“Até amanhã.” The driver rubbed his neck to relieve the tenseness there from over three hundred miles of difficult driving. He smiled. For thirty conto he could cut down on his sleep. For thirty conto he could even forgo his usual visit to the shapely girls in the houses behind the Avenida Vargas.
He was undergoing his first lesson in the responsibilities of wealth.
In a small cul-de-sac tucked off to one side of the Praça Mauá, between two squat ancient buildings that appeared to lean over it protectively, a black sedan was parked. The two men who sat in the front seat of the darkened car had picked this place for several reasons: it gave a clear view of the Praça and particularly of the main bus station, and it also allowed them to escape any undue attention from passing cars. Especially from police cars. The black sedan had been stolen some six hours before, and there was a chance that the license number had already been circulated.
The man behind the wheel hulked there; even in the darkness his great size might have been suspected, for slumped as he was, his head came to the same height as that of the other, perched high on the seat. They had been there since midnight and the hours had dragged. The car they had stolen did not have a radio, but the larger man knew that his companion would not have allowed him to use it even had they been so blessed. For the tenth time since parking there he unconsciously reached for a cigarette, placed it in his mouth, and then felt it picked away before he could light it.
“Luis!” The voice grated. “How many times …!”
Luis grunted. “I forgot, that’s all. I forgot.” He shifted on his seat. “This is foolish, Jorge; he will never come by bus. And there will not be another bus for over an hour, anyway. So why can’t we go over and get a drink?”
The smaller man didn’t bother to turn his head as he answered; his eyes were fixed upon the deserted platform of the bus station. “Because I say so, that’s why! He must come by bus. He has to. And he’ll plan to come at night. And to talk about schedules and when they arrive and when they don’t arrive is stupid. They come when they come.”
“But he may have already have come,” Luis objected.
“How? The night train doesn’t arrive until eight tomorrow, even if he went to São Paulo first, which I doubt. And to come up from the coast, he could only do it by bus. No, we wait here.”
Luis stared out of the windshield stubbornly. “He might have hitchhiked.” He knew it was ridiculous to suppose that their quarry would ask for a ride on the deserted roads of the interior with the package he was carrying, but having taken a negative attitude, something forced him to maintain it.
“Of course.” Jorge’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “He could have swum, also. Urubuapá and Rio de Janeiro are both on the same ocean.”
Luis became sullen. “We don’t even know for sure he’ll head for Rio.”
Jorge smiled grimly in the darkness. “He’ll head for Rio, don’t worry. Why do you think he came here last week? He hasn’t been in Rio for years! He was setting up a deal!” He cursed. “I drove him to the Santos airport myself!” He shook his head. “If I had known …!”
“Maybe he came last week because maybe he has a girl here …”
“Maybe he has a paper route and he came here to collect,” Jorge said in disgust, and Luis subsided. His fingers crept to the crumpled package of cigarettes in his pocket and he cleared his throat nervously.
“If I just went over to the bar for a minute …”
“You won’t go over to the bar and you won’t have a cigarette. You’ll just sit there and shut up! What do you think we’re playing for? Can’t you get it through your thick skull that the time is just about up? And we’d better have something for The Man, or else!”
They settled back; the minutes crept past. The lonely hoot of a tugboat in the bay echoed hollowly; an occasional car fled homeward through the Praça, its lights flashing through the few trees and skimming their hiding place. The sharp sound of footsteps striking the pavement came; three sailors passed the entrance to their cul-de-sac without looking, their voices loud and clear in the stillness of the night. A radio in the open bar across the avenue suddenly spurted into life, blaring; a quick adjustment reduced the sound, but another hand brought the volume back up. Luis yawned.
“How long do we wait?”
“Until he comes. Or until it’s light. Or maybe longer; maybe forever. Don’t talk so much.”
A truck edged from the dock road into the Praça, swung about parallel to the railing beside the water’s edge, and crept forward slowly; its weak headlights flickered uncertainly as they searched the curb for empty space. It pulled in behind a deserted copy of itself. The lights blinked off; the motor coughed into silence. For a moment there was no movement other than the descent of the weary driver; then people began to drop from the tail gate, reaching back for packages, helping others descend. Children were handed down; a few of the larger ones slid over the side of the truck body unaided.
“Pau de Arara!” Luis said in disgust. “Why in hell do they come to Rio, anyway?”
But his companion did not answer; his fingers suddenly clamped themselves fiercely on the larger man’s thigh. “In back!” Jorge whispered excitedly. “The one who just dropped off, the one in white! Look, he’s coming to talk to the driver!”
“It’s him! My God,” Luis said in an almost reverent tone, “here we are, watching the bus station, and he drops off right in our laps from a Pau de Arara!” He reached for the door handle, but the smaller man grabbed at his arm.
“Wait! Not here!”
Luis stared at him in astonishment. “Why not?”
Jorge’s voice was a queer blend of triumph and fierce hatred. “Because I say so!”
“But he’ll get away!”
“He won’t get away! Believe me, he won’t get away! I said not here; there are fifty people around, you fool!”
“But—”
“Shut up! I’m thinking.” There was a few seconds’ pause; Jorge’s lips were moving as if he were talking to himself. “He’ll take a cab, and we’ll follow him.”
“But—”
“I said, shut up!” The small head never turned; the tiny eyes were fixed on the two men talking idly at the truck’s hood. He saw the driver pat the hood, watched the man in white laugh and wave goodbye. Jorge’s teeth gleamed in the darkness in silent mirth. “Laugh, eh?” he said softly. “We’ll see who laughs last tonight, friend!”
“Jorge, I think we ought to—”
“Shut up!”
Luis sank back. He wondered at times why he always took orders from Jorge; he was the elder, wasn’t he? And he knew he could easily have broken his younger brother in half. But he also knew that, first of all, Jorge had brains and he did not; and second of all, he knew that deep down in his heart he was afraid of Jorge. The only satisfaction he could draw was that he did not know anyone who was not afraid of Jorge. Even Armando … His big foot found the clutch; he pushed the gear lever in and out of first gear experimentally. The man in white had crossed the road and was speaking with one of the cab drivers there. He reached eagerly for the ignition key, but Jorge’s thin fingers clamped on his wrist.
“Wait! Not until he gets into a cab.”
“But—”
The smaller man didn’t answer but tightened his grip on the huge wrist. They waited silently, watching the man in white. The smaller man seemed perched even higher on the seat of the car, as if poised for instant flight. Luis breathed softly, caught up in the success of their mission, his eyes glittering in the dark. The ignition key almost seemed a thing alive under his taut fingers. His hairy hand was wrapped around the plastic-covered steering wheel. One drink too much, Luis thought; this one in white took one drink too much, and then he talked. And lucky for us, or we’d still be sitting back in Urubuapá waiting for the roof to fall in and not even knowing it. He grinned in the black interior of the car and lifted the gear lever back and forth, in and out of gear.…
The man in white lo
oked carefully about the deserted Praça and then crossed the avenue to approach the cab rank that faced the only open bar. Small marble-topped tables were scattered about the mosaic sidewalk before the doors; the drivers were sprawled about the tiny tables listening to the radio which someone had tuned loud enough to raise the dead. The heat of the city smothered them; there was no breeze. Two of them were deep in a game of dominoes; several others were watching idly. No one paid any attention to the potential customer looking at them pointedly.
“Cab?”
No one looked up. His huge fist bounced on the table, scattering dominoes. There was a sudden movement to object, but one look at the towering figure and set, hard face and it was abandoned. “I said, cab?”
An elderly driver at an adjoining table looked up. “Which zone?”
“South. Copacabana.”
The driver folded his newspaper and arose. “I’ll take you.”
They threaded their way through the silent tables. “Second cab in line.” The drivers behind sat glaring in his direction, the scattered dominoes fitting in nicely with the mosaic sidewalk beneath their feet, but the man in white slid into the front seat of the cab beside the driver, paying them no attention.
They pulled away from the Praça, the driver nursing his ailing engine until it reached a semblance of smoothness. He pushed his flag down and stared woodenly through the milky glass of the windshield.
“Any particular route, senhor?”
The man in white thought. He knew he could not have been seen, but still it would be foolish to take any chances at this point. He had taken enough chances already; if he had stayed sober that night, there would never have been the necessity to take any chances. He pressed the package under his arm and smiled. Better stick to the back streets, though.
“Yes,” he said. “Turn up Avenida Vargas, then down Riachuelo, over through Lapa, and pick up the old tunnel.”
The driver stared at him, surprised. “The old tunnel? Along the ocean is much quicker.”
The large man eyed him coldly. “You asked me and I told you. And I’m paying. So let’s not have any arguments, eh?”
The driver shrugged but remained silent and settled down to his route. The car behind followed, maintaining distance, lights extinguished.
Luis was still shaking his head in wonderment. “What incredible luck!” he muttered. “My God! Waiting for him at the bus station and he drops off a Pau de Arara, right into our laps! What fantastic luck!”
“Don’t lose him,” Jorge advised grimly. “Or it’ll be bad luck for you!”
Luis smiled contemptuously. Behind the wheel of a moving vehicle, or behind the handle of a knife, his confidence always returned; even Jorge no longer seemed as threatening. “Lose him? In that bucket of bolts? We may have to push him to get him where he wants to go.”
“Where he wants to go and where he’s going are two different places,” Jorge said with quiet viciousness. Through the rear window of the leading car he could see the outline of their quarry’s head. He turned and spat.
They turned into Rua Riachuelo; the street at this hour was deserted. Luis glanced over at his brother. “How about here?” he asked. “Do we take them here?”
“We don’t take them,” Jorge said shortly. “We take him. And not here; when he drops the cab. When he’s alone. I told you before we don’t start anything in front of witnesses.”
“O.K., O.K.,” Luis said hastily. He ran through a traffic signal to keep the cab in sight, drew up to a more reasonable distance, and settled down to the chase. In the car ahead the driver glanced once again in his rear-view mirror and turned to his passenger. There was a touch of fear in his voice.
“The senhor will pardon me, but I think we are being followed.”
“What!”
It was a shock; even after thirty or more hours of constant vigilance, it was a terrible shock. The man in white swung about and stared at the black car holding an even distance behind them, maintaining their sedate pace. The two heads were vague in the dark shadows, but he suddenly had no doubts. He could feel the chill settle on his skin; his stomach tightened into a painful knot.
“Turn down the first side street,” he said harshly, his voice choking in his throat. He swung the rear-view mirror to give him sight. “Go around the block …” The cab turned the first corner even as he was speaking, his fear communicated to the driver. In the mirror he saw the glint of street lights reflected from the high hood of the other car as it swung with them. He turned to the driver, desperate, almost pleading. “Can you lose them? For ten thousand cruzeiros can you lose them?”
The driver shook his head despairingly. Ten thousand cruzeiros was a lot of money, and he was as anxious as his passenger to be rid of the unknown threat behind them. “No, senhor, I can’t. It is not possible in this car, and when the streets are empty …”
But the man in white had stopped listening after the first word. With a conscious effort he fought off the sickening panic that was sweeping him; there had to be a solution. He pounded his big fist on his knee. Why had he gone out and gotten drunk in Urubuapá? Why hadn’t he kept his big mouth shut? They would never have known … never! But they did, and they were right behind him. Stop this, he thought; stop this and think! A sudden possibility sprang into his mind, full-blown; he clenched the driver’s shoulder painfully.
“The first all-night bar,” he said through his teeth. “Where there’s a telephone. And you will wait for me—do you hear?”
The driver swallowed. “I will drop you, senhor. There will be no charge.” His hand crept toward the meter flag. “I want no trouble.”
“If you wait there will be no trouble. If you don’t …” The man in white suddenly leaned across the steering wheel and took a folder of documents from the driver’s shirt pocket. The driver reached up in a futile grab for them, the cab swaying dangerously as he did so, but the man in white had already settled back, slipping the papers into his pocket.
“Here now! Give me …!”
“You will get them back. Plus ten conto. When we get where I’m going. This way I know you’ll wait for me. Now, quickly—a bar!”
They slowed up before a lighted front, but a heavy foot pressed over the driver’s and the car speeded up. “Not here,” said the man in white grimly. “Further down, in Lapa. Where there are people.” The cab went on. In the car behind Jorge grinned cruelly, as if he could read the mind of his quarry.
The street curved; the arches of Lapa appeared before them. “There,” said the man in white, pointing. The driver applied his brakes, his face sullen. The man in white had the ignition key in his hand before the car had come to a full stop. “Relax,” he said harshly. “And wait.”
Luis, in the car behind, also applied his brakes. “They’re stopping,” he said doubtfully. “He knows we’re following him.”
“Of course he knows we’re following him.” Jorge smiled coldly. “He’s known for some time. Good! Let him worry a bit. Let him sweat.”
“Do we take him now?” The huge hand reached for the door handle, but the smaller man caught it.
“No. I said when he’s alone. Have a cigarette and relax; the night’s young.” He leaned back, watching the bar front and the cab parked ahead.
“But he’ll get away! He went into that bar! He’ll—”
“He won’t go anywhere; where would he go? I can see him in the bar mirror. He’s telephoning.”
“He’ll go out the back! Jorge, for God’s sake! What’s gotten into you?”
“Shut up! I can see him; he’s telephoning, I tell you.”
“So he’s calling for help! I’m taking him now!” He twisted the door handle; this time the slap across his wrist was vicious.
“Luis.” Jorge’s voice had dropped; it was cool and almost conversational. It was the tone that Luis feared the most. “One more stupid move on your part and you are out of the deal. Is that clear? I’m handling things and you’ll do as I say!” He smiled. “Let him call
for help. Who will he call who can help him? Nobody can help him.” He slipped a revolver from his pocket and laid it negligently on the car seat. Luis leaned back reluctantly, his eyes fixed on the lighted bar front. Jorge is making a mistake, he thought desperately; he’s making a big mistake.
Inside the bar the man in white was at the telephone, dialing. The white-tile walls were blinding after the dark of the street; he closed his eyes for a second and then opened them hurriedly. If they take me here I’m lost, he thought. But with those two having coffee at the bar, and the driver outside, and that character asleep in the corner, they won’t. They’ll wait until I’m alone. I hope. He listened to the distant ringing impatiently, his collar suddenly tight, his hands clammy.
The phone was finally answered. “Hotel Pernambuco. Boa noite.”
He forced himself to speak calmly, evenly. “Reception, please.”
He waited some more, listening to another ringing. They’re right outside, he thought. Beyond that door, waiting. It doesn’t seem possible; how did they ever find me? Nobody knew where I was going, or how … I didn’t even know myself until last night at the docks when that Pau de Arara came rolling past, and I managed to catch it. Fool that I am, he thought bitterly; if I had only kept my mouth shut! I had it all, right in my hands! I … The phone at the other end was finally lifted.
“Reception here. Can I help you?”
He forced all thoughts from his mind, concentrating on his scheme. “I am speaking for the Americo-Brazilian Airlines,” he said smoothly into the telephone. “You will forgive our calling at this late hour, but one of our American directors, a Mr.—” His eye fell upon a bar bottle facing him across the small marble counter—“Drury, William Drury, just cabled that he will arrive from Miami on the early-morning flight. Is it possible to reserve a room for him? In the apartments? It must be a very fine room, you understand.” That should sound sincere enough, he thought.
“Americo-Brazilian? Certainly. An apartment, you say? One moment, please.” There was a pause; then the voice came back on the line. “We can let you have apartment 502; it faces the pool. I’m sure it will be satisfactory.”
Isle of the Snakes Page 2