Crimes of August: A Novel: 5 (Brazilian Literature in Translation Series) (12 page)

“You misunderstood, sir. I’m not against the numbers game. I’m against corrupt policemen. Since they told me you’re an honest man, I decided to lodge my accusation with you.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“The judge will.”

Mattos’s stomach began to ache. He put the gun against Old Turk’s head.

“I can put a bullet in your head right now and toss your carcass in the Sapucaia landfill.”

“You’re not the kind of man who does such an awful thing.”

Mattos sat down in the chair in the living room.

“Could you get me a glass of water, please?”

Mattos called the precinct and asked for a patrol car.

He filled a glass with water from the filter and gave it to the handcuffed man.

ROSALVO HAD SET UP THE MEETING
with his former colleague from Robbery and Theft at the Avenida dance hall, downtown.

Rosalvo, who liked dancing with the taxi-girls, arrived early. He bought a punch-card for the dances, sat down, ordered a gin and tonic, and watched the girls sitting along a row of chairs on one side of the room. He was especially interested in a mulatto woman, slim but not overly so, the protuberance of her rear end showed that she was well padded with flesh in the right place. Rosalvo liked mulatto women and justified that preference by claiming he was the “grandson of a Portuguese.”

He took the girl to dance a bolero.

“I’d like to take you home later,” said Rosalvo. He was a practical man and didn’t like to waste time on small talk.

“We’ll see about that later,” said Cleyde, the dancer. She was practical as well and sensed that she had latched onto an old sucker good for several punches on her card that night. The more punches, the more she earned.

When Teodoro arrived, Cleyde’s card had been punched six times, three boleros, two sambas, one fox trot. “I’ll be right back,” Rosalvo told the dancer at the end of the dance.

Rosalvo and Teodoro sat down at a special table chosen by the former. Teodoro apologized for being late.

His eye on Cleyde, who was now dancing with a fat bald man who had a diamond ring on his finger, Rosalvo said, “Let’s get right to it.”

“What’s that Inspector Mattos like?”

“A crazy troublemaker. Intelligent but naïve. A straight arrow, you know the type.”

“What’s your relationship with him?”

“He eats out of my hand.”

“Explain that.”

“He doesn’t trust anybody at the precinct but me.”

“What’s his interest in Senator Freitas?”

“What’s in it for me if I spill the beans?”

“A transfer to Vice.”

“He’s investigating the senator’s backroom deals.”

“The senator doesn’t make backroom deals.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Teodoro. Let’s skip the bullshit. You and me go back a long way.”

“Which backroom deals?”

“The Cemtex import license.”

“That by itself isn’t worth a transfer to Vice.”

“Mattos is also investigating more serious stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Article 121.”

“Article 121?” said Teodoro, surprised. “The senator isn’t the type to kill anybody. You’re sure? What homicide is it?”

Rosalvo hesitated. It was better not to talk about the murder of Paulo Gomes Aguiar just yet, hold on to a few trump cards.

“I still don’t know what the homicide is. But I’m sure that man’s investigating a 121 involving the senator.”

“Didn’t you say he eats out of your hand? How can you not know?”

“I’m being frank with you, I don’t know yet. But the man is going to have to call on me for help in the investigation. Like I said, Mattos doesn’t trust anyone else. Tell the senator that if it’s in his interest, and I think it is, I can ball up the investigation so bad that not a goddamn thing’ll come out of it.”

“But you haven’t said which 121 it is.”

“I don’t know yet.
Yet.
The senator must know, doesn’t he? Have you forgotten what you learned at the academy, Sherlock?”

The fat man with the diamond ring had sat down at one of the tables with Cleyde. They were drinking champagne. She had found a better sucker.

Rosalvo looked at his watch.

“Go talk to the senator. I want guarantees. The transfer to Vice has got to be published first, in the daily bulletin from
HQ
. I get a month for the transfer. That’ll give me the time to fuck up the inquiry.” As he was saying this, he thought regretfully that he had done something stupid by running to Mattos with the news that he had located José Silva. But for everything in life there was a remedy.

“Now get lost. I’ve got other things to take care of.”

Teodoro left. Rosalvo went to the table where Cleyde and the fat guy were.

“Beat it,” said Rosalvo, sitting down beside the fat man and showing his
ID
with the word
POLICE
in red letters.

The fat man rose, startled.

“You shouldn’t be up this late . . . Pay your bill and go home. Your old lady’s waiting for you.”

Rosalvo took Cleyde by the arm. The orchestra was playing a bolero; he liked boleros.

As they danced: “Is that fat guy a butcher?”

“He said he’s an accountant.”

“An accountant of sirloins and T-bones.”

“I didn’t know you were a policeman.”

“Now you know. The face doesn’t always match the heart. That’s the crux of it.”

“My boyfriend is coming to pick me up at the end of the evening.”

“Give him his walking papers. Like a good pimp, he knows better than to eat off someone else’s plate; he’ll pull in his horns.”

IN THE EARLY HOURS THAT NIGHT
, General Zenóbio da Costa had arrived at the Catete Palace to confer with President Vargas in his office on the second floor. Also present was General Caiado de Castro. Zenóbio had come to bring the president word of the extraordinary meeting of the Army High Command.

“The High Command asked me to reiterate to Your Excellence the army’s firm commitment to safeguard and defend our institutions,” said Zenóbio.

Vargas found the High Command’s guarantees ambiguous. “The office of president of the Republic is a democratic institution. Does the High Command have that in mind when it speaks of safeguarding and defending institutions?”

Zenóbio hesitated before answering.

“The High Command didn’t go into specifics.”

“Was the attack on Major Vaz discussed at the meeting? And the unjust attacks I’ve been receiving from the opposition?”

Zenóbio continued to vacillate. “No, not during the meeting. It was discussed informally earlier, before the meeting began. Fleeting comments.”

“Such as?”

“About the uneasiness among the personnel in the air force.”

“The army has never given any importance to uneasiness in the air force,” replied Vargas. “Or in the navy, which is the oldest and most traditional armed service. The army is the army!”

“Beyond a doubt, Mr. President.”

“Can we count on all the generals in the High Command?” asked Vargas.

“Yes, Mr. President.” Zenóbio’s broad, expressive face pathetically betrayed his nervousness.

“General Caiado?”

“Uh, I didn’t take part in the meeting of the High Command, but I share the secretary’s point of view,” Caiado replied.

As he said goodbye, before leaving in the company of Caiado de Castro, General Zenóbio added:

“Your Excellence’s measure of dissolving the personal guard was well received.”

Vargas didn’t answer. The general left and the president remained seated at the small desk on the second floor, looking out into the darkness through the windows of his office. That same day he had received, in the afternoon, the visit of Vice President Café Filho; the secretary of justice and internal affairs, Tancredo Neves; the secretary of education, Edgard Santos; the secretary of health, Mário Pinotti; the secretary of labor, Hugo de Faria; and Governor Amaral Peixoto. With the exception of the expression of Peixoto, who was his son-in-law, and that of Tancredo, in which he noticed primarily nervousness, in the face of all the others he had detected the same thing he had seen in Zenóbio’s: indecision.

TEODORO TELEPHONED
Senator Vitor Freitas.

“You told me to call you at home if I had any important and urgent information.”

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t think it’s good to talk on the phone.”

“Come by the house, 88 Praia do Flamengo, corner of Ferreira Viana. Seabra Building.”

Teodoro knew where the Seabra was located, one of the best known residential buildings in the city. One of his dreams was to live in that building of black granite. It’s a funny world, he thought.

“Want something to drink, Teodoro?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“I’m going to have some scotch; don’t you want to join me? I called my adviser Clemente to hear your story, and while we wait for him—”

“Well, if you insist . . .”

In the spacious living room was a bar, with a carved wood counter on which stood countless bottles. While Freitas prepared the drinks, Teodoro contemplated the room’s décor. He had never seen anything like it.

“Do you like the decoration?” asked the senator, extending the whiskey on the rocks to Teodoro.

“Very pretty,” said Teodoro.

“The motifs are Tunisian. Do you know Tunisia?”

“I’ve never been out of Brazil, Senator.”

“The fashion these days is to decorate in the American style, a thing of unbearably bad taste. Ah, the Brazilian bourgeoisie! First it was everything French, now it’s everything American. Americans are the most vulgar people in the world. They have no history, no culture, nothing but money. But Tunisia . . . You’ve no doubt heard speak of Carthage, an empire founded by the Phoenicians thousands of years ago . . .”

“Ah . . . Yes, sir . . .”

“Unfortunately, today it’s a French colony. And the French, like all colonizers, have done nothing but try to destroy the cul—”

The doorbell cut short the senator’s digression. It was Clemente.

“I waited for you to get here,” said Freitas. “As yet I don’t know what Teodoro has to tell us.”

Clemente made himself a drink. They sat on one of the sectional sofas in the living room.

“You may speak, Teodoro,” said Freitas. He and his adviser were in a good mood.

Teodoro cleared his throat. He didn’t know where to begin.

“Go ahead, Teodoro. What are you waiting for?”

Awkwardly, Teodoro related the conversation he’d had with Rosalvo.

As he spoke, his listeners began to display signs of growing nervousness. Clemente went to the bar and brought back a bottle of whiskey. He and the senator served themselves several times. The senator’s expression turned gloomy. Drops of sweat covered his forehead.

“Can we believe what that Rosalvo says, his promises?” asked Clemente.

“I think he’d do anything, anything, to get transferred to Vice,” replied Teodoro.

“But first he’ll have to hand over the merchandise. Tell the cop those are my conditions. He’s the one who’s got to trust me, not the other way around.”

The senator’s voice sounded slurred. Saliva had accumulated at the corner of his mouth, which he wiped as it began running down his chin. “Did the cop by any chance mention my involvement in the corruption of minors?”

“No, sir,” said Teodoro vehemently.

Clemente noticed that the senator’s intoxication might lead him to commit other imprudent acts. Whenever he drank a bit too much, Freitas lost control.

“You may go, Teodoro. We’ll talk later,” said Clemente, taking Teodoro by the arm and leading him out of the room.

Freitas was pouring himself another shot of whiskey when Clemente returned.

“I don’t give a shit about the Cemtex case,” said the senator. “My worry is that murder investigation. Could it be the thing with the super?”

“I don’t know. It might be . . . and it might not be. It might be the death of Paulo Gomes Aguiar. Inspector Ready-to-Wear is investigating that case.”

“What the shit is this Inspector Ready-to-Wear business?”

“It’s because he buys his clothes off the rack.”

“You made that idiotic comment before. You have the habit of underestimating people. It would be ideal if the murder Teodoro mentioned were that of Paulo. I wasn’t even in Rio that day; I was in the North making political contacts. It would be ideal, ideal.” Freitas filled his glass nervously, without putting ice in the drink.

“The inquiry into the super was shelved,” said Clemente.

“But not closed. One of these days someone will reopen it . . .”

“They’re looking for a robber.”

“It was a blunder to kill that old fool.”

“It was your idea, dear man.”

“Mine? You’re crazy!” shouted Freitas.

“Want me to remind you how it all happened, Vickie?”

“Don’t be sarcastic. Who are you to be sarcastic with me?”

“You came home drunk late one night from your garçonnière in Copacabana with a friend, and in a burst of passion, inside the elevator, knelt to venerate Priapus.”

“Bastard!” Freitas tried to strike Clemente, who pushed him away violently, causing him to fall onto the sofa. Freitas sat there, gazing stupidly at his shirt wet from whiskey spilling from his glass.

The incident to which Clemente referred had occurred more than a year earlier. The superintendent of the building had entered the elevator and caught Freitas in his libidinous act. Disgusted, he said he was going to call a meeting of the owners and ask that Freitas be expelled from the building for indecent behavior.

“The son of a bitch was watching me,” lamented Freitas as he tried to dry his shirt with a handkerchief he took from his pocket.

Freitas had telephoned Clemente saying he was ruined politically and that they had to do something. Clemente had gone to the superintendent’s apartment, saying that he worked with the senator, asking that nothing be done; he guaranteed that Freitas would move out the next day. The superintendent had replied that Freitas was scum, a disgusting pederast whose sinful behavior had transformed a family building into Sodom. Clemente had offered him money to forget what he’d seen. The old man had indignantly refused Clemente’s “filthy proposal,” saying he was a Protestant pastor and that Freitas had to pay for his sins. As soon as the superintendent said he was a preacher, Clemente had killed him, strangling him.