“The answer could be in her room, among her personal belongings.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Dona Maura led Espinosa into Rose’s room. It was extremely neat, which made it easier to examine. The problem was that he didn’t know what to look for. He went through closets and drawers, looked under the bed (he always did that), and opened all the suitcases and purses.
“You know her things, ma’am. Is anything missing, any dresses, shoes, underwear? Any suitcases?”
“I already thought of that. No, it doesn’t look like anything’s missing.”
On the shelves were about two hundred books, of reasonable quality. On the shelf closest to the ground, three dark, blank spines attracted Espinosa’s eye. They were old daybooks. The ones from the last two years were missing.
Max
Max had tried out a few parking lots in the Zona Sul, where the rich people lived. He didn’t really like supermarkets—they were usually frequented by couples or entire families, making action difficult, sometimes even impossible. How was he supposed to hold up a car packed full of little kids who could start bawling at any second? He preferred solitary women—they got scared and handed over everything, hoping to avoid something worse. That’s how it had happened the first time. He’d lost his job more than a month earlier and hadn’t managed to find another one. Even though he’d graduated from high school, he didn’t have any real skills. He’d committed his first robbery out of desperation, but it was so easy—and so lucrative—that he didn’t see any reason to go out and look for a job. So that’s what he’d been doing for the last year.
He tended to have the most luck in the Menezes Cortes parking garage, in the downtown business district, which was deserted after six. But he was well aware that if he kept hanging out in the same places he’d run a higher risk of getting caught. He never attacked men, especially if they were young and strong—they could fight back, and his plastic revolver wouldn’t do him much good then. He wasn’t a wimp, but he wasn’t ready to come face-to-face with young businessmen who go to the gym and take martial arts. Old guys, though, were fine—they were quick to frighten and never reacted.
He’d already been hidden for more than half an hour behind a column near the emergency exit when he saw a well-dressed businessman carrying a briefcase heading toward a car parked just a few feet away. He was relatively young, tall, strong, with a decisive step—definitely off-limits. He saw him get in his car and roll down the windows. Instead of starting the engine, though, he leaned his head back and lit a cigarette. After a few minutes, he put out the cigarette and rolled the windows back up. Instead of the noise of the engine starting up, Max heard only a muted clap.
He waited a few minutes. No movement inside the car. He looked around to see if anyone was there. Nothing happened. Apparently no one, besides him, had seen or heard anything. He crept toward the car and peered inside. The body wasn’t moving. On the front seat, beside the driver, was a briefcase. Next to that was an envelope; on the ground was the revolver the man must have used. He glanced around again to see if there were any witnesses. No one. He opened the driver’s door and the inside light went on. He recoiled, startled by the light, and closed the door. Again, he looked around the parking lot. Nothing stirred. He opened the car door once more and slid his hand between the dead man’s chest and the steering wheel. The body was pressed against the steering wheel, complicating the search, but he still managed to get his hand on the wallet. He tried to reach the briefcase, sliding his arm behind the dead man, but he couldn’t make it. Right when he was about to bail he noticed that the passenger door was unlocked. He closed the door, went around to the other side of the car, and opened the other door. The briefcase was open. Next to it lay an envelope addressed in capital letters: TO THE POLICE. Inside was a wad of bills held together by a rubber band. Hundred-dollar bills. Lots of them. He put the envelope inside the briefcase, next to the revolver, put the briefcase under his left arm, and closed the door. As he was turning around to leave, he thought he saw a woman’s silhouette in the doorway to the stairs—but only for an instant; maybe it was just his imagination. He went down the stairs and was soon out on the street.
1
Max was worried about the briefcase. It was too good for someone like him, with gilded, engraved initials—none of which matched his. A little detail, he thought, but little details are what ended up killing people. On the corner of Rua Sete de Setembro, a street vendor was selling big plastic bags. He tried out a few before finding one that covered the whole briefcase. The best fit was white with big red roses, so he took another one, not quite as good, with black and gray squares. The handle was flimsy, so he decided to carry it beneath his arm, gripping it from the bottom. Though he thought he no longer stuck out so obviously, he still decided to get out of the general area as fast as he could. He crossed Avenida Rio Branco and headed for the subway stop in the Largo da Carioca.
In the jam-packed subway car, he kept the bag pressed against his body. In spite of what he had just gone through, he felt, at that moment, like a lowly government clerk heading home after a long day at the office. He thought about the wife who wasn’t waiting for him, about the kids he didn’t have, and about the house that wasn’t his, where, as a favor, he lived in a room far in the back. Suddenly, he was shaken by a fear he’d never had before: What if I get robbed? Obviously no one would ever suspect that he was carrying several thousand dollars, but these days people got held up on the commuter trains, on the buses, in the subway, for no real reason, just to pilfer a little something from the working class.
In the Central do Brasil station he’d have to change trains, but he decided to keep going toward Tijuca—the area around the Central do Brasil was especially sketchy, even more so at rush hour. Besides, he’d found a seat. He thought about moving the revolver, taking it out of the briefcase and putting it in the bag, within reach, so he could fend off any prospective robber. But the operation would surely attract attention—he’d have to open the briefcase, which was inside the bag; take out the revolver; close the briefcase; stick the revolver into the bag, next to the briefcase, which was inside the bag—all in a rush-hour subway car. It was better just to lie low.
How many bills were there in the envelope? A hundred? Two hundred? Were they all hundreds? He calculated: ten thousand, twenty thousand dollars! He’d never seen so much money—and he hadn’t even looked in the wallet he’d tossed in the bag. His hands started sweating. Luckily the bag was plastic-coated; otherwise it might get wet and break under the weight of the briefcase. He wiped his hands on his pants—one at a time—so as not to let go of the handle. What else was in the briefcase? He’d seen an envelope. The revolver looked imported—that could be worth something. He started smiling when he realized this was the first time he’d ever robbed a man his own age—and such a risky target, such a strong man. Except, of course, this guy was dead. They must have been about the same age. How idiotic. A young, good-looking, rich guy pumping a shot into his head, just like that. What the hell did he do that for? It couldn’t have been for love; rich people didn’t kill for love. They killed only for money.
He got out at the Praça Saens Pena. He was far from home, but at least he was also far from downtown, and the area wasn’t as dubious. In any event, he couldn’t hang out on a bench in the park, like a moron, waiting for some police patrol to ask for his documents. “But of course, Mr. Officer, they’re right inside the briefcase, next to the loaded revolver with one burned-out cartridge. Actually, though, sir, I don’t have any ID, but my initials are engraved right here.” Thank God he was white; he’d run a greater risk of getting approached by the cops if he were black. But even being white, he still had to get a ride to Méier. He also had to get rid of the wallet and the briefcase.
He crossed the plaza and turned onto the first relatively deserted street he found. A few people on the sidewalk, most of them heading home after work. Ahead, a shuttered grocery store with garbage bags piled in front. He chose the on
e that looked emptiest, dumped the contents onto the curb, and walked to the next block with the empty trash bag held alongside the plastic bag he’d bought. After checking to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he removed the contents of the briefcase, making sure to look in every compartment, and did the same with the wallet. He shoved it all in the plastic bag, folded it in the middle. Then he stuck the empty briefcase and wallet into the trash bag, tied it up, and tossed it onto another pile of trash bags in front of an apartment building. Now everything was fine—poor people were always dragging around bundles. His survival strategy was simply to lie low: he was a regular guy, without any particularly distinguishing characteristics. Physically, he was so average that wherever he went nobody noticed him. Socially, he’d been born invisible.
It was almost nine o’clock at night by the time he got off the bus on Rua Dias da Cruz, in Méier. The house, squeezed between two others, was long and narrow. His sister and her two little girls occupied the rooms at the back; in the front one—which took up more than half the house—was the little junk store his sister had opened when her ex-husband left her. There wasn’t an inch of empty space. Little pieces of furniture, clothes, shoes, clocks, appliances, dishes, dolls, toys, decorative objects, boxes, cans, bags of every size, a sewing machine, tools, pens, glasses, ashtrays, knick-knacks, a wooden airplane propeller hanging from the ceiling. The archeological remains of the working class. In the tiny yard, in the back of the house, the equally tiny room Max occupied had a bathroom whose shower was aimed directly at the top of the toilet seat. He didn’t pay rent—he tossed in a little something whenever he could, when he got lucky at work. He’d changed jobs so many times that no one bothered to ask him anymore exactly what it was he did.
The store was dark; only the bluish light of the TV weakly lit up the hall in front of his sister’s room. She responded to his “Hey” without even looking up from the evening soap opera. The girls were asleep. He went through the kitchen, crossed in two steps the little slice of earth they called “the yard,” entered his room, turned on the light, slid the bolt across the door, tossed the plastic bag on top of his bed, ripped off his clothes, went right into the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, and had an attack of diarrhea. Conveniently, he didn’t have to get off the toilet to take a shower. Without drying off, he put on some shorts and a T-shirt and dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed: the wad of bills he’d taken out of the envelope; the revolver; the money from the wallet, along with a few laminated cards, a photo, some business cards; and the envelope with the handwritten letter. He put all that aside, removed the rubber band from the money, and started counting. He counted too fast, got mixed up, and had to start over again, slower this time. He counted it twice, made sure the bills were all hundreds, and counted one more time. Twenty thousand dollars.
The money from the wallet was by contrast a trifle: one fifty, two tens, and two ones. ID card, driver’s license, and a few business cards with phone and fax numbers. No credit cards. The picture was of a woman. Very pretty, Max thought. It could only be the wife. No one walked around with a picture of their mistress in their wallet.
When he picked up the gun, his hands were drenched in sweat. It was a Colt .38 with DETECTIVE SPECIAL inscribed on the barrel. He could probably get about three hundred bucks for it. He removed the bullets, carefully cleaned the whole piece, and hid it inside a suitcase under the bed. Only then did he return his attention to the envelope.
He had to read the letter a few times before it made sense. On the top of the page, in block letters just like the ones on the envelope, was written: TO THE POLICE. Right underneath, also written by hand, was: “The twenty thousand dollars is a payment for disappearing with the gun and this note and filing this case away after not finding the murderer. No one will be compromised. Your conscience will be clear, since you’re not stealing anything—I’m giving it to you.”
Max couldn’t believe his eyes. He turned the paper over again, checked to make sure nothing else was in the envelope, and reread the letter again. Still clutching it in his hand, he let himself lie down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The guy was completely crazy, he thought. Who shoots himself in the head and then leaves twenty thousand dollars behind for the cops to take off with the gun? It’s putting too much trust in corruption. And what if he hadn’t died? With all that cash, the police would have finished the job. But why’d he want to hide the suicide?
One thing did make sense to Max: he hadn’t stolen the money, he’d just gotten paid for a service. He wrapped up the money and the note in several plastic bags, one around the other, and hid it all in the tank of the toilet. He’d seen that in a movie once. He managed to fall asleep only as day was breaking.
He got up three hours later, surprised by the morning noises. He sprang out of bed, went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet, stuck his hand into the tank, and felt the weight of the floating plastic bags. He got off the toilet and looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. He didn’t see a new man; he just saw a worried man. He shaved, got dressed, and decided to get some coffee at the corner bar. He needed to think about what to do, and he could think more clearly in the street than at home. The money he had in his pocket, plus what he’d taken from the wallet, would last him for a few days. He didn’t want to go around exchanging dollars left and right—no one would ever believe that he’d received them as legitimate payment. He needed some money now, before he decided what to do with the dollars. He made up his mind to sell the revolver. You could get rid of a gun without creating problems, whereas dollars could raise suspicions of more dollars at home.
He decided to try out the Portuguese guy who owned the bar.
Not interested. “I don’t need guns. I’ve got my fists.”
He tried, without success, a few of the shopkeepers he knew. On the bench where the local underground lottery players hung out, they all agreed that he should leave the gun so they could show it to interested parties. They’d report back the next day. He went back home, dug out a box from his sister’s store, wrapped the gun in some newspaper, put it in the box, and tied it with string. It had never occurred to him to keep it—he knew that was a one-way street. He had no problems sticking up rich people in the Zona Sul; he knew they’d only lose the money they had on them and maybe a watch or a piece of jewelry—and the world would take it upon itself to replace whatever they’d lost. Killing was another story. That’s why he always robbed people with a plastic gun: even in a critical situation he couldn’t imagine shooting anyone. He’d never committed any crime in his own neighborhood—he worked only in the Zona Sul and downtown, and he never planned anything. And he worked only when he was running out of money. He was very much aware that the more robberies he committed, the greater his chance of getting caught.
He walked around the neighborhood until lunchtime. He ate lunch with his sister and then went to his room to ponder his next move. No thought of buying a car or fancy clothes. He’d give some money to his sister and the girls, saying he’d won it at the races (even though he’d never been to the races in his life). He could spend a week in Saquarema or Cabo Frio—with a woman, of course. He liked to fuck, he just didn’t know how to talk to women. A week in a hotel—by the first day they’d already have said everything they needed to. They could spend the other six fucking, even though to do that he didn’t need to take a trip. He remembered once he’d gone out on a date with a girl to get pizza. He’d spent the whole time staring at his glass of beer and the other tables without saying a word while the girl hummed the first line of an old carnival samba under her breath. Maybe it was better to travel by himself; he wouldn’t have any trouble finding women in those places, especially with so much cash in hand. Now he was wondering if he should go to the beach or to the mountains. He’d grown up in Méier, far from the beach, so he wasn’t really attached to the sea—maybe it was better to go to Caxambu or Cambuquira. He fell asleep. At four in the afternoon, he woke up, smiled, and dressed to go out.
2
He sold the gun for half what it was worth. He didn’t care: he had enough money at home. He decided to exchange the dollars little by little, one bill at a time, always in different exchange houses. He burned the dead guy’s documents, hanging on to only the picture of the wife and one of the business cards, which he stuck in with the dollars inside the toilet tank. He didn’t know why he kept the picture and the card; he didn’t have any intention of contacting the widow—he wasn’t crazy.
Twenty thousand dollars. If he spent four hundred a month, which was a lot, he could live four years without doing a thing. Stretched out on his bed, hands folded behind his head, he looked around the whole of the little room with a tiny movement of his eyes. He felt a slight discomfort, almost pain. Four years doing nothing—doing what? Locked up in this little fucking cubicle? He’d decided that stickups and robberies were out of the question—he couldn’t run the risk of getting caught with all that cash in his house. So what was he supposed to do for four years? Go out every day, pretending he was heading to work, and just hang out, roaming the streets? Sit on park benches in the afternoon, like some old fart?
He’d been locked in his room for a day and a half, thinking. He’d tried to help his sister in the junk store, but he couldn’t manage to concentrate on the simplest of tasks. When a customer asked a question, it took him a while to figure out what they were saying—and even longer to try to answer. He decided he’d do better to stay in his room. So that was it: he’d earned his retirement and didn’t know what to do with the rest of his life. If he simply hung out and didn’t do anything, he wouldn’t have anything to spend the money on, and could live on two hundred dollars a month. In that case, the four years would stretch to eight.
The Silence of the Rain Page 7