The Fall Guy

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The Fall Guy Page 3

by Ritchie Perry


  The General Camera was slowly coming to life as I meandered along the uneven, pothole-scarred sidewalk. The corrugated metal shutters of the bars were being pushed up, sleepy-looking hostesses were drifting to work in ones and twos, and a few early birds among the beggars had taken up their pitches — offering their sore-covered limbs to the doubtful sympathy of the handful of sailors who were up and about.

  I could have done with a shave and hot towel massage to freshen myself up but Garcia’s shutter was still in place, so I carried my hangover a yard or two farther to the Stockholm Bar. Inside it was pleasantly dark and I cautiously eased my eyes open from the bloodshot slits they’d been in the street, feeling the big overhead fan get to work on my sweat-drenched brow. The day-shift girls were already on duty, drinking coffee round one of the tables and running down the mugs who’d shared their beds the night before, and I raised a limp hand in greeting before going to the bar. Paulista ran an experienced eye over me as I approached, making an instant diagnosis. By the time I’d perched on a stool he had a stiff cuba libre ready on the counter and was reaching for the phial of Benzedrine. I thanked him, took a long swallow to wash down one of the tablets, then sat back, waiting for it to take effect.

  It was nice and peaceful in the bar, no music and no women pestering me, and this was why I patronized the Stockholm, my one haven along the strip. With all the juggling around I had to do, I needed a retreat where I could relax over a quiet drink.

  Half-way down the glass the Benzedrine began to hit my system. My eyes came into focus, my hands stopped shaking and I started to forget I’d only had about five hours’ sleep out of the last forty-eight. The past ten days had sucked me completely dry, with seven of my ships coming into Santos. What with entertaining contacts on board and buttering up the girls who’d put me in touch with them I’d put in more hours than I cared to remember. I was seriously considering the possibility of a well-earned holiday when both western style swing doors crashed back against the wall, the sudden noise lifting me six inches from my seat.

  ‘I’m looking for a fight,’ the drunk said in English, standing just out of range of the wildly vibrating doors.

  He was big, topping six feet, and the sweaty T-shirt he was wearing did nothing to hide his muscles. I’d been in Rio in’66 when the Canadian Navy had gone through the red light district like a small hurricane and I recognized the expression on his face only too well. He’d hit Santos after a fortnight or so at sea, drunk cheap liquor until it was pouring out of his ears, picked up one of the freelance tarts and woken up in the morning to find his wallet gone. Now he was all set to take it out of the first person he met.

  ‘I’m looking for a fight,’ he repeated.

  As a simple statement of intent he evidently didn’t think this could be bettered. Looking round the bar, I had no difficulty in sorting out the chief contenders. The sailor didn’t strike me as a woman-fighter so that just left Paulista or myself, and Paulista was already sliding through the door behind the bar. Simply because he’d been feeding me free drinks for the last few years Paulista seemed to think I ought to act as part-time bouncer.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ I told the sailor, who was now no more than five or six feet away. ‘I’d hate you to damage your knuckles on my face.’

  He kept on coming, prompting me to get off the bar stool.

  ‘Anyway, I was just going,’ I added, skirting him as I headed for the exit. ‘It’s been a privilege to make your acquaintance.’

  My preparations for retreat earned catcalls of disapproval from the girls, their chairs already shifted so they could watch the fun, and the sailor didn’t appreciate the move either. A large, grease-grimed hand shot out, the fingers hooking painfully into the flesh of my shoulder.

  ‘I don’t like you,’ he announced simply, drawing back his free hand.

  Now he mentioned it I didn’t like the idea of his ham-sized fist getting as far as my chin, not just when the Benzedrine was working, so I grabbed the arm holding my shoulder, did a nifty half-turn and threw the sailor over the bar. He hit the slat board on the far side with an almighty thump, the air turning blue as he struggled back to his feet. The general idea seemed to be to tear off my arms and legs before he used his foot to re-site my tackle between my buttocks. This left me absolutely cold, not turning me on at all, and when his head came above the level of the bar I hit it with the stool I happened to have handy. Abruptly the swearing stopped, the girls turned back to their gossip and I lit a Louis XV.

  Peace and tranquillity were restored to the Stockholm Bar, but not for long. Watched by an approving Paulista, I was industriously hauling the sailor from behind the bar when the police arrived, three of them, all with their riot sticks in evidence. I dropped the unconscious man before the first policeman could crack me on the wrist and leapt agilely to the bar before either of the others could prod me in the kidneys, leaning on it at the correct angle with my feet and hands well apart. One of them went over me for weapons, doing his damnedest to provoke me so they could all have a go with their lead-weighted batons. I didn’t dare blink an eyelid, not even when he tried the standard trick of squeezing hard between my legs. Disappointed, the policeman jerked me back on to my feet.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, pointing his riot stick towards the door.

  His two companions were over with the women, their hands moving busily while they grabbed as much as possible before they left. It was an opportunity for me to scrutinize the policeman with me, wondering whether it was better to offer him a bribe or to wait until we reached the jail and I could get word to Inspector Pinto. As a result of my examination I decided to wait. Ninety per cent of the Brazilian police accepted bribes as a matter of course, the remainder were just looking for an excuse to commit legal murder. I unhesitatingly placed the one who’d searched me among the minority.

  As soon as we drove away from the Stockholm and I had a chance to mull things over I realized there was something very wrong. In fact the whole affair stank to high heaven. For a start I knew all the men patrolling the dock area, had several of them on my payroll, yet the three sharing the van with me were all complete strangers. If this was unusual, the incident in the bar had been positively weird. A drunken sailor had walked in, had deliberately picked a fight with me, and lo and behold, a posse of policemen had been lurking outside, all ready to cart me off in a conveniently parked van. Come to think of it, they hadn’t even bothered to move the sailor from where I’d dumped him on the floor.

  Ten minutes later I was certain my custodians weren’t policemen at all, for wherever else we might be going, we were way, way off course for police headquarters. Policemen or not, they still had their riot sticks and guns so I decided I wouldn’t tax them with the deception. Instead I sat back and did my best to enjoy the ride. Not being a masochist I didn’t find this easy.

  *

  We were on the road for a little under half an hour, my calculations placing us in Sao Vicente by the time we stopped. A quick glimpse of the big suspension bridge as I was hustled out of the van confirmed this suspicion and the house I’d been brought to confirmed another. It was one of the small, white stucco villas which proliferated in the suburbs of any Brazilian city, bars over the windows to deter intruders and a six-foot hedge round the miniscule garden to maintain privacy. Inside there was the stale smell peculiar to houses that haven’t been lived in for some time, dustcovers over the furniture to prove it. The men in fancy dress shoved me along a short corridor and into a room at the end of it where they left me. A crafty peek through the keyhole told me there was no guard posted outside the door but this omission didn’t tempt me to try walking out again. I preferred to take a look through the window instead. Apart from a couple of palm trees, some highly coloured shrubs, which definitely weren’t roses or buttercups, and a good view of the thick hedge a few feet away there was nothing to see.

  The room itself showed more signs of recent habitation than the other parts of the buildin
g I’d seen, for while it wasn’t exactly homely, the dustcovers had been pulled off two chairs and the table. The most interesting feature, however, was the newspaper lying on the table. I would have expected to find the Estado de Sao Paulo but this was a four-day-old edition of The Times, the genuine, home-grown article, not the flimsy edition. It was well over a year since I’d last seen an English newspaper, and for want of anything better to do, I settled down in the more comfortable of the two chairs to bring myself up to date on how the mother country was getting along without me. Badly was my immediate impression, the main news amply justifying my self-imposed exile. Religious warfare in Northern Ireland, hooliganism on the football terraces, old age pensioners freezing to death and the rest of the country on strike, it all made me proud to be British. At least in Brazil they had won the World Cup, even if they were torturing political prisoners, kidnapping foreign ambassadors and petrol-bombing American-owned businesses.

  I was just becoming absorbed in the football reports when the door opened. A man in civilian clothes stood on the threshold for a moment, examining me while I sat in my chair and stared right back. I’d seen myself in the mirror enough times to know he was getting the better of the deal. He was one of the smooth, nondescript, chinless wonders who characterized the British upper classes, whereas I was endowed with the kind of rugged good looks many a film star would envy. Considering the temperature was hovering around the hundred mark, with the humidity not far behind, the natty dark suit he was wearing displayed a superb disdain for climatic conditions. On the other hand, the gun he had in a shoulder-holster did make a jacket something of a necessity.

  ‘You look bloody awful, Philis,’ he said by way of an introduction.

  Stuck for an appropriate answer I maintained a dignified silence. The remark had been designed to throw me off-balance and I didn’t want anyone to know how successful it had been.

  ‘It’s high time you started taking things easier,’ he went on. ‘If those bags under your eyes grow any more they’ll end up as double cheeks.’

  He was quite the little joker, a laugh every minute, and I could feel my heart warming to him.

  ‘Very droll,’ I said, ‘Just who the hell are you? And why the charade to bring me here?’

  He smiled at me, revealing a set of even white teeth which I’d have liked to believe had been provided courtesy of the National Health.

  ‘The name is Reece,’ he answered easily, ‘and the charade, as you called it, was intended to cover up for your sudden departure from Santos.’

  He awaited my reaction with interest, well aware that he had me at sixes and sevens. There were so many questions needing to be asked I didn’t know where to begin.

  ‘I’ve a job for you,’ Reece continued when I made no comment. ‘It’s honest employment so it should make a pleasant change.’

  ‘I won’t tell you what you can do with your job,’ I sneered, pushing myself out of the chair. ‘I realize you’re probably an expert already.’

  I made resolutely for the door, although I had no intention of leaving — Reece had me far too interested for that. The idea was to discover whether he was really prepared to haul out his gun. When he did I stopped immediately.

  ‘Who are you trying to fool?’ I asked, sneering again. ‘You’re not going to shoot anyone. I don’t work too well with bullet holes in me. The blood tends to leak out.’

  ‘There’s nothing to stop me bouncing the gun off your head, though,’ Reece pointed out. ‘And that’s exactly what I intend to do if you try to walk through the door before I’ve had my say.’

  Perhaps there was more to him than met the eye. I thought I could take Reece, but he evidently thought the same about me, which made us even. He wasn’t putting on an act either. There was no bravado about him, only an air of calm competence to indicate he’d been in similar situations before. Mature consideration decided me it would be a painful business learning which of us was right so I returned to my seat and lit a cigarette.

  ‘I deplore violence,’ I told him, ‘so have your say. It won’t alter the fact I don’t need a job, for you or anyone else.’

  These noble sentiments didn’t take the whip hand from Reece. He dumped himself in the other chair and lit a cigarette of his own, a Senior Service. Evidently he had come into Brazil with the newspaper.

  ‘Don’t think I relish the prospect of employing a parasite like you,’ he started, off on the flattery jag again, ‘and I appreciate the fact that the thought of an honest day’s work must come as a hell of a shock. After all, you have managed nine years in Brazil without any visible source of income.’

  ‘I’m a man of means,’ I lied. ‘A rich aunt left me a legacy.’

  ‘Come off it,’ Reece said disgustedly. ‘I know all about you. Quite honestly I can’t imagine you being anyone’s favourite nephew.’

  The last remark was definitely below the belt, even if it was true. The only aunt I’d met had expended so much energy hiking backwards and forwards to the corner off licence that she hadn’t had enough left over to lavish affection on me. When she eventually died, the only legacy I could bank on was a cellar full of empties.

  ‘You came to Brazil in 1962, purportedly to work for the Five Star Shipping Company in Porto Alegre.’ After a deep drag at his cigarette Reece had started on my life story. ‘You lasted a whole week before you resigned, and if you hadn’t taken the initiative, the odds were against you, lasting a fortnight in any case. While you were finding your feet you lived at the expense of one Rita Valdez, a wealthy Argentinian divorcee with a predilection for virile young Europeans.’

  He threw me a quizzical glance, as if to ask how I fell into this category. Stony-faced, I let the insult to my manhood slide, once again finding myself without a suitable riposte.

  ‘Using money borrowed from her,’ Reece went on, ‘you began to play the dollar black market, ditching the woman as soon as you’d accumulated enough capital. You never did pay back the money you’d borrowed.’

  ‘I didn’t borrow it,’ I said, stung into self-defence, ‘She gave me the money.’

  Reece had the bones of the story substantially correct but he’d painted the picture far blacker than it had actually been. In reality Rita and I had parted the best of friends. She’d found herself a seven-foot Swedish basketball player and I’d had one or two women lined up as a contingency reserve.

  ‘Either way makes you a gigolo,’ Reece pointed out pleasantly. ‘Anyway, you kept on dabbling in currency until Goulart was given the boot and the military junta brought in more stringent financial regulations. Even so, you managed to make a packet out of the 1966 revaluation. In general, however, you went through a thin spell, living off capital apart from the occasional odd job, usually of a dubious nature.’

  Reece paused to see if I was still listening.

  ‘Do you agree with me so far?’ he inquired.

  ‘Let’s put it this way,’ I answered, impressed by his research. ‘I’m not going to argue with you.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would,’ Reece purred, a smug expression on his face. ‘Eventually, of course, you ran out of funds. Then you took to smuggling in a small way, mostly liquor and cigarettes. Porto Alegre wasn’t a big enough port for you to make a really fat living, but the profit margins were good and it was an ideal training for when you moved to Santos.’

  He stopped again, treating me to an apologetic glance.

  ‘That’s the one blank in the narrative, I’m afraid.

  You left Porto Alegre in a hell of a rush and I haven’t been able to dig up the reason. Perhaps you’d like to tell me.’

  ‘I don’t like,’ I said bluntly.

  He’d struck on an extremely raw nerve. I’d been run out of Porto Alegre on the traditional rail, given twenty-four hours to leave town by a man I wouldn’t choose to argue with unless I had a brigade or two of commandos to back me up.

  ‘No matter,’ Reece droned on, unabashed by my uncommunicati
veness. ‘You came to Santos and really refined your operation. All the tarts on the General Camera had regular customers on the ships docking here, so you spent a couple of months buttering them up. They introduced you to seamen and officers who didn’t mind having a little extra money in their pockets and you took it from there. At first it was alcohol and cigarettes again, then you diversified as you developed your outlets and established yourself with the local police. You’re still not big time but you’d be way up in the surtax bracket in England.’

  For the time being Reece had finished, which was just as well because I’d had more than enough. He might have done his homework well but this wasn’t getting us anywhere.

  ‘In case you didn’t know I’m quite an expert on my own life story,’ I told him. ‘If you think you can blackmail me into working for you, you’ve gone to a lot of trouble for nothing. I’m absolutely solid with the police.’

  The information upset Reece so much he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

  ‘Blackmail doesn’t come into it,’ he said. ‘When I called you a parasite I didn’t say you weren’t an intelligent parasite. I’m perfectly well aware that you never take a step without buying immunity beforehand. The only reason I’ve catalogued your career in Brazil so fully is to show how thoroughly you’ve been investigated. Before I say what I want you to do I’d better tell you I’m willing to pay five hundred pounds for your services. Two hundred and fifty pounds now, the rest when the assignment is over.’

  The offer prompted me to laugh in his face.

  ‘You can stop there,’ I told him. ‘Whatever the job, that isn’t anywhere enough to make me want to work for you.’

  ‘In that case,’ Reece said softly, ‘would it make any difference if I told you Otto Schmidt was in trouble?’

 

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