‘Did Otto give any indication where he was going?’ I asked at last.
This was the question I should have asked first but the answer was so predictable I hadn’t bothered. As expected Jair didn’t have any more idea than the other people I’d asked.
‘He could have gone anywhere,’ he told me, disappointed he couldn’t be more help. ‘The restaurant isn’t his only business interest and he was always travelling. Curitiba, Caxias, Rio Grande, Passo Fundo, I could name a dozen places where he had contacts.’
‘In that case there’s only one way I’m likely to find him,’ I said resignedly. ‘You said you were supposed to make a report about anyone asking for Otto. Have you told the mystery men I’m looking for him?’
‘No, of course not,’ Jair retorted indignantly, shocked I’d thought him capable of such perfidy.
Drawing a deep breath I counted slowly up to ten, then I counted to ten again before I committed myself to becoming a hero.
‘Make certain you tell them tomorrow,’ I instructed Jair. ‘Really lay it on thick. Say I don’t intend to leave Porto Alegre until I’ve discovered where Otto is.’
‘You’re sure,’ Jair asked unhappily, not at all struck with the idea. ‘Those men are dangerous.’
‘I’m absolutely positive,’ I said, speaking with far more conviction than I felt.
Jair had to return to the Scheherazade just before eleven and I left the Beethoven shortly after him. Now my neck was well and truly on the line I desperately needed some relaxation. Porto Allegre offered plenty or choice as far as night life was concerned but by now I was in a mood where nothing but the best was good enough. Accordingly I took a taxi out to Melanie’s.
The club was a good seven miles from the city centre and well worth every yard of the trip, many people swearing it was the best bordello in South America. I was in no position to confirm this but it was difficult to see where it could be improved upon. Meals weren’t served and this was the only reason I hadn’t stayed there instead of a hotel for everything else was to hand. The fittings were elegant and comfortable, there was a private beach on the lagoon, the cabaret featured some of the most famous entertainers south of the Amazon and, of course, there were the women, every last one of them hand-picked by Melanie who was one of the world’s greatest authorities on what was likely to please a man. Just seeing them gathered together under the same roof made a mockery of international beauty contests. This was why Melanie’s opening ceremony had attracted every bigwig in the area, from the governor of Rio Grande do Sul to the Police Chief of Porto Alegre, and others from as far as Rio de Janeiro. The place had so much class it made Gordinho’s plush Scirocco Club look like a knock shop in the Gorbals.
Inside the club I took a seat at one end of the bar, making sure I wasn’t beneath one of the chandeliers, and sipped a cuba libre while I slipped into the atmosphere. This definitely wasn’t the kind of establishment where half naked whores rushed around being slapped on the rumps by drunks and, on the surface, it was more decorous than the average W.I. meeting. At the far end of the room a Paraguayan quartet, complete with harp, were on the stage singing a plaintive song about love on the Pampas, watched appreciatively by an audience of fashionably dressed men and women.
The only indications to the real nature of the club were the youth and beauty of the women compared with the middle-aged obesity of their escorts. In fact the only two customers on the right side of forty were Reece and myself. He’d come in a minute or two after me and was sitting at one of the tables with a fragile, little Japo-Brazilian. It was obvious he had no intention of acknowledging me but it was nice of him to let me know he was around. What with Reece, and Gordinho’s man sitting in his Volkswagen in the car park, I was beginning to feel like the Pied Piper.
Melanie herself, a far from unattractive blonde although she was nearly fifty, was mixing with the customers, supervising operations. After ten minutes or so she spotted me and came unhurriedly across.
‘How’s God’s gift to women?’ she asked. ‘I’d heard you were back in town.’
‘News travels too fast for my liking,’ I said, not really surprised.
‘It’s the price of fame. Anyway, I’ve been expecting you for a week.’
This did surprise me.
‘You have?’
‘As soon as I heard about Otto I knew you’d be back,’ Melanie told me. ‘Gordinho or not you weren’t going to sit back quietly in Santos without doing anything to help.’
Melanie broke off the conversation to order a couple of drinks from the barman. Apparently she had a hell of a sight more faith in me than I had myself.
‘What progress have you made so far?’ she asked once we were both set up.
‘None beyond learning that Otto is in real trouble,’ I told her. ‘The bloody idiot seems to have gone off without telling anyone where he was going.’
Melanie wrinkled her nose in sympathy.
‘I know how you must feel. I made a few enquiries myself without getting anywhere.’
I just bet she had. She’d been in love with Otto for years, although I doubt whether he’d realized it, and she wasn’t the type to play safe and ignore his disappearance. Otto was the reason I got on so well with her. As his best friend she accepted me automatically.
‘Have you seen Lydia?’ Melanie asked suddenly.
‘Not yet,’ I admitted. ‘I intended to pop up to Caxias when I had time.’
‘Oh, she’s not at the Vie en Rose any longer, she moved down to Porto Alegre. I’ve been meaning to see her myself. She may know where Otto went.’
‘How come?’ I asked, not following Melanie’s line of reasoning.
‘Since you left her in the lurch she’s been seeing a lot of Otto. They had a lot in common. Otto was like a fish out of water without you for company and Lydia was even worse. If anyone knows where Otto is it should be her.’
*
I hadn’t expected Lydia to be overjoyed to see me and she didn’t disappoint me. When she saw who her late-night visitor was she immediately slammed the door in my face, or she would have done if I hadn’t foreseen her reaction and had my foot in the way. Nevertheless she did her best to crush all my toe bones before I leaned against the door with my shoulder and pushed it open.
‘Get out,’ she spat furiously. ‘I don’t want to see you.’
It was inconceivable she really meant this so I shut the door behind me. Lydia was part Italian, part Brazilian and part Paraguayan, all volatile races in their own right and liable to go off like nitro-glycerine when mixed together. To prove the point she launched herself like a wildcat, prepared to use teeth, nails, elbows or feet just so long as she could hurt me. The most sensible thing would have been to hit her hard on the jaw but ingrained chivalry forbade this and I concentrated on defending myself. I managed to grab her arms before she could gouge out my eyes, jerked my ear out of range of her teeth and held her firmly while she squirmed, struggled and kicked.
‘Let me go,’ she hissed, her blood really up, ‘or I’ll scream.’
Both my arms were fully occupied so there was only one way to stop her. For a few seconds she continued to struggle, her lips cold and unresponsive, then her body relaxed against mine, her surrender as absolute as it was sudden. The aftermath of all her tantrums in the past had been a passionate reconciliation, her anger transformed into an almost animal appetite for sex.
‘Am I forgiven?’ I asked softly when I eventually took my lips from hers and came up for air.
In reply Lydia tilted back her head and treated me to a slow, sexy smile. The invitation in her eyes was transparent and I was about to leer back when she brought up her knee as hard as she possibly could. Unladylike it may have been, painful it certainly was. I screeched out loud, released Lydia and doubled over, clutching myself unashamedly.
‘You cocky bastard,’ she shouted, picking up a candlestick from the table near the door. Thinking you could walk in here after three
years and hustle me straight into bed.’
I knew exactly what she intended to do with the candlestick and there was nothing I could do to prevent her. In my doubled-up stance the back of my head made a tempting target and Lydia was in no mood to miss. Being made of wood the candlestick didn’t do much damage, not nearly so much as her knee, but I did a nosedive on to the soft part of the carpet, fed up to the teeth with a fight where I couldn’t hurt Lydia and she could tear out my heart if she felt like it. Keeping my eyes tightly closed I lay motionless on my face, listening to Lydia’s frenzied harangue. Beginning with an initial challenge to stand up and fight she proceeded, via a brief précis of my ancestry, to a detailed exposition of what she thought of any man who treated a woman as badly as I’d treated her. Despite her blatant distortion of the truth I gave no signs of having heard a word and, after five minutes or so, her temper subsided sufficiently for her to realise that when a fully grown man spent this length of time lying on the floor with his eyes closed there might well be something wrong. Especially if he’d just been hit over the head with a blunt instrument. Lydia’s monologue ceased, presumably while she worked this out.
‘Are you all right, Philis?’ she asked tentatively, anxious now.
Answering her wouldn’t do my cause any good so I kept quiet. Lydia dropped abruptly to her knees, rolled me over and cradled my head on her lap, her thigh making a much more comfortable pillow than the carpet. Now she thought I had concussion or a fractured skull her anger had completely dispersed, to be replaced by loving concern. In a mixture of Portuguese and Italian she implored me to speak to her, swore she hadn’t meant to hurt me and told me how much I meant to her. There was a lot more besides, all of it good for the ego, and I lay back luxuriously, trying not to blink when an occasional tear splashed on my face. Mention of calling a doctor decided me it was high time to begin a protracted recovery. To my mind three would be a crowd. To start the ball rolling I moaned weakly a couple of times, then opened my eyes, my exaggerated grimace intended to signify intense pain.
‘What happened?’ I whispered, thoroughly enjoying myself apart from a nasty ache in the crotch.
Relief at my return from the dead prevented Lydia from answering me and she remained bent over my reclining body, looking like a weeping Madonna. If I’d ever been asked for a blueprint of my dream woman it would have been a replica of her, from the sheen of her Spanish black hair to the shape of her little toe. She was the only woman I’d proposed marriage to, and the only one who’d turned me down flat. Hers had been the right decision as well. I could have no more settled down to monogamy than she could have resisted knifing me the first time she discovered I’d been with another woman.
‘Are you all right, Philis?’ she asked brokenly, the tears sparkling in her eyes making them greener than ever. She must have had a drop of Irish blood in her as well.
‘I feel great,’ I mumbled gallantly. ‘Just as if I’d had a shower under the Iguacu Falls.’
Putting on the agony a bit more I tried to struggle to my feet, Lydia helping me up. Leaning heavily on her, with my arm round her waist, I allowed her to lead me through into the bedroom and ease me down on to the bed.
‘You’d better stay here tonight,’ she said, starting to undo my shirt. ‘You’re in no fit state to go anywhere else.’
Out of politeness I didn’t raise any objection. After all, who was I to argue with a lady?
*
It was late morning when I awoke. Lydia was still asleep with her head on my shoulder, the coffee cream of her skin putting my tan to shame. Pushing a strand of hair from her face I gently nuzzled her mouth until her eyes opened.
‘You look horrible when you snore with your mouth open,’ I said romantically.
She bit my nose and sensually moved her body against mine, making my toes tie themselves in knots.
‘I don’t snore,’ she said complacently, running her nails lightly down my spine, ‘and I never look horrible.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask who’d told her she didn’t snore, then I thought better of it. Instead I lowered my head to her breasts, teasing the nipples with my lips and tongue. We made love unhurriedly, neither of us having any need to prove ourselves because we’d done all the proving that was necessary a long time before. When we eventually pulled apart I wondered what was to stop us staying together in bed for the rest of my stay in Porto Alegre. Unfortunately the answer came only too readily to mind.
‘Why have you come back to Porto Alegre?’ Lydia asked, almost as if she’d read my thoughts. ‘Gordinho will kill you if he finds out and, however much I’d like
to flatter myself, you wouldn’t risk your life just to see me.’
‘Too true I wouldn’t,’ I told her. ‘Especially if I’d known how you were going to greet me.’
Lydia laughed and cuddled up against me.
‘It was only because I was so pleased to see you. It was such a shock to find you standing at the door.’
‘I shudder to think how you’d greet anyone you weren’t pleased to see. The way you behaved you’d think it was my fault we hadn’t seen each other for three years. You were the one who refused to go to Santos with me, even as my legally wedded wife.’
It was a mistake to mention this. Lydia’s temper, never totally quiescent where I was concerned, was beginning to smoulder.
‘Did you really expect me to after you’d admitted you’d been shacked up with Gordinho’s fancy woman?’ she flared.
‘I wasn’t shacked up with her,’ I protested. ‘I only saw her the once.’
‘And how many more times would you have seen her if Gordinho hadn’t found out?’ Lydia accused, rapidly losing control.
‘OK, OK,’ I said, deciding it was time to change the subject. Another stand-up row wasn’t going to do anyone any good, least of all me. ‘Don’t let’s argue about something that happened three years ago. Just remember that any time you need a husband I’ve put in my application.’
‘Was that a proposal?’
She’d half sat up in bed, looking at me to see if I was serious and restored to her good humour. I hauled her down again.
‘Of course it was,’ I assured her. ‘After all, you can cook, you’re house trained and you’re not too bad in bed. What more could a man ask for?’
Overwhelmed by my chat Lydia called me querido, I called her nennizinha and bonitissima and we once again indulged in the oldest of indoor sports. I would have married her as well but we both knew the answer was no. Lydia still had to learn she’d make a better wife than a singer and I finally had to realize there wasn’t anyone over the hill just that little bit better.
It wasn’t until she’d finished cooking us brunch that we again mentioned the reason for my presence in Porto Alegre. Once more Lydia provided the lead.
‘Have you seen Otto yet?’ she asked. ‘He’s missed you.’
‘How could I have seen him?’ I replied, taken aback by her question.
‘You mean you came straight here after you arrived?’
There was a pleased expression on Lydia’s face and a bemused one on mine. She was talking as though she expected Otto to be at the Scheherazade as usual.
‘Surely you know he’s vanished. If not you’re about the only person in town.’
‘Vanished?’ Lydia echoed.
There was no mistaking the surprise in her voice.
‘That’s right,’ I told her, a sinking sensation in my stomach. ‘No one’s seen him since a fortnight last Wednesday. That’s the reason I came back. I’m trying to find out what’s happened to him.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Lydia said, completely taken aback. ‘I’ve had an engagement in Santa Maria for the last two weeks. I didn’t return until yesterday.’
That’s that then,’ I said bitterly. ‘I might as well give up if you’ve no more idea where he went than anyone else.’
‘But I do know where he went,’ Lydia broke in excitedly. ‘H
e went to Rio Grande to see a man called Biddencourt. The day before I left for Santa Maria Otto came to see me. When I told him about my engagement at the Florianopolis he said it was a pity I wasn’t going to Rio Grande, then we could have travelled together.’
‘Which day was this?’ I asked, scarcely daring to believe in my change of fortune.
‘It was a Tuesday. The day before you say he disappeared.’
Lydia and I took the afternoon flight to Rio Grande. It hadn’t been my idea that she should accompany me, in fact I’d protested strongly, but Lydia had refused to be gainsaid. I’d informed her that I wouldn’t be returning to Porto Alegre for more than a few hours and this was what had made her so pig-headed. She maintained it was so long since we’d last been together she had no intention of allowing me to disappear again after one night together, especially as she had a week off before her next singing engagement. When I’d brought up the little matter of how dangerous the trip might be, a point I’d really emphasized, she hadn’t batted an eyelid, saying Otto was as much her friend as mine. Nor would she agree to the obvious compromise — a trip to Santos after I’d sorted everything out. In the end I’d given in gracefully. It was clear she’d go to Rio Grande whatever I said and she was less likely to get into trouble with me to keep an eye on her.
Before we left for the airport there was a lot of rushing around to be done. First I had to sort out my position at the Hotel Broadway. As an optimist I assumed I’d want to return to Santos from Rio Grande and the only practicable flight plan would involve a change of plane in Porto Alegre, almost certainly meaning a stopover of several hours. The possible alternatives, going through Montevideo or Buenos Aires, would take me out of Brazil. Without a lot more pull than I had in Rio Grande do Sul just getting the exit visa might be a week wasted. After this I’d have to sweat things out for an even longer period, wondering whether I’d be granted a re-entry permit and knowing it was quite on the cards that the Brazilian authorities would decide the country’s economic development could progress without me. Accordingly I paid a week in advance for my room at the Broadway, explaining I wasn’t absolutely sure when I’d be back. The great advantage was that I could leave the bulk of my luggage behind and take with me nothing more than an overnight bag, a real boon for someone who hated packing as much as I did.
The Fall Guy Page 7