Crimes of August: A Novel: 5 (Brazilian Literature in Translation Series)

by Rubem Fonseca

  Climerio’s words failed to assuage Alcino. The obligation he had taken on of killing that journalist had become endless agony for him. But it had been the way he had found of satisfying his lifelong dream, to have a house of his own, for he was constantly late in paying his monthly rent of five hundred and fifty cruzeiros for the house where he lived. Since May Climerio had been advancing him the rent money. As well as money for groceries. His wife Abigail, on one occasion, had gone to Climerio’s house to receive a thousand cruzeiros; other times she had received two hundred.

  They took a bus to Méier. In Méier they took a taxi.

  “Rua Barão de Mesquita,” Climerio told the driver. Their final destination was the São José school, where the journalist Lacerda was to make a speech.

  They got off at a bus stop on Barão de Mesquita.

  “Wait here,” said Climerio.

  Climerio went into a bar and asked to use the phone. He dialed.

  “Is Nelson there?”

  He wasn’t. Climerio made several phone calls trying to locate Nelson Raimundo de Souza, the driver of the taxi in which they planned to flee after Alcino killed Lacerda. He finally left a message for Nelson to come find him on Barão de Mesquita, at the bar whose address he left with the person taking the message.

  Climerio went to the bus stop to look for Alcino. The pair, now back at the bar, drank beer as they waited for the cab driver to arrive.

  “Is this Nelson guy reliable?” asked Alcino.

  “I’ve known him a long time. He stations his cab on Silveira Martins, that street beside the palace. I see him practically every day.”

  Night fell.

  “The Crow is gonna leave, and that son of a bitch Nelson doesn’t show up,” said Climerio. If he failed again, Gregório would skin him alive.

  Nelson arrived shortly before ten that evening.

  “Goddammit! Where the hell have you been?”

  “I got your message an hour ago,” said the cabbie.

  The three got into Nelson’s Studebaker taxi. First, Alcino noted the license plate, 5-60-21. “Tomorrow I’m gonna play those numbers.”

  They stopped on a cross-street with Barão de Mesquita, near the São José school. Climerio opened the leather briefcase and took out a .45 revolver. The weapon, a Smith & Wesson, had been stolen in 1949 from the Second Infantry Regiment in the military compound, by the sergeant who was head of the regimental arsenal. That sergeant had sold it to another sergeant. It had been bought and sold several times, until it was acquired by José Antonio Soares.

  Alcino’s hands trembled when he held the gun. He’d never had a .45 in his hands. The steel was cold, and the weapon seemed to possess enormous weight.

  “All you have to do is pull the trigger, and this cannon will do the job for you.”

  Climerio gave Alcino six more bullets, which Alcino put in his pocket after sticking the revolver in his belt.

  They got out of the car. Alcino remained close to the entrance to the school. Climerio posted himself at the door. The plan was to kill Lacerda as soon as he appeared. The pair would take advantage of the confusion to flee.

  INSPECTOR PÁDUA TOOK OFF HIS COAT; his short-sleeve shirt displayed his white, muscular arms. In a holster under his arm, a snub-nosed revolver with a two-inch barrel. He had just made the entries for his shift in the blotter. Mattos, who would relieve him, sat down beside him.

  “You planning to release the bums I caught on my shift?”

  “If I think I should release them, I’ll release them.”

  Pádua had the tic of repeatedly contracting his voluminous arm muscles when nervous. His muscles began to shudder and jump. Pádua had thought about killing this idiot Mattos the first time he had released the criminals he had caught, but he had checked himself upon learning that the guy wasn’t on the take from anyone, something rare in the department, a perfect white-hat.

  “Let’s imagine a situation, Mattos. You’re walking down a street here in our jurisdiction at two in the morning and see a suspicious-looking guy standing on a corner.”

  “What’s suspicious-looking?”

  “Shit, Mattos, a guy standing on a corner in the middle of the night is always suspicious.”

  “Especially if he’s black.”

  “Shit, damn right. You’re walking down a street in our district at two in the morning and see a black guy standing on a corner. What can a black guy be doing at that hour? Or even some shitheel white? I’ll tell you what he’s doing: waiting for somebody to mug or looking for a house to rob. I’m gonna arrest the son of a bitch. A cautionary measure pure and simple. Then I’ll send for his record. If he’s clean, I’ll cut the fucker loose.”

  This topic had been debated between the two of them before. Whenever Mattos relieved Pádua, they had a similar discussion. Pádua believed he would one day convince Mattos that his point of view was correct in every aspect.

  “That stuff of St. Thomas Aquinas that it’s preferable to acquit a hundred guilty men rather than convict one innocent man is bullshit. Pure fairy tale. It’s not by that kind of thinking that we’re gonna protect decent people. What is it you’re afraid of? The shitty, corrupt, illiterate press? That cocksucker of a con man who’s our superintendent? The city’s been handed over to the criminals, and cowardly philosophies like that are nothing but the excuses of self-serving cops who wanna run away from their responsibilities.”

  In earlier days, Mattos would get irritated with Pádua, and the two would argue heatedly. Now, he was just bored.

  “Changing the subject, did you meet the madam at the Senate Annex?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to know if a certain guy frequented her trysting place.”

  “A senator?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some of the guys I hauled in yesterday have a record, I guarantee you,” said Pádua craftily.

  “I’m very sorry, if you want to help me, I’m grateful, but I’m not going to bargain with you. Anyone brought in just for questioning I send home. Shit, Pádua, the lockup is full of poor devils, and you want to throw more wretches in there.”

  “Wretches? Fucking hell, you’re one stubborn guy.”

  “So are you.”

  Pádua’s muscles twitched convulsively, as if an electric current had coursed through them. He put on his coat.

  “Shit. Holy fuck, Mattos, you’re gonna drive me crazy. I’m gonna end up as batty as you.” Pause. “We’re going to the Senate Annex this afternoon.”

  THE PORTUGUESE ADELINO, father of Cosme, a short, stocky man with gray hair, arrived at the precinct around three in the afternoon. He was taken to Mattos.

  They were alone in the inspector’s office.

  “Have a seat.”

  Adelino sat on the edge of the chair. He avoided making eye contact with the inspector, who stood beside him.

  “Your son is in a bad situation . . . He was caught in the act . . . When the police got there, the guy was dying . . . You were there, weren’t you, in the workshop?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t hear you. Louder.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “You saw everything, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What? I didn’t hear you.”

  “I saw it.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “That individual was a very rude person, he insulted and hit my son . . . The boy lost his head . . .”

  “Speak louder. What did the boy do?”

  “My son was much weaker . . . And the other man hitting him, hitting him mercilessly . . . Then he picked up the lug wrench to defend himself . . . Just one blow and the man fell . . .”

  “Cosme and his wife are expecting a child, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Speak louder.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll be your first grandchild?”

  “Yes.”

  “Louder.”

  “Yes.”

  “Louder.�
��

  “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  “The first grandchild . . .” said Mattos.

  Adelino lowered his eyes.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying,” said Adelino, wiping his eyes.

  They remained silent for several moments.

  “Where are you from?”

  “From Sabrosa . . .”

  “Sabrosa . . . Where’s that near?”

  “Vila Real.”

  “Trás-os-Montes?”

  Adelino nodded.

  “The land of Camilo Castelo Branco.”

  Adelino didn’t react to the writer’s name.

  “Your son is going to be in prison for twenty years.”

  Again, Adelino wiped his eyes.

  “I know why you’re crying.”

  Adelino’s body shook.

  “Because you’re ashamed of accusing your own son of a crime you yourself committed.”

  Adelino nodded, his head hanging forward, as if he were about to say something. His body shook again.

  “Tell me how it was. The truth.” Mattos placed his hand lightly on Adelino’s shoulder.

  “No, it wasn’t me. I should have defended my son, but it wasn’t me.”

  “Tell the truth. We know it was you. You’ll serve a shorter term than your son . . . You’re an old man . . .”

  Adelino wiped his eyes. Pensive, he took some time before he spoke.

  “It was me, yes,” he finally confessed. “I lost my head when I saw the boy being beaten by that animal. Then I grabbed the lug wrench . . .”

  The Portuguese went on to say he had struck the man in the head, the man fell and lay still, his eyes open. Horrified, Adelino and his son saw that the man was dead. The family, called together, had decided that Cosme should take the blame, as the old man, who had a heart condition, would never survive being in prison.

  “Are you willing to repeat that to the clerk and sign a paper with your confession?”

  “I don’t know how to read or write,” said Adelino, who appeared relieved.

  “No matter. We’ll call two witnesses.”

  Mattos went with Adelino to the clerk’s room. On the way he bumped into Biriba, the trusty, and asked him to buy a box of antacids at the pharmacy.

  Adelino’s confession was signed by the two witnesses who had been rounded up in the neighborhood, an attendant at a school and the counterman at a hardware store.

  “You can return to your orange grove. For now.”

  “I can leave?”

  “Yes. You weren’t arrested within twenty-four hours of the offense. We’re not even going to ask for preventive custody. You’re going to await trial in freedom. A good lawyer can get you acquitted.”

  “What about my son?”

  “He’ll be released after a few formalities.”

  “Jesus heard my prayers!”

  The inspector went to the lockup. Cosme was eating a codfish ball from the lunch pail.

  “Want one, inspector?”

  Mattos took the codfish ball. “Come with me,” he told Cosme.

  The youth followed the inspector, pallid, as if knowing what he was about to hear. They went to the area where Cosme usually saw his wife.

  “Your father confessed that he killed that guy in your workshop.”

  “It was me, it was me! Papa doesn’t know what he’s saying!”

  “He confessed in the presence of two witnesses.”

  “You can’t do this to my father. He’s a sick man. Don’t you see he’s sacrificing himself for me?”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “My father doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s a sick man. It was me who killed that guy.”

  “Your father killed him.”

  “I swear it was me! He’s a sick man.”

  “Get him a good lawyer.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Can the boy’s father come in?” asked the guard.

  Mattos left as soon as the old man entered the room. He walked down the corridor. His stomach ached. He saw that he still had the codfish ball in his hand. He crushed it against the wall until it crumbled into small pieces that fell to the floor. He wiped his hand on his pants. Then he banged his head twice against the wall, cursing.

  Still on Wednesday afternoon, Pádua returned to the precinct to see Mattos. Rosalvo was there, with the inspector.

  “What happened to your head?” asked Pádua.

  “I banged it against a wall. I’m thinking of taking Rosalvo with us.”

  “Better not to,” said Pádua.

  In the taxi, heading downtown.

  “That Rosalvo, besides being a Lacerdist and a Jesus freak, is a thief. He’s gonna want to put the squeeze on the madam who runs the Senate Annex. He wouldn’t get anywhere, but it’d stir up a real shitstorm.”

  “He’s not a thief. Maybe he doesn’t even take numbers money,” answered Mattos.

  “Thieves start with game money, then go on to take from everybody. When it comes to honesty, once the guy pops his cherry, he never stops. Careful, one of these days that scumbag will end up taking payoffs in your name.”

  “He doesn’t have the courage to do that,” said Mattos, putting an antacid tablet in his mouth.

  “Did you let those dirtbags I arrested go?”

  “Yes. They didn’t have a record.”

  “Did you already get the records?”

  “Not yet. But I cut the red tape and called headquarters, and they gave me the information on the phone.”

  “Holy shit! That’s illegal, don’t you know that? You put yourself at risk for a bunch of scumbags. You expecting some kind of medal for that? One of these days you’re gonna get fucked—they’ll open up an internal investigation and kick your ass out. Fired for the public good. HQ has had its eye on you ever since that crazy strike you tried to organize.”

  They got out on Avenida Rio Branco, at the door of the São Borja Building. The building, eighteen stories, was relatively new, having been built during the war. Across from it, the Senate palace.

  “After all, exactly what is it you’re after? Let’s not rattle Laura’s cage unnecessarily.”

  “I want information about Senator Vitor Freitas. You think she’ll come across?”

  “She does for me.” Pause. “Look, I’ve never had anything with her.” Pause. “Or with any whore.”

  “But she’s a friend of yours.”

  “Friend, my ass. She’s my informant.”

  The São Borja had an ample entrance, a long corridor with several businesses, a tobacco shop, a café, a barbershop, and a record store—the Casa Carlos Wehrs. Mattos remembered then that in that store, some months earlier, he had bought the scores for La Traviata and La Bohème. If he were alone, he would use the opportunity to ask what the long-play of La Traviata cost.

  The cops walked down the corridor where the elevators were, three on each side. The São Borja was a mixed-occupancy building, residential and commercial. In a large glassed-in panel Mattos noted some names, followed by room numbers: Brazilian Workers Party, Radiobrás, Odeon Records, Rádio Copacabana. A Workers Party poster read: “Vote for the candidates of the Workers Party and participate in the gigantic struggle for the transformation of Brazil into a great nation. Social Justice. Economic Emancipation. Nationalistic Policy. Defense of Petroleum. Respect for the Minimum Wage. Democratic Enfranchisement. Union Freedom. Agrarian Reform. A Workers Party government is a government of the people.”

  “Those guys are a pack of demagogues,” said Pádua.

  There was another entrance, in the rear, near the elevators. It faced a courtyard where several automobiles were parked, opening onto Rua México.

  “That’s where the senators come in, so as not to be seen,” said Pádua.

  They returned to the lobby and waited for the elevator. On the tenth floor a single room had its door open. They heard the sound of a typewriter. A woman, sitting in front of an Underwood, didn’t notice the two cops as they p
assed by silently. LOTTUFO REPRESENTATION read a small plaque. Pádua turned to the right, in the hallway. The sound of the typewriter keys was no longer heard. All the doors were closed.

  “Here it is,” said Pádua, ringing a doorbell.

  A middle-aged woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door.

  “I’m here to speak with Dona Laura. I’m Inspector Pádua.”

  The woman made a gesture for them to come inside. Pádua paced from side to side in the small vestibule. From the movement of his arms, Mattos concluded that his colleague’s biceps and triceps must be flexing furiously.

  A thin man with a small mustache and slicked-down hair appeared.

  “Ah, Inspector Pádua . . . What a pleasure! How nice!”

  “I’m not here for small talk, Almeida. I want to speak to Dona Laura.”

  “She’s very busy at the moment. Can’t it be with me?”

  “No, it can’t be with you. Get in there and call Laura right now.”

  “I’m going to have them get you some nice whiskey.”

  “We don’t want any nice whiskey. Call the woman.”

  “She’s in the other apartment, on the sixteenth floor. We’ll go up by the stairs. Please follow me.”

  Laura was waiting for them in a large room full of overstuffed red velvet furniture. The curtains were also red. The room was illuminated by soft light coming from two lamps whose shades were mosaics of colored glass.

  Laura was dressed discreetly. Her hair, dyed red, gave her face a look of insolence. A gold pince-nez, held by a black silk ribbon, swayed on her chest.

  “You may go, Almeida dear,” she said. Her voice is as dark as the room, thought Mattos.

  “This is my colleague, Inspector Mattos.”

  “Would you like something to drink? Whiskey? Champagne?”

  “He has a stomach ulcer. Can’t drink.”

  “But you can.”

  “Not today.”

  Laura put on her pince-nez and looked at Mattos. “Are you a nervous man?”

  “More or less.”

  “What happened to your head?”

  “Banged it against a wall.”

  “Inspector Mattos wants information about a client of yours.”

  “We don’t give out information about our clients. You know that.”

  “Confidential. Anything you say will be strictly between us.”