Tethered Dreams in the Shadow Game

By Claude L Arango

A long time black government assassin takes on one more assignment that proves to be more complicated than simply killing a man. His mission takes him from the favelas of Rio de Janeiro to the mean streets of Los Angeles following the path of destruction left behind by drug traffickers operating with the blessings of the powers that be. Soon he discovers that unwittingly he has become part of a conspiracy to change the drug power base of the world, and therefore the material dynamics that go with it. For every great fortune created there has been a great crime committed, and as history has shown us, it is always the poor who carry the burden to make it so. Some people are chosen and some people are conscripted, and some people are destined to carry the sins of the world. The black assassin soon realizes that he has been chosen to implement the will of the spirit that he did not believe existed a short time before his awakening, and to protect the essence of the chosen people, from bondage to tutelage, their journey serves a purpose, more so than simply existing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Claude L Arango
• Release date: Sep 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476025889

Claude L Arango

At the present time I am living in Sosua, Republic of Dominica, I spent the past seven years living in Brazil, and four of those years it took to write Tethered Dreams in the Shadow Game. I was stationed at U-tapao, Thailand in 1968-69 as a crew chief on a KC135 air refueling tanker, refueling B-52's and Phantom jet fighters during the Viet Nam war. I personally witnessed a Thai Cargo plane filled with bales of opium, with a US fighter escort make an emergency landing at U-tapao air base. Years later that incident served as the spark to write my book.

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Tethered Dreams in the Shadow Game

By

Claude L Arango

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

Tethered Dreams in the Shadow Game

By

Claude L Arango

PUBLISH BY:

Claude L Arango on Smashwords

Tethered Dreams in the Shadow Game

Copyright © 2013 by Claude L Arango

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoyed this book, then encourage your friends to download their own copy.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

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Contents

Chapter One: Blame it on Rio

Chapter Two: Dodger Blue

Chapter Three: Shooter

Chapter Four: Spank the Monkey

Chapter Five: The King of Palmares

Chapter Six: Rock Creek Park

Chapter Seven: So It Begins

Chapter Eight: The Harder They Fall

Chapter Nine: They All

Chapter Ten: Geechee Nation

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Chapter One

Blame it on Rio

Five clicks south of Rio’s bustling seaport storm clouds descended on Pão de Açúcar, releasing a rolling fog that spilled down Sugar Loaf Mountain’s treacherous slopes, and then out among the screaming gulls that followed 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 Fort Duque de Caxias, two weary fishermen with failing stamina but practiced resolve unloaded their catch of the day right onto the beach. They had transported a mysterious black man dressed in white, whom they had taken on board from a three-mast schooner anchored a mile off shore. The stranger made his way forward to the bow of the boat with his head held high and his arms cross as if he had assumed command of the third fleet. As the fishermen sailed their small fishing boat towards the shores of Copacabana they kept a watchful eye on their mysterious passenger. He appeared to be a tall black man in his mid-fifties, with a regal air about him that managed to penetrate the veil of secrecy that had accompanied him when he came on board. Judging by his clothing he appeared to be a member of a secret religion, practiced by blacks throughout Brazil, known as Macumba. He wore the white clothing that the Macumba faithful often wear, with a white fedora hat slightly cocked to the side, and the brim broken down, partially covering a pair of black piercing eyes. His white linen shirt opened at the neck, and was tucked into his white linen pants that was synched at the waist with a white snakeskin belt, and to complete his Macumba attire he wore a pair of white leather shoes that covered his bare ashen feet. The fishermen eyes poured over him like new found gold, and they were drawn to a bone chiseled ring on the small finger of his left hand. They recognized the ring as a powerful symbol of a Macumba high priest, and according to legend such rings were honed from the bone of a Boto porpoise, and only bestowed on the most powerful practitioners of the dark arts, only on those who had demonstrated their awesome ability to summon spirits of the dead.

Perhaps the stranger was a purveyor of the dark arts or just an odd ball tourist who fancied white clothing, just who he was, they could not agree, but they did lived in Rio de Janeiro the center for the practice of the dark arts, and the birthplace of Macumba, but they both agreed that a wise fisherman would avoid sailing through trouble waters.

When they were just a few feet from shore the stranger leapt over the side of the boat with a large burlap bag slung over his shoulder and his white Fedora hat in hand. He sat his possessions down just above the tide line, then fell to his knees chanting in the African language of Bantu. The fishermen watched from a distance, captivated by the antics of the stranger, and then he began to draw a figure in the wet sand. Slowly, facial features began to take form, and the fishermen’s curiosity caused them to move even closer, and soon they began to recognize the face taking form right before their eyes.

The two fishermen looked on with mounting concern, it was forbidden to witness religious rituals other than their own, because they may have undue influence on the observer. They had their own rituals that also were restricted to their own membership, which made them fear that the stranger had somehow tricked them into bearing witness to a Macumba black magic ritual, but for what purpose they didn’t know. They held on to each other with mounting fear as the stranger continued to work on his demonic creation in the wet sand.

Most Brazilians would be able to identify the face taking shape in the wet sand, and many of them would have also remembered the stories told to them as children about Exu, the evil prince of chaos and trickery, who took immense pleasure in casting innocent children under its spell to do his evil bidding.

When the stranger had completed his creation in the sand he ended his chant, and quickly rose to his feet. Then he stood by and watched the surf engulf the sand mask, completely destroying it then taking the grainy remnants back out to sea with the receding tide.

It appeared to the fishermen that the stranger had summoned the tide to do his bidding, and with the mask’s destruction the water had set the message free to travel to the spirit world on the Other Side.

The stranger then looked in their direction with an intimidating stare. They nodded their heads in deference to him, but could not hold his piercing gaze, so they focused their eyes on the ground, hoping that they had not offended him.

With his clothing wet, and clinging to his body in the chilling air, he strolled up the beach with the two fishermen in tow. He could feel the storm coming on strong, and he knew that he didn't have much time. Soon he found a suitable place, and set his bag down to open it. He took out a thick wad of Brazilian currency, secured with a red rubber band, and peeled off several large bills and offered them to the fishermen. They lowered their eyes for just a moment, but then quickly grabbed the money from his hand and ran down the beach shouting out Macumba! until they reached their boat, and quickly pushed it back out to sea.

Further north across the Bay of Guanabara, storm clouds gathered high above Mt. Corcovado, while high upon the mountain top, the colossal white stone monument of Christ the Redeemer stood majestically with arms open wide dispensing hope to the masses far beyond its exalted perch.

With the promise of redemption from on high, the faithful fell to their knees in the driving rain, and raised their heads towards the heavens praying for salvation. Among the faithful there knelt a corpulent man, with a gold crucifix hanging securely around his neck with a solid gold chain. In his hands he held a string of black onyx stones, an ostentatious substitute for common rosary beads, in the false belief that the expensive stones would validate his devotion even more so, thus affording him a better shot at redemption.

The corpulent man’s outward appearance suggested an educated man of faith and means, but his inner demons revealed him to be the fool that he was.

But far below, down past the inlet sea, redemption was not promised as white capped waves slipped past shifting swells to crash against the shore, delivering a promise of a different sort with the advent of the storm.

The beaches lay deserted, and even the adventurous surfers had abandoned the tumultuous seas. Self-preservation had a way of cutting to the quick. Yet there stood the stranger at the water’s edge chanting in Bantu before a large flat rock that lay half buried in the sand. He had covered the rock with red silk fabric upon which he had placed the jaw bone of a Boto porpoise, and a few strands of human hair entangled in an old wooden comb. A few color trinkets lay to the side, and next to them was placed a vanity mirror and four lit candles, two black and two red, whose flames flickered wildly in the wind. On the left side of the rock altar lay a small wooden doll, whittled from a branch of a Capaiferra tree, then charred black by flames.

The stranger stood in front of the rock altar in the driving rain like a man in a trance. He was totally mesmerized by the pounding surf as wave after wave raced up the beach to greet him, drawing closer and stronger with each passing surge, until a towering wave overtook him, and tossed him about and into the surf, before quickly receding. After a moment of confusion, he regained his balance and raised himself to one knee, then caught sight of the damage that had been done. Driftwood, coconuts, and twisted palm branches were scattered across the sand, and down by the water’s edge lay his improvised rock altar in total disarray.

Yet miraculously one red candle still flickered frantically in the wind. He took that as a sign from the spirit of Exu. The stranger sang one last verse praising the power of Macumba, and then he snuffed out the flame, and retrieved the scattered objects from the rock altar and put them back into his bag. Then, taking one last look at the churning sea, he turned and headed for the rain swept streets of Copacabana.

A few minutes from the beach, as the Tucano birds fly, tall shade trees line the streets of Copacabana offering temporary shelter from the storm. A dubious proposition at best, the stranger soon discovered as he wiped away rainwater falling from the trees right into his eyes. Then he saw a figure off in the distance, and quickly departed the porous sanctuary of the trees.

The streets were almost empty now, except for a few determined souls such as one young boy who had braved the storm to sell umbrellas in the rain. The stranger had witnessed the boy's determination from the sanctuary of the trees. He walked to the child and gave him a few coins, but refused the umbrella that was offered as he continued on his way.

The weather continued to deteriorate as the stranger walked with hunched shoulders against the wind, with eyes to the ground and head held down, ignoring the sound of waves crashing against the shore a hundred yards away, and hardly noticing the high-rise apartment buildings with million dollar views, but that day the view wasn't worth a dime.

The stranger walked past open air bistros, with garcons dressed in pressed black pants and white serving jackets, all huddled under plastic canopies beneath the rain. They spoke softly amongst themselves as they anxiously waited for the deluge to end, as it had reduced the tourist flow to zero and their prospects of gaining a sizable tip to nothing more than wishful thinking.

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

The weather’s rapid transformation presented a picture of tranquility, with blue skies penetrating the roaming clouds above, heartening the middle class Brasileiros who now filled the bistros to overflow. It was a far cry from the plight of the poor, stacked in favelas just a few blocks away. Action News camera crews had already begun filming the carnage left behind by mudslides that came after the torrential rain, wreaking havoc on the improvised dwellings stacked one atop another like colorful game board pieces on the sides of the favelas’ mountains. The heavy downpours frequently caused several makeshift houses to tumble down the favelas’ steep slopes.

Copacabana appealed to the stranger more so than nearby Ipanema’s anemic façade. As he walked through Copacabana he came upon a traveling band that roamed the streets entertaining tourist with singing, dancing, and the strumming of guitars. One troubadour passed the hat while drummers