São Paulo Noir

by Tony Bellotto

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “My aunt.”

  Nicola felt this line of interrogation was leading nowhere. He had to find a clue, right there. Seeing that Dona Mirtes was still shocked by the disappearance of Dona Estefânia, he asked: “Would you mind giving me and Creusa a moment alone here in the living room?”

  “Greatly.”

  “That’s what I thought. We’ll go to the kitchen.”

  He led Creusa by the arm. As soon as they were near the stove, Nicola asked, “So, you don’t remember anything that could be of interest to me?”

  “There’s some pork roast left over from lunch.”

  Nicola was about to explain that he wasn’t referring to food but postponed clarifying the matter until after eating the pork. Then he extracted the precious information from Creusa’s fleshy lips. There had been something suspicious in Dona Estefânia’s attitude the entire time: every few minutes she called someone on the phone and spoke in whispers.

  “Creusa! Please make an effort to remember his name! Who was she talking to?”

  “I know!” she responded after a moment. “His name was João . . . João . . . João . . .”

  “João what? C’mon, girl, try to remember!”

  “João da Silva!” said Creusa, pleased with herself.

  Nicola leaped with joy. At last, a concrete lead! A name! Now all that was left was to look in the phone book and make a call to see which João da Silva knew Dona Estefânia. After all, there couldn’t be that many João da Silvas in São Paulo, despite the name being the Brazilian equivalent of John Smith.

  Chapter XI

  Nicky Nicola’s 53,000 Phone Calls

  Nicky Nicola decided to call the João da Silva with whom Dona Estefânia had spoken by phone before dying and disappearing. He assumed it would be easy to find the number from the telephone directory. When he realized there were no fewer than 53,000 João da Silvas listed, he wasn’t discouraged. The phone was beside him in the kitchen; Creusa could feed him while he worked, and he estimated a mere eight days would suffice for him to call them all.

  To his surprise, Dona Mirtes didn’t agree with his plan, saying that if he wanted to call he could do so from his own house; she wasn’t there to foot the bill for anyone. Nicky wisely ignored that comment. He was accustomed to dealing with clients and knew how nervous they got whenever a victim vanished without a trace. So as to lose no time, he decided to ask Dona Mirtes a few more questions.

  “Okay, you say she was here on the floor and suddenly disappeared?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you would speak more respectfully about my aunt.”

  “If you don’t answer my questions, she may never reappear.”

  “If you go on asking questions this way, I may have to hire another detective.”

  “I was joking.”

  “So was I.”

  Something told Nicola that this line of questioning was also going nowhere. He tried another angle.

  “Your dear aunt disappeared from the living room?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s very interesting . . .”

  “Interesting because it’s not your aunt.”

  “How did you realize the body had disappeared?”

  “By its absence.”

  “How so?”

  “I left the room. When I returned, no one was here. Only my cat that you killed to test the candy.”

  Nicola ignored that malicious insinuation. He was going to say that the cat wouldn’t bring back her aunt but changed his mind. What he had to do was find the number of that mysterious João da Silva. He asked if there was a notepad near the telephone. Creusa quickly replied: “Yes, there is, sweetheart. Dona Estefânia had the habit of doodling every time she used the phone.”

  A lightbulb flashed in Nicola’s brain; it was Dona Mirtes who had turned on the living room lamp. The private investigator hurried to the notepad and began to search. In the middle of the doodles was a number, faint but still legible, that might have been 27-6478. He dialed it immediately; he tried thirty-two consecutive times but kept getting a busy signal. He called the operator to ask whether the number was out of order. It wasn’t.

  “Strange,” he said aloud.

  “What’s so strange?” asked Dona Mirtes.

  “I’m calling a telephone that I believe may belong to João da Silva and I keep getting a busy signal.”

  “What’s the number?” Dona Mirtes inquired.

  “27-6478.”

  “It doesn’t seem strange to me that it’s always busy.”

  “Why not, Dona Mirtes?” asked Nicola, hopeful that the answer might clear everything up.

  “Because you’re dialing my phone number.”

  Chapter XII

  Finding João

  After Nicola recovered from his awful mistake, spending almost two hours dialing the same number from which he was calling, he thought it was time to go into action. He cut short Dona Marlene’s complaints and asked Creusa to make him a sandwich. Dona Mirtes absolutely forbade the snack. Nicola had to be content with the pork shank he’d already eaten. He lit a Beverly, took a long drag, and coughed. This was when Creusa said: “That João da Silva you’re looking for, I know where he lives. I once heard Dona Estefânia repeating his address on the telephone.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” asked Nicola, rather irritated.

  “Because you didn’t ask.”

  Nicola succeeded in getting another ten cruzeiros from Dona Mirtes for transportation, and after giving Creusa a quick kiss, he left in search of the mysterious João da Silva. Instead of hailing a cab, he decided to go on foot. Nicola had more faith in his own shoes, and after all, ten cruzeiros is ten cruzeiros. Besides, João’s residence was close by.

  Six hours later, he was within two blocks of the address. Another fifteen minutes and he was ringing the doorbell. He was rocked by an electric shock that almost knocked him down. But no one answered. The detective didn’t give up—no electrified doorbell could defeat his courage. He asked a young boy passing by to ring the bell again.

  He saw with surprise that the kid was unharmed. Good thing, he thought. They must’ve disconnected the wire. He sent the boy on his way and, since no one had appeared, rang again and got another shock. Only then did he realize he was standing in a puddle of water and the holes in his shoes allowed the current to run through his body. He stepped aside and decided to knock down the door. Just as he built up speed to break it down with his well-proportioned body, someone opened the door and Nicola passed straight through, unable to stop till he reached the kitchen, where he avoided crashing into the refrigerator only by collapsing in front of the stove.

  When he managed to compose himself, he saw beside him an armed man: João da Silva. “I’ve been expecting this visit for some time,” he said. “Stop looking for Estefânia. She’s fine where she is.”

  “You coward! What did you do with her? Why’d you kill the old woman?”

  “I don’t want to argue. If I catch you around here again, I’ll stomp you.”

  “I doubt it!”

  The chair that João da Silva brought down on his head dispelled any remaining doubt on the detective’s part. When he regained consciousness, he was bound, his hands tied to the kitchen sink.

  João da Silva explained: “I was about to move anyway. I’m gonna leave you tied up here till somebody finds you. So long. Tell Mirtes to let the case of Estefânia go.”

  Nicola couldn’t hold back: “If it weren’t for the revolver, I’d have gotten you!”

  “What revolver?” said João, looking at his hands. “Oh, this thing? It’s plastic. I work as a traveling salesman selling toys.” He turned and headed for the door. Five minutes later, his laughter still rang in Nicola’s ear.

  Very cunning, that João da Silva. Except that he didn’t count on the most agile private investigator in the world’s utility kit. Flexing his body and using his teeth, the detective pulled the famous
cigar box from his coat pocket and hurled it onto the sink. Still using his teeth, he removed a razor blade that he always carried for such occasions. A minute later he was free. He hadn’t managed to sever the rope that held him, but his efforts broke the faucet. He rubbed his chafed wrists. If he ran, he would be able to catch up with João da Silva. He leaped like a cat toward the door—and fell into the arms of a policeman who was checking why the front door was wide open.

  “Aha! A thief!” said the cop.

  “No, a private detective,” Nicola replied brusquely, showing the credentials that he’d made for himself in a print shop where his friend Camargo worked.

  “A thief and a liar,” said the stubborn cop. “You’re gonna explain everything down at the precinct.”

  The handcuffs hurt his already sore wrists.

  Chapter XIII

  Do You Know Who You’re Talking to?

  The instant he set foot in the police precinct, Nicola knew he had nothing to fear. He’d been arrested arbitrarily, and as a private investigator he knew several people in the higher echelons of the police. Well, higher echelons might be a small exaggeration, but he did know five traffic cops. True, of those five, four detested Nicola, but that left the fifth, the most influential of all: Juca Barbacha—a name feared by everyone who jaywalked, ran stop signs, or committed any infraction of municipal traffic laws. He asked for his friend and was surprised to hear that no one there knew him.

  “Move it!” said the cop who had arrested him. He pushed Nicky into a small room.

  A plainclothes policeman was sitting on the edge of a table. He read the report and said, “You wanna tell me why you were robbing a house?”

  Nicola found the question so ridiculous and offensive that he didn’t reply. He limited himself to lighting a Beverly. He took a deep drag and coldly articulated his own question: “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  “No, who?”

  “I’m the renowned private investigator Nicky Nicola.” And he showed his documents.

  Apparently, his reputation had yet to make its way to that district. The policeman said he wasn’t interested and that he wanted to know what he was doing inside a house that wasn’t his. Nicky quickly explained that he was looking for the owner of the house, João da Silva, who had left ahead of him. He omitted the detail of being tied to the faucet, which prevented him from being able to follow João. The police asked several more questions and finally let him go.

  On his way out, he passed the cop who had arrested him. Nicola couldn’t resist: “Next time, watch out for who you’re dealing with.”

  “Next time, I’ll tear up that private investigator card and shove it up your ass.”

  Nicola didn’t want to argue. To his thinking, he had gotten the better of the exchange, and he didn’t like to humiliate the defeated. He stealthily descended the stairs of the precinct two at a time, with the result that he fell headfirst onto the sidewalk. An accident can sometimes be of great usefulness. As he fell, a matchbox that he had instinctively picked up at João’s house fell out of his pocket. The name of a hotel was written on the cover: Hotel Prumar. It was quite possible that João da Silva had moved there! Nicola decided to find out.

  He was becoming irritated at the disappearance of Dona Estefânia. He went to a nearby pay phone to call Creusa, planning to inform her that he’d be late picking her up. He deposited a coin and waited for the dial tone. It didn’t come. Not that Nicola was miserly, but he couldn’t afford to lose that nickel. He punched the telephone hard. The impact brought the concave plastic housing down on his head. While he was recovering from the shock, street kids passing by at that moment dubbed him “Astronaut Graham Bell.”

  Chapter XIV

  Does the Hotel Prumar Face the Sea?

  As soon as Nicola freed himself from his uncomfortable headwear, he tried to find Hotel Prumar, the name written on the matchbox found in João da Silva’s former residence. It wouldn’t be hard to locate: it was the only hotel facing the Tietê River. He had to get there as soon as possible. He decided to walk. By his calculation, if he kept up a good pace he’d be there in less than five hours. But Nicola’s pace was erratic at best. He revised his estimate by adding five more hours and saw that really, however much he enjoyed a good stroll, he couldn’t afford the luxury of arriving the next day. He jumped on the next bus passing by. He got off at the first opportunity. In his haste he’d gotten on the wrong bus. Finally, the one he wanted came by.

  “The Tietê stop, quick!” he told the driver.

  “If you’re in a hurry, grab a taxi.”

  Nicola ignored the sarcasm and found a seat in the back. He had time before arriving at his stop at the end of the line and decided to use it to inspect his equipment. After all, he was going to face an unknown person. He took out his utility kit and examined his weapons one by one: Scotch Tape, which had saved him from a hemorrhage of the finger in the Strange Case of Dr. Fonseca; a spool of dental floss, which had already tied the wrists of innumerable criminals; his inseparable nail clipper, sharper than the most dangerous razor; the small bag of talcum powder that he had thrown in the path of pursuers, thus creating a white protective cloud—in short, all the tools that helped keep him alive. He gazed affectionately at the package of peanuts that would be his food should he get lost in the jungle. He was so absorbed in his inventory that at first he didn’t hear the tiny voice coming from beside him. Finally he realized it was talking to him.

  “Mister, give me a peanut!”

  Nicola smiled at the innocence of the little boy sitting to his right. He calmly explained that he couldn’t give up even a single nut, since he needed such material for professional purposes. The boy listened attentively before shreiking: “But I want a peanut! My father won’t gimme me a peanut!”

  Several people on the bus started to interfere, thinking that Nicola should share his peanuts with his son. It was difficult for the detective to explain that the boy wasn’t his. It was only when the real father, who was sleeping beside the boy, awoke from the clamor that the detective could rest.

  At that moment the vehicle arrived in front of Hotel Prumar. Nicola exited and quickly headed toward the establishment. It was already beginning to get dark. As he was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, he thought it best to proceed with caution. He slowly went up to the hotel door. Just as he was about to enter, he heard a woman’s scream that chilled his spine. He didn’t hesitate: he made one of his famed karate leaps, smashing the door and landing on top of the reception desk.

  “Where’d that scream come from?” he asked.

  The receptionist answered with surprising calm: “Here, from the television. I’m watching a soap opera.”

  Nicola spent the next forty minutes trying to explain why he’d battered down the door.

  Chapter XV

  A Very Alive Dead Woman

  Nicola was not one to waste time with useless arguments. When the owner of Hotel Prumar, whose door he had broken in the search for João da Silva, said he would have to pay for the repair, Nicola limited himself to giving the address to which the bill could be sent. Not his own address, naturally, since he was in no condition to deal with such an expense, but the address of Dona Mirtes. After all, nobody finds an aunt like that for free.

  Afterward he was able to discover João da Silva’s room number. He couldn’t fall into another trap. Or rather, he could but didn’t want to. Therefore, upon learning that the room was right there on the ground floor, he opted for going around the back and surprising João by entering through a window. He hurried outside, and as soon as he found the entrance he was seeking, he got a running start and prepared his leap. But a strange coincidence occurred: at the exact moment that Nicola was jumping in through the window, João da Silva was jumping out. The collision knocked both of them down. Nicola was the more agile of the two, and before João realized what had fallen on him, his hands were already firmly tied with the ingenious detective’s dental floss. Then Nicola tossed João da
Silva back inside the room and followed him in.

  “Very well, now we’re going to have a little talk.”

  “I got nothing to say,” João replied stubbornly.

  Nicola felt he had already wasted enough time with that story and aimed a slap at the malefactor’s face. But he misjudged. João ducked and Nicola’s hand broke the lamp on the nightstand. The detective didn’t let himself worry about such insignificant details. As he blew delicately on his injured hand, he went on with his interrogation: “Are you gonna tell me what you did with Dona Estefânia’s body?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Then you thought right.”

  “Except I’ve had it with this case. I’m turning you in to the police and that’s that.”

  “You can’t prove anything. I’ll say you’re harassing me.”

  Nicola saw it was time to bluff. He sat down in a chair facing João, blew smoke from a Beverly in his face, and said, “My boy, I have a lot of friends in the police. If I told you that at this very moment twenty investigators are on their way here to arrest you, would you believe it?”

  “No.”

  “How about five investigators, would you believe that?”

  “Also no.”

  “One cop on a horse?”

  “Even less.”

  Nicola had to convince himself that his bluff hadn’t worked. He then pondered why João da Silva had been sneaking out the window.

  João explained that it was the quickest way to leave the hotel room. “And I wasn’t sneaking out. I was just going for a beer.”

  The detective regretted not having intercepted João on his way back. At least then he’d have had something to drink. “Okay, I’ve got all night. If you don’t talk, so much the worse for you.”

  The door opened suddenly and a woman came in carrying a large paper bag. Her face was hidden behind the bundle, but her feminine voice came out clearly.

  “Hi, sweetheart. I brought the goods.” As she said this, the woman set the bag down and Nicola could plainly see every detail of her physiognomy: there in flesh and blood, more flesh than blood but more alive than ever, was the sought-after Dona Estefânia.