"So long as they have soft toilet paper," Hellboy said. Amelia laughed out loud, and he found that he liked the sound she made — a girlish giggle, unconscious and unaffected.
"Hellboy, they serve the best chili you'll find anywhere in Rio. As for the beer, you can take your choice: there's Budweiser in cans or a selection of stuff brewed locally. It has a bit of a kick to it, I have to say."
"I always like to support the local economy." He caught the eye of the barmaid — not hard to do, as she was staring right at him — and raised an eyebrow. She sauntered over, a moving mountain of flesh and attitude. A cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth. By the time she reached them, the ash was almost two inches long, yet still it hung on tenaciously to its former shape.
"Look at that," Hellboy said, quietly enough so that only Amelia heard. "Damn, I've seen some stuff, but — "
"You're that Hellboy?" the barmaid said.
"No, my names Kevin."
The woman laughed, and every bit of her shook. "No, you're him. So are you really from hell?"
Hellboy scratched the table with his big right hand, adding his own signature to a hundred others. "Do you want to find out?"
The woman laughed again, fleshy ripples overlapping with those from her last outburst. "Fair enough!" she said. "Chili's good today."
"Chili's good every day," Amelia said. "We need two bowls and — "
"Four," Hellboy said. "And a large bowl of nachos, heavy on the guacamole. And a pitcher of the strongest local brew you do, which is called ... ?"
"Old Devil." She laughed shrilly.
Hellboy winced. "Well, I can't argue with that." He and Amelia watched the barmaid waddle back behind the bar and disappear into the kitchen. "Please cell me she doesn't do the cooking as well?"
"Don't know who does, but it's divine."
Hellboy made a show of looking around. "Nice joints you frequent, Ms. Francis."
"There's an American chain pub two blocks down," she said. "There've been two murders there in the three years I've been in Rio. Here ... never even seen a fight. Most people are too drunk — or too filled with chilli — to bother."
"Hmph." He fished the satellite phone and battery from his pocket, toyed with them both, and ended up leaving them to one side. Tom could wait another hour. Hellboy was sore and thirsty and hungry, and this was nice. Just ... nice.
"You're sure you're all right?" Amelia asked.
"I'm fine. Aching, but as I said, I've had worse."
"So I imagine. Some of the things you've seen ... some of the things you've done ... "
"I guess as a lecturer in mythology, you'd be interested, eh?"
Amelia shrugged, then smiled. "Damn right! The reason I started advising the BPRD is that I dream of becoming a field agent. When they approached me back in — "
"But do you believe?"
"Huh?"
The barmaid came with their pitcher of beer and two glasses, fired an incoherent quip at Hellboy, and left.
"Do you believe?" he asked again. "That was a dragon back there, and you still seem a bit shaken up about that."
Amelia poured the beers and took a long swig of hers. As she put the glass down, she was frowning, staring at Hellboy's chest but seeing right through. To the dragon, perhaps. Or back to herself, reliving her reaction to the creature's appearance. "Myth is myth," she said. "Or so I've always believed. There's always an element of truth behind every myth, but ... "
"How much have you done with the BPRD?"
"I've answered a few questions over the phone."
"This is the first time you've actually seen anything?"
She nodded. And then she smiled sadly, and Hellboy realized that he was busy trying to deconstruct the meaning of her life. Questioning her beliefs when she had just had them challenged so violently — and so comprehensively — was insensitive of him.