo fascinated River. River counted him—as he counted Beluga—as a true friend.

  “Meu amigo! You made it. Beluga said you were sleeping like the dead with a big dog you stole at your side. What are you doing with a dog, eh?”

  “I had to take him. He’s a good dog; he was like a slave,” River said. “So, you, meu amigo, how are you doing so far?”

  “You mean betting?”

  “We are at the track.”

  “One little one came in—enough to play for a while,” Theo said cheerfully. “Now, see, look here at my form. There’s the horse for you! He’s a big bay and he’s won most of his races so far. I have my money on him. You going to go bet?”

  “You already put in all your choices?”

  “You’re too late for the sixth race but there are six more races coming up. Go put in your bets. I’ll be here,” Theo said. “Hey, you want my advice first?”

  “No!” River told him, laughing. “I like the way I choose.”

  “You choose because you like a horse’s name.”

  “Hey, if I like it, the horse probably likes it too. That means he’s a happy horse—and happy horses run fast,” River said.

  “Not if they’re ridden by a bad jockey.”

  “And what’s a bad jockey? A man who woke up and had a fight with his wife. Who knows who had a fight with his wife on what day?”

  River walked back through the stands and the crowds of people in them to reach the window. Grabbing a race form, he quickly jotted down his choices for the six remaining races. One young thoroughbred in the eighth race was rated dead last but River had seen his first race. He decided to put his money on the horse—Montalbo’s Ricardo. In the tenth race, there was a horse named Chancey’s Adventurous Escape. He had to bet on a name like that too.

  He placed his bets and found Theo again. Theo was grumbling beneath his breath.

  “Your horse didn’t come in?” River asked.

  “Fourth! He came in fourth!” Theo said, shaking his head.

  “I told you—you can’t go by statistics all the time.”

  The next race, River’s horse came in. Theo stared at him, shaking his head in disgust. “You—I call you by the right name: Lucky Dog. You are a lucky dog, you know that, my friend?”

  River smiled but felt a little chill. Lucky?

  He was lucky, in a sense; he had enough money to spend his days exploring as he chose. He had friends, Beluga and Theo. He had this magnificent country to see, and he meant to do it. But he had killed people. He had seen death. And lately …

  He started to say something casual but noted that Theo wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. He was looking up at the boxes—the reserved stands.

  “Tio Reed Amato!” Theo said, his voice clipped with aggravation. “I don’t get it. I just don’t get it. How does such a bad man get to do so well in life?”

  “He has money, Theo. That doesn’t mean he does well in life.”

  “Why can’t he be caught—and stopped?” Theo asked. “Everyone knows that he is as slimy as a vat of olive oil, but they all kowtow to him anyway.”

  River stared up at the man. He was wearing dark glasses, a panama hat, and a pristine white suit. He was surrounded by men in dark glasses and dark suits—all standing with their arms crossed over their chests. A human shield? He was, River had to admit, an impressive figure.

  As they both looked at Amato, another man, dark-haired, with a swarthy complexion and a five o’clock shadow on his chin, broke through the crowd to speak to him. Amato was not happy with whatever was said. He turned on the man; he didn’t touch him but it was evident that he was either yelling or speaking sternly. At the end of his tirade, he waved a hand in the air, dismissing the man completely. The man practically bowed as he backed away from him, and disappeared out of the reserved box.

  “Money. He buys everyone,” Theo grumbled.

  “You mean Tio Amato?” River asked.

  Theo nodded gravely. “He believes that every man can be bought; every man has his price. Most often, he is right.”

  “Not everyone. I would never be bought,” River declared. “And I’m not the only one; there are many people who can’t be bought with money.”

  “You are naive—nicely so, but naive,” Theo said.

  River shrugged. “There’s nothing I want so much that you could buy me for it,” he said. Then felt a flicker of doubt.

  There was something every man wanted badly enough to sell his soul for it—wasn’t there?

  But he couldn’t think of what. For a moment, he just felt … empty. “You are different; you’re an ex-pat walking around Brazil. And you do all right—you have the gift with the ponies, eh? But there are men who cannot resist. They are men just trying to eke out an existence,” Theo said. “They are men with babies to feed, who pay bills paycheck to paycheck and run out of money sometimes before the next paycheck. Tio Amato is a powerful man. He rules the world around him because he can. Because there are those with great riches—and there are those who live at the lowest level of poverty.”

  “That’s everywhere,” River said.

  “Yes—but here, there are only two kinds of people. The rich and the poor. And Tio Amato knows who is who—and sometimes he can even buy the rich. When they are rich, they are often scared. They know that he’s got connections; he’s in the drug trade and there are mean men in that trade. If he wants something, people give in. They don’t want to be enemies with such a man as Amato.”

  River had been watching Amato with growing distaste. It wasn’t just his physical look; it was something in his bearing. He enjoyed power—and he enjoyed seeing others broken and bowing to him. He enjoyed cruelty.

  And River was pretty sure he’d killed someone.

  Maybe a man who couldn’t be bought.

  River looked away from Amato at last, not wanting the image of his face to stay implanted in his mind. So “Tio” Reed Amato ruled the world around him. Everyone knew the drug trade came with enforcers—and lots of guns. Did that mean that Amato could get away with murder? Had he dropped a body off the bridge?

  River didn’t know it for a fact. He had no way to prove it.

  Maybe the body would be found. Still, how to prove Amato was responsible for a body being in the river?

  He stared back at the race track. “Hey, there they go!”

  “Come on, seven!” Theo cried. “Seven, seven, seven! Gooooooo!”

  Horse and jockey number seven raced ahead—and fell back at the loop. Montalbo’s Ricardo started slow, then burst into speed at the loop and came in first.

  River was silent as Theo muttered beneath his breath. He looked at River and groaned. “You had your money on that horse,” he said accusingly.

  River shrugged, grinning. “I’m thinking they call him Ricky for short. That’s kind of warm and familiar. He’s probably a happy horse.”

  “And you remain a lucky dog!” Theo said.

  In the ninth race, neither of the men’s horses came in. In the tenth, though, Chauncey’s Adventurous Escape sailed across the finish line, well ahead of the others.

  “And tha
t one was yours too,” Theo said. “You don’t gloat, but I see it in your eyes.”

  “Yeah, I bet on him.”

  “Hmm. And what do they call him for short? Escapey? How can he be a happy horse?”

  “Ah, because adventurous escapes are fun—and he knows it!” River told Theo.

  Theo went on to mumble and mutter in Portuguese. His horse placed in the eleventh race and River’s won in the twelfth.

  They headed back up to the betting cages to collect. Walking through the crowd wasn’t easy; Theo bumped into someone and steadied himself on River’s arm, apologizing quickly to the man he’d run into.

  “Sinto muito. I’m so sorry, so sorry,” Theo said.

  It was the swarthy man they had seen get a reaming from Tio Amato.

  The man’s lips curled back in a snarl. He was not appeased. “Bastardo! Stupido!” he exclaimed, drawing back as if he were about to take a swing at Theo’s jaw.

  “Hey!” River protested, stepping between them. He stared at the other man. “He bumped into you; he apologized. Move on!”

  The man stared back at River for a minute, fists clenched at his sides. Maybe he decided that he didn’t want to get into it with someone in fit shape. He raised his fist again and looked at Theo as if giving him a warning, but then he dropped it, aware that Theo was not alone.

  Swearing, he moved on.

  “He’s beaten up by Amato; he wants to beat up on someone else in turn, I guess,” Theo said.

  “Forget him. Let’s collect.”

  The track was thronged as they made their way to the window. Mostly, however, people were nice.

  They were in Carnaval spirit. Men and women said “excuse me” in a variety of languages as they made their way through the people grid.

  Friends greeted one another.

  Even strangers laughed when they bumped into one another.

  The young were quick to smile and flirt a little, just in passing. River smiled too, passing others. He’d learned that flirting was a compliment, but there were boundaries. In Brazil, as everywhere, people wanted to be respected.

  “Complimenting women,” Theo said happily, tipping his head to a blonde. “That is good—whether she has one tooth or is a beauty! Now, pinching—definitely a no these days!” He laughed and moved ahead, winking as he lifted his hands and cast his eyes toward a derriere that he apparently thought should be pinched.