Anaconda Choke: Round 3 in the Woodshed Wallace Series

by Jeremy Brown

  Gil froze, lips clamped shut.

  I held Marcela’s hand and nodded.

  We were the only table left. Marcela and I split a fruit sorbet and watched the servers stack chairs upside down on the tables around us. I was torn between getting Marcela home safe, away from me, and spending every possible moment with her until Carrasco’s men came.

  Gil savored the last coffee of the day and tried to keep the conversation light. “Remember, if Aviso gets hold of your wrist, you need to smash his face apart.”

  “I know.”

  “The only way he’ll let go is if his face is in danger.”

  “I got it.”

  “Tell me Plan A again.”

  Marcela pointed her spoon at him. “No more fight talk. It is time for bed. Come on, I’ll tuck you both in.”

  I couldn’t help glancing around. No sign of Rubin or Carrasco. “I want to stay up late and sleep in. Keeps me from getting worked up too soon on fight day. In fact, I believe you mentioned something about going dancing.”

  Her eyes popped. “You want to go dancing?”

  Gil said, “You know what dancing is?”

  Marcela sprang out of her chair. “I will get a taxi.”

  When she was out of earshot Gil said, “The hell you doing? Rubin wants us to stay put.”

  “No, he wants me out in public.”

  “But with Marcela? Not safe, man.”

  I was working the keypad on my phone. “I’m telling Rubin, they see any of Carrasco’s men, let me know. We’ll pack it up and fly back here. I kiss Marcela goodnight and send her home with a police escort, wait here for the Axila boys to catch up.”

  “This sounds incredibly stupid.”

  “And you stay here just in case they come around. Tell ’em I’ll be back soon.”

  “Woody, these aren’t vacuum salesmen. They think killing you will make their god happy.”

  “I’ve never danced with her, Gil.”

  He sat back. Finally realizing, I think, that I needed a thin coat of delusion to keep from falling into the rusted pocks and holes spreading around my feet.

  “Tomorrow, I might be on a plane back to Vegas and never see her again. I might be banned by her entire family from talking to her. I might be dead. And I’ve never danced with her. I think I ought to, at least once. Before it all goes to hell.”

  I tried to keep track of where we were. The closest I could come was most likely in Brazil, maybe somewhere in downtown Rio. I hoped Rubin and his men had taken tactical driving courses—otherwise they had no hope of keeping up.

  Marcela saw what she was looking for and was out of the cab before it stopped moving, shoved some cash at the driver and dragged me across a busy road to a row of blacked-out windows throbbing with bass. The club was between a twenty-four-hour liquor store and a twenty-four-hour Laundromat. I appreciated the convenience of executing a legendary night out without leaving the block.

  There was a short line of young women in tight colorful dresses and men in tight black shirts. Marcela went straight to the beefy doorman, who smiled and hugged her. They exchanged words in Portuguese and she pulled me through the door.

  On my way past I asked the doorman, “Does she come here a lot?”

  He smiled and slapped my shoulder.

  Inside, the subwoofers compressed my ribcage, but just a little. Mirrors, flashing lights, and drifting fog made the walls hard to find. We skipped the bar lined four people deep and threaded our way to the dance floor, fifty square feet of wooden tiles that must have been crucifixes in a former life to get this job.

  At the far end of the dance floor, a raised stage ran the width of the back wall of the club. At least fifteen people were up there, playing drums, horns, keyboards, banjos, and some kind of board with springs attached to it. They played a fast, festive song over the thumping beat provided by a bobbing DJ in the center of the stage, one ear covered by a thick headphone.

  Nobody wore an Aviso shirt.

  Everybody was smiling.

  Marcela found two feet of dance floor and turned into me. Her body dropped and flowed and twisted to the beat, hands on my chest, shoulders, hair.

  I found her ear. “I don’t know how to do this.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Her head tilted back, eyes closed, lips parted. It was the happiest I’d seen her since . . . ever. She let everything go.

  Three songs later—or one very long song—we were both slick with sweat and laughing, singing words I didn’t understand. A cackling guy with a ponytail bumped into me and spilled his drink down the front of his embroidered shirt. He never stopped laughing, just grabbed me and jumped up and down a few times, long lost brothers, and faded into the crowd.

  I buried my face in Marcela’s hair and breathed her in. She jumped and wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling guard in the middle of the club, let go with one arm and twirled it around above her head like a lasso.

  I turned in a circle, looking up at her and trying to understand how I could be so lucky.

  I set her down. She turned her back against my chest, wriggled against me with promises for the next time we were alone. We found the same rhythm, pressing and sliding, everything and everyone around us forgotten until I caught a glimpse of a Brazilian flag eye patch in the crowd.

  I pulled Marcela around and tossed her over my left shoulder, bounced a few people out of the way before a path opened in the crowd. They cheered and clapped for us, two lovers overcome by the passion of dance and music until we couldn’t take it anymore, had to rush out and find a dark corner.

  Marcela let me carry her, laughing and touching outstretched hands as she passed. I scanned the faces for anyone putting hard eyes on me. They were all joyous, ecstatic, reveling.

  Except for one.

  One man with a thin black mustache stood along the right side of the path, eyes darting from me to someone at my five o’clock. He was hesitating, looking for orders. He stepped into the path, one hand behind his back.

  I didn’t break stride, yelled “Paulo!”

  He frowned. Whether his name was Paulo or not, he wasn’t expecting me to lean toward him for an embrace. Or to fake a stumble, grab the back of his neck and smash my forehead into his nose.

  He melted.

  I stepped over him.

  “Paulo, so sorry!”

  The doorman laughed when he saw us and hurried to open the back door of an idling taxi. I rolled Marcela in and slammed the door behind us.

  “Promenade Barra First Hotel.”

  The driver dove into traffic. I put my arm around Marcela and looked back. Five men spilled out of the club, looking left and right.

  Marcela caught her breath. “So you are ready to leave?”

  “I was afraid my excellent dancing would be too much to resist.”

  “Mm, you are right. But Gil is at the hotel room.” She kissed me, fingers digging into the back of my head. “And you have the fight tomorrow.”

  “The what?”

  “You must get your rest. We will have our time after the fight. Before you fly home.”

  I pushed that away. All I wanted at that moment was to keep her close, feel her breathing, vibrating next to me.

  What I needed was to get her as far away as possible. Before Carrasco’s men caught up and moved in.

  Before she found out I’d lied to her face.

  When the hotel was in sight my phone buzzed with a text from Rubin: All clear. Her escort is ready.

  Marcela was sunken into my side and didn’t open her eyes. “Who is that?”

  “Gil. Says to get my ass in bed.”

  “Mm.” She burrowed closer.

  What else could I lie about? Tell her drinking motor oil was healthy and country music was actually half decent. I wanted to roll on the floor of the taxi, down there with the scum and trash where I belonged.

  We got out in front of the hotel. I tossed a wad of cash at the driver, who raised his eyebrows and took off before he grew a consc
ience and offered change. I admired his unapologetic lack of morals. Having Rubin and his men around helped keep Marcela safe from Carrasco, but not from my bullshit. She needed to get on the road and drive faster than usual before the few scruples I had fell into place and I confessed.

  She stepped up into the van’s driver’s seat. I rolled the window down and closed the door, hard enough to tip the vehicle.

  “Lock it.”

  She smiled, hit the button.

  I said, “You don’t get out of here now, you’ll need more than this between us.”

  She leaned through the window and kissed me again. “If my uncle is awake and tells me to stay away from you, I might come right back.”

  Shit.

  “Just leave it alone for tonight, huh? For Jairo’s sake. He’s had enough drama before his first fight.”

  She pressed a hand against my cheek. “I wish everyone knew how sweet you are behind that face.”

  “What face?”

  She winked and pulled away, tapped the brakes and swayed into traffic. A dark sedan with mirrored windows slipped out of a parking spot and sped up to get within six car lengths of the academy van, dropped into the same lane and slowed.

  I called Rubin. “That’s your car?”

  “Sim, two of my best. One is a woman, so we are good wherever she goes.”

  “You got eyes on Carrasco’s men?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “They didn’t follow from the club?”

  The line hummed. “We saw no one at the club. Who did you see?”

  “The one with the eye patch. And at least one more.”

  “I think you are wrong, my friend. Relax. I let you know when they are close.”

  He hung up.

  I stood alone in front of the hotel, surrounded by doubts and lies. The good news: I was no longer worried about what might happen to me during the Coluna.

  Whatever it was, I deserved it.

  I sat on a concrete bench poured as part of a retaining wall near the front of the hotel. Put in my earbuds, hit Play and did something I’ve never been good at—I waited for trouble to come to me.

  It showed up around three thirty in the morning. The vehicles had changed from loud cars full of loud people to taxis stuffed with quiet drunks. I heard the footsteps behind me—one set heavy and one shuffling, rhythmic—but didn’t turn around.

  They’d come from the far side of the hotel, through the landscaped paths between spotlit trees and bubbling fountains. Carrasco sat at the opposite end of the bench and turned to face me. He used both hands to lift a matchstick right leg and drape it over the slightly thicker left. His black lenses reflected the taillights of the taxis as they passed like a fading flatline.

  Malhar stayed somewhere behind me, hissing through his nose.

  “Time?” I said.

  “You are in a hurry?”

  “I have things to do.”

  Carrasco’s mouth tugged to the right. “When a man runs the Coluna da Cobra, it doesn’t matter what he had planned for after. His life is different. He is either with Exu, or he is dead. But you know, this is the first time Exu’s life will be different too.”

  “Yeah, he’s gonna need some straws. Hard to chew with no teeth.”

  “You do not need to talk so tough. It makes you sound stupid, arrogant. The only reason you are still alive is because I allow it. You know this.”

  “Bad for Exu’s image if you killed me.”

  “It would be weak of Exu. Your choices, and the will of the spirit legion, will kill you. Not Exu’s hands. This is very important. As I was saying—before you spoke of knocking my teeth out—when others run the Coluna, Exu has either another soldier, or another spirit.”

  He shrugged.

  “Exu already has many of these, sure. They are not so valuable. But after you have given your spirit during the Coluna, Exu will have his Pomba Gira. She will come to him willingly, with her beauty, her insatiable desires.”

  My fingers dug into the concrete armrest.

  Carrasco said, “She is the embodiment of love and sex, death and destruction. To taste her sweat will be like drinking from the well of creation.”

  “You won’t. Ever. No matter what happens to me.”

  “Ah, but if you die in the Coluna? It is Exu telling everyone the Pomba Gira belongs with him, sure. It is not up to her.”

  Somewhere, Rubin was watching and listening. If they were half as ready as I was to see Carrasco and his Axila razed, it would be over in five minutes.

  “So let’s go,” I said.

  “No, we wait here a little longer. Exu has not said it is time.”

  “But it’s happening. Now.”

  I wanted to give Rubin as much time as possible, make sure his team could get the call, load up and roll out. Carrasco watched the sparse traffic and didn’t say anything.

  Then: “We sit here and talk for a while, sure. So I can tell you some things. And so Exu’s soldiers can look around.”

  I didn’t like that one bit. “Look around?”

  “To see if anyone is here with you. Maybe your new friend Rubin?”

  I made a show of looking left, right, and remained calm even though Carrasco’s threat ran through my head. What he would do if he found out I was working with Rubin.

  All of it. Everything. To ashes.

  “Sorry, buddy. I’m all alone.”

  “Exu will see. He always does. Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Give it to me, please.”

  “Why?”

  “Many people ask Exu why. Not all of them get an answer.”

  He held his hand out. The fingers didn’t extend all the way, curving into a withered cup. Or claw.

  I dropped my phone into it.

  He poked through the recent calls.

  The last phone call I took was from Rubin.

  Carrasco navigated to the text messages, where Rubin had let me know it was all clear, Marcela’s escort was ready.

  But the calls and texts were deleted. I didn’t even have Rubin saved as a contact—I’d memorized his number. The only texts were from Gil, every half hour or so asking if I was still alive.

  Carrasco scrolled through the fascinating exchange.

  Gil: ok?

  Me: yeah

  We’re a chatty pair.

  Carrasco handed the phone back. “Exu will see if you are lying.”

  He pulled his own cell out and set it on the bench between us. It sat there like a grenade with the pin pulled.

  “But Exu does not see everything, sure. Some of the spirits think Exu should fear you. They say you will be Exu’s undoing.”

  I nodded. “Those would be the spirits of wisdom.”

  “They urge Exu to call upon Malhar. Let him break your skull here and now.”

  Malhar leaned against the concrete planter that ran along the back of the bench and tapped the head of his framing hammer against the edge. Shrapnel flew. The muscles on his bald head rippled as he chewed on something leathery. Thick brown juice ran down his chin.

  I said, “Ask the spirits if Malhar has ever swallowed an elbow. I’ll skip the mouth, put it right in his throat.”

  “Malhar lives to serve Exu. Because Exu saved him, sure. This was many years ago, in Carandiru. Do you know it?”

  I kept staring at Malhar, waiting.

  Carrasco said, “They call Carandiru a prison, but it is one of the many hells. Men are made to live like animals, in filth and disease and violence. Savagery. Many suffering men call upon the spirits in Carandiru, but the spirits will not go there. Except for Exu.”

  “You let yourself get locked up? Not very godlike.”

  The cell phone vibrated against the concrete. The screen lit up with a text message. Carrasco’s head tilted to read it. I tried to read Portuguese upside down in a casual way.

  The black lenses came back to me.

  “Hm.”

  He pressed a button and the screen went dark. I w
aited for Malhar to do whatever he thought was the first step in killing me.

  Carrasco sat back. “No, I was sent to prison before Exu came to me. I was just a man, like you. My body was strong, sure. But my mind, my spirit, was nothing. I caused much harm to people. Took what I wanted and left them crying, hollow, or dead.”

  “Congratulations on changing zero much.”

  He swept a hand over his legs, the waxy scar on the side of his head. “Look at my body. Have I not changed? Take the difference you see and my spirit has changed a hundred times more. A thousand.”

  “So now when you steal and murder, it’s for Exu.”

  “Yes, you see it. Not for me. For Exu.”

  I nodded. “It’s a pretty good racket you got going.”

  “Racket?”

  “Scam. Con. Big fat lie.”

  Carrasco’s face twitched. “I will let you know, Exu enjoys jokes, but he does not allow disrespect. It is why he came to me in Carandiru.”

  “Has he told you it’s time to go yet?”

  My knees were bouncing. Any fighter will agree: the hardest part isn’t getting into the cage. It’s waiting to.

  Carrasco ignored me. “I was there for a year before they told me why. Human trafficking, they said. Slavery. And killing, and burning. Like they pulled words out of a bucket and put them on me.”

  He shrugged.

  “I did those things, sure, but they could not prove it. Still, they would let me rot in the hell of Carandiru. But I did not want to stay, so I started a riot.”

  Like it was a book club or a yoga class.

  I said, “A riot?”

  “Sure, everyone in my part of the prison. This made Exu happy. He had many followers suffering in Carandiru, unable to serve the spirits properly.”

  “By stealing and murdering. Kidnapping slaves.”

  He nodded. “Whatever the spirits asked of them. The riot went on for five days. We had guards and prisoners who worked for them, and we made them bleed and scream to get the others to open the doors and let us out. They would not. So we set men on fire, and tore them apart. Still they would not open the doors. Instead they shot at us.”