Secrets of the Apple Page 20

  On the other side of the street he took one look at the wide array of garage-style stores and knew instantly that nothing within a mile radius held a drop of interest for him. They paused to watch a young man performing capoeira, a kick fighting style developed by slaves in Brazil’s colonial days and disguised as a dance to fool the overseers. Ryoki dropped a few bills in his begging box, arrogantly certain he could take him, should the need arise. Then Kate drew him to a little shoe outlet and pointed to a row of brown shoes all exactly the same but bearing different labels. “Lots of shoes are manufactured in Brazil,” she said. “I discovered this place at fifteen, and when I got back to the States and saw my friends spend their whole allowance on a pair of the ‘in’ jeans, I wondered whether there was a store somewhere in Indonesia with two hundred pairs of the same pants, all with different labels.”

  The eager shopkeeper swooped down, but took a step back when Ryoki asked to see something in a forty-six. Not to be deterred, the little man went into the back and brought out a dusty box containing two tan shoes, one a full shade darker than the other—“Bom preço, bom preço,” he insisted in lisping Portuguese. Kate smiled and pulled Ryoki out of the store before he could get smart alecky.

  Outside they wandered aimlessly through the square among carts selling cheap Mickey Mouse ties and polyester scarves, skirted past a little Arab restaurant that Kate couldn’t bear to enter because she’d once seen a clerk throw up on the floor. She explained the bored and silent men paid to weave through the crowd carrying homemade picket signs covered in small photographs and squiggly Magic Marker, a last hope for the families of the missing.

  Kate was not an efficient wanderer. By now he knew that in Napa Valley she had been on her best behavior, politely sticking with him, no trouble at all. This was the real Kate, the one easily distracted by bright shiny objects or interesting passersby, looking at everything, buying nothing, wordlessly veering off, leaving Ryoki talking to thin air or frantically turning in circles trying to divine in which direction she might have vanished. It wasn’t that he needed her to cling to him, but in that distracted state she lacked the wary skills of a city dweller, and seemed surprised by anyone who approached her, as though she had no shred of peripheral vision, an all-around easy mark for pickpockets, or worse. The fourth time she disappeared he threatened her with a choke collar and a leash, but she shrugged him off with a “Phfff,” and was immediately distracted by a teenager with large open sores on his bare feet. “Look how he moves,” she said softly.

  “Kate, big city, third-world country—” he said, giving her a meaningful look.

  “Wow, déjà vu. You and Tom, same place, same exact words.” Ryoki made a whine that sounded something between a moan and a yodel. “I’m paying attention, you need to trust me,” she added.

  “We’ll go faster if we go in a straight line,” he said, making an effort not to check his watch. Kate’s mouth quirked into an indulgent smile and she began walking quickly as he loped beside her, taking two steps to her three. Seeing the sidewalk fly by under his feet made Ryoki feel better, like they were getting somewhere for a change, and by the time they reached the Municipal Theatre he felt upbeat, certain they’d reached one of her landmarks, a major photo op she could check off her list.

  He could see why the theatre drew her. The magnificent stone building reminded him of the Paris Opera House and stood out like an antique rose in a modern cement garden. Kate had a thing for interesting old buildings and sometimes went to the Paulista to have a banana turnover on the balcony of the old stone mansion, painted pink and converted into a McDonalds.

  Once they had stood here and there, snapped a few pictures and duly pronounced it all lovely, Ryoki pulled Kate next door to an ordinary squat McDonalds devoid of glamorous pink balconies. “Did you see anyone throw up in here?” he asked.

  “Last time I was at this McDonalds, the New York City Ballet was performing at the theatre and I ran into a ballerina and—I don’t know what you’d call a guy, ballerino maybe,” she said, one corner of her mouth wrinkling in disgust. Ryoki had been instructed that the term was danseur, according to an old girlfriend, a French dancer so besotted with her own legs that she had little attention left for him. “He was trying to order in crummy Spanish and acted like I was a bug when I tried to help him,” she added. He let “ballerino” stand.

  They ordered sodas and took them outside where they walked down a long flight of stairs to a huge dry fountain set against a concrete wall and erupting with snorting fiery horses in full gallop.

  “When I lived here the homeless were thick as flies in the city, completely overwhelming, especially here in the Centro.” She threw her arms wide. “This whole place smelled like a urinal. We called it the tinkle fountain.”

  By the time they headed back up the stairs, Ryoki figured they had pretty well mined the area of its attractions and intended to hail a cab to take them home. Instead Kate seemed disposed to walk, speaking less and less, without wandering off at all. They walked a long way over sidewalks made of small smooth paving stones, laid by hand in black and white stripes or waves over dirt long since out of level. Eventually she stopped to buy a packet of mints wrapped in green paper from a vendor’s cart and sat on a step in front of a garage-style shop front, locked tight with a heavy metal door, identical to hundreds he’d seen in São Paulo. “I believe this is the heart of the city,” she said, popping a mint in her mouth and offering him the pack. Ryoki looked every direction for some sort of bronze plaque marking the city’s exact geographical center so he could snap a quick photo to be deleted later. Then they could move on to a good restaurant for a late lunch. Finding no such marker, he turned to Kate, taking a mint from the shiny green package and looking for some clue that she was ready to go. Instead she patted the space beside her with a sort of settled look, like she needed the breather. “Ten years ago this place rocked my world,” she said. “Let’s just rest for a minute and look around.” He nodded, his shoulders slumping. He sat quietly on the concrete step, hoping he wasn’t going to spend the rest of the day with dirt smudged across his backside.

  “Would you believe I was once in a band?” she said shyly. “It was just some kids from school and we practiced in an empty shop near here, owned by somebody’s cousin, because nobody’s mother wanted us in the house.”

  A car thumped by interrupting all talk, stereo blazing out all its windows, four well-dressed young guys in sunglasses turning up the bass. Two women walked past giving Ryoki the eye as he twisted in vain for a comfortable position on the cement step. Kate watched everyone as though memorizing for a test.

  “Almost every day I saw these two neat old ladies who liked to spend their days down here in the shade on this step, doing their mending and watching the world go by.” The corners of her mouth turned up as she spoke, her eyes focused somewhere in the middle of the street. “I remember four little kids between five and ten playing with their kitten on an old mattress, screeching and carrying on until one of them almost fell into the street and the ladies yelled at them to find their mother and started shooting dirty looks at that sweets vendor over there for letting his kids run wild, just like my grandma would have done.” Kate rubbed her packet of mints until the top two fell on the ground and she began worrying them with her heel until they’d been crushed to powder.

  “One day I stayed late at band rehearsal after everyone else had left, trying to work out a tricky part on the keyboard and lost track of time. When I got out it was almost midnight and drizzling. I had money for a cab, but I knew my mom was going to be mad anyway and I wanted a new dress, so I decided to walk a few blocks to the bus stop.” Ryoki groaned inside himself, not an ounce of self-preservation, probably only escaped so far by the grace of the angels.

  “Coming around that corner there, I found the grandmothers sleeping right here under our feet, side by side on their backs, faces to the rain, no pillows, one blanket underneath, one on top.” Kate looked up at Ryoki. “I never suspec
ted. The homeless were thick as flies, but these ladies never asked me for anything and they reminded me so much of my grandmother that I never suspected, not once.”

  Ryoki looked at her face, unsure of what he had just heard. “They lived here, right here?” He wanted to jump off as if he’d stepped on a grave.

  “I was so stunned I just kept going. A block and a half down there I found the children, all alone, no adult anywhere. They’d dragged their mattress down behind that newsstand there and slit the cover so they could crawl inside, one kid on each corner, with the kitten on the outer edge.” She stopped scuffing the mints into the pavement and hunched forward, chin on her hands, impassively watching the traffic. “Didn’t have a phone, didn’t know who to call. I don’t know who would have come anyway. The homeless were everywhere back then. You had to make peace with the fact that there’s nothing you can do or you’d lose your mind just walking down the street.”

  Ryoki leaned back, imagined himself swooping down, overcoat flapping cape-like behind him, a wad of money in his pocket and help on speed dial. The image thrilled him, made him feel like a man for exactly four seconds, until a black car sped past blasting irritated honks at a slower driver. No time to gawk at the sidewalk.

  Ryoki saw himself in the backseat of that fast car, tinted windows, instructing the driver to hurry, blind to all but the numbers on his laptop. A brutal truth.

  “I bet you left them your cab fare,” he said. It would be like her to give up her new dress.

  Kate nodded almost imperceptibly, blew out a long breath. “But I should have wrapped my coat around the littlest. I never saw them again and for the last ten years I’ve been wondering why I didn’t think of it.”

  * * *

  That night Ryoki lay in bed staring at his book, a standard espionage thriller with lots of page-turning action and requiring only minor mental engagement. He’d read four pages and couldn’t remember a single word. His mind kept drifting to Kate’s face as she sat on that stoop and told her story, her expression bland and her voice controlled and quiet. He had a sense she’d shared something complicated and important about herself, but it frustrated him, like the time he’d gone boating on a clear glassy lake and one of his buddies had accidentally dropped a platinum Rolex over the side. It didn’t look far to the bottom, so all four of them dove over again and again, pushing further and further until they thought their lungs would burst, but not one of them ever got close to the watch.

  At that moment the power dipped, making the lamp flicker and Ryoki tossed aside his book in annoyance. Too tired, over-thinking a good day. Besides, the next morning his friend rented scuba gear and rescued the watch. It was left to him by his father and was outrageously valuable. Definitely worth the effort.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The following Wednesday a Mr. Katashi Morias entered Ryoki’s office, wearing a fastidiously pressed light grey suit and carrying a folded newspaper under one arm. He bowed a traditional Japanese greeting and held out his card before taking the chair Ryoki indicated. Ryoki took his card in both hands, laying it on the desk before him as he tried to place where he had seen his unexpected visitor before, though he was certain he’d never met a member of the Polícia Federal.

  “I believe you attended our president’s reception last night,” Morias said, speaking Japanese with a heavy Brazilian accent. There was something in his expression that reminded Ryoki of Detective Gordon in Las Vegas, although the two men looked nothing alike. He and Kate had been roped into going to last night’s fundraiser, Relief for Somebody or Other, one of those slick and shiny events that always made him wonder how much relief went to Somebody and how much to the Other. He mentally flipped through the night’s packed blur of faces, dark jackets, bare feminine shoulders, hands he’d shaken—Ah, there was Morias, attached to the president’s personal security detail. They’d stood near one another for about ten minutes, but had never spoken.

  “I fear, sir, that you will need to be a little more careful in the future,” Morias said, his expression bland, his words unemphatic.

  Ryoki replied with an equally impassive lift of his eyebrows, though he suspected what was coming. His family occasionally received threats from extremist groups bent on making a point or some money, an unfortunate cost of success.

  “Last night the president personally heard whisperings about a local gangster who calls himself “José, o Pai do Povo.” Morias paused, looking at Ryoki as though the name might ring a bell.

  “Joseph, Father of the People,” Ryoki translated uncertainly, shy of his toddling Portuguese before Morias’s intense gaze.

  “He’s been in the news recently, an up-and-coming criminal. One report claimed he was once destined for the church, but found a better way to help his brothers and sisters in need.” Morias’s mouth curled down an eighth of an inch, silently ranking Robin Hood with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. “It appears he hopes to snare some of the money floating around you, wants to buy arms, increase his base. But the president has taken an interest in your welfare and as a courtesy has asked me to review your personal security. I have already visited your home and spoken with your housekeeper. Her nephew works with me, actually. I have known her for many years. A fine woman.”

  Unauthorized interference irritated Ryoki, but he nodded a tempered thanks and gestured for Morias to continue.

  “We’re not overly concerned about this José. He’s a relative newcomer in São Paulo and we haven’t yet obtained a good description, but so far his M.O. has been snatch-and-grab, preferring easier targets like family members or loved ones, kids with nannies, low-profile people he can ransom without attracting too much attention.”

  “My family is all in Japan,” Ryoki said, feeling strangely energized, tingly. He almost welcomed the chance to annihilate some thug head-on, man to man, even if he was just a B-list hooligan.

  Morias smiled, but with the look of a father about to caution his son. “You appear to have retained excellent security advice. I found your cars most impressive; that level of armoring is more common in the Middle East. And your bodyguards have certainly made names for themselves. They drive you, I understand, often switching routes, setting up decoy cars. These measures will most likely deter a man like this José. All the same, the president has asked that you be careful out in the streets, no more unescorted days on the town with your assistant.”

  Ryoki’s head snapped up and he wondered how Morias could know about that.

  “Especially, don’t go out walking alone day or night. Eventually you might want to consider taking a helicopter to work, reduce your exposure. Make everybody’s job easier.” He smiled, his eyes remaining serious.

  Ryoki looked at the man thoughtfully. He’d read about São Paulo’s kidnapping rate, about one per day, sadistic affairs where kidnappers cut off ears or fingers and sent them to the family to hurry the ransom. He could see why the president had taken an interest. It would be hard to attract much foreign capital if investors were seen as likely targets to be offed on Brazilian soil. But why send a member of his personal staff for so slight a threat?

  “Are you sure there’s no one who might be an easier target?” Morias asked, looking at him meaningfully. Ryoki shrugged, shook his head.

  “Good,” Morias said as they both stood. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.” He bowed, then held out the newspaper, spreading the headline flat on Ryoki’s desk. “When the president saw this photo he specifically mentioned how much he enjoyed meeting you and your charming companion.” Both men bowed and Morias left.

  Ryoki sat down and glanced at his photo in the newspaper. He had already given the article a cursory glance that morning. When Kate came he intended ask her to skim it on the off-chance the reporter had said anything damaging.

  Waste of an evening last night. If the organizers had just asked him to send a check, he wouldn’t have missed the match between Manchester United and—

  Then he saw it.

  He didn’t rememb
er touching her at all last night. In fact she’d been in a particularly unsociable mood, hanging back, only stepping forward as needed to translate or whisper information about an approaching guest. Must have been just such a moment. Still, it was that moment the photographer froze, instantly crafting a newsprint totem to tower over the entire evening.

  He looked again, surprised he hadn’t seen it the first time. His right hand was spanning her waist, his left cupping her elbow. In the photo she appeared to stand halfway in his arms, lovingly presented to the president. And the expression on his face. Must be a trick of the light, maybe the angle of the lens. He looked almost—Well, no, surely not. He brought the paper closer to his eyes until the minute dots obscured the larger view, allowing him to scrutinize the combinations of light and dark until the expression seemed to even out under his gaze. Mistaken. Needlessly worried. Not true. But from a distance, just at first glance, he had to admit, it almost looked as if he wore the same rapt expression he’d seen in the photo of the Blond Pirate.

  Not that it mattered.

  Trick or no, it still made her look like a target.

  Ryoki felt sick. He’d been selfish bringing her down here; maybe he should send her home now. Or was that cowardice? Living life in fear of minor bullies. He sat back, considering. His mother often traveled with his father. How had they handled this kind of thing? It must have come up. He reached for the phone, even laid his hand on the smooth plastic, but drew back before picking it up. Calling his father about Kate would provoke a whole slew of questions that could only end in his mother sending Kate the latest bridal magazines. No way he could explain that. If he wanted to keep her in Brazil, he would have to handle this himself.

  He took a breath and reviewed what he knew. Morias hadn’t expressed concern for his own safety, deeming his private security measures sufficient. However, aside from work, Ryoki had no fixed routine that frequently took him outside the protection of the office or the house. Kate, on the other hand, often traveled around the city by taxi, driven by who knows who, and ran errands entirely unaccompanied. No one ever questioned her comings and goings. She had no skill to defend herself, and when she was distracted, insert random bug here, barely had the sense to look both ways before crossing the street. Plucking her up for ransom would be—