São Paulo Noir

by Tony Bellotto

  For some time Nicola was in doubt about whether the driver had braked because of his threat or because of the coincidence of coming to an obligatory bus stop. The fact is that two minutes later he was standing on the sidewalk. His next step was a false one: he fell down.

  He got up again, now seriously bothered by the sequence of events. He went into a pharmacy, his mouth hidden behind a handkerchief. He requested a bit of alcohol and tried to remove the traces of ink from his face. In less than half an hour he had managed to clean away those bluish stains and his skin had regained the beautiful greenish hue that had won over so many housemaids. As he was putting the finishing touches on his chin, his eyes chanced upon a large sign on the other side of the street: Kiwoshi Dry Cleaners. Incredible. Without meaning to, he had jumped off the bus at exactly the desired address.

  He cautiously crossed the street, and from the utility kit that he always carried with him (a cigar box stuck with tape to the lining of his coat) took out his favorite disguise: big fake ears, a mustache, and bucktoothed dentures. He put it on and inspected himself in his pocket mirror. Perfect. With merely one small detail he had managed the impossible: to look even more ridiculous without changing his appearance in the least. That done, he entered the dry cleaning establishment. He immediately spotted the Japanese man behind the counter.

  “Can I help you?”

  “First of all, I wanna settle accounts with you for locking me in the bathroom.” Nicola flew on top of the counter and, with catlike agility, aimed a tremendous karate chop at the man. Instinctively, the guy raised his arm to defend himself. Since he was ironing a pair of pants at the time, he brought the hot iron up simultaneously.

  During the next hour, while the Japanese man skillfully wrapped Nicola’s burned hand, the detective learned that he had almost committed a fatal mistake. Kiwoshi was the owner of the dry cleaners. The one he’d seen delivering clothes on a bicycle was someone else. Who, by the way, had vanished.

  “You’ll have to forgive me. It’s just that sometimes I confuse one Japanese person with another. You all look so much alike.”

  “But my deliveryman not Japanese, yes? My deliveryman from Ceará,” replied Kiwoshi.

  A light suddenly went on in the detective’s clever brain: from Ceará! The victim, Dona Estefânia, was a teacher in that state. He felt he was on the right track. He also felt a tremendous pain when, as he was saying goodbye, Kiwoshi shook his bandaged hand.

  Chapter VII

  The Day of the Pumpkin

  Nicola left Kiwoshi Dry Cleaners with his hand bandaged from the karate chop he had inflicted on the steam iron. It was well bandaged and didn’t hurt much; the detective’s long experience told him that soon he would be back in shape to continue his search.

  Two weeks later he was thinking the same way but was still in bed. The comfortable bunk in his penthouse in Mooca aided in his quick recovery. “Quick recovery” in Nicola’s case wasn’t exactly accurate, for he was not a man to spend money on foolishness like medicine, mainly because he didn’t have any. Also, he was a proponent of Eastern medicine and was familiar with all its secrets. For burns, the best remedy was compresses of butter with salt, according to a Hindu guru friend who worked at a gas station. Wisely, Nicola had replaced the butter with cold water, since he hadn’t laid eyes on butter for a while and if he did, he would probably eat it before using it as a compress.

  “Hey, you any better?” asked his friend Zé Ferreira.

  “Yeah,” replied the loquacious detective.

  “I know a guy who does massages and is a wizard at those things. I don’t know why you insist on not dropping by there.”

  For the tenth time, Nicola explained he had a burn and not a muscle pull. Then he asked whether Zé had seen any mention of the case in the newspapers.

  “Nothing.”

  “I can’t understand why nothing’s been written about it. Did you do a thorough search? You haven’t read my name anywhere this week?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me right away? What paper was it in? The Folha? The Estadão? The Última Hora?” asked Nicola anxiously.

  “It wasn’t in the paper. I read your name written on the wall of the public urinal in Republic Square. It said, Nicola burns the donut . . . This seat has a nail in it . . . Plus, his mother—”

  “Enough!” Nicola interrupted, interested only in the relevant facts.

  After learning for certain that no news of the case had been published, he pondered the mystery. The death of Dona Estefânia should have at least been cause for comment. Could a powerful international group of traffickers of mariola candy be behind it all? Possibly.

  He couldn’t stay confined in the bedroom any longer. He had to act fast. With the help of Zé Ferreira, he climbed down from the bed and went into the bathroom to examine his burned hand. He unwound the wrapping paper that served as a bandage and was happy with what he saw: two weeks in bed, along with the cold-water compresses, had yielded miraculous results. The hand was no longer burned. It was swollen. He could go back to the investigation. He wanted to get started right away.

  He quickly did his “Bastos Exercises,” invented by a friend of his, Marcos Bastos, who lived in the Macuco district in Santos. The exercise consisted of hurling himself from one wall of the room to the other for fifteen minutes. It was inspired by a bus trip from São Paulo to Cubatão. After the exercise, Nicola always felt better. Aching all over, but better. The exercise awoke his appetite and he decided to order something from downstairs. It was two a.m., but he was sure Vitorio’s bar was still open. Mentally, he ran through the menu, hesitating between caviar and pâté de foie gras but finally opting for refried beans with pumpkin. Since I’m after someone from Ceará, it’ll be a kind of homage, thought Nicky.

  “In the future this day will be remembered as the Day of the Pumpkin,” he said aloud, waking up Zé, who had fallen asleep. He then opened the window and, leaning out, placed his order by shouting downstairs, “Vitorio! Send me up some refried beans and pumpkin!”

  No answer. Nicola tried again, louder: “Vitorio! Send up my beans and pumpkin!”

  Still nothing. Could two a.m. be an inopportune hour for yelling like that? Nicola immediately rejected the ridiculous idea and screamed again at the top of his lungs: “Hey, Vitorio! Send me that beans and pumpkin!”

  At that instant a lower window in the building across the street opened violently and a man wearing pajamas and looking sleepy shouted in desperation, peering down: “Listen, Vitorio. I don’t know who the hell you are, but get him the goddamn beans and pumpkin before I kill the son of a bitch!” Then he nosily shut the window.

  Nicola was no longer in doubt: he was dealing with an international gang. That man could only have been put there to provoke him. The Day of the Pumpkin had begun earlier than he’d expected.

  Chapter VIII

  A Closed Mouth Gathers No Flies, Nor Releases Them

  Finally, Nicky Nicola got his plate of refried beans and pumpkin. He was prepared to set out again after the mysterious deliveryman from Ceará who worked for the dry cleaners. He was in good shape. His hand no longer ached. He felt like a new man. Ready and willing. So willing that he fell asleep right there, on top of the plate.

  The next day, he rose early. It was only a few minutes past noon. Nicola donned his best (and only) suit, combed his hair, took a shot of his Dreher cognac, and coughed. After verifying in Vitorio’s bar—his office—that he had no phone messages, he crossed the street and headed for Dona Marlene’s laundry to pick up a handkerchief she was ironing for him.

  He went in and saw no one. He found that very odd. Supporting himself against the counter, he leaned his flexible feline body over as far as he could and shouted inside: “Dona Marlene? Dona Marlene?” Nothing. He was becoming worried. His every sense went immediately on full alert. Something shadowy was invading his being. He had felt it before. It was as if the very air were saturated with humidity. Yes, tha
t was it! Where could the humidity be coming from? He ran his practiced gaze over every corner of the room with uncommon care and expertise. After five minutes he made a discovery. Now he knew why the atmosphere was so humid: when he leaned on the counter to call Dona Marlene, he had accidentally stuck both hands in the water-filled basin she used to iron clothes. He didn’t let it bother him. He quickly dried them off with a towel and called again, almost shouting: “Dona Marleneeeeee!”

  This time the response was clear and immediate: “Coming! I’m just finishing my lunch!”

  The detective debated with himself whether he should find a way to participate in that unexpected meal, but before he could decide, Dona Marlene appeared, sucking on an orange.

  “Hi there! So it’s you, Nickão? What’s up?”

  “Nothing, Dona Marlene. I just came to pick up the handkerchief I left to be ironed.”

  “But I already sent it off this morning,” she responded, surprised. “My new deliveryman took it with him. Except that he left it to deliver on his way back.”

  “A new deliveryman?” The words struck the detective’s ears like knife blows. “You’re using a new deliveryman?”

  “Yes. Since yesterday. His name is Severino.”

  Once again, the name awoke the dormant trail in the detective’s unconscious. “By any chance, is he from Ceará and looks Japanese?”

  Dona Marlene was absolutely gobsmacked at the private investigator’s deductive ability. Where, in her brief utterance, had she mentioned that her new deliveryman was from Ceará and looked Japanese? Her jaw fell in astonishment. That was when a fly went in. Luckily, Dona Marlene kept her mouth open, which allowed the fly to exit, justifying the title of this chapter. Afterward, she confirmed Nicola’s suspicion: “That’s right! In fact, here he comes now!” She pointed to the door, where the long-sought-after deliveryman was entering. Before the guy could flee or defend himself, Nicola mentally calculated the distance between them and leaped forward. A miscalculation. He landed a few inches from the feet of his adversary. The temptation was too great. Severino cowardly stomped on the defenseless detective’s head. But he wasn’t counting on the highly technical resources of the private investigator. His big toe exploded when it met the red, round top half of the cheese gourd that Nicky kept hidden in his hat. The vile assailant fell over, howling in pain while the detective finally subdued him. Now they would have plenty to talk about.

  Chapter IX

  Why? Because

  Nicky Nicola was almost shaking with emotion before this opportunity: his rival Severino, the mysterious man from Ceará, the dry cleaners’ deliveryman who had probably caused the death of Dona Estefânia with a poisoned candy, lay at his feet. To be more precise, Nicola lay at the other man’s feet, as he was still on the floor following his badly judged leap, and the mysterious deliveryman was writhing in pain after having landed a violent kick on the protective cheese gourd under Nicky’s hat, the half-gourd covering his skull. In any event, the detective’s triumphant laugh did not come easily, because the sharp-edged protective covering and Severino’s kick had cut a deep gash in his forehead.

  “All right, now it’s time for you to talk!” Nicola told Severino, who stared at him in terror. Not because of the private investigator, to tell the truth, but because Dona Marlene was brandishing a menacing broom close to his head.

  “I don’t know what you want. I got nothing to say.”

  “Oh no? That’s what we’re gonna find out now, you coward!” said Nicky, directing a slap at him that went wrong and he ended up twisting his pinky on the countertop.

  At that instant, Dona Marlene demanded to know what was going on. Nicky Nicola recounted everything, without omitting a single detail. Six hours later, he finished the narration. Dona Marlene had been sound asleep since the second hour.

  It was only then that Nicola thought it might have been better to leave out a few details. When the deliveryman saw he was being accused of murder, he jumped.

  “Me? You’re crazy! I didn’t kill anyone! I’m the new delivery guy for the cleaners here. The only old woman I know is this one.” He rudely elbowed Dona Marlene, who awoke, still drowsy.

  “I’m a private investigator!” retorted Nicky Nicola. “Just take a look at my badge.” He pulled out his credentials with the insouciance he had learned from movies.

  “Since when is a beer cap a badge?” the man from Ceará asked.

  Nicola realized he was holding one of the rare bottle caps from his famous collection. It was a hobby. Nicola felt that every detective should have one. He kept each cap in its own small plastic bag. The mistake didn’t daunt him. He quickly corrected himself: “No matter! It’s a code that’s part of my professional confidentiality!”

  “Maybe, but the truth is that I didn’t kill anybody,” answered the other man, now on the counterattack: “And just who killed Dona Mirtes’s cat?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject! I’m the one asking the questions! If you didn’t kill Dona Estefânia, why’d you lock me in the bathroom?”

  “To call the police! When I came back you’d already gone!”

  “What about the poisoned candy?”

  “I don’t know nothing about that! The day she died, I had been by there to take her mariola candy as a gift. I liked her a lot. Dona Estefânia was my son’s teacher back in Ceará. The candy I bought was very good. So good that I took a small bite from the edge before giving it to Dona Estefânia, and nothing happened to me! I was surprised. When I heard that uproar I decided to wait and see what it was. After a time, I saw a suspicious-looking guy go into the apartment.”

  “Who was it?”

  “You. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but when you opened the door to leave I saw the cat lying beside Dona Estefânia and started following you.”

  It was only then that Nicky noticed that the brassy man from Ceará was addressing him with excessive intimacy. He was about to call him on it but thought better. There’s no point in being demanding with an uncultured individual. He resumed his questioning.

  “Well, that clarifies a lot of things.” The detective knew this was a lie, but he considered it a lovely phrase.

  At that moment, Severino burst into tears. “Dona Estefânia always treated my son so well,” he sobbed.

  While Dona Marlene, visibly moved, dried the deliveryman’s tears, Nicola’s hypersensitive ears caught the sound of voices coming from the rear of the establishment. He called at once for silence. He recognized that noise! It was someone arguing in English far off in the rear of the dry cleaners. His impression that an international gang was tied to the case wasn’t wrong after all! Slowly approaching the curtain that separated the public area from the room in the back, he heard an enigmatic exchange.

  “Why?”

  “Because!”

  “Why?”

  “Because!”

  “Why?”

  With a quick, agile movement, Nicola threw open the curtain with one hand, while taking out his nail clipper with the other. He was speechless at the scene unfolding before his eyes. In a large cage he saw two parrots that Dona Marlene had brought from Manaus. One was biting his own leg, while the other observed in horror, repeating endlessly, “Oo-aye! Beak-awes!”

  Chapter X

  What’s That on Your Head, Brother?

  After the immense disappointment of his encounter with the two parrots, Nicola turned back to Severino and Dona Marlene. So as not to stray totally from the topic, he asked Dona Marlene if the parrots could be trusted. Then he recalled a phrase he’d read in detective stories: the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime! It was time to head back to Dona Mirtes’s apartment and find out how things were going. He said goodbye to Severino, apologized to Dona Marlene, and promised he would keep the man from Ceará informed about any progress in the investigation.

  Two hours later, Nicola was on his way back to the apartment where the crime had been committed. This time he managed to enter through the front d
oor. Not because his standing had increased locally, but because the custodian was on his coffee break. Sweet Creusa opened the door for him, and only then, with backlighting, did Nicola realize how pretty she was. This was because the backlighting hid her face. He gently kissed his girlfriend and suavely said: “How the hell are ya, gal? Your mistress around?”

  “What’s that on your head, brother?” asked Creusa, looking at the bandage still covering the cut on his forehead. Nicola explained how the deliveryman had kicked him. He omitted mention of the tin half-shell that he always wore in his hat to protect his privileged brain that had led to the cut. The fewer who knew about it, the better. Creusa was trustworthy, but you never know. As he spoke, he noticed that someone was moving on the other side of the door leading to the living room. He immediately leaped and grabbed the intruder. It was the owner of the apartment.

  After excusing himself, Nicky presented his bill for expenses during the first two weeks of investigation: 68.20 cruzeiros, minus transportation and bandages. Dona Mirtes paid without blinking. Then she recounted the oddest thing of all: the body of her aunt, Dona Estefânia, had completely disappeared. Nicola asked if she had notified the police and she said no. What was there to tell—that she had lost an aunt and later had really lost an aunt? The investigator agreed—because he couldn’t come up with a reason for disagreement.

  “How was it you realized she disappeared?”

  “I went into the living room and she wasn’t there spread out on the floor. That’s when I thought she must have vanished.”

  “A brilliant deduction, madam!” chirped Nicola. “Do you know anyone who might be interested in your aunt’s body?”