TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME

TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME

By Claude L. Arango

CHAPTER ONE

BLAME IT ON RIO

Beyond the rain soaked shores of Copacabana Beach, high above the mountains that surround Guanabara Bay, scattered rain clouds roam the sky above Rio de Janeiro, like marauders looking for easy prey.

Five clicks south of Rio’s bustling seaport, rain blustered clouds descend on Pão de Açúcar, releasing a rolling mist that spills down the mountain’s perilous slopes, then out among the screaming gulls that follow the fishing boats to port, loaded with the day’s catch of sharks, skates, and rays.

At the north end of Copacabana Beach, in the shadows of the Fort Duque de Caxias, two weary fishermen, with failing stamina but practiced resolve, deliver their catch of the day right onto the beach. They had transported a mysterious passenger from a Three-Masted Schooner, anchored a mile off shore. He had sat silently in the front of the small boat, with a stiff breeze in his face, the entire way. But the moment they touched shore he sprang into action, and leaped into the retreating surf with a burlap bag slung over his shoulder, and a white Fedora hat in his hand. He immediately fell to his knees, and made an emblematic sign in the wet sand, while the two fishermen looked on in bewilderment, amazed but utterly silenced by the handmade sign scrawled in the sand.

The stranger quickly rose and strode up the beach, with his foot prints and the fishermen trailing behind. His white pants and white dress shirt clung to his body soaking wet and covered with sand. He soon found a suitable spot, sat his bag down and then opened it. He took out a thick wade of money, secured with a red rubber band. He peeled off several notes and offered it to the fishermen. They lowered their eyes, and then nimbly took the money from his hands, and whispered the word Macumba over their shoulders, as they ran to their boat and pushed it back into the sea.

Further north, across the Bay of Guanabara, dark rain clouds had gathered high above Mt. Corcovado, while down upon the mountain top, the monolithic white stone figure of Christ the Redeemer, stood majestically with open arms outstretched, dispensing hope to the masses far beyond its exalted perch. With the promise of redemption from on high, the faithful bowed their heads and prayed in the rain. But far below down beyond the inlet sea, redemption was not promised, as white cap waves slipped pass shifting swells to crashed against the shore, delivering a promise of a different sort with the advent of the storm.

The beach lay deserted, and the surfers had abandoned the tumultuous sea. Self-preservation had a way of cutting to the quick, yet there stood the stranger at the water’s edge, chanting words from the mystic, in front of a large flat rock that laid half buried in the sand. He had covered it with a red silk cloth, upon which he placed the jaw bone of a Boto Porpoise, a few strands of human hair entangled in a wooden comb. A few trinkets lay to the side, and next to them he placed a mirror and four white candles, whose flame flickered wildly in the wind. At the left side of the rock alter, laid a small wooden figure, whittle from a branch of a Capaiferra tree, which was charred black by flames.

The Stranger stood in silence like a man in a trance; he was completely mesmerized by the pounding surf. Wave after wave raced up the beach to greet him, drawing closer and stronger with each passing surge. Then a huge wave engulfed the rock altar knocking him down, and then quickly drained back to the sea, leaving driftwood, coconuts, and twisted palm branches scattered across the sand, and the rock altar lay in shambles, with one candle still burning, miraculously.

He took this as a good sign, and then snuffed out the flame, retrieving what remained of the Rock altar and put the objects back into his bag. Then he withdrew some dark clothing from the bag and changed into them right there. Afterwards, he took one last look at the churning sea, and then turned and headed for higher ground, and the rain swept streets of Copacabana.

Five minutes from the site of the temporary altar, as the Tucano birds fly, tall shade trees line the streets, offering temporary shelter from the rain. A dubious proposition at best, he soon discovered, while wiping rain water from his eyes, but then he saw something off in the distance, which hastened his departure from the porous sanctuary of the trees.

The streets were nearly empty now, except for a few dogged souls, and one young boy who had braved the storm to sell umbrellas in the rain. The stranger had witnessed the boy's grit and determination, from the sanctuary of the trees, and this pleased him. And when he came upon the boy he gave him a few coins, but he refused the umbrella that the boy offered him, and then he continued on his way.

He walked with hunched shoulders against the wind that blew off of the Inlet Sea. With his eyes to the ground, and head held down, he ignored the storm that sent waves exploding on the shoreline across the street, and barely noticed the Copacabana’s high-rise apartment buildings, with million dollar views, on the other side, but that day the view wasn't worth a dime.

The stranger passed by open air bistros, that usually stayed empty until late afternoon, with garcons dressed in pressed black pants and white serving jackets, all huddled under plastic canopies outside in the rain. They spoke softly among themselves, as they anxiously waited for the deluge to subside, which had reduced the tourist flow to less than a trickle, and their gainful expectations to nothing more than wishful thinking.

Then suddenly, as if a celestial torrential switch had been thrown, the rain stopped. People suddenly began to materialize in the streets as if from thin air, and within minutes the bistros began to fill with patrons taking full advantage of the lull in the storm, and soon it was as if there had been no storm at all.

The sudden transition presented an amicable picture of tranquility. Blue sky and ample sun penetrated the rolling clouds, heartening the prosperous Brasileiros who now filled the bistros to overflow. This was a far cry from the plight of the poor Brasileiros, who lived in the hills, in the favelas, just a few blocks away. Action News camera crews had begun filming the carnage left by the mudslides that came after the torrential rain. Which, inevitably lead to several makeshift homes tumbling down the mountain side, no longer capable of remaining stacked upon one another, like colorful game board pieces, in the crowded hills above Rio de Janeiro.

Copacabana appealed to the stranger, more so than Ipanema’s pristine facade, and as he walked through the neighborhood he came upon a traveling band that roamed the streets entertaining strangers, with song and dance and strumming guitars, as a drummer beat out a captivating rhythm on Macaco skin drums, while Capoeira fighting dancers did their thing.

The stranger moved about like an errant breeze, neither confined nor hindered by venders hawking their cheap wares in front of very expensive stores, while their makeshift stands further narrowed the passable walkway. Then, suddenly, the storm once again made its presence known, and with the first clap of thunder, the crowds dispersed, leaving the stranger once again all alone.

It was his nature to be observant, and he knew that the people in Rio doing all of the heavy lifting were black Brasileiros. He had witness this before, but he was a pragmatic man who dealt with reality, and not the way one thought it should be. Although he moved easily between both worlds of the rich and the poor, his sense of value was never filtered through the prism of ignorance; he knew that things happened by design and not by happenstance. 

The ditch diggers, bus drivers, and baggage handlers, bore their Afro-Brazilian heritage, reluctantly, upon their backs, albeit unwittingly, they accepted their station in life. While the shop owners were well educated and prosperous, with their European heritage intact, promulgating a way of life that guaranteed their domination and control with its most consistent aberration intact. The white Brazilians assumed the caretaker role, which assured their status as captains and masters of the Brazilian society as a whole. Their domination of the most vital aspects important to building a successful material life, in the form of complete ownership of everything in the country worth owning, except for a man’s soul, and in that realm of spiritual mysticism the former Africans slaves held sway.

One shopkeeper called out to the stranger in the street and invited him inside, recognizing that he was not a carioca. The stranger was somewhat amused that he had been so readily identified, by the shopkeeper, as being a tourist. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but his projected personification was working, and he was an inquisitive man who was ahead of schedule, so he complied.

It wasn’t a racist thing, the shopkeeper told him, when he fielded the unexpected question of inequity posed to him by the stranger. The stranger already knew the answer, and of course it was about money, which the shopkeeper readily admitted, sighting the realities of life. The stranger understood the shopkeeper’s tacit acceptance of the gross imbalance between the rich and the poor in Brazil, but he wasn’t passing judgment, but simply passing time, his mind was elsewhere, as he looked at his watch, then he thanked the shop keeper for indulging him, and walked out the door, right on time.

He was back on tract, navigating the busy streets of Copacabana, and occasionally dodging pedestrians who suddenly crossed his path. He consistently avoided collisions and mishaps time and again, as the pedestrians attempted to pass him along the narrow sidewalk. It seems to be a Brazilian thing, for they possess no inkling of the presumed pedestrian sensibility to veer to the right while walking. It was the small things that reminded him that he was in Rio de Janeiro.

He observed other Carioca’s, as the residents of Rio de Janeiro call themselves, going about their daily lives, oblivious to the inundated conditions that winter brings to Rio. It was a welcome change of climate for them, tossing off summer’s sodden heat, and the bustling streets stood in stark contrast, to the recently deserted beaches, abandon by tourist and hucksters alike, and now only capable of attracting the occasional sea turtle, tossed ashore by the wind whipped sea.

The evening downpour turned into a steady drizzle, as the stranger side stepped small puddles of water that had gathered on the sidewalk. When he reached the corner of Rua Bolivar, he turned right, and then proceeded to thread his way through the rest of the neighborhood that made up one of many of the core neighborhoods of Copacabana.

Soon he arrived at his destination, an old office building located on the corner of Rua Aires Saldanha and Miguel Lemos, one street away from the beach. On the front door of an apartment rental office, a travel poster extolled the reader to simply “Blame it on Rio”. He kept that in mind as he quickly scanned the street and then opened the door, and stepped inside. The fat man seated behind the desk looked up, and quickly made an effort to stand. But he was stopped in his tracts by the sight of a gun, held firmly in the grip of the Stranger. The surprised look on the fat man’s face belied the fact that he wasn’t surprised at all, he knew that this moment was coming sooner or later, someday, one day, today.… now.

With a wave of the gun, the stranger motioned for the fat man to sit. With a visible sigh of relief the fat man settled back into his seat, and then the stranger shot him right between the eyes.

The fat man collapsed onto the desk, lifeless eyes harboring no surprise. A ribbon of smoke slowly slipped from the hole in his head, as a trickle of blood ran down his face, and a key was snatched from around his neck. Then a wood carving was placed in his lap before the front door closed without a sound, and the Stranger melted back into the crowd, as effortless as the rain.

TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME CHAPTER TWO

Tether Dreams in the Shadow Game
By Claude L. Arango

CHAPTER 2

DODGER BLUE

A day later and a continent away, “The Mob”, so apply exemplified by the crew riding inside the big black stretched Cadillac Escalade, with 22 inch chrome rims, and a bobbling head of St. Jude in the window, sat in the back of the Escalade, celebrating the Dodger’s victory over the Angels baseball team. They passed round a 40 oz. bottle of Old English Malt Liquor and a joint the size of a good Cohiba.

Three of the of the four ladies present, were bobbing their own heads as they performed fellatio on the entire crew, except for The Shot Caller and Hector, his personal bodyguard. The Escalade rolled through the barrio of Echo Park, in Los Angeles, with the music turned up, all the way. The Shot Caller sat nodding his head in approval, while tapping his feet to a funky Latin beat, thumping defiantly behind the Escalade’s heavily tinted dark windows.

The Escalade slowly glided up Alvarado Avenue, crossing busy Wilshire Boulevard, and Macarthur Park on the right; pass the pimps, whores, and street hustlers that own it now. It followed the traffic up to old Hollywood, and then turned right on Sunset Blvd., and slid in with the heavy traffic heading east, down the once proud boulevard. It continued down, until it entered into the parking lot of Taix, the ‘old school’ Mexican Restaurant, located a quarter mile from Chavez Ravine.


Its occupants were greeted profusely by uniformed attendants, and welcomed inside, with great fan fair, by Carlos, the head waiter. He guided them through the cavernous banquet hall, to the best table in the house. He was ever so thankful that there was no one around to witness this spectacle. It was late afternoon, and the lunch crowd had gone.

The entire crew was decked out in Dodger Blue uniforms. But they didn’t look like a baseball team, but rather like the felonious crew from the film, “A Clockwork Orange”. The Shot Caller’s ominous presence was enhanced by the five pound Louisville Slugger, that he carried by his side. It had been signed by every member of the current Dodger team. They had just left the annual Freeway Game, Dodgers vs. The Angels, the latter now billing themselves as the Los Angeles Angels, although they were from Orange County, and The Shot Caller, the Dodgers biggest fan, didn’t like it.

“That’s territorial infringement”, he told Edwardo, his lieutenant. If somebody tried to pull that shit on us there would be blood in the streets. Somebody ought to do something about that. ” Edwardo knew that if the Shot Caller thought that he could get away with it, he would have the entire Angels management whacked.

The Shot Caller ordered Champagne, burritos, and finger shrimp cocktails for all, and Hector gave the Head Waiter a CD of Latin Funk to play while they eat. And the four young Mexican girls, straight from the barrios of East Los Angeles, duly painted with Maybelline black mascara, black eye liner, black lipstick, and penciled in black eye brows, sat laughing and giggling at nothing in particular. Obviously they were not used to such attention, as they were served, by three waiters, around the thick oak table. And Miss Carlotta Sanchez stuck a wad of gum under the table, in preparation for the meal.


The Shot Caller and his lieutenant, Eduardo conferred, while a rousing Latin Funk song permeating the entire dining hall.

“I am very happy for the Dodger’s victory today, Patron. I think that we have a chance to go all of the way this year”. Eduardo gushed, offering his congratulation to the Dodger’s most rabid fan, The Shot Caller, who was the undisputed leader of The Mob.

Eduardo really didn’t give a damn about the Dodgers, and he thought that the Shot Caller was full of shit. But he knew that The Shot Caller’s fixation with the team was linked to Fernando Valensuela, who was no longer with the team. When the south paw picture first came to the Dodgers, his good fortune coincided with The Shot Caller’s own good fortune; they both had come from the same dirt poor village of Etchohuaquila, in the state of Sonora, Mexico.

With a forced grin, Edwardo told the Shot Caller about a call that he had received that morning, from their connection in Rio de Janeiro. Col. Roberto Javiar Silva of the Federal Police had wanted to speak to the Shot Caller directly. The Colonel would not tell him what the call was about, but he sensed that it was not good news, so Edwardo told the colonel that the Shot Caller could not be interrupted, and asked him to call back after the game.

At that moment, Hector, The Shot Caller’s personal body guard, handed him a cell phone, and Colonel Silva was on the line. The Colonel told the Shot Caller that his emissary, The Dishwasher, had been found dead at their business office in Rio de Janeiro, shot once between the eyes. He was quite dead, and there were no leads in the case, so far. Apparently the only thing missing was a gold key that his man wore around his neck for good luck. They also found something odd, a small wooden doll in the dead man’s lap.

The mentioning of the small wooden doll sent a shock wave through the Shot Caller’s body. He immediately knew that something was terribly wrong, and that he was being sent a message. He thanked the Colonel for keeping him abreast of the situation, and told him that he had done the right thing by speaking directly with him, and if something else came up to call him immediately, and then he handed the phone back to Hector.

He sat back in his chair, and calmly asked Edwardo why was the Dishwasher in Brazil, and how come he had not been told that the Dishwasher was there. Edwardo had a sinking feeling in his stomach, as he sat there and fumbled for an answer. Knowing that there was nothing he could say but the truth, he told the Shot Caller. “Yes this is true. He is in Brazil, taking care of our business. ”

“When did it become our business?”

“Oh, Patron, I did not mean any disrespect. I only meant the Mob’s business. ” “And when did you last hear from The Dishwasher?”

Edwardo did not like the way the conversation was going, and everyone at the table stopped whatever they were doing, to listen to his reply. He didn’t know what else to say, so he told him the truth.

“Three days ago. I haven’t heard from him since he left for Rio.”

“Perhaps he has been detained by one of those Brazilian senoritas. Eduardo”, the Shot Caller offered, pushing a taco into his mouth.

“He is a professional”, Edwardo shot back, a little bit too loud”, “and never before has he failed us, he takes care of our business”.

The Shot Caller let that one pass and said, “Well, Edwardo, The Dishwasher was found shot to death this morning, at our office in Rio, and the killer left a calling card behind, in the form of a small wooden doll, that was found in the Dishwasher’s lap.”

Edwardo’s head went spinning; he too knew that this was the signature of The Shooter, a legend in his own right, who had never failed to deliver on a contract. He was known as The Shooter, but his tools for dispatching people were not limited to the use of firearms. He was equally skilled with knives, ropes, poison, explosives, and hand to hand combat.

He gained legendary status when he took out four body guards and a Yakuza gang leader, in a Tokyo bath house, with a pair of chop sticks and a rolled up dinner menu. The man was a force to be recon with and once he took on the contract there was no calling him back. Any attempt to abort his mission would be considered an unforgivable sign of disrespect and would automatically put the offender at the top of his hit list, and he would still take out the target.

“So, you see Edwardo, we have a bit of problem on our hands.”

 Edwardo’s mind was racing now, he didn’t know what this had to do with the real reason why The Dishwasher was in Brazil, nor did he know what the Shot Caller knew or didn’t know.

“So Eduardo, you say that no one knows who this guy, The Shooter, really is”. “That’s right, Patron. But we do know that he is into Macomba, the Brazilian version of voodoo, and he goes through some kind of ritual before every hit. It is said that before a believer in Macomba can take a life, he has to prepare the way for the soul of the intended victim, by doing three things: he must recognize the attribute of resolve, in a stranger and reward it, he must give hope where none exist, and he must take the life without warning. We used him twice before, and he always leaves one of those voodoo dolls behind.

I told you all this before, Patron. When he worked for us before, we did everything by throw-away cell phones and Fed X. It’s like he was a fucking spy or something, he didn’t want to meet anyone. All he wanted from us was info about his target and his money, but that was OK, because he never missed, and he always got the job done. We had him by the balls because he only got half of the money up front, and the rest upon confirmation of the hit.”

At that moment Hector again approached his boss, and handed him the phone. The Shot Caller listened intently but didn’t say a word, and then he gave the phone back to Hector. Then he got up from the table and started to dance. Everybody at the table watched him, except for Edwardo, who had his back to him. As he got into the groove, holding the bat high above his head, he said to Edwardo “And did you have the Dishwasher by the balls when you decided to help him to steal our money, Eduardo”. The words were barely out of the Shot Callers’ mouth when he swung the bat in an arch of descent, impacting with Edwardo’s head, splitting it like a ripe melon.

Edwardo tumbled from the chair, and was dead before he hit the floor. “Come clean up this piece of shit“, the Shot Caller barked at Carlos, and get him the hell out of that uniform, before he spoils our celebration”.

“You better have them all by the balls, Eduardo, because where you are going they don’t play nice like me.” The Shot Caller said to the dead man on the floor, as three waiters rushed to the body to carry it away. One stayed behind to clean up the blood and brains, and of course, to wipe off the bat.

The taking of life aroused sexual desire in The Shot Caller, and he motioned Carlotta to go under the table, once he seated himself. He then motioned Hector to come to the table, and told him to bring Ramirez to him. The young man approach the table showing no fear, and The Shot Caller motioned for him to sit where Edwardo once sat. “You are my right hand, now. Arrange for our flight tomorrow. We are going to Rio.” he managed to say, through clenched teeth, as Carlotta dropped to her knees and did her thing.