São Paulo Noir

by Tony Bellotto

  Plínio lost once, twice, three times . . . Unbelievable. He was always the guy who finished in the top three. Ted rarely made it that far, but now he was the first to bust, and he left pissed. It was no longer a game among friends. There were people there studying. There were people with private teachers. There was a kid who spent all day training on the Internet. The amateur table of friends looking for a good time was turning into a business.

  Plínio complained: “This isn’t fun anymore. You all have perverted our friendly poker game.”

  “You have to read, practice, study,” replied Turquinho. He recommended books. Websites. Shit, Plínio didn’t have time for that. Ted didn’t have the time either. The journalism market was tense, massive layoffs were announced every week, he was working twice as much for half the pay and collaborated with whoever paid, however poorly. A freelance job was worth four hundred, which could be lost in one night with these nerds! So that was it. The game that went back so many years, with so much history, such friendship won and lost, so many laughs, became a plaything in the hands of nerds. Cunning, bluffs, a stern expression no longer ruled. It was mathematics, statistics, rules, manuals, a logic that transformed a game of trickery into a game of strategy.

  Ted stopped going. Sergião stopped going. There were now four professional tables spread out on the dance floor of the Fire, with waiters, four pro dealers, a chronometer running. About fifty people were playing. The games began at 10:30 on the dot. If someone arrived late, he paid a fine. A kid once sat in front of Plínio wearing a beret and an earphone. He just played four hands. He only stayed in if he was 100 percent sure. He lost all four and left without saying goodbye.

  “This is a joke, it’s like something on ESPN,” complained Plínio aloud. No one paid attention.

  We’re dealing with someone whose pride is wounded, beaten by youth and by fad and who doesn’t like to see traditions dishonored. Someone who learned to play poker with his father and who was accustomed to winning before Colombian cocaine arrived in Brazil (he snorted only the pure, crystalline, expensive Peruvian coke) in the eighties. Speaking of which, no one there was snorting, smoking, or drinking hard liquor. That Monday was a drag!

  Plínio started playing on the Internet, practicing, studying when he had time, watching championships on ESPN. He upped the level of his game. He didn’t do badly the following week. He broke even. The next week, he was prepared to raise his place in the rankings and teach those young kids a lesson. He got there early. He had brought five hundred bucks with him, carefully counted out. It was enough for two buy-ins. He remained focused. Coca-Cola and coffee. He had eaten earlier. He started out well. He won two small pots, but at least he won. The others began to respect the old guy, until a latecomer sat down beside him and “discreetly” put the keys to a BMW i8 on the table. He never stopped talking, bragging about being hired by a famous law firm. All the strangers at the table had seen Plínio win twice. The talkative guy hadn’t. Holding an ace-queen, Plínio played correctly. Mr. Chatterbox called. Son of a bitch. He had a pair, for sure. Must be a pair of sixes. Everyone else folded. Plínio raised. He wanted him out of the pot. But the guy stayed in. He was going along well, ace and queen; the guy had a pair and believed in it. The cards were dealt. First, second, third—no ace or queen. But a king. Plínio made a heavy bet. Get out, man. Believe I’ve got the nuts. The son of a bitch called. He won with a pair of nines, against Plínio’s “nothing.” That was all the guy had. He didn’t celebrate and went on relating details about the new law firm that gave him a BMW just like 007’s. Plínio was fuming. Not only did the guy never stop talking, he also invaded Plínio’s space with his arms, a bowl of peanuts, and lit a cigarette!!! Plínio hated cigarettes.

  “Cards dealt. Let’s play.”

  The son of a bitch blew smoke over the table. Plínio had been a smoker. I’m going to get this guy out of the pot. He had nothing but was in the best position. I’m chasing him out right now. All in. Everything or nothing. The guy didn’t even hesitate. He called. They both showed their cards. Neither had anything. Not even cards of the same suit. Both with a jack as their high card. Plínio held jack-nine, the son of a bitch jack-six. He would win if nothing showed up. A six appeared. The guy won with the pair.

  “Jeez, that went badly,” Plínio said. I lost everything in less than fifteen minutes of play, he thought. I could do another buy-in. He still had 250. But it wouldn’t work. Playing beside that guy wouldn’t work. The guy did everything just right: the chattering, the cigarette, the arms, the peanuts. Maybe he hadn’t even gotten a job in some law firm.

  Plínio decided to get out. He said goodbye to his old friends at the next table. He mentioned that the son of a bitch wouldn’t stop talking. Turquinho took a look. “Goddamn, that guy won a tournament in Miami. What shit . . .”

  Plínio drank a Coca-Cola, sighed dejectedly, told Turquinho the table had been spoiled, looked at the chips for the next rebuys, a pile of fifties beside them, thought of returning to the table, but desisted. I have more to do.

  A dark-skinned whore in a red miniskirt was leaning against the stairs of the neighboring club. She was arguing with a drunk junkie who was harassing her. She was hot. The most stunning legs he’d seen in a while. He stood there, torn between calling a taxi or an Uber. Amaral, the doorman at Fire, who also moonlighted as security for the whorehouse next door, initiated a conversation.

  “Like her? She’s sensational. Got here last week. She says she’s from Minas Gerais. Two hundred. Want her? Turquinho doesn’t mind. Take her back there, to the dressing room. It’s VIP. There’s a sofa. Want her? She’s worth it . . .”

  Plínio spoke with her. It was true—her soft accent and her congeniality left no doubt: from Minas. Two hundred bucks. Half an hour. She doesn’t do everything. Fine, but can you make the others jealous? She didn’t understand the question.

  “How old are you?”

  Twenty.

  “Have any children?”

  No, she lied.

  “Two hundred?”

  Two hundred.

  Plínio gave her the money he would have spent that night and returned to Fire with his arms around her.

  Amaral opened the door. They went past the empty ticket counter, past the storage area, and entered the dance floor where the four poker tables were. Turquinho’s eyes widened. Everyone halted their play. Even the dealers were paralyzed. Plínio and the girl from Minas paraded around in an embrace in full view of everyone. Not even the ice in mixed drinks melted, nor did the pizza get cold. They crossed the counter, went into the back, the dressing room in the VIP area. They didn’t close the door. Plínio offered her a drink. Nothing. Whores don’t drink. They sat down, he caressed those legs like a gambler patting a pair of aces. He saw that his companions in the gambling area continued, speechless. Plínio had half an hour. They chatted, kissed, laughed, embraced until she removed her panties. He did nothing. He caressed that skin and those delicate legs like a touch screen, kissed her neck and whispered in her ear: “Don’t cry out aloud, but moan in great pleasure, so they can hear, like it’s the best sex of your life.” For the full half hour, she played her role, laughing, murmuring, moaning softly; they hugged, talked softly.

  Then he instructed: “I’ll go first. You wait a few minutes, then leave, okay?” And he left. He crossed the large room. Said nothing. He didn’t even glance at his fellow poker players. At the last table, he saw the pile of money that grew with every round, thanked Turquinho, and said that the girl was available to anyone willing to spend a buy-in. He went into the storage area without being noticed, pocketed a copy of the door key, and left.

  Through the social media group he found out who won, who lost. No one mentioned the girl. He exchanged messages with Turquinho, who said the girl left two minutes later. And that no one had wanted her. And that Plínio deserved to be congratulated: a sensational girl. Sensational, but no one paid to see. Hatred for the group swelled. He thought rapidly. He stealthily appropria
ted an old revolver that once belonged to his grandfather and had no ammunition. He bought a used yellow Dafra Speed 150 motor scooter with a carrying case for 1,600 reais, including a helmet. He bought a ninja hood and protective clothing from the motoboy who had sold him the scooter for a song. He stuck it in a black backpack with four pieces of cardboard, placed it in the carrying case, and waited till Sunday.

  * * *

  Plínio descended Augusta on the scooter, stopping two blocks from Fire. He entered the club in light clothing, happy, crazy, just as the venue was about to close. He took the heavy backpack and the helmet to the storage area. He was given a ticket. He drank, danced, went wild. He collapsed onto a sofa. He was awakened by his good friend Amaral.

  “We’re closing, my friend.”

  “Of course, of course . . . just need to use the bathroom.”

  He got up. The sound system was turned off. He went around the counter, entered the deejay booth like one who has nothing to hide, and waited behind the turntables. He stayed there, curled up among the equipment. The final people in the club finally headed out. The lights were turned off. Silence began to dominate the place. Doors were locked. A dry-ice cloud, sweat, spilled drinks, and wasted adrenaline dissipated in the air. Plínio remained hidden in the same position for several more minutes. When he felt safe, he came out. He went directly to the locked storage area and opened it with the stolen key. Nothing. Nobody. He entered. His backpack, helmet, three coats, a raincoat, an umbrella, and a purse were there, on a plywood board that had once served as the first poker table. Those sons of bitches in the storage area locked up and left without worrying whether someone would be coming back to pick up what they’d forgotten. They didn’t want to miss the last subway.

  Plínio quietly picked up his backpack. He wandered about the place. He checked all the doors. He knew the space by heart. He went to the VIP dressing room, put on the biker’s clothing over his own, looked in the mirror; with the four pieces of cardboard, he made the backpack into a trunk. He stuck an ad from a delivery pizzeria on it. And went to sleep on the sofa where a week earlier he had been with the sensational girl from Minas whom no one wanted.

  * * *

  Monday morning he woke to the noise of a cleanup taking place and rap music. A two-man cleaning crew had arrived. They turned on the lights and began mopping the floor, sweeping, emptying the trash cans, cleaning the bathrooms with long-handled brushes, lots of Lysol, and a noisy high-pressure water jet. As he had imagined, the cleanup was done from the inside to the outside. Plínio went around, entered the main area from the opposite side, ducked into the storage room, locked it, and hid in the corner. He had two health bars, an energy drink, stretched his legs, and opened a book. He read and waited.

  In the afternoon he sent a message saying he had a hangover and wouldn’t be playing that night. He slept. He woke up to the sound of the tables already in action. He heard the dealers, the laughter, the usual arguments. He recognized the voices of his friends and the wretched nerds. Heard the voice of the talkative son of a bitch who had humiliated him a week earlier. His excitement at what was about to happen was an antidote against his watch: the time passed more slowly. Relax, meditate, stay calm, breathe, think about song lyrics, the books you’ve read in your life, the films . . .

  * * *

  Two a.m. Tuesday morning. He knew there was only one table still in operation. Dealers and waiters had already gone. It was the final table. They were down to four or five. The winner would come from there. Now! Plínio donned the ninja hood, zipped up his biker outfit, closed up, left the backpack, which was now square like a pizza box, and the helmet in the corner. Holding the gun at arm’s length, he entered the playing area and announced the holdup: “Hands on the table, nobody say a word, cell phones and wallets on the table, shut up, you son of a bitch, the first one to peep gets a bullet.” It took less than a minute. He forced the dealer to put the money in a bag along with watches, cell phones, wallets. It was pleasing to see the yapping son of a bitch among them, and the keys to the BMW on the table. Everything was going according to plan. If he were caught, he’d pull off the mask and say, It’s me! It was all a joke, to show how precarious security is here! It was funny, wasn’t it? This museum piece doesn’t even have bullets!

  But the men were paralyzed. The dealer, who might have caused problems, was the most solicitous—after all, it wasn’t his money. No one moved. Plínio grabbed the bag, backed away still pointing the gun at them, left the room, tossed the bag in the backpack, adjusted it on his shoulders, went to the entrance, opened the circuit breaker controlling the lights, put on his helmet, and left.

  He ran into a sleepy Amaral on the sidewalk; the man neither recognized him nor seemed to wonder what the pizza deliveryman was doing there at that hour. Plínio went into the parking garage, easily located a brand-new BMW, clicked the keyless entry button, unlocked the doors, got in, and drove off.

  When he reached Rua Augusta, he removed the ninja hood. He stopped at the traffic light two blocks down. His friend—the girl from Minas, the one with a red miniskirt and sensational legs—was standing by the pedestrian crosswalk and smiled at him. He pretended it wasn’t him and didn’t return the smile. The light changed. He took off. Descended Augusta to 9 de Julho and headed toward the Pinheiros River.

  The robbery was not reported. After all, gambling was illegal under Decree No. 9.215, of April 30, 1946, signed by then president Eurico Gaspar Dutra, which outlawed casinos and games of chance throughout the entire country:

  The President of the Republic, using the power conferred by Article 180 of the Constitution, and considering that suppression of games of chance is an imperative of universal conscience; considering that the penal legislation of all enlightened peoples contains precepts conducive to this end; considering that the moral, juridical, and religious tradition of the Brazilian people is contrary to the practice of and exploitation of games of chance; considering that from exceptions to the general law there have resulted abuses harmful to morality and good customs; considering that the licenses and concessions for the practice of and exploitation of games of chance in the Federal Capital, hydrotherapeutic spas, or seaside resorts were given under revocable conditions, and could be rescinded at any moment. Article 1: There is restored in all the territory of the nation the validity of Article 50 and its paragraphs of the Law of Penal Infractions. Any licenses, concessions, or authorizations given by federal, state, or local authorities, based on the now revoked laws, or those that in any way contain authorization counter to the provision of Article 50 and its Paragraphs of the Law of Penal Infractions, are hereby declared null and void.

  Days went by, and nothing. The body of an unidentified dark-skinned woman was found two blocks from Fire, on the land known as Augusta Park. She was nude. She had been strangled. A red miniskirt was found thirty feet from the body. Chief Detective Marcelo Santana was unable to determine whether the clothing belonged to the victim. Newspapers reported that no relative claimed the body at the morgue, there was no wake, and she was buried as an indigent in the cemetery in Vila Alpina, on Avenida Francisco Falconi. Santana angrily closed off all access to Rua Augusta for two nights, claiming a “routine” operation. A stolen BMW sports car was also found in the Pinheiros River, but that didn’t make the papers, and neither did the theft of an old yellow Dafra Speed on Rua Augusta.

  It’s not known if it was a coincidence, but with the unprecedented increase in the number of young people infected with HIV—precisely among those who frequented the Baixo Augusta houses and the Largo do Arouche—the Vegas, the Play, and Studio SP closed. Fire went under shortly afterward. Plínio didn’t know if the guys continued to play poker, as he was no longer invited. He never again saw Turquinho, who avoided him. Especially after he learned that Plínio had invited Ted for a trip to Vegas, where they blew a small fortune at the Bellagio Casino.

  PART III

  Discreet Inelegance

  The Force is with me

&nb
sp; by Beatriz Bracher & Maria S. Carvalhosa

  Panamericana

  Miranda, my sixteen-year-old niece who lives in Rio, is spending her January vacation with me. She preferred coming here to spending the month at a friend’s house in Rio, or traveling with her parents to the northeast. Spending the holidays in São Paulo, without friends, during an especially stuffy summer, in a district with nothing nearby and full of mosquitoes, was an easy decision for her.

  * * *

  Aunt Flora lives by herself. The district is full of trees, and birds sing before daybreak. I can read all day long if I want to.

  * * *

  I’m fifty years old and have three adult children who have moved away from São Paulo. I live alone in a large, empty house that belonged to my parents; I moved here when they died. It was enjoyable when the children were young; the calmness in the neighborhood, nearby schools, spending the afternoon in the small square with its ironwoods and eucalyptus, running in Villa-Lobos Park, and being able to greet the people passing by on weekends were luxuries that did me good.

  * * *

  I read on the tablet, with huge letters, read more than before the accident. I think it’s to make up for lost time. I think it’s because I like reading even more. I think it’s because I don’t want to have anything else to do.

  Vacation.

  * * *

  It’s the district of tipu trees with their long horizontal branches spotted with light green parasites, smooth, that resemble ferns, only more delicate. In spring the streets and squares turn completely yellow with their tiny blossoms.

  * * *

  I read at home and on the subway. I spend three hours in the same car, reading and soaking up the air-conditioning. The noise of the engine and the murmur make me feel good. As if I’m living without having to do anything, just living.