The Ways of Evil Men

by Leighton Gage

  “Wrong,” Castori said. “The Indians steal their wives from other tribes. It’s their way, nature’s solution to inbreeding. As soon as that child is into puberty, he’ll be sniffing around the females of the other tribes.”

  “There are no other tribes.” Frade said.

  “So he finds some slut from around here,” Bonetti said, “some old whore who’s ready to give up the business. Or he goes to another reservation and brings one back. Or he lives there for the next forty years with his old man and maybe another twenty all by himself.”

  “All possibilities,” Toledo said. “Unless—”

  “How about we play cards?” Lisboa said.

  Toledo ignored him. “Unless,” he repeated, “something bad happened to both.”

  “Shhh!” Frade said. “Keep it down.”

  Toledo dropped his voice a notch. When he did, even Lisboa leaned forward to listen. “Mind you, I’m not saying that one of us should take the initiative to do it.”

  “Oh, no, not you,” Bonetti said. “We all know how fond of Indians you are.”

  “But you have a point,” Torres said.

  “I certainly do,” Toledo said. “If those two were to … disappear, we could petition the federal government to give up the whole of that reservation for development.”

  “Why can’t we petition for a piece of it right now?” Lisboa said. “It’s already far too big for just two savages.”

  “Bravo!” Torres said. “I want a piece.”

  “All of us do,” Frade said. “All except for the padre here.”

  Castori sniffed. “I see no reason why the Church should be excluded.”

  Pandolfo opened his mouth to put in a bid of his own, but Toledo forestalled him.

  “You’ve got a point, Roberto. A piece is better than none. So we might as well get started. We’ll find some equitable way to split it up, but first we have to pry it loose. Tomorrow morning, first thing, I’ll have a chat with Renato Kassab; get him to check for precedents.”

  “That shyster’s going to want a piece of it, too,” Frade grumbled.

  “What if he does?” Toledo said. “Let’s not be greedy. There’s plenty for all. But I’ve just come into possession of some additional information, and it presents a complication.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Just before I came over here tonight, I got a call from our friend, Delegado Borges.”

  “You got a call? I thought the goddamned tower was down again.”

  “It’s back up,” Bonetti said. “Been up for hours. What did he want?”

  “Our keeper of the peace got a call from a fishing buddy of his, a fellow by the name of Estevan Barbosa. Ring any bells?”

  “He’s a federal cop,” Frade said. “Lives in Belem, comes here every now and then to fish. So?”

  “It seems our friend Jade called him.”

  Bonetti narrowed his eyes. “Called him? About the fucking Indians?”

  Toledo nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Bitch! What did he tell her?”

  “That he was too busy to look into it.”

  Bonetti smiled. “Good,” he said.

  “That part of it, yes, but what happened next wasn’t good at all. He doesn’t know how she did it, but she managed to get his boss to send some guy from Brasilia, a Chief Inspector by the name of Silva. He arrives in Belem tomorrow morning.”

  Bonetti flushed an angry red. “Somebody should teach that woman to keep her mouth shut,” he said.

  “Who?” Torres asked. “You?”

  “Maybe me,” Pandolfo said, “if you guys want to chip in and make it worth my while. A piece of that Indian land, maybe?”

  They all ignored him.

  “According to what Barbosa told Borges,” Toledo said, “this Silva is persistent. If he gets his teeth into something, he never lets go.”

  “Bad news,” Frade said.

  “It gets worse. Apparently, he can’t be bought, and—”

  “That, I gotta see,” Torres said. “A cop who can’t be bought.”

  “And he’s bringing his own medical examiner.”

  “What?” Bonetti said. “Why? Pinto not good enough for him?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I need another drink,” Lisboa said. He reached over to push the button.

  “Guilty conscience?” Torres asked.

  “You shut up, Torres. You just shut up. How do we know it wasn’t you? You’ve got as much to gain as the rest of us.”

  “You’d love to pin this one on me, wouldn’t you Lisboa? With all the notes of yours I’m holding. Take me out of the picture, and you might just be able to keep that fazenda of yours.”

  The door opened. Osvaldo came in with a tray. “How’s that for quick service?” he said. “This time I had it ready.” No one responded. His smile faded as his gaze scanned the table. “What’s with you guys?” he asked. “Somebody just fart?”

  “Put down the tray and give us some privacy,” Toledo snapped.

  Osvaldo did as he was bidden.

  “So what are we going to do about this Silva guy?” Bonetti asked when he was gone.

  “I’m not going to do anything,” Torres said, reaching for his drink. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Nor I,” the priest said.

  “Who does or doesn’t isn’t the point,” Toledo said. “Finger-pointing is counterproductive. Those people are dead, and nothing is going to bring them back. Whoever killed them is immaterial.”

  “Immaterial?” Castori said uncertainly.

  “Yes, Father. Entirely immaterial. But no one at this table can deny that their deaths bring us benefits. So here’s my suggestion: from here on in, we present a united front, stick together.”

  “In other words, stonewall the fucking cop,” Frade said.

  Toledo smiled. “José, I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  THE GAME went on for another hour. Omar Torres, richer by almost nine thousand Reais, most of it out of Lisboa’s pocket, and about as drunk as he ever got, was the last to leave the bar. He managed to negotiate his way without incident from the table to the door, but on the porch he tripped, and would have gone down if he hadn’t struck his head on a post supporting the roof. The pain took a while to impact upon his fuddled brain. He grasped the wooden pillar with both hands and stood there, blinking, waiting for it to pass. When it did, he realized that he had an overwhelming necessity to urinate.

  He would have unzipped then and there had not two women emerged from the hotel, taken up a position two meters behind him, and started talking about the eight o’clock telenovela. He could feel their eyes boring into his back. The alley, he thought.

  He stumbled down the three steps into the street, turned left, and made for the passageway between the hotel and Cunha’s pharmacy.

  It was a moonless night with a cover of haze concealing the stars. A street lamp some twenty meters away shed only dim illumination on the hotel’s façade. The passageway was completely dark.

  With his arm extended, and trailing his left hand along the wall as a guide, he rounded the corner and kept walking until he’d almost reached the back of the building. There he stopped, opened his pants, and in blessed relief, began to empty his bladder.

  He was still at it when he heard a footstep behind him.

  Chapter Eight

  “THAT SAVAGE YOU BROUGHT into town?”

  It was more of an accusation than a question.

  Jade, who had heard just about enough from Alexandra on the subject of Indians, buried her nose in her coffee cup and strove to keep her voice level. “Yes?”

  “He killed a man last night.”

  Jade put her cup aside and looked at her housekeeper in astonishment. “What?”

  “Killed him in cold blood.”

  “Who? Who did he kill?”

  “Omar Torres. Your bloodthirsty Indian slaughtered him with a machete. And Senhor Torres was such a nice man.”

 
Nice? Jade thought. Omar Torres was anything but nice. Omar Torres was a pig.

  But she didn’t say it.

  Instead she said, “Why do they think Amati did it?”

  “Is that the savage’s name? Amati?”

  “It’s his name, yes. Stop calling him a savage. I asked you a question: why do they think he did it?”

  “They don’t think,” Alexandra said with satisfaction. “They know. The two of them were in that alley between the pharmacy and the Grand. Senhor Torres was dead, and the Indian was next to him, covered in blood and holding a machete.”

  “Next to Torres’s body? How—”

  “He was dead drunk. He slaughtered poor Senhor Torres, and then he passed out.”

  “Who found them?”

  “Tomas Piva.”

  “Who’s Tomas Piva?”

  “That mulato with a limp, the one without his two front teeth.” Alexandra tapped her incisors with a forefinger by way of illustration. Jade remembered him now. Piva collected garbage for the town.

  “He told you himself?”

  The housekeeper shook her head. “His mother told me.”

  “When did you speak to her?”

  “This morning in the padaria, when I went to buy bread.”

  “Where’s Amati now? Did she say?”

  “She did. He’s right where he deserves to be. In jail.”

  JADE CALLED and got Borges on the phone. The delegado was offhand about both the event and the arrest: “Omar Torres was playing with fire for a long time. Truth to tell, I would have taken a bet that someone would have killed him some day. I just never expected it to be an Indian.”

  “And you’re sure it was?”

  “Oh, I’m sure all right. Your pal was lying right next to him with the machete that killed Omar still in his hand. And he was so goddamned drunk that he hasn’t woken up from that time to this. Not when we cuffed him, not even when we carried him over here and tossed him into a cold shower.”

  “He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have done it.”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you he did.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “No? Then come over here and have a look at him yourself. He’s still out. And he smells like a distillery.”

  “That Indian doesn’t drink, Delegado.”

  “Looks like last night he made an exception.”

  “I don’t believe it. He doesn’t drink, I tell you, and he despises people who do. There is no way he would have consumed cachaça of his own volition. Someone must have forced it down his throat.”

  “Oh come on, Senhorita Calmon. I mean, how likely is that?”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In a cell about ten meters from where I’m sitting. We dragged him out of the shower, put him there, and called Doctor Pinto to come over and have a look. He just left.”

  “What did he say?”

  “To let him sleep it off.”

  “So you still haven’t heard his side of the story?”

  She heard him chuckle. “His side of the story? The savage gets found in an alley, holding a facão, covered in blood, next to a dead man, whose throat had been slashed, and you think there’s a his side of the story?”

  “What I think, Delegado, is that there might be some extenuating circumstances.”

  “Like what? Self-defense?”

  “Maybe.”

  “No way.” He sighed. “Look, Senhorita Calmon, it was like this: Osvaldo’s place was packed last night. A dozen people saw Omar go out the door. The ones I spoke to are all willing to swear he was so drunk he could hardly put one foot in front of the other.”

  “And the Indian? Did anyone see him?”

  “Not until they found him next to the body.”

  “Torres had the reputation of being quite a lady’s man, didn’t he?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Who’s to say it wasn’t some jealous husband who killed him?”

  “And then went and got the Indian, filled him with cachaça, covered him in blood and left him unconscious next to Omar’s body?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Anything’s possible. It just isn’t probable.”

  “Was Torres armed?”

  “No, he wasn’t. And nobody in this town has ever seen him pick a fight with anybody, drunk or sober. So forget any claims of self-defense. This was aggression, pure and simple. And, besides, it looks like Torres was struck from behind.”

  “What was he doing in the alley?”

  “His fly was open, his pecker was out and he was facing the wall. He must have been taking a piss, smelled like it anyway. What else do you want to know?”

  “When can I see him?”

  “Omar? Anytime you like. He’s on a slab down at the doc’s.”

  “I’m talking about Amati, Delegado.”

  “Amati? That the savage?”

  “That’s his name, yes, and he’s not a savage.”

  “In my book, anybody who takes a machete to another man’s neck is a savage.”

  “I agree with you. But in this case, I doubt that the savage was Amati.”

  “Far as I know, he’s the only Indian in town.”

  “I ask you again, when can I see him?”

  “The doc says he expects him to wake up in four or five hours.”

  “One o’clock this afternoon then?”

  “One o’clock should do it. See you then.”

  Chapter Nine

  SILVA, BLEARY-EYED FROM AN almost sleepless night, scanned the crowd in the arrival hall at Val de Cans Airport. Barbosa was nowhere in sight.

  “Typical,” Arnaldo muttered.

  Before Silva could reply someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Chief Inspector Silva?”

  The tapper looked to be in his late twenties, was wearing a cheap suit, and had eyes that said cop.

  “Yes, I’m Silva. This is Agent Nunes. Who are you?”

  “I’m Sanches,” he said. “Agent at the Belem field office.”

  They shook hands.

  “Where’s Barbosa?” Arnaldo asked.

  “Delegado Barbosa told me to tell you he was too busy to get away.”

  Arnaldo lifted an eyebrow. “Told you to tell us, huh?”

  “No one but a suspicious man would take it that way,” Sanches said.

  “What way?” Arnaldo asked, innocently.

  “The way you just took it.”

  “Okay,” Arnaldo said. “You got me. I’m suspicious.”

  Sanches grinned. “I figured you might be. I looked at you, and I said to myself, ‘Alex, that guy, Nunes, is one suspicious human being. He might even suspect that the delegado is sitting with his feet on his desk watching the game between Botafogo and Fluminense.’ Mind you, I’m not saying he is, simply that a guy like you might suspect it.”

  “Knowing that the game to which you refer is being aired as we speak,” Arnaldo said, “I might well suspect exactly that.”

  “Nor am I saying,” Sanches went on, “that he instructed me to take you to the office the long way around, thereby assuring that the aforementioned game ends before you get there.”

  “Agent Nunes and I are well acquainted with Delegado Barbosa,” Silva said. “We know how dedicated he is to his work.”

  “Exactly how dedicated,” Arnaldo said.

  “I’ve only known him for about eighteen months,” Sanches said.

  “But it seems like longer, right?”

  “Agent Nunes, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

  “Delegado Barbosa often has that effect on people. Where’s the car?” Silva asked.

  “This way. Do you gentlemen have luggage?”

  “One bag each,” Silva said.

  ESTEVAN BARBOSA had missed his calling. He was one of the worst cops Silva had ever known, but, had he chosen to be a thespian, he would have been in a class by himself.

  They arrived to find his secretary painting her nails, a fal
se note in his mise-en-scène, but the rest was masterful.

  Files were everywhere: on the desk, the credenza, the windowsill, even the floor. Barbosa’s jacket had been tossed haphazardly over the back of his chair and his necktie was askew. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled back to reveal his hairy forearms. A lick of hair hung over his left eye, and a telephone was glued to his left ear. He was the very image of a man struggling with an overwhelming workload.

  And he delivered his first line with perfect timing. “I’ve got a situation here,” he said. “I’ll have to call you back.” He slammed the telephone into its cradle, nodded to his visitors, and snapped orders to his secretary. “Take the files off those chairs. Hold my calls. Get some coffee.”

  Silva noted, with some pleasure, that Barbosa hadn’t been taking care of himself. He’d put on at least twenty kilos since the last time the Chief Inspector had seen him.

  Arnaldo helped with the files, the secretary left to get the coffee, and Barbosa got right down to business, as any busy man would.

  “We got a call from that Calmon woman.”

  Silva frowned. “When?”

  “About an hour ago,” Barbosa said. “Your cell phone went to voice mail, so she called here to make sure you got the message.”

  “Which was?”

  “That Indian? The one she wants you to talk to?”

  “Yes?”

  “He killed a man.”

  Arnaldo, clearing away the last of the files to create sitting space, looked up at Silva. Silva kept his eyes fixed on Barbosa.

  “What? When was this?”

  “Last night. Slaughtered him with a machete.” Then, to Arnaldo, “Thanks.”

  Silva sank into one of the chairs Arnaldo had cleared. “Who was the victim?”

  Barbosa shrugged. “Some rich landowner. I didn’t catch the name.”

  “Why?”

  “Nobody knows for sure, but they think it must be revenge for what happened to his tribe.”

  “What makes them so sure the Indian did it?”

  “They found him dead drunk with a bloody machete in his hand, right next to the corpse.”

  “Give Arnaldo the FUNAI woman’s number,” Silva said. “He’ll call while we talk.”

  Barbosa sifted through the disordered paperwork on his desk, located a scrap with Jade’s number, and handed it to Arnaldo. Arnaldo took his cell phone out of his pocket and stepped out of the office.