Code name, p.17
Code Name, page 17
“How will you get there? How do you move about the country without money?”
“The trains. They go everywhere. Many people ride the trains, inside boxcars, on top of them, under them. A train is like a dog, and the people are like pulgas … fleas … catching a ride. With or without fleas, the dog will go where he is going to go. The fleas might as well catch a ride, do you not think?”
“But what about the risk of getting caught?”
“Ah, sometimes the train police come around looking. But it is not hard to hide from them. They know we ride. If they catch us easily they throw us off. But they do not really care too much, so they do not try too hard.”
“Can you show me how?”
“Certamente, meu amigo Mateu.” Carlos grinned. “How is your Portuguese, did you understand that?”
Mark laughed. “Certamente,” he butchered the pronunciation but at least spoke all the syllables.
Carlos laughed out loud. “Hah, that is very good. You try hard, and your brain is also good enough to do more than pedindo esmolas. Do you mind if I adopt you as meu irmão … my brother? I always wanted a brother.”
The question stunned Mark. After a silent moment, he nodded. “I would be honored to be your brother.”
Carlos grinned broadly, “Então, meu irmão Mateu, now I go to work. Tonight you will have new shoes. Well, not new, but they will smell better.” He laughed. “What size do you wear, my brother Matthew?”
“Ten or eleven, it doesn’t matter,” Mark said reluctantly. “But Carlos, you have already done too much.”
“This is for me. So I can breathe better, remember? And now it is for my brother.” He clapped Mark on the shoulder and then he walked away toward the mouth of the alley. Just as Carlos turned the corner onto the sidewalk, he began walking with a distinct limp.
Mark muttered, “Ah, Carlos, what a character you are – working the crowd already.”
A siren sounded a short burst then died off as a police car screeched to a stop at the entrance to the alley. Two cops jumped from the car and one of them grabbed Carlos. A bolt of fear shot through Mark like a jolt of electricity.
His heart stopped. They’ve found me he thought as he quietly slipped behind the dumpster into the deeper shadows. He crouched down with his feet planted and pulled a crushed box over him.
From the distance, he couldn’t hear what was being said. One of the cops rousted Carlos, leaning him up against the wall, patting him down. The other one started into the alley, swinging his night stick, looking left and right behind trash cans and boxes. He stopped at the pile of cardboard Carlos used for shelter, kicked the pile apart, scattering pieces across the alley. Then the sound of his footsteps began again, this time coming straight toward the dumpster.
Mark drew a breath, sharpening his senses, and waited for what was to come. Without moving, he balanced his weight on both feet and released all the tension in his muscles so he could spring instantly in any direction. The footsteps came closer and then stopped.
“Come on, Ricky,” the other one yelled. “We got nothin’ here.” Through a slit in the box, Mark watched the cop in the alley take a long final look around. Then he turned to go. Mark exhaled slowly and without sound.
Suddenly, the cop named Ricky stopped in his tracks, turned around and looked directly at the spot where Mark was hiding. He stared at the shadow and the crushed box for what seemed like a very long time.
“Be still,” Mark reminded himself. “Remember what Blake taught you. Be invisible.”
Ricky stared, unblinking, as if searching for something he felt was there. But then, “Ricky, come on,” his partner called out. “What are you looking at? You got something back there?”
Ricky blinked, stared some more, then blinked again. “Nah. I don’t guess so,” he yelled. Then he turned and walked out of the alley, his footsteps fading into the distance. The other cop showed a piece of paper to Carlos then handed him something, pointing to it with his finger and talking. Then the men in uniform got in the car and drove away.
Carlos was shaking and a bit pale in the face as he walked back into the alley and started gathering up his scattered pile of cardboard. “They are looking for somebody,” his voice quivered.
“What exactly did they say?” Mark asked from the shadow.
But the old man didn’t answer. He just sat down on his cardboard and shook his head. After a few moments, he got back to his feet. “I will be back later,” he said with what sounded like renewed energy.
“Where are you going?” It was hard for Mark to hide the worry in his question.
“To work,” Carlos managed a weak smile, his color returning to normal. “Tonight you will have shoes.” The old man limped out of the alley and turned the corner.
What exactly did the cops tell Carlos? What did they hand him – was it a business card with a phone number, in case the old man needed to get in touch with them? The question chewed away at Mark’s brain. “Maybe I need to get out of here,” he said. “This Carlos fellow might tell them something.”
For the next half hour, he busied himself cleaning up the alley, all the while pondering the situation. Stay or go? It was a question that could have serious consequences. The trash truck came and went, while Mark curled up in the far corner of the alley and pretended to sleep. Afterward, he pulled the cardboard and newspapers out of the hiding place and spread them in their usual spots. Still, he couldn’t decide whether to take his chances on the streets of D.C. right now or stay put, at least until the cover of night.
It was a nagging worry.
Long after dark, Carlos returned, staggering, smelling of alcohol. He carried a package under his arm. Without a word, he handed it to Mark. Then the old man collapsed into his pile of cardboard and immediately began snoring.
“Thanks,” Mark whispered. He took the package and walked across the street. There, he removed the boots, washed his feet and then washed the boots as well as he could. Extra boots could come in handy, and he decided to keep these. Without soap, it was impossible to eliminate all the stench, but they smelled a lot better after being washed.
Inside the bag, Mark found a pair of well-worn tennis shoes and a pair of mismatched socks. The size was perfect, and the shoes were serviceable even though they had a lot of miles on them.
Sometime during the night, the sky opened up and rain began to fall. Mark crawled deeper under his pile of newspapers and listened as raindrops pattered on the thin covering over him. In the distance, he heard the sound of sirens. Thunder rolled once and then again. Through the thin layer of paper, he saw the sudden brilliance of lightning. He stared blankly at the newspaper covering his head. Sleep refused him in this miserable bed, but the greatest discomfort was inside his head and his heart, both suffering with tortured thoughts of Laura and questions about Carlos.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Pages 51–64, notebook #2 (Spence, Knight’s notes are easier to read in this section. RJ)
Morning dawned bright and warm. The storm had passed sometime during the night, having thoroughly washed Washington D.C., and leaving a heavy veil of humidity over the city this day.
Across the alley, the old man lay face down on the sodden cardboard heap exactly where he had fallen the night before. Mark stared at Carlos, watching for any sign of life. The Brazilian lay so still that Mark feared he had died sometime during the night. Then he saw the slight rise and fall of the man’s back.
Mark had known this man only a short time, but already a bond had formed. Here was a man who, since childhood, had been forced to live on the street, scrounging and begging every day for food or drink or clothing or shelter – whatever he needed; only the necessities, just enough to keep himself alive.
There is a distinction between wants and needs, and Carlos’ life had no room in it for wants. Yes, there was the alcohol. But who could judge this man? Perhaps after all he had been through alcohol was the only thing that eased the emotional pain of loneliness and despair, or memories, or physical pains he had to endure. What hope did he have for the future – any future, any kind of existence above living in an alley on a heap of cardboard, scrubbing his leg with a wire brush and sitting on a corner begging? It was all he knew; he had said so himself. How much lower could a man’s life go? Mark could not possibly pass judgment on this man.
Here was a human being who truly understood what it meant to give of himself to benefit another. He gave his own flesh and blood; scrubbed his wound raw with the cursed wire brush, so Mark could have a change of clothing; then again for shoes and socks. The very thought of it humbled Mark to the dust – that someone would do such a thing for him.
But, for all that, this man was still an unknown factor. What had he told the police? What had the police told him? They may have said something to entice Carlos to help in Mark’s capture. Maybe. Mark had no way of knowing. For now, he decided that he had to trust his gut.
Trust your instincts. He replayed the lessons Blake had taught him.
But still cover your back. Never leave an opening.
There was no food left for this day. Already the morning had come and it was too late to get water. In Mark’s empty C-rat can there was a little rainwater. He drank that then stood to rub his weary muscles, and accidentally kicked the can, which spun off across the alley with a clatter. Carlos jumped, then rolled over and faced the morning through bleary eyes.
“What is all this noise?”
“Sorry,” Mark said.
Spying the new shoes on Mark’s feet, Carlos grinned. “So, how are your shoes? You smell better today.”
“Thank you. They are wonderful.”
“And the socks – are they soft?”
“They’re wonderful, too,” Mark laughed.
Carlos inhaled deeply through his nose. “I can breathe better already.” Then, looking at Mark he smiled. “You look so good and you smell so good and your brain is so smart, what are you doing living on a pile of newspapers in an alley?”
The question might have seemed innocent enough, had it not been for the cops interrogating Carlos the day before.
“Just down on my luck, you know how it goes. You work hard, but then one day you’re out.”
“Ah yes. Many come to live on the streets that way. I am sorry for you, Matthew.” Then he brightened. “But in a way I am happy, too. Now I have a brother.”
“Yes, Carlos, you do. Thanks for all you have done for me.”
“Ah, it is nothing. I will do more. But today I cannot work. Too tired. Too weak.”
“I’m sorry we have no more food for today.”
“I will show you how we get food,” Carlos promised, “but it will have to wait until tonight. A man, even one as strong as me, cannot work all the time. I will rest today and gain strength for tonight.”
The two men passed the day seeking shade, moving with the shadow of the building and conserving their energy as the sun coursed across the humid sky. They talked about life in general, and Carlos told Mark stories of life on the streets of Rio.
The frail man wept bitterly as he told of the death of his mother. It came when the Mayor of Rio decided to purge the streets of beggars to make the city more attractive to tourists. One night, a gang of off-duty policemen, picking up a little after-hours income, swept through the streets gathering up the homeless and herded them onto a barge at the waterfront. Under cover of darkness, the barge was pulled by tugboat several miles out into the ocean, and everyone was thrown overboard.
“My mother never learned to swim,” Carlos moaned. “Neither had I, but at least I was young and strong. She was old and weak.”
Carlos told his story to Mark. During the long hours of the horrible night, he held onto his mother, trying to keep her face out of the water as she flailed her arms. He fought to keep them both on the surface, but finally, they were both so weak they could no longer hold onto each other. In a moment of exhaustion, she slipped below the water and he never saw her again.
Carlos was 32 years old when hundreds of beggars drowned within view of the magnificent lights of Rio de Janeiro. Only a few made it back to the beach, crawling ashore the next day while holiday sun-seekers stared and stepped back, afraid to be touched by the ragged survivors.
Carlos never went back to the cruel streets of Rio. He stowed away on a freighter bound for Miami and worked the streets of America ever since. And now, he was old by the standard age of beggars.
Hearing the story left Mark silent. What a tragedy this man’s life had been.
“There is a saying among my people,” Carlos explained, when Mark asked how he dealt with such a difficult life. “When you have no food to eat, you have only one problem. When you are no longer hungry, you have many problems.”
After a moment, he added, “People have too much, but they are never satisfied, they invent new problems all the time. They cause problems for each other. If they were hungry, they would forget all their problems except that one.”
Evening brought a welcome cooling of the air. “Now we go get something to eat,” Carlos announced. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Good, me too. So, how many problems do we have?”
“Only one,” Mark said, grinning.
“You are very quick to learn, my brother Matthew.” Then clapping his arm around Mark’s shoulder, the older man looked up. “You mind if I lean on you a little?”
“Lean all you want.” The two of them walked slowly out of the alley and into the night. Mark supported Carlos, whose limp was more pronounced now.
Maybe he wasn’t just working the crowd, Mark thought.
They had walked several blocks when a police car roared past and Mark ducked for a shadow away from the street lights, leaving Carlos teetering from the sudden loss of support.
“What’s the matter?” Carlos asked, looking at him curiously.
The patrol car raced on through the night. “Uh, nothing,” Mark stammered. “I just don’t like cops.”
“Those cops who talked to me, they said they’re looking for somebody.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I am good at telling them nothing.” Carlos smiled. “Why would I know anything? I’m just a street bum with a wire brush and a sore leg. But I’ll tell you one thing, my brother Matthew, the cops are very busy. I have never seen so many of them out on the street, talking to everybody, showing photographs. Something very important has happened. They are looking very hard.”
“Photos?”
But before he could get a response from Carlos a short whoop of a siren sounded, and the reflected blue and red lights flashed off the building beside them. Blinding white light hit them in the eyes, from a fender-mounted spotlight being aimed by one officer as the other cop stepped out of the patrol car. In his hand was a long metal flashlight, held like a club.
“Hey, you two,” he yelled, raising the flashlight above his shoulder and shining the light in Carlos’ eyes. “What are you doing out so late?”
The blood stopped cold in Mark’s veins. His skin tensed, eyes widened and breathing became quick and shallow. His feet became at once light and heavy – able to move with agility and yet rooted to the ground for maximum power. Trapped like a caged animal, his mind flooded with possibilities.
I could run, disappear into the night. No, there is something else. It will come. Be patient.
He slowed his breathing, relaxed his skin.
“Just on our way to get something to eat, officer,” Carlos said.
The policeman aimed the flashlight first in Carlos’ eyes and then in Mark’s. “Yeah? Where do you think you’re going to find something to eat?”
“It’s about a mile from here,” Carlos explained. “I am moving kind of slow, because I have an injured leg.” He lifted the pants cuff to show the wound.
“Yeah? And what about this guy?” The officer shined the light in Mark’s eyes. “What’s up with him?”
Tension came back to Mark’s skin. He forced himself to lower his shoulders and relax. But it is hard to relax when you’re a caged animal.
Empty your mind, he thought. It will come.
“He is my brother.”
The officer moved in for a closer look. “He don’t look anything like you.”
I have to get his attention off my face.
Then the idea came.
Mark rolled his eyes, crossed them and laid his tongue out the side of his mouth. He jerked his head left and right and waved at the flashlight. “Ooodle, ooodle, ooodle,” he cried, waving his hands like he was trying to catch a firefly, spinning around and dancing a little dance.
The officer stepped back. “What’s this?”
“Uh, well,” Carlos stammered, staring at the surprising act, “anyone can see he’s not quite right in the head, if you know what I mean.”
Mark crossed his eyes so hard they almost disappeared behind his nose, and his tongue flapped in the night air. “Ooodle, ooodle, ooodle,” he cried again, waving at the light and dancing in a little circle.
The officer flashed the light on Carlos again. “You better get this brother of yours off the street. Ain’t safe out here.”
“Sure thing,” Carlos agreed. “I’ll do that.”
The policeman got back in the car and drove away into the night. Carlos looked at Mark and shook his head in disbelief. “That was … uh, what word do I use … weird?”
“Well, you told them I was not quite right in the head. Didn’t want them to think you’re a liar.”
“So now I have a crazy brother. Oh well,” he shrugged and laughed, “it’s better than no brother at all.”
It took a little over an hour before they arrived at the supermarket. The store had closed for the night, but what they wanted wasn’t inside. Out back were dumpsters, and among the refuse was discarded food that was out of date or in some way not fit to be sold. Many of the items seemed perfectly good, except they had suffered some kind of damage – a punctured milk carton, a smashed can, bruised fruit or vegetables, or a crushed loaf of bread.
