Carioca Fletch

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “I can guess.”

  “Fletch, you must tell me what you know.”

  “You want a fact?”

  “I want something.”

  “Okay, Laura, here’s a fact: The person who murdered Janio Barreto forty-seven years ago truly believes I am Janio Barreto returned.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Look at me.”

  “I don’t think you should play with the, what’s-the-word? credibility of people.”

  “I am taking advantage of the credulity of only one of these people.”

  “Someone believes—”

  “Someone either believes I am Janio Barreto returned. Or he has decided to act as if he believes I am Janio Barreto returned, just in case it is true.”

  In the sunlight, Laura sighed.

  Now there were even more people standing around outside Idalina Barreto’s house awaiting his answer.

  The child Janio Barreto had appeared. Of all the people in the favela, he stood closest to Fletch.

  “Please tell the old woman I am here to identify my murderer.”

  Laura started to speak to Idalina, but then stopped.

  Instead, she said to Fletch: “You’re putting it to me too, aren’t you?”

  “Hell, Laura, we haven’t even gotten to know each other.”

  “All this will be on your head,” she said.

  “Fine. My head is so sore now, it doesn’t matter.”

  Speaking loudly, as if making an announcement, Laura answered the old woman.

  The crowd cheered. Many gave the thumbs-up sign.

  The old woman asked another question.

  Laura said, “Do you really mean to just walk through the favela, up and down the streets, until you point someone out?”

  “I want to see, to look into the eyes of everyone in the favela. Tell her, if the murderer is here, I will find him.”

  Laura translated, in a less robust voice.

  Idalina Barreto came out of the shade of her doorway.

  In the sunlight, she took Fletch’s arm.

  Together, Laura walking behind them, the people from the favela all around them, Fletch and Idalina Barreto began to walk through favela Santos Lima.

  “I know your trick,” Laura finally said to Fletch in a low voice. They had been walking a long time. Her hair had collapsed with perspiration. “You’re going to walk through the whole favela and point no one out.”

  “Maybe,” Fletch answered. “Would that permit me to sleep?”

  Favela Santos Lima was far more extensive than he thought. It was a senseless warren of streets and alleys and footpaths. The banged-together, stuck-together hovels seemed placed by the whimsy of the moment, or some invisible convenience. On some of the paths only he and Idalina could walk abreast. The stream of their followers flowed a kilometer behind them in some places.

  “We’re having our own Carnival Parade,” Fletch said to Laura.

  “Not bloody likely.”

  Sweating, the middle-aged Janio Barreto Filho appeared and asked what was happening. His mother told him Janio Barreto wished to look into the eyes of everyone in the favela. He would identify his murderer.

  Janio Barreto Filho organized boys and men to walk ahead of Fletch and Idalina and get all the people out of their homes so Fletch could look into their eyes as he passed.

  It was the afternoon after the Samba School Parade, and most of the people in the favela were sleeping. Barreto’s squad called through the windows of their homes, entered, awakened people, and politely asked them to come outside. No, no, it is not the police. It is an important matter. To solve an ancient matter having to do with the favela. We are about to find out who murdered Janio Barreto, a long time ago. Shy of most clothes, faces puffy with tiredness, the people stood at their doors rubbing their eyes in the sunlight.

  Perhaps they understood a feat of legerdemain was about to happen: a voice from beyond the grave was about to speak. Perhaps they understood nothing but that someone had asked them to wake up and stand outside a moment. Something interesting was passing by. Sleepy or curious, they cooperated.

  Fletch asked Laura, “Are you deciding what you believe now?”

  “All these people.” Laura looked back at the river of people following them. “Many of them are laughing at you.”

  “I would hope so,” he said.

  “Turning this into a joke. Is that what you’re doing?”

  “Isn’t it a joke?”

  “You’re going to lead them around in a circle and then say there is no such person as your murderer here.”

  “Perhaps.”

  As he walked, Fletch was becoming less stiff. He was thirsty. The sun was stinging his various wounds on his face and arms. His head throbbed like a samba combo. A few times, the bright sunlight dimmed on him unnaturally. He stumbled. Idalina Barreto’s grip on his arm was strong.

  Of course he did not know if he was going up and down every path in Santos Lima. He had to leave that to his guides. It certainly felt as though he was going up and down every path, looking into the eyes of every person in Santos Lima.

  “I’m going back,” Laura said. “Here are the car keys. I’ll take a taxi.”

  “No,” said Fletch. “Stay with me.”

  “I don’t care to see out the end of this act of yours.”

  “It’s not an act.”

  Fletch was seeing the people of favela Santos Lima. He was seeing males and females, the old, the young, the tall, the short, the beautiful, the ugly, the misshapen, the healthy, the insane, the doddering, the dignified, the ashamed….

  Ahead of him on a narrow path, he saw a lean, gray-haired man dressed only in shorts leave a house. He crossed the path and entered another house.

  Walking more quickly, Fletch approached that house.

  In excitement, Idalina Barreto gripped his arm even tighter. She kept up with him.

  Young Janio Barreto looked up into Fletch’s eyes. Then, calling others, he ran ahead and into the house.

  Fletch entered the house. It was empty. There was a doorless back door.

  From behind the house came the sound of young Janio Barreto calling loudly.

  As Fletch went through the house, the mob following gathered speed. They went through the house and round the house.

  Now they had the idea they were pursuing someone.

  “What are you doing?” Laura said. “Madman!”

  Fletch looked back. A wall of the little house they had just gone through fell flat in the dust. The other three walls fell forward but did not collapse. The twisted tin roof kept three of the walls up.

  “You’re out of your mind!” Laura said. “There is no understanding this!”

  Above the little house he came to a wider path. To his left down the path, young Janio Barreto held onto the black shorts of the gray-haired man he knew Fletch was pursuing. Other boys, men, surrounded the man.

  More slowly now, Fletch walked toward the group in the middle of the path.

  As he approached, one of the young men said to the gray-haired man, “Just let him look into your eyes, Gabriel.”

  “Gabriel Campos!” Idalina Barreto shrieked in her highest crone’s voice. “Gabriel Campos!”

  Clearly the man wanted to bolt. He was surrounded now by twenty strong young men, by more than thirty children. He was being approached by more than one hundred fellow citizens of his favela.

  With dignity, he stood his ground. His body was mostly light, sinewy muscle. The top of his stomach was pumping hard. The man had not moved that far, not moved that fast, to be so out of breath. Not for a man in his condition. A disingenuous smile played on his lips.

  “Gabriel Campos!” Idalina shrieked. Then she shouted something about Janio Barreto.

  Standing close to him, Fletch looked into the eyes of Gabriel Campos. He had seen those eyes before.

  Gabriel Campos’ eyes flickered. He looked at the crowd and back at Fletch.

  His smile came and went like
a flashing light.

  Slowly, Fletch raised his hand.

  He pointed his index finger at Gabriel Campos’ nose.

  Fletch already had checked the ring the man was wearing. It had a black center. Intertwined snakes rose from that center.

  Instantly, Gabriel Campos ducked. Throwing back his elbows, he darted backward through the circle of young men, children, knocking over a child.

  Idalina Barreto shrieked.

  Others began to yell, move forward.

  Two of the young men grabbed for Gabriel Campos.

  Campos kicked one in the stomach; the other in the face.

  It seemed everyone was trying to lay a hand on Campos. With tremendous skill, ducking and dancing, he kicked free of the crowd.

  He turned and ran up the path.

  Shouting, young men ran after him. Tripping over each other, almost all the men and children who had been following Fletch joined the pursuit. Yelling, some lifting their skirts up, many of the women pursued Gabriel Campos as well.

  Shrieking Gabriel Campos! Gabriel Campos! tall old Idalina Barreto went after him in her rapid, sturdy pace, losing ground in the midst of this marathon.

  Fletch sat on a nearby rock.

  Dor de estomago … de cabeca … febre … nausea.

  A few meters away, Laura Soares was in a group of women from the favela. They were all talking at once. Most of them were pregnant and therefore could not join in the pursuit of Gabriel Campos.

  Laura was asking questions. She kept looking across at Fletch.

  Higher up in the favela, the chase was still going on. On a road along a ridge, Fletch saw Gabriel Campos running between the houses. Easily one hundred people were streaming after him. He had a good lead on them.

  Idalina Barreto’s high, shrill shriek dominated all other sounds. “Gabriel Campos! Gabriel Campos!”

  From somewhere down in the depths of the favela came the sound of a samba drum.

  After a while, Laura came over to Fletch. She stood over him a moment without speaking.

  Fletch said, “I’m awfully tired. And I still have to call Sergeant Barbosa of the Rio police.”

  Laura said, “His name is Gabriel Campos.”

  “I heard.” He looked up to where Idalina Barreto was. The old lady had climbed far fast. “I hear.”

  “The women say he was your friend when you were boys. He, one other boy, and the Gomes brothers. Who are the Gomes brothers?”

  “Idalina’s brothers.”

  “See?” she said. “You do know.”

  “I was told, Laura. Yesterday. I was told.”

  “You taught them all the skill of capoeira. Of everyone, Gabriel learned the best. After you were killed, he was master of the capoeira school of Escola Santos Lima. For years, he was famous for it. One year, he was even Mestre Sala.”

  “I see. He wanted Janio—his teacher—out of the way.”

  “He was placed on the board of directors of the samba school.”

  “He would never have had such honors if Janio were alive.”

  Laura made some sign in the dust with the tip of her sandal.

  “I must get sleep.” High in the favela, the pursuit, the shouting continued. Fletch said, “I wonder what they will do with him.”

  “I don’t want to know. How, why did you pick out Gabriel Campos? You must tell me.”

  “You mean, did Gabriel Campos murder Janio Barreto forty-seven years ago?”

  “Did he?”

  “I don’t know.” Beyond exhaustion, Fletch stood up from the rock. “But I do know that, disguised as a goat, last night he tried to slit my throat.”

  Thirty-four

  “I forget if you said if you have ever been to New Bedford, Massachusetts.” Sergeant Paulo Barbosa asked.

  “No,” Fletch said into the phone. He sat heavily on his bed in The Hotel Yellow Parrot. “I have never been to New Bedford, Massachusetts.”

  Laura had gotten Sergeant Barbosa on the line. Placing the call had seemed too complicated to Fletch in his sleepless condition.

  “It is very nice in New Bedford, Massachusetts,” Sergeant Barbosa told him again. “Much too cold, of course, for me. When you go back to your country, you must visit New Bedford, Massachusetts.” Fletch noticed the presumption that sooner or later everyone does go back to his country. It was the same presumption Idalina’s father made of Janio Barreto. “You must visit my cousin’s gift shop in New Bedford, Massachusetts. She has everything in her gift shop that every other gift shop has.”

  “All right.” Fletch’s head was nodding. “I promise.”

  “That would be very nice. Now, about that North American woman you lost…”

  Fletch’s eyes popped open. “Yes?”

  “I don’t think we have found her.”

  “Oh.”

  “What we have is a telephone call from the mayor of a very small town on the coast, south of here three hundred kilometers. The town of Botelho. It is very nice there. Very sealike. It is on the ocean. You should visit there anyway.”

  “Yes,” Fletch said drowsily. “I’ll visit there, too. I promise I will.”

  Laura was pulling the drapes closed against the sunlight. She had already stripped for bed.

  “The mayor of Botelho said that on the weekend, Saturday, I think it was, a North American woman showed up there in Botelho.”

  “Perhaps somebody told her she should visit.”

  “Very likely. It is a nice place. I have taken my wife and children there.”

  “Did you have a nice time?”

  “A very nice time.”

  “Good.”

  “The mayor said this woman just wandered around for the afternoon by herself, on the beach and so forth, you know?”

  “An American tourist—”

  “After dark, she went into the very excellent seafood restaurant they have there. I brought my wife and children to eat there.”

  Kneeling before him, Laura was taking off Fletch’s sneakers and socks.

  “Was it good?”

  “Excellent. This woman ate her dinner.”

  “A North American woman tourist went to a small resort town—”

  “Botelho.”

  “Botelho, yes. Spent the afternoon on the beach and then had dinner in a seafood restaurant.”

  “Yes, that’s right. After dinner, she said nothing. Instead of paying she went straight into the kitchen and began washing dishes.”

  Laura pushed Fletch onto his back and began taking off his shorts.

  “That’s not Joan Collins Stanwyk.”

  “She’s been there ever since. Two days. Washing dishes. Eating. The man who owns the restaurant has given her a little bed to use.”

  “Joan Collins Stanwyk never washed a dish in her life. She wouldn’t know how.”

  “She is a blonde North American or English lady. She speaks no Portuguese.”

  “How old is she?”

  Kneeling over him on the bed, Laura was taking off his shirt. The telephone wire went through the sleeve.

  “Quite young, the mayor says. Slim. In her twenties. Maybe her mid-twenties.”

  “Sounds to me like some female derelict from the Florida Keys washed up on a Brazilian beach.”

  “Botelho. The beach is very nice there.”

  “I’m sure.” Laura was sliding Fletch’s legs under the sheet. “Why did the mayor of Botelho call the Rio police about this lady?”

  “Saturdays a tour bus from Copacabana hotels stops in Botelho. The mayor thought she might have gotten off the bus. So he called this police station. He asked if we were looking for a murderess of her description.”

  “A murderess?”

  “Truth, he doesn’t know where she came from. Or why. Botelho is a small town. He is a small mayor.”

  Finally in his bed, to sleep, Fletch thought a moment. Then he said, “I don’t think so, Sergeant. Joan Collins Stanwyk didn’t have any cash on her, but she is a wealthy, responsible lady, a lady of great digni
ty. She has many options open to her. All the options in the world. I can’t see her ever going to a resort and getting a job washing dishes in a fish-and-chips joint.”

  “Fish-and-chips? Ah, you are speaking London English.”

  “Anyway, Joan Collins Stanwyk is in her thirties.”

  “I didn’t think this would be the lady.”

  “I’m sure it’s not.”

  “Topsy-turvy. Do you remember what I said about topsyturvy?”

  “In fact, I do.”

  “This is a very topsy-turvy world. Twenty-seven years I have served with the Rio police. Believe me, I have seen topsyturvy.”

  “I’m sure you have. Thanks for being in touch with me, Sergeant.”

  Laura was in the bed beside Fletch.

  “So,” she said, “they have not found the woman you are looking for.”

  “No. Just some English-speaking woman has showed up washing dishes in some fish restaurant down the coast.”

  Into the dark, Laura said, “The police just want you to think they are doing something about the disappeared lady.”

  “Probably.” He turned on the bedside light.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just calling The Hotel Jangada,” Fletch said. “See if she has returned.”

  “Want me to help you?”

  “This one I can do myself,” he said. “I’ve been practicing.”

  At The Hotel Jangada, Room 912 did not answer.

  The desk clerk said Mrs Joan Collins Stanwyk had not checked out.

  Nor had she picked up the note Fletch had left for her.

  Thirty-five

  Fletch—

  I could not wake you up.

  I tried and tried. A few times I thought you were awake, because you were talking. What you said made no sense. Did you know you talk in your sleep?

  You said you were on a big white riverboat, and the sky was full of buttocks.

  You said you had your goat, or someone was trying to get your goat. You seemed afraid of a kicking goat. Then, remarkably, you babbled on about an ancient Brazilian mythical figure, the dancing nanny goat.

  How do you know about such things? Sometimes, when you were talking in your sleep, your eyes were open, which is why I thought I was succeeding in waking you. You said something about a man with his feet turned backward, another mythical figure, and when I asked, “Fletch, do you mean the capoeira?” you just stared off like some sort of a almapenada, a soul in torment. You also mentioned other Brazilian hobgoblins, the man with his head on backward, the headless mule, and the goblin with-hair-for-hands. You talked about being pursued by a one-legged boy, and when I asked, “Fletch, do you mean the saci-perêrê?” you stared a long time before saying, “Janio Barreto … Janio Barreto….”