“I’m the one who’s drinking and you lose track? Shit,” ridiculed the guest.
When the waiter arrived at 901 with the new bottle, no one came to the door. The employee heard female cries coming from inside the room. He thought about calling the manager. Then he heard giggles among the shouts and did an about-face.
* * *
Tall and slim at forty-three, with slightly exaggerated fake breasts and lips, but elegant even so, Laura Guimarães Furtado was a hurricane. Often mentioned on gossip sites, the Rio socialite overshadowed many a TV actress. A well-known newspaper editor even said he regretted the demise of the society page because of Laura. “Her adventures alone kept Zózimo’s column going,” murmured the old editor, citing the father of Rio society column–writing in the seventies and eighties. Now Laura Furtado was unconscious on the floor of a suite in the Sheraton.
Upon being put back on the bed, she opened her eyes and spoke, still in the arms of her younger lover: “Oh, you’re still here?”
The consort was a bit confused. “Yes . . . wasn’t I supposed to be?”
“Uh-huh. I don’t know. I blacked out, and you had just screwed me . . . Most of them go away when that happens.”
Her lover replied rather awkwardly, “It’s that I still got a thing to discuss with you.”
“A thing? How sweet . . . Let’s ask about that bottle of champagne that’s missing, and you tell me about your thing.”
“It’s serious, Dona Laura.”
Laura had an attack of nervous laughter. “Dona Laura? You want me to jump from the ninth floor now or after we have a toast?”
“Excuse me—Laura. That comes from my family there in the favela. We usually call a married woman Dona.”
“Oh, how nice of you to remind me I’m married. By the way, mind if I make a quick phone call to my husband?”
“It’s about him that I wanted to talk to you.”
Laura was taken aback. “Oh no! Three is too many. And my husband doesn’t go for that. He’d kill me!”
“It’s nothing like that! I already told you the thing is serious. Isn’t your husband close to the governor?”
“My husband tells the governor what to do.”
Laura saw her partner’s eyes flash—as much or more than when she undressed for him. She even felt jealous of her husband with the lover, which was a crazy inversion of the situation. The young man then asked her to arrange an audience for him with the governor.
Irritated, the socialite cut him short: “Impossible! Who are you, boy, to be received by the governor?!”
The youth from the favela was obstinate and said that the governor knew him. Naturally, Laura Furtado didn’t believe him.
“You people from the hillside are funny. You come down here to the streets and just because you’re sexy you start to think you own the place, as if Leblon were the outskirts of Greater Rocinha. Back up, kid.”
The young man found “Greater Rocinha” amusing and picked up on the game: “You people here on the outskirts are very prejudiced . . . Why can’t the governor know me?”
“In the first place, I said you people think that Leblon is the outskirts. This here is São Conrado.”
“Oh . . . Leblon, São Conrado . . . it’s all the same. It’s all Greater Rocinha,” he retorted with a sly smile.
The spirited charm of the dark, muscular youth melted Laura’s defenses, and she laughed and pulled him on top of her. Their tongues intertwined, but the able negotiator moved away and played his trump card.
“Hold on. First we have to decide the matter of the governor.”
Laura was furious at this blackmail: “Governor my ass! Take a look at yourself, you nobody! If you go to the governor’s palace you’ll probably leave the place in handcuffs!”
The youth didn’t take offense; he knew what he wanted. He remained serene and tried to convince the socialite that the governor really did know who he was and admired his sociocultural work with the band he had formed with a group of ex-traffickers—the RJ-171, whose name referred to the statute of the Brazilian penal code dealing with fraud. Laura was a fan of the band and had met her lover several months back at a show he had given for wealthy people on Delfim Moreira Avenue. Even so, she remained unmoved.
“It won’t work, Roma. If I ask my husband to take you to the governor, he’ll suspect something.”
Romário felt it was time to play the ace up his sleeve: “What if I get you a meeting with Zéu?”
The feared chief of Rocinha was the terror of cougars from Rio’s South Zone. With the exacerbation of the confrontation with the police, however, a visit to Zéu’s bunker atop the hill could turn into a ghost-train, and the trafficker himself had begun avoiding that type of operation. But Laura knew that Roma was familiar with the geopolitics of the favela and would be able to take her safely to a tryst with the outlaw.
What the socialite didn’t know was what Romário had promised Zéu in exchange for his life. That was how he had escaped being shot. He knew the chief of the hillside was crazy about Laura, despite knowing her only through Google and YouTube. A second before Robocop was about to pull the trigger, Roma had sworn to the chief that, if he didn’t kill him, the coveted socialite would be his.
Zéu was going to kill Romário more from depravity than as a tactic. Roma had offended the New Order (zero contact with the police), but the boss of the hill didn’t actually believe the leader of the RJ-171 band had been informing the enemy. And when he promised him Laura Furtado, Robocop had been told to lower his weapon immediately. Roma had managed what was almost a miracle in Zéu’s territory: negotiation. The trafficker was aware that Romário knew Laura and had even seen photos of the two together after a show. He didn’t imagine just how closely they knew each other—if he had, he might have shot him simply from jealousy.
The outlaw accepted the agreement. The moment Laura Guimarães Furtado was naked in his bed, Roma’s life would be saved. But if the promise wasn’t kept, it was curtains. Except that, in this case, Robocop would be authorized to exercise his favorite hobby: killing slowly.
In the suite at the Sheraton, the hyperactive socialite felt suddenly ecstatic. The offer to meet with Zéu made her eyes shine more than at any other time with Roma. And there had never been a lover happier to be in second place. The glow in Laura’s eyes foretold the success of Romário’s masterly ploy: to save his skin, and to reach the governor. But she was stubborn.
“Why do you want to meet the governor so badly?”
Using his final reserves of sangfroid, the maestro of the band said, “Because I want power.”
Laura guffawed. “Power?! You want power?! You don’t know what power is, my dear! You just came down from the favela yesterday with your little 171 band and already want a front-row seat?!”
Romário continued unruffled: “The 171 is my band and it’s only a parody of crime. But the crimes of your husband’s firm are no parody.”
Laura was about to reply, offended, but this time Roma didn’t let her speak.
“You don’t need to defend the family honor. Here between four walls we know the story. I want money and power, but I have a plan for the city. And the governor’s going to submit to me.”
“Okay. So go there and ring the governor’s doorbell, because I’m not going to usher into the palace some nobody who attacks my husband and then wants his help.”
“Fine. From what I see, you don’t really care about meeting Zéu . . .”
It was the last bluff Romário had left. If Laura knew he was marked to die and she was his salvation, she would trade one thing for the other, and goodbye to an audience with the governor. But Laura didn’t want to miss out on the tryst with the trafficker, so her lust spoke up: “Okay, sweetheart. I’ll put your name on the governor’s list. But first you have to set up my meeting with the sultan of love.” Roma assented.
Laura asked for the check. The third bottle of Dom Pérignon had arrived and would be charged to her bill, without
having been opened. The socialite didn’t even notice. She took a wad of money from her purse—the proper way to pay for misbehavior—and asked her partner to handle the checkout. She would go directly down to the garage. He would exit the Sheraton on foot (with a bottle of champagne in his hand).
As he was walking down Avenida Niemeyer toward Leblon, a police car stopped beside him. A light-brown-skinned man, almost mulatto, coming out of the Sheraton on foot carrying a bottle of Dom Pérignon was by definition suspicious. The questioning was about to begin, but Roma forestalled it.
“Look, I was going to drink this with the governor. But I think you’re thirstier than he is,” Roma said, sticking the bottle in the patrol car and walking away without looking back.
The policemen didn’t refuse the present. The diplomat of Greater Rocinha knew the people of his territory.
Now all that remained was to conquer the palace and escape the death sentence.
* * *
The two blows to Lizard’s face resounded so loudly that Zéu heard them from inside his bedroom, with the air-conditioning on. He came out and found Robocop in the game room wearing his usual frozen expression and Lizard looking panicky.
“Why’re you smackin’ the soldier around, Robocop?”
“Caught the son of a bitch talkin’ to the police, Zéu. That means summary execution, don’t it?”
Zéu scratched his head, still a bit sleepy. “Yeah. I mean—let’s interrogate him first. Lemme have my goddamn coffee. You bring me problems at this hour of the morning and I can’t think straight.”
At that moment a shapely mulatta emerged from the chief’s bedroom, stretching and still in a nightgown. Noticing the tension, she said, “Ah, Robocop . . . let Lizard go. This habit you guys have of going after people . . .”
Zéu wasn’t pleased: “Shut up, Adelaide! I’ve told you not to stick your nose in military affairs.”
Lizard ran to Adelaide, kissing her hand and swearing innocence. Zéu threw him onto the pool table.
“Get your hands off her, you traitor! You wanna die slow?!”
* * *
The chief sat down at the living room table facing the pool, drank coffee with scrambled eggs, scanned the news on his iPad, lit a Marlboro, and summoned Robocop. During the interrogation, Lizard said he had only spoken with a military police corporal because the cop had accosted him at the entrance to a McDonald’s.
“The guy wanted to sell me information, Zéu. I told him I don’t talk to police, but that was when Robocop showed up and grabbed me by the neck—”
“Liar!” interrupted Robocop. “Lizard was talkin’ to that Corporal Saraiva, who charges us a toll to bring cargo up the hill. Lizard’s in cahoots with the German, Zéu! Let’s put this fucker under the ground right now!”
Lizard begged them not to kill him, seeing Robocop with his finger already on the trigger.
Zéu had one last question: “Okay. You’re sayin’ Corporal Saraiva wanted to sell information. Then I wanna buy that information.”
Lizard was confused. “You’re gonna buy information from the police, Zéu?”
“The punk’s makin’ it up!” snapped Robocop.
“If he’s making it up I’ll know right away. How much does the German want for the information?”
“He said he wants a pretty virgin here on the hill,” murmured Lizard.
“Then it’s settled. How old’s your kid sister, Lizard?”
“No, Zéu, for the love of God—”
“Fuck the love of God! How old is the bitch?! Has she screwed anybody?”
Lizard stared at the floor. “Twelve. She’s still a virgin.”
“Great. Robocop, tomorrow night bring the girl, the cop, and Lizard to the bedroom over Jacaré’s bar. Let me know when they’re all there. Now call that piece-of-shit Romário. And you, Lizard, you know if you run away from the favela your family dies and I’ll hunt you down wherever the hell you go.”
After two tries, Robocop informed the chief that Roma’s cellular was turned off. He took a blow to the face stronger than those he had dealt to Lizard—Zéu had to stand on tiptoe to strike the giant’s face.
“How many times have I told you I don’t wanna know about the things you don’t do, you stupid robot? Find Roma and put him on the line with me.”
Robocop would have avoided the humiliating punch if he had simply told the chief what he wanted to know: he had spoken earlier with Romário, who had said that the socialite Laura Furtado had confirmed for Friday, two days from then, at four p.m. in Zéu’s bunker.
Upon receiving this information, the trafficker turned into a pussycat. He told Robocop he was “fuckin’ great,” and he was invited to watch the Flamengo game that night at Zéu’s home theater. The henchman accepted with a smile, his cheek still red from the blow.
* * *
Corporal Saraiva arrived in plainclothes and smelling of cologne for the encounter with the virgin and the trafficker in Jacaré’s bar. Robocop sent him upstairs, where Lizard and his prepubescent sister Keitte awaited. Soon afterward, Zéu arrived, looking sideways at Lizard, who was there as a prisoner—suspected of treason and perhaps of ambush.
The chief didn’t greet the policeman and immediately asked what the information was that he wanted to sell.
“Take it easy, Zéu. Nothing to be gained from haste,” replied the corporal theatrically. “First I want the girl.”
Keitte was an Indian, with the same large prominent mouth that had earned her brother the nickname of Lizard, with the subtle difference that he was hideous and she was pretty. She was frightened, but it was her brother who was crying.
“You’re gonna have the girl. Robocop, take her to Jacaré’s bedroom, lock it, and give the corporal the key,” Zéu ordered.
The giant took the hand of the girl, who began weeping softly but offered no resistance.
With a wide grin, Corporal Saraiva took the key that guarded his prize. He stuck it in the pocket of his tight pants, over which jutted his swollen belly, and cleared his throat: “Okay, now we can start the conversation . . . Here’s the deal, comrade: I know the day and time the favela’s going to be raided.”
Zéu glanced at Lizard in recognition of his innocence. Robocop gazed at the floor. The trafficker stared at Corporal Saraiva, indicating for him to go on.
The policeman continued, solemnly: “Prepare yourself, emperor. The police are going to raid the day after tomorrow, Friday, at midnight.” And he addressed Lizard, smiling and pointing to the bedroom: “Don’t let my little girl go the dance Friday, cool? It might be dangerous . . .”
Zéu shifted his dead-fish gaze to Robocop and said without raising his voice: “Kill this pig.”
Corporal Saraiva quickly drew his pistol but was unable to use it. The giant’s rifle had already blown his head off.
Turning on his heels and heading toward the stairs to leave, Zéu commented, “You’ve been practicing, eh, Robocop? That one there doesn’t even know he’s dead . . . Lizard, take your sister home.”
* * *
At the exit to the Guanabara Palace, a police car stopped the man who was leaving the governor’s residence on foot. Romário recognized the same pair who had approached him so curtly as he was leaving the Sheraton. This time, however, they were brimming with politeness.
“The governor told us to take you wherever you want to go.”
Romário kept walking. “Thanks, friends, but where I’m going is too dangerous for you.”
* * *
Lounging on a plastic mattress floating in the crystalline waters of the pool, Zéu had the afternoon sun in his eyes and didn’t even see Roma arriving. He only noticed when he heard his panting voice.
“Goddamn, Zéu. With all that money you could install a cable car on this shithole, couldn’t you? Next time we’re going to talk by telephone, ’cause climbing all this way isn’t good for my heart, you hear?”
The trafficker continued to float, without moving a muscle. “The raid’s tomorr
ow at midnight.”
Roma gulped. He removed his sneakers and sat on the edge of the pool with his feet in the water. “Where’s that coming from, Zéu? Nobody knows the day of the raid . . . How’d you find out?”
“A friend told me . . .”
“What friend, man?! You don’t have any friends! I’m your only friend.”
“It’s just to remind you that if Laura Furtado isn’t here tomorrow at four o’clock, you die.”
“What bullshit, Zéu! You’ve got an irritating habit of constantly threatening people! I knew that already, goddamnit. You called me here to repeat that shit?”
“No. I called you here to say that Laura will come up but she won’t go down.”
“Are you crazy?! The woman’s the wife of Fernando Furtado, the biggest entrepreneur in the state. They’ll send the army, the navy, and the air force in here!”
“No, they won’t. The bitch is gonna be my shield. Two hours before the raid, you’re gonna call your friends in the government and tell ’em the bigwig’s wife is up here. And that she’ll only come down alive if the raid is cleared with me, the way it’s always been: I put a couple of old rifles in the cops’ hands, along with half a dozen bags of blow and weed for them to photograph for the papers, and that’s that. You’re gonna tell them that if the raid is for real like they’re sayin’, the bitch dies.”
Romário looked deep into Zéu’s sunglasses. “I’m not saying a goddamn thing. I’m not calling anybody.”
Robocop, who was listening in on the conversation, took a step forward with his hand on his rifle. The chief signaled for him to stand down.
Noting the gesture, Roma decided to speak: “Know where I’m coming from just now? The governor’s office. RJ-171 isn’t a band anymore, it’s an NGO. I have authorization from the government to receive donations. And a multinational wants to bankroll me too. I’ve got a show scheduled in Switzerland. I have the governor’s personal phone number. He received me in his home in Leblon, and he knows I grew up with you, Zéu. And that I go to your house. Know what he asked me about you? Nothing. Know what I told him about you? Nothing.”
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