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

by Rubem Fonseca

  The humiliation he had suffered at the hands—or rather, the feet—of that inspector had become unbearable for him. He believed that in the world of lawbreaking, and especially among his subordinates, there was no one who didn’t know and talk about what had happened. The only way to put an end to his shame and recover the prestige he assumed he was losing was to kill the inspector. This was something he couldn’t do personally: killing a person with his own hands was a violation of the rules established and followed by bankrollers, and he planned to obey them. So he ordered the summoning of a trustworthy assassin known as Old Turk.

  Old Turk owed that nickname to his white hair. He was only forty-two and was younger than another gunman called Young Turk, a guy who couldn’t be trusted, not only because he dyed his hair and mustache but also because he was a coward and a liar. Old Turk, on the other hand, a reserved man, mysterious, dedicated to his family and his work, was respected for his discretion and feared for his efficiency. No one had ever seen him boast, and yet in the performance of his activities he had already killed more than twenty people—all of them men.

  “I want the old one, you hear?” The message was spread among the annotators and other subordinates of Ilídio.

  Old Turk was tracked down in Caxambu, Minas Gerais, where he had gone over the weekend to visit his mother.

  “Mr. Ilídio, day after tomorrow I’ll be in Rio to do the job,” he said after hearing the proposal.

  Aniceto Moscoso also learned of the summoning of Old Turk. Concerned, he called a meeting with Ilídio, at a barbecue restaurant in Saenz Pena Square.

  “We don’t kill policemen,” said Aniceto, “we buy them.”

  “The fucker isn’t for sale.”

  “They all have their price. I speak from experience. I’ve been in this business a lot longer than you.”

  “The bastard humiliated me. The whole city’s laughing at me. He’s gotta die, so I can look my children in the eye again.”

  “The best revenge is to buy the guy.”

  “That son of a bitch doesn’t have a price; he’s crazy. Everybody knows that.”

  Aniceto Moscoso tried to convince him that it was a mistake to go forward with his plan, but Ilídio wouldn’t yield and left without promising anything. It was the first time in the relationship between the two that a request of Moscoso’s was not quickly heeded by his former employee.

  That same day, Moscoso went to see his friend Eusébio de Andrade, the big bankroller in the West Zone and a mentor to whom the other bankers would go for advice. The two men had in common a passion for football. Andrade was a benefactor of the Bangu Athletic Club and Aniceto Moscoso was the honored patron of the Madureira Athletic Club, whose football stadium had been built with his money. In general, the numbers racket was viewed as criminal, but Andrade’s and Moscoso’s sports activities gained them favorable publicity in the media and in society, despite both clubs being small groups in the outskirts. Andrade and Moscoso urged the other numbers bosses to sponsor activities that interested the public, without, however, encountering much receptivity. “The problem is that our colleagues are very ignorant,” said Andrade. “They can’t see six inches in front of their nose.”

  After hearing what Aniceto had told him, Eusébio de Andrade agreed that they would go together to talk to Ilídio, to convince him to give up his plan.

  “What would you do if a cop kicked you in the ass?” Ilídio asked.

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” replied Eusébio de Andrade. “You know I’m a person who tries to be well informed before making a decision, even if it’s something simple. I’ve gotten some information about that inspector. His colleagues don’t like him, his bosses don’t like him.”

  “We don’t like him,” joked Aniceto.

  “Nobody likes him. But if we kill the guy, he becomes a hero. Haven’t you seen what happened with that Major Vaz? They killed the guy and caused that shitstorm we read about every day in the papers. Killing the major was stupid. In the same way, if Old Turk kills the inspector, he’s going to stop being considered a son of a bitch by his colleagues. And the cops’ll get you.”

  “How? Old Turk is like the tomb. Nothing comes out of there, you know that,” said Ilídio.

  “Naturally Old Turk would never open his trap. But the cops will have an easy time figuring out it was you who ordered the inspector killed.”

  “That doesn’t bother me.”

  “It bothers us. Aniceto and I are here representing the other colleagues, too. And we want to offer you compensation. Zé do Carmo when he died left no heirs, and his sites will be redistributed. The ones that border on your sites will go to you.”

  Ilídio’s response was slow in coming. Aniceto was right, every man has his price, and his was Zé do Carmo’s sites.

  “I’ll do what you want. But that son of a bitch cop is gonna stay in my sights. He’ll get what’s coming to him,” said Ilídio, aware the others knew he was only bluffing with those threats.

  “Let Old Turk know immediately, before he takes action,” warned Eusébio de Andrade as he left.

  After almost two hours Ilídio managed to get the long-distance call through to Caxambu.

  “He’s gone to Rio de Janeiro,” Old Turk’s mother said.

  Ilídio sent an emissary to look for him where Old Turk normally stayed, a two-story house on Rua Salvador de Sá. The emissary returned saying that Old Turk hadn’t shown up there for a long time.

  Ilídio thought about the betting sites he would inherit from the estate of Zé do Carmo and how much that would represent in his daily take. He yelled to Maneco, his second in command, “I have to find that man!”

  Maneco reminded Ilídio that it was Sunday, and the betting sites weren’t in operation. But the next day, with every site in the city alerted, it would be “a piece of cake to find Old Turk.”

  AT NOON THAT SUNDAY, Inspector Mattos went on duty. He needed to put his turbulent thoughts in order. He straightened the gauze swathing his hand. He thought about Alice’s visit, about the photo of Lieutenant Gregório with the ring. Alice and Gregório were always linked in his musings. The two things were somehow connected.

  He read the note on his desk, from headquarters, signed by General Ancora. The note had resulted, apparently, from the meeting of military officers at the Aeronautics Club the Friday before, and had as its purpose calming in some way the indignation shown by those present at that assembly.

  “From the first moments in which the deplorable episode of August 5 became known,” said the note, “the Federal Department of Public Safety has made every effort to shed light on the criminal action, by initiating measures to apprehend the individual responsible for the grievous occurrence in which one of the most illustrious officers of the air force, Major Rubens Florentino Vaz, lost his life and the journalist Carlos Lacerda, publisher of the Tribuna da Imprensa, was wounded. In the Second Police District, a task force was immediately established at the same time that the collaboration of the criminal investigation section of the Division of Technical Police was requested.”

  The note was long, and Mattos scanned it, looking for the relevant points and skipping what were obvious attempts at persuasion aimed at the military. The cops had succeeded quickly in finding out the identity of the driver Nelson Raimundo de Souza. Commissioner Pastor had gone immediately to Miguel Couto Hospital, where he had entered in contact with the survivor of the assassination attempt, the journalist Carlos Lacerda, to find out in summary form how the attack had occurred. (And Lacerda’s son, young Sérgio, why hadn’t Pastor spoken with him? Pastor was a good police officer.) At approximately three a.m. the cab driver Nelson Raimundo de Souza had appeared at the Fourth Precinct, in Catete, from which he had been remanded to the Second and submitted to the initial questioning. Nelson Raimundo had said he could recognize the person he’d driven in his car, and that as he passed the corner of Avenida Calógeras and Avenida Beira Mar, he had heard an odd noise that may have been an object being thrown out
by his passenger. An airline worker had seen a beggar pick up the object. On Friday, the sixth, Nelson Raimundo had been taken to the Military Police. There, questioned by Colonel Adyl, whom the air force secretary had chosen to monitor the inquiry, as Pastor had said in the telephone call he had made late on the night of the fifth, Nelson Raimundo had reiterated what he had told the cops earlier. On Saturday, while he, Mattos, was in bed with Salete, Nelson Raimundo had been questioned by Captain João Ferreira Neves, of the Military Police, with the acquiescence of Commissioner Pastor, with whom he’d been a classmate in a course at the Police Academy. (They were sparing Pastor, a proud man who must be suffering because of all that, from embarrassment.) Then Nelson Raimundo had changed his story (had he been subjected to violence?) and confessed that he had taken two men to the locale, one of them Climerio Euribes de Almeida, who the note said was a police investigator. Afterwards Nelson Raimundo had confirmed these statements in the presence of Colonel Adyl, the prosecutor Cordeiro Guerra, and Commissioner Pastor. To show that the high authorities were truly dedicated to unearthing the facts of the attack, the note mentioned those who had come to the Military Police barracks to hear Nelson Raimundo’s confession: the head of the Department of Public Safety, General Ancora; the secretary of the air force, Nero Moura; and the secretary of justice, Tancredo Neves. The two secretaries had then gone to the Catete Palace, where General Caiado de Castro was waiting for them. According to the head of the Military Cabinet, the president of the Republic had given orders for a full investigation and had charged the special commissioner of surveillance and apprehension, Hermes Machado, with the arrest of Climerio. Hermes Machado was a competent and respected commissioner. He was vain about the elegance of his attire and the articulation of his speech. One day, in his zeal to understand why people, including himself, went into police work, Mattos had asked Hermes what his reasons were. “I’m with the police because of vanity,” Hermes had replied, “vanity is man’s great motivator.” In Hermes’s case it was the vanity of power. “I can make arrests, something that no judge, no Supreme Court justice, no president of the Republic can do.” Hermes, however, used police power with moderation and refinement. His appointment had been accepted with displeasure by Pastor, even though they had been friends since the time they were both inspectors, and Pastor had served under Machado when he was chief commissioner at the Second Precinct. The note from headquarters ended by advising that Hermes Machado was taking measures to catch Climerio, aided by air force officers named by Colonel Adyl.

  Mattos thought about calling Pastor and saying, “Tell those soldiers, the prosecutor, the head of DPS, Tancredo, the whole bunch, to go to hell.” Pastor was surrounded by people who were shit-scared or confused or both. He had all but been removed from the case. What did he have to lose? A shitty job as commissioner? In reality, that day, the superintendent of police, Colonel Paulo Torres, had held a secret meeting with his principal advisers to examine a move that would totally remove Pastor from the case: shifting the Tonelero inquiry to his department and naming Commissioner Silvio Terra, director of the Technical Police, to head the investigations. Considering, however, that the action could be seen, within the government itself, as surrendering to pressure from Lacerda and his group, Silvio Terra’s appointment had not yet been effected.

  While Mattos was reading the note from headquarters, Rosalvo had come into the room. From the expression of the inspector’s face, the investigator concluded it was going to be a rough day.

  WHENEVER HE VISITED HIS MOTHER in Caxambu, a city famous for its medicinal waters, Old Turk would take advantage of the opportunity to do a twenty-one-day treatment. Three times a day, with rigorous punctuality, he would drink water from different springs “to clear the liver,” as recommended by the old doctor in the city. With the call from Ilídio, Old Turk had to suspend the treatment, much to his displeasure.

  After ending his brief telephone conversation with Ilídio, Old Turk had headed to the Rede Mineira de Viação train station, in Caxambu, and purchased a ticket for Rio. In Cruzeiro he would switch to a train on the Central Railroad. On the train he made his plans. Normally he enjoyed contemplating the landscape, especially during the descent from the mountains. But, thinking about Ilídio’s proposal, that day he didn’t look out the window at the trees and mountains and valleys and rivers whose sight gave him such pleasure. “I want to get a cop out of my hair,” the numbers boss had said. “No problem,” Old Turk had answered, “he won’t be the first.” “But he’s an honest inspector.” “No problem,” Old Turk had repeated. Now, on the train, he tried to remember if any inspector had ever been eliminated under similar circumstances. He recalled an inspector who had been murdered and the confusion that resulted, but the cop had been killed by his wife’s lover, merely a crime of passion. This thing had to be done using great caution.

  Old Turk preferred working alone. Before acting, he liked to concentrate, in solitude. When he got to Rio, instead of going to his house, he began looking for a room to rent somewhere far away from the districts he normally frequented. He therefore avoided Santo Cristo, Saúde, and Estácio. He found a room on Rua das Marrecas, downtown, in the home of an old retired procuress. His immediate problem was to find out the address of the inspector’s residence. The weapon he would use had already been selected. A Belgian FN 7.65 that Old Turk zealously guarded and had never before used. He was going to break in the pistol by killing an important guy. The FN deserved no less.

  “IS THERE A PROBLEM?” asked Rosalvo.

  “Did you release that prisoner being held for questioning?”

  “As soon as you gave the order. Mr. Pádua had requested his record from HQ—”

  “Not interested. Any news on José Silva? The boy brutalized by Lomagno and the others in high school?”

  “I think I’m close. The manager of a bakery on Santa Clara said he remembered the tenants of a house on Avenida Atlântica. He used to deliver bread there.”

  “Go on.”

  “I used up a lot of shoe leather finding that baker.”

  “Go on. Later I’ll put you in for a commendation for meritorious service.”

  “Bakers in Copacabana don’t make deliveries anymore. They don’t know where the residents of the house on Avenida Atlântica are now. But a woman who used to live in the house sometimes shows up at the bakery to shop. Finding José Silva is just a matter of time.”

  “For us, time isn’t ‘just.’ Stay at the bakery all day, all week if necessary, till you find the woman.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After Rosalvo left, Mattos looked up Senator Vitor Freitas’s telephone number on his pad, which his aide Clemente had given him when Mattos had visited the Senate.

  “Who wishes to speak with him?”

  “Police Inspector Mattos.”

  He waited.

  “The senator can’t speak with you.”

  “I’d like for him to make an appointment, at a time of his convenience, to see me.”

  “We’re going through a very unsettled moment politically, as you must be aware, and the senator is extremely busy with matters of the greatest import. I don’t think he can spare the time to see you.”

  “He’ll have to talk to me sooner or later. It’s better that it be sooner.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Take it however you like.”

  “I’m taking it as a threat. Don’t forget, inspector, that we’re not in a dictatorship, a minor-level policeman can no longer threaten a federal senator protected by constitutional immunities without suffering the grave consequences of that criminal and arbitrary act. Your superiors will be informed of what’s going on and take—”

  Mattos hung up. He looked through his pockets for an antacid tablet. Black bile, excess stomach acid, tattered nerves.

  The telephone on his desk rang.

  “Inspector Mattos, please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’d like to register a complaint. When can
I do that?”

  “The police never close, sir. Whatever time you like. My shift goes till noon tomorrow.”

  AT SEVEN THAT NIGHT, Rosalvo returned to the precinct with the information that he had located José Silva.

  “The address is 60 Avenida Rainha Elizabeth. Want me to go there and talk to him?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Phone call for you, Rosalvo,” said the guard, coming into the inspector’s office. “In Surveillance.”

  In the Surveillance office, Rosalvo picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Teodoro. We worked together in Robbery and Theft. Remember me?”

  “I never forget anything, Teodoro, and besides—”

  “Don’t say my name, goddammit.”

  nine

  THE MORGUE’S AUTOPSY REPORTS on Paulo Gomes Aguiar and the findings by Forensics of evidence of the Deauville crime were handed over to Inspector Mattos that morning as he was leaving for the Catete Palace. He quickly skimmed the two procedural documents. Nothing beyond what the examiners had told him informally over the phone. He put them in his desk drawer. Later he would read both documents more carefully.

  Arriving at the palace, Mattos identified himself at the entrance and filled out a form in which he stated that the objective of his visit was an official interview with Lieutenant Gregório. An old man wearing an attendant’s uniform—navy blue pants and coat, white shirt, and a black tie—took the form and disappeared with it through a door at the rear of the entrance hall, to the right.