“Stay on the phone with me,” I said. “The girls are with you?”
“You said you’d be here, Jack,” she snapped. “I thought I could count on you for that, at least.”
Tavia came over, giving me a time-out signal.
“Hold on one second, Cherie,” I said and pushed the mute button.
“That was Mariana Lopes,” Tavia said. “If she’s right, we’ve been played.”
“What? By who?”
“Urso. The Bear.”
Chapter 63
THAT AFTERNOON, THE digital controls of the brand-new subway system failed and went offline for three hours, snarling traffic from one end of Rio de Janeiro to the other just as the bulk of the international athletes were arriving.
Tavia and I were stuck in a cab heading back toward Alemão and Spirit. Favela Justice was late delivering the video clip of Andy Wise, and I was trying to figure out how we’d been so conned.
Mariana Lopes said that earlier in the day a woman named Claudia had overdosed on heroin and was brought to her clinic near the Alemão favela. Nurses administered an opiate antagonist and Claudia began to come out of it.
The television was on in an adjacent room, tuned to the coverage of the Wise trial and the billion-dollar penalty.
The junkie heard it in her stupor and said, “Estella says Urso’s in on that shit, big-time. The American they took…like in that trial? Just show. About the money. So much—whoo—Estella gonna be able to quit her shitty life once and for good.”
When Claudia fully awoke fifteen minutes later, Lopes pressed her about what she’d said. But the junkie said she had no idea what Lopes was talking about.
Lopes said, “She stuck to that story until she walked out my door. But when you administer an opiate antagonist, many people react as if they’ve been given truth serum. You can’t believe some of the confessions I’ve heard.”
“Who’s Estella?” Tavia asked.
“Claudia’s sister,” Lopes said. “And Urso’s longtime girlfriend.”
“You know where Estella lives?”
“I do,” she’d said, and she’d told her how to get there.
Tavia said, “That’s damn close to where we talked to Urso that first night.”
As traffic finally began to move, my cell phone buzzed. The third Favela Justice video was coming in. Tavia downloaded it to her iPad and hit Play.
We got that scene again with Andrew Wise at the center of the screen, tied to the heavy chair, and everything around him cast in black. Wise looked defiantly at the camera, but you could see the ordeal was weighing heavily on him.
Rayssa appeared in the primitive mask, said, “You’ve seen the damning evidence. You’ve had the night to think on it. Now is your chance to vote. Use Twitter and hash tag WiseGuilty or hash tag PayTheBillion if you think Mr. Wise should pay the ransom. You have five hours. The results will be released this evening at nine.”
Behind her, Wise shouted, “Don’t I get a defense? Or is this a total kangaroo court you’ve got going here?”
That seemed to startle Rayssa, who looked back at him.
“I’ll give you five minutes,” she said.
That charged up the billionaire.
Wise stared at the camera, said, “Did my company, WE, build many of the Olympic and FIFA venues? We did. We were invited to enter a global competition with many other fine construction firms. We made detailed bids, and we won.”
“You gouged the people of Brazil,” Rayssa said.
“We offered Brazil the best deal they were going to get,” Wise snapped. “The government could have turned our bid down, but it didn’t. You want someone to blame, blame them. I am in business to make a profit. You may not like that idea, but there’s our difference of opinion. And if you don’t like it, you should have put together a bid yourself with zero profit built in.”
Rayssa said, “Many of the documents we’ve shown the world are overage requests above and beyond your bid.”
“Prices change over time for basic construction supplies like rebar and concrete,” the billionaire said as if she were a naive fool. “We had a clause in the contract that said explicitly that WE could file for additional payments if supply costs exceeded a certain threshold. There is nothing shady about this. It’s how business is conducted in the real world.”
Wise fixed his attention on the camera again, said, “All this bullcrap about Favela Justice? Don’t believe it. That’s a cover game. They’re not out to help the poor. They’re just after my money. If you agree, vote hash tag WiseDecision and—”
The screen went to static for several long moments before Rayssa came back on, saying, “Believe a billionaire’s spin, or believe the cold hard facts Favela Justice has put before you. Voting is open now.”
The screen went black. I immediately called the lab.
Sci answered, said, “That was a clumsy attempt at erasing part of the tape.”
“Can you restore it?”
“Already done,” Sci said. “It’s coming your way now.”
I waited, then heard Tavia’s iPhone ding, alerting her to the file.
We opened it and saw a fuzzy image of Wise; it was like we were looking at him through snow. His voice crackling, he said, “Give them nothing.”
The big guy in black wore a new samba mask as he stepped into view from Wise’s left side, punched the billionaire in the face, and then gagged him.
Tavia nodded angrily. “I’ll bet that was Urso.”
“So who’s Rayssa? Estella?”
Pointing at the steep hills of the favelas ahead and above us, she said, “I think the answer to that question is up there.”
Chapter 64
Thursday, August 4, 2016
5:10 p.m.
Twenty-Five Hours and Fifty Minutes Before the Olympic Games Open
THE WINTER SUN hung low over the western mountains, casting the Spirit favela in a slanted light that shadowed the walkways of the slum. The smells, sounds, and visuals were as vibrant and depressing as ever.
Like a buzzing hive, the favela teemed with a stinging energy all its own. But it was an existence lived so close to the margin and in such close quarters that it made me think that Favela Justice had a point.
What would have happened if the billions spent on World Cup and Olympic venues had instead been spent in places like this? New schools. Better homes. Sanitation and clean water, at the very least.
That was basic, wasn’t it? Didn’t we have an obligation to lift the lowest to an acceptable standard of living? Or was an existence in a shack with raw sewage running by the front stoop acceptable?
In my book it wasn’t, and I said so to Tavia.
“You’ve got no argument from me,” she said. “But what if Wise was right? What if this whole Favela Justice thing is a cover, a diversion for extreme extortion?”
“Then why go to the trouble of having this sham vote on Twitter? What’s the point?”
“Maybe they want a two-for-one deal. Shame Wise and get his billion.”
“Possible,” I said. “But as bright a guy as Urso is, I can’t see him orchestrating something like this. On such a grand scale. Or am I underestimating him?”
“I would never underestimate the Bear,” Tavia said. “But I agree that it seems a stretch for a slum gangster to take down a billionaire.”
“The Wise girls said Rayssa was in charge.”
“Hold that thought,” Tavia said and stopped to talk to a woman in a doorway. I caught every fifth word and the name Estella. At the mention of Estella, the woman got a sour look on her face but waved vaguely uphill and to the right.
“I’ve got a solid idea where she lives now,” Tavia said. She led us up through the maze of the slum, passing two side alleys that ran along the contour of the steep hillside.
We took a right into the third contour passage up the hill. It was barely three feet across. We had to stand sideways when other people came our way. The smells of each shack simmered with those
of every other off the alleyway, making an aerosol soup that was alluring one moment, putrid the next.
At a dark blue door with stars painted on it, Tavia stopped and knocked. A television played inside. The drape in the window fluttered.
“Who’s there?” said a girl with a thin, reedy voice.
“My name is Tavia. I’m a friend of Urso.”
“You don’t look like a friend of Urso.”
Tavia laughed, said, “He worked for me just last week, and I wanted to give him another job.”
“Urso’s not here. Try his house.”
“We looked for him there already. Where’s Estella?”
There was silence. Then: “Estella’s not here. How do you know her?”
“Through Urso,” Tavia said pleasantly. “Could you open the door? I promise I won’t bite. I just want to talk.”
After several moments, we heard a chain slide. The door opened a crack, revealing a beautiful girl who looked about eight years old. She stared at us suspiciously.
“What’s your name?” Tavia asked, crouching down.
“Milena,” she said.
“Milena. That’s a beautiful name. I’m Tavia and this is Jack.”
She looked at me with interest, said, “Americano?”
I nodded and smiled. “California.”
She grinned, gave me the thumbs-up, said, “Estella loves California.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” I said.
“Is Estella your mommy?” Tavia asked.
Milena nodded.
“Where is she?”
“Work, I guess. She was gone when I got home from school.”
“Where does Estella work?” I asked.
She shrugged, said, “I don’t know, some place in Copacabana.”
“What does she do there?”
“I told you,” Milena said, annoyed. “Work.”
Tavia said, “Do you remember the name of the place she works?”
“Sena-torn…or something.”
“Sena-torn?”
“You know, like half man, half horse?”
Before I could respond, Tavia said, “Centaurus?”
Milena nodded. “That place.”
Tavia dug in her pocket, held out fifty reais, said, “That’s for you to buy yourself whatever you want, okay?”
Milena got wide-eyed, snatched the bill from Tavia’s hand, clutched it to her chest, and said, “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Tavia said. “Be safe, Milena.”
With a last glance at me, Milena shut the door.
“What’s Centaurus?” I asked.
Tavia hardened. “Arguably the most notorious place in all of Rio.”
Chapter 65
Thursday, August 4, 2016
6:00 p.m.
Twenty-Five Hours Before the Olympic Games Open
CENTAURUS WAS ONE of the most storied brothels in the world.
Male celebrities of all nations have been caught exiting the bordello over the years, including, most recently, Justin Bieber, who tried to hide by running out with a sheet over his head. The paparazzi got the picture anyway.
“It’s run by women and only women,” Tavia said as we sat in the car. She gestured down the block to a nondescript building. Above the door there was a bas-relief of a centaur wearing a towel around its neck.
“The only men will be bartenders, the cashier, and those bouncers,” Tavia went on, pointing to two bruisers in tuxedos. “You’re a gringo, so everyone will try to hustle you. Even the bouncers. The whole place is designed to relieve you of whatever money you bring in there. Remember that. Everybody’s got an angle.”
“Scams?”
“A million. They’ll try to bump you to upgrade a room, and then not give you a better room. They’ll charge you double on the entry just because you’re a gringo. They’ll inflate the price on every item on the menu. That kind of stuff.”
“But this place is legal, right?”
“As long as the proper bribes are maintained, businesses like Centaurus remain perfectly legal in Rio. The women, who are known as garotas, are all licensed and checked two to three times a week by a doctor.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.
“Because I can’t go inside. It’s men only.”
“Sexist lot, you Brazilians.”
“When it comes to brothels, that’s correct.”
“How do you know all this if it’s men only?”
Tavia hardened again. “A Centaurus girl got murdered a few years back when I was still with the national police. I had to interview most of the women who worked in there at the time. They told me how it works.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be in touch when I find Estella.”
“If anyone asks, tell them you’re an old friend of the centaur. And keep your robe on,” she said.
“No strutting about naked?”
She laughed. “No strutting about even with your robe on.”
“I’ve got my marching orders, then,” I said. I kissed her and climbed out of the car.
Chapter 66
I DON’T KNOW what it is about me and bouncers. Anyone in a position of power outside a door sees me coming and reacts to some threatening vibe I must give off.
Sure enough, one look at me crossing the road in a jog, and the big boys closed ranks in front of the door, crossed their arms, and puffed out their chests.
The one on the right was built like a welterweight boxer, and tall. The one on the left was brick-shaped and no-necked. He gave me the hard eye as I walked up to them. They didn’t say a thing, just stared at me sullenly.
“Is Centaurus not open?” I asked.
“Your first time?” the Brick asked.
I did as Tavia instructed, laughed, said, “The centaur is an old friend.”
“Fifty reais entry fee,” said the Boxer.
“C’mon, guys,” I said wearily. “I’ve been coming for years. I pay my entry at the booth at the top of the ramp and tip you leaving.”
“I don’t recognize you,” the Brick said. “And I’ve got a memory for faces.”
“Funny, I don’t recognize you either,” I said, and then I gestured to his partner. “This guy I remember. In fact, I think I tipped you big last time.”
The welterweight studied me, and then nodded. “I remember that.”
“There you go,” I said to the Brick, who scowled and stood aside.
There was a similar attempt to fleece me at the cashier’s window.
“First time?” the cashier asked hoarsely. He had a goiter or something on his neck and weird, buggy eyes that suggested a thyroid problem.
I told Bug-Eyes what I’d told the bouncers out front, and he still tried to tack forty on top of the actual one-hundred-real entry fee. I called him on it and handed him a hundred note.
He looked at me as if I were a lower form of life than he was, something I could not imagine. Unhappy, Bugs gave me a wristband and a locker key and motioned me through the glass door.
I went down the hall and took a left into a locker room, where several men were dressing. An older woman was keeping the place clean. Per Tavia’s advice, I gave her a tip immediately. She smiled, showed me to my locker.
I was undressing when fingernails trailed across my back. I looked over my shoulder and found a dead ringer for the singer Nicole Scherzinger wearing a black cocktail dress and smiling brilliantly at me.
“Where are you from?” she asked in decent English.
“The States.”
“Mmm,” she said. “I love this place, the U. S. of A. What’s your name?”
“Jack.”
She looked me up and down. “You have the classic build, Jack.”
I looked her up and down and said, “You too.”
She laughed, said, “I am Vitoria. You like me? We go to room?”
Tavia had coached me on the full-court press. Some of the girls hung around the front hall trying to poach customers before they could climb the st
airs to the nightclub, where most of the working ladies would be found.
“I’m going to look around,” I said. “But thanks.”
She pouted at me, ran her hand back through her long ebony hair, and said, “You don’t think I’m beautiful?”
“No, I think you’re breathtakingly beautiful.”
“Good,” she said, smiling brilliantly again. “We go, then? You’ll never forget Vitoria. The whole rest of your life you’ll close your eyes and think of me.”
“I’m sure I will,” I said. “But an old friend recommended Estella, and I came wanting to see her.”
Vitoria’s dark eyes widened. Her pert little nose scrunched up and she looked at me askance and said, “Whatever you’re into, Jack.”
Chapter 67
UNNERVED, I WATCHED Vitoria walk away fast and wondered what it was about Estella that had caused that reaction. Tavia had told me that Centaurus could provide a woman for every sexual perversion. Except for pedophilia; no girl there was under eighteen. That was strictly forbidden and checked constantly.
But other than that, anything goes, I thought, stripping off the last of my clothes and putting on one of the clean and folded terry-cloth robes stacked on tables. God only knew what Urso’s woman was into or offering.
I slipped on some sanitized rubber clogs and left the locker room, following the sound of pulsing dance music and Tavia’s directions to the top floor, where I entered a medium-size, L-shaped room with a bar, low mood lighting, and a cornucopia of attractive women. There were twenty men in robes and fifty ladies of all shapes and sizes dressed in lingerie. Every one of them was aggressive.
I hadn’t taken ten steps into the room when women started to swarm me from all angles. They surrounded me, smiling, looking dazzling and appreciative, asking me questions and touching me lightly. The women behind me started whispering in my ears, pressing themselves against me as they described their skills and specialties. I wondered if this was how Ulysses felt strapped to the mast of his ship, listening to the Sirens’ song.
The Games Page 17