American Drifter

by Heather Graham

  As he ate, he asked her, “Maria, do you remember Natal? The beautiful young woman who was here a few nights ago?”

  “Americana?” Maria asked.

  “No, no. Brazilian.”

  Maria frowned. “We were very busy, many pretty young girls—ah, Canadian girls, yes, I think. But, a Brazilian woman…?”

  “It would have been before the night you were so busy,” he said.

  Maria shook her head. “No, I don’t remember a Brazilian woman. She was here? You are certain?”

  He was about to say yes. Then he lowered his head over his stew, smiling.

  It was Natal.

  She had somehow snuck in without paying. That was her way; she simply liked the game of it. Or, perhaps financially, Tio Amato held her on a tight leash.

  “Maybe I’m mistaken. I thought I saw her here first. I might have just seen her likeness in the paper,” he said.

  Maria shrugged and went about her work. A few minutes later, River thanked her, called to Convict, and was on his way.

  He and Convict easily hitched a ride into the city. When they arrived, they had to walk the final leg to the giant compound that was Tio Amato’s, but River didn’t mind. He didn’t even know what he was doing—or why he was doing it.

  Convict liked the walk too.

  River reached the compound and stood across the street. For a long moment he just stared at the grandeur of the little empire Tio Amato had created for himself.

  The structure and property were beautiful—truly fit for a king. The architecture was fairly modern; River thought that it had been built perhaps in the early seventies. The estate had to cover an acre or perhaps two within the city. The wall surrounded it all. The house itself had to have been about ten thousand square feet. It was three stories high, painted not white but an opaque color that would set it apart. A porch led to the front door and the door itself was arched. Above it were elegant carvings and what must have been Amato’s coat of arms.

  The yard was equally splendid. Matching fountains—with Perseus shooting an arrow—stood on either side of the elegantly tiled walk that led to the porch.

  Great gates were the only break in the stone wall, which stood about ten feet high, keeping visitors out. The gates, ornate and also topped with the coat of arms, opened and closed for cars to come in and out and sweep through the arc of a driveway that allowed for visitors to get out at the front porch and the door.

  It seemed that while people were meant to be kept out, they were also meant to be able to see in.

  See the wealth, perhaps.

  See the power.

  Because it was easy to see the house—at a bit of a distance—from the street.

  Elegant etched-glass windows adorned the double front doors.

  Picture windows allowed those inside to look out on the world.

  Out on the little people.

  But those picture windows allowed those who looked through the gates to look right into the center of the house as well.

  The people of Brazil could look in—and see how the king reigned in his glorious mansion.

  And River could see—he could clearly see. The windows opened to the elegant living room, which seemed to be filled with fine plush chairs and sofas and antique shelves and tables and a sumptuous chandelier.

  All seemed to glisten in the myriad crystal light of that chandelier.

  There were windows in the back of the living room as well. The room was lit up—but so was the patio and the charming pool and grotto beyond.

  Tio Amato had to have arranged it all so that even the back could be seen from the street. Passersby might look in on his shimmering parties. They might see the beautiful people who lived there, or played at the pool or by the grotto.

  Now it was quiet, though.

  Through the windows, River could see that Grecian urns sat amid flower beds behind the crystal waters of the pool; tables and lounge chairs were set on a tiled porch that led to the pool, all of it enviable—all of it like a fantasy, especially as seen through the windows.

  Standing there with Convict obediently seated at his side, River viewed it all.

  He didn’t envy Tio Amato a thing.

  The house was ostentatious, and it wasn’t something that mattered in the least. It was a showplace—because Tio Amato felt that he had to prove himself to the world.

  River thought that the man was such a fool, because he himself knew what was important. River didn’t care about the mansion or the property or the flowers and silver within; he cared about Natal.

  Natal was more beautiful than any piece of crystal, more precious than a house or land or any thing that a man might own.

  He smiled.

  But, of course, Natal could not be owned.

  Tio Amato didn’t realize that yet; River was ahead. He knew. Even if Natal didn’t fully know it yet herself. Her words that she would really free herself needed to reach her soul and her will.

  And they would.

  But while River saw Tio Amato—sitting in his great plush reading chair, the day’s newspaper in his hand—he didn’t see Natal.

  Amato was wearing an elegant crimson silk smoking jacket—how apropos. He was indulging in a large cigar and a snifter of brandy as he read. His feet rested upon a pillow on a footstool before him.

  River must have stood there—just watching and waiting—for an hour. But Natal didn’t appear. She was asleep, he thought. She was asleep—and avoiding Amato because she didn’t want to be with him.

  In his heart and prayers, River knew, she wanted to be with him.

  At last, he left his vigil at the house, his heart heavy.

  “I couldn’t see her,” he said, looking down at Convict. The dog perked up at River’s voice, tail wagging.

  And what had he expected? For Natal to leave the house and fly toward him with open arms? She had a home and a job. She had a life outside of her relationship with River. And she’d told him not to come.

  River remembered the way she’d fled from him that morning, without looking back.

  Maybe he should have listened.

  CHAPTER 13

  But as they walked down the street away from the house, River paused and turned. He’d heard a car he’d paid no attention to at first.

  Now, he did.

  A large black limousine came out from the property.

  He couldn’t help but wonder if the car was following him.

  The windows were tinted; he couldn’t see within.

  The car shot by him, and he told himself to relax. No doubt one of Tio Amato’s paid men was leaving the estate on some errand. The drug lord was not having him followed.

  Tio Amato didn’t know that he existed.

  “It’s all in my head, huh, Convict? The man doesn’t know I covet the woman living with him.”

  Convict barked.

  He was halfway back to the road out to Beluga’s, back to where he could try to hitch a ride for himself and Convict, when he noted the public bathrooms at the rest station off the main highway. He figured he’d make a quick stop—he might or might not get a ride and it would be a long walk.

  “Convict, you’re going to have to spare me a minute. It’s not as easy for me as it is for you.”

  He tied the dog to a bike post by the men’s bathroom and went in.

  He was washing his hands when Convict started to bark. Glancing up in the mirror, he saw that another man was entering the restroom. He was about to apologize to the newcomer for the dog barking when the words froze in his throat.

  He knew the man.

  He was suddenly certain that this guy had been driving the black limo that had left Tio Amato’s house.

  It was the man he had seen at the race track; the same man who had given Theo so much trouble.

  He started to turn but the man was fast. Before River knew it, the man was at his back—and his knife was at River’s throat.

  “Is the money all in the backpack?” the stranger asked, his English h
eavily accented.

  “The money?” River repeated.

  “Yeah, the money!”

  “You’re after my money?”

  “All of it, rich boy. All of it. And if I don’t get it the easy way, I will kill you. I’ll drag your body out and dump it and no one will even notice for days that you’re gone. You’re nothing but a drifter, drifting here and there … and when you drift into a shallow grave, no one will know.”

  River was stunned. He’d been so certain that everything in life had to do with Natal—and through Natal, Tio Amato, and through Tio Amato, this man.

  “You work for Tio Amato,” he said. “You don’t need money.”

  “That kind of money you have—I saw you at the track. Yes, I need that kind of money. Stupid—this is our place; this is my turn. Give it to me.”

  River could see the man’s twisted reflection in the mirror. The waves created by the dull old glass seemed to emphasize everything that was ugly inside the man: the curl of his lip, the dull blades of his eyes, and the greed within them. He worked for a murderer—for a man so consumed with himself that the lives of others meant nothing to him.

  “Now!” the man demanded.

  River’s training kicked in. He shifted in a split second, shoving the man against the sink and wall before hurling himself backward.

  The fellow grunted in surprise, the breath taken from him, as River sent him crashing back into the far wall. The knife clattered from his hand as he stumbled for balance and to clear his head.

  River quickly reached for the knife, stepping back.

  “You’re not taking anything of mine,” he said evenly. Hadn’t Tio Amato already taken from him the most precious person possible?

  But that wasn’t logical; this man was an extension of Tio Amato. Natal had been with Tio Amato before they had met. This man had nothing to do with his feelings of longing and frustration.

  Logic didn’t matter—this man, like his employer, thought that he could take whatever he wanted. He was just as bad.

  He wasn’t taking River’s money—or his life.

  “Get out of here—now,” River demanded.

  But the man let out a bellow like a raging bull. He thrust himself from the wall and came thundering across the few feet that separated them.

  River never meant to stab him. He’d asked the bastard just to walk out.

  But the stupid bull had plowed into him so quickly and with such impetus and venom that the knife …

  It sank right into him. Right into his fat belly.

  The man’s eyes—stunned and glazing—stared up into River’s with horror.

  River was certain that he stared back at the man with equal dismay.

  What have I done? he thought.

  And he watched the man fall to the ground, the knife hilt protruding from his gut.

  A sensation of panic filled him—Run! he told himself.

  Then logic swept through his mind. He’d stabbed the man in self-defense. All he had to do was tell the authorities the truth.

  No. Not where they were. Tio Amato, according to Beluga, owned a number of policemen. He didn’t want to call the police or be caught by them. Not here. Not in Rio. He needed to get the hell out. He slid the knife free from the man’s gut—it would have his prints on it now—and slid it into his boot, wincing at the hot slick feel of the blood on the blade. Then he turned and calmly walked out, untying Convict as he did so. “Come on, boy,” he said. “Time to take a long walk home, I think. Through the forest.”

  He looked up as he heard a sound.

  Someone else was heading toward the restrooms.

  Another man in a suit, this one blue with a matching blue fedora.

  Did he see me? River wondered. He was still at a distance.

  He might be another strongman for Tio Amato.

  “Hey, excuse me!”

  The man was calling out to him. With Convict’s leash in his hand, River skirted around the restroom wall to the rear of the facility. He was lucky—he was facing one of the first richly forested regions that edged the city. He quickly slipped into the trees with the dog. In a matter of minutes, the growth was so dense that he could barely see himself.

  His heart was pounding as he struggled through the vegetation.

  He didn’t even know if the bleeding man had been dead or not.

  If he wasn’t dead, he soon would be, the way the blood had been seeping from him.

  River listened intently as he quickly put distance between himself and the restrooms. No sirens; no sounds of an ambulance or police.

  Finally, he paused. He had to get across the road to walk the distance to the hostel. If no one was coming for him—at least not now—he needed a place to wash the blood from him.

  He stopped in the forest, wiping the knife blade clean with a bandanna from his backpack. When he was certain he’d wiped away every possible fingerprint, he discarded the knife in a thick batch of prickly bushes.

  His head was thudding.

  He hated the fact that he might have killed.

  For a moment he paused, clasping his hands to his ears and falling to his knees on the earth. He could hear it again, feel it again. The thunder in the earth when a bomb exploded.

  The screams of men as they were hit by the shrapnel … as their limbs exploded along with the earth.

  This time, the vision, the daydream—whatever it was—seemed to stay with him a long time. Kill or be killed.

  He hadn’t caused the fight; hadn’t brought it on.

  He’d begged the ass to leave him alone. The idiot had killed himself, rushing River—and meaning to kill.

  The ground seemed to steady beneath him. The acrid scent of powder and ash left the air. He staggered back to his feet. Convict stood by him, licking his hand tentatively. He patted the dog’s head reassuringly. “I’m okay, Convict. I’m okay.”

  Eventually, he made his way back to Beluga’s.

  To his surprise, Beluga was still outside.

  He stopped a good distance away. He’d thought that he’d tell Beluga what had happened. Now, he wasn’t sure.

  Quickly, River tore off his shirt, stained with flecks of blood. He wiped his hands on it before pulling a clean shirt from his bag and throwing it on.

  He kept the bloody shirt bunched tight in one hand as he approached his friend.

  Say nothing. Say nothing.

  “So, you didn’t meet up with your lady friend?” Beluga asked.

  River’s heart sank. “And you didn’t get off your butt and do anything else?” he responded, casually moving the hand that held the shirt behind his back.

  “Indeed. I got up. I checked in on some people, helped Maria with the dishes.”

  “You did dishes?”

  “Okay, so—no,” Beluga admitted. “I brought them to the sink. And don’t look at me like that. I work, I help with the laundry. Maria does the dishes because when she does them, they actually come out clean. Now, you. What of your great romance?”

  “I’m trying to have a grand, sweeping, beautiful romance,” River said. “It’s not all that easy, you know?”

  “Ah, love is never easy. But it’s not going so well?” Beluga asked, frowning.

  “No, not brilliantly, not at this moment. But it’s going—it will just take time.”

  He was always open and easy—and honest—with Beluga. Tonight felt … wrong. He’d never lied to the man. But he couldn’t tell him what had happened.

  “I can still have a bed?” he asked.

  “Yes. You can have the back room in my house all to yourself tonight.”

  River thanked him.

  “Let Convict stay with me for a bit. He can enjoy the night air. And, you know, the longer he’s out here, the less you have to worry about him using the bathroom, eh?” Beluga asked.

  River forced a smile. “Convict is a good boy. He knows that his bathroom is outside.”

  “He is a good boy. He’s a good dog.” Beluga hesitated. “He’s a good com
panion. I’m glad that you brought him.”

  “I’m sure he’s glad too,” River said, watching the way the dog sat at Beluga’s side—and the way Beluga’s giant hand fell gently on Convict’s head.

  “You look tired. Go. Go in.”

  “Thank you, Beluga. Good night.”

  Once inside he dropped his pack on his bunk and headed straight for the shared bathroom. Luckily, it was empty.

  He washed his hands studiously. The blood seemed to be gone—but he kept washing. He checked his leg and his pants where the knife had been.

  The blood was gone.

  But he could still feel it.

  It had been a long day. Emotionally searing. Funny, he could walk forever—hell, he could run forever—fetch, carry, tote, and haul, and not feel so tired.

  He moved his pack and fell down on his bunk. For a while, sleep eluded him.

  And then the dream came again. The awful sound of the explosions that seemed to ricochet in his skull. The stink of burning powder.

  And burning flesh.

  The screams of dying and injured men.

  He fought to escape. To escape the dirt and the powder and the death …

  The dream itself, perhaps.

  But he didn’t wake. He remained in the horrible mist caused by the explosion and he saw men—men everywhere. Armed and ready and hunting and then …

  She walked into view. Light seemed to surround her. To break the mist. But the men saw her too. And then turned, as if they were hunting her … stalking her.

  His men? The enemy? He couldn’t see.

  He shouted her name; he could hear himself, but even her name sounded strange in his ears, as if he were saying it wrong.

  They were everywhere—men. The enemy. He had to fight them off—he had to reach her.

  “River!”

  He woke suddenly in a blind panic—fighting still.

  “River!”

  For a moment, he was still too dazed from his nightmare to react.

  And then he saw a stranger standing over him.

  A stranger in the uniform worn by the police of Rio de Janeiro.

  Memory returned.

  Panic seized him again. Instinct said that he should fight.