Samuel worked in a fish shop, and never lifted anything heavier than a pacu. Arlette worked in the central market, shifting wooden boxes of vegetables. She was half a head taller than Samuel and thirty kilograms heavier. The night she evicted him, he went flying from the front door of the house and halfway across the street, hit his head on the cobblestones, and lay there, stunned, while she threw the contents of his dresser drawers on top of him.
Bento had been fourteen at the time. He’d adopted Samuel as a father figure and was sorry to see him go. So sorry, in fact, that within a month he’d gone to the fish shop, discovered where Samuel was living, and had been clandestinely visiting him ever since. So when Bento was ordered to go underground, Samuel’s home was the logical choice. It was a little cramped because Samuel was living with a widow and her five children, but the widow was a friendly soul, and she did her best to make Bento feel welcome.
Bento was twenty-one years old, an only child, and had never lived anywhere except with his mother. After a week of being away, he’d come to miss her a great deal. He crept back to her house in the middle of the night and was about to tap on the door when a bullet smashed into the doorjamb above his head. Nobody had ever fired a shot at Bento Rosário. He didn’t, at first, realize what it was. Then another shot rang out. That one missed as well, probably because the street was dark, and the shooter couldn’t draw a proper bead over his sights.
Bento took off like a gazelle. He knew every alley, every back street of his neighborhood, which his pursuer apparently didn’t, so it wasn’t long before he’d gotten clean away. He hadn’t dared to go back that night, or even the next. Bento couldn’t think of a reason why anyone would want to kill him. He concluded that the assault had been a robbery attempt. But that was before Samuel brought the newspaper home.
On the morning of the third day after the shooting incident, Samuel had been using a sheet of two-day-old newsprint from the Diário de Manaus to wrap a fish for a waiting customer. He’d just about finished the job, when an article less than ten centimeters high caught his eye.
WOMAN MURDERED, the headline read.
Samuel read further and his jaw dropped. He wrapped the fish in another sheet, took off his apron, and asked one of his colleagues to cover for him. It was less than a five-minute run to the widow’s place. Samuel found his erstwhile stepson watching a cartoon show on television and shoved the article, now reeking strongly of fish, under his nose.
Below the headline, and after giving Bento’s mother’s name and stating her age, the journalist went on to write:
. . . was tortured and murdered sometime in the early hours of the morning, probably in an attempt to get her to reveal the whereabouts of her valuables.
Bento was devastated. What kind of valuables could thieves hope to find in the shack of a box-shifter who worked in the Municipal Market? It didn’t add up.
But there was another explanation that made sense: that they’d been trying to get her to reveal Bento’s whereabouts. Originally, the chief had wanted him to go away for a while. Now, it looked as if he wanted him to go away permanently. Bento was frightened, so frightened that he was staring at another article on the page for at least a minute before it registered: Mario Silva, the well-known Chief Inspector of the Federal Police was in town and staying at the Hotel Tropical. And right then and there, in the midst of his fear and
grief, Bento experienced an epiphany: the federal police had dropped him in the shit; the federal police were the ones who were going to pull him out of it. He needed protection. He needed to get to Silva.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“I HAVEN’T SEEN IT myself,” Nelson Sampaio said, shifting his telephone to his other ear, “and after the deputado’s description of the contents, I’m quite sure I don’t want to.” He was referring to the videotape Claudia Andrade had sent to Roberto Malan. “He called me within a few minutes of looking at it,” the director went on. “I have to tell you, Mario, his comportment was most . . . extraordinary.”
“Extraordinary?”
“You’d expect him to be distraught, right? Break down, release some of the sadness he must be feeling. But he didn’t. All he did was to threaten and bluster.”
“Threaten?” Silva said.
“And bluster,” Sampaio said. “He wants your head, Mario. He said it was your fault. He said you failed. He’s going after our budget allocations, told me that if I didn’t get rid of you immediately, he’d cut everything to the bone. It’s his committee, Mario. He’s a powerful man. He can do that.”
The director paused.
Silva didn’t say anything.
After a second or two, the director continued, “I like you, Mario, I really do. And I don’t blame you for what happened to the girl, but he does.”
“Hmm,” Silva said.
“You’ve got to understand my position, Mario. It would be wrong to prejudice the whole organization just because of one man. You’ve got to think like a team player here.”
“You want me to resign?”
Sampaio sighed.
“I think it would be best for all concerned,” he said.
“Tell him I want to see him.”
“What?”
“Tell Malan I want to see him.”
“See him?”
“I’ll do a quick in and out. I’ll come down there on Wednesday night, see him the following morning, and return in the early afternoon.”
“Wednesday, as in the day after tomorrow Wednesday?”
“Yes.”
“He’s an important man, Mario. You can’t expect him to adjust his schedule on such short notice.”
“That’s why I’m giving him until Thursday morning. Tell him it’s in his best interest.”
“That sounds like an ultimatum.”
“Let him take it any way he likes.”
The director was a worrywart, but he was a politician, and he wasn’t stupid.
“You’ve got something on him, haven’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. All right. Thursday morning. I’ll tell him, but I’m warning you: as far as Malan is concerned, the issue is already resolved.”
“Not by a long shot,” Silva said.
BENTO ROSÁRIO was getting desperate. The sun was approaching its zenith. The heat was intolerable. His water bottle was empty. The comfort he got from being in the shade of the bushes was offset by the fact that those same bushes blocked the breeze from the river. Worst of all, Bento was now convinced that one of the cab drivers wasn’t a cab driver at all.
When, five times, the man’s vehicle had come to the head of the rank, he’d driven off without a passenger. And each time, after a short interval, he’d returned to join the end of the queue.
The other drivers were as aware of this strange behavior as Bento was. They weren’t treating him as one of their own. No one had exchanged a word with him in all the time he’d been there, which was almost as long as Bento had been hiding in the bushes.
The man was wearing a jacket, and who the hell would wear a jacket in a place as hot as Manaus? That alone was suspicious. And something else boded ill: the driver’s eyes were fastened on the front door of the hotel. He was watching it like a cat watches a mousehole.
is watch.
It was a little past one.
“I’m not gonna eat another damned fish,” Arnaldo said. “And I’m not going to eat anything that tastes like fish.”
“Which means you’re either on your way to the airport, or you’re going to starve,” Silva said.
“Which means neither,” Arnaldo said. “I am going to get a steak.”
Silva and Hector looked at him.
“While you people,” Arnaldo said, “confined your conversations with Lefkowitz to DNA testing and suchlike, I got him aside and questioned him about something of real importance.”
“Food?” Silva said.
“Food,” Arnaldo confirmed. “There is a
restaurant in this culinary desert owned and operated by a Gaúcho.”
Gaúchos were people from the State of Rio Grande do Sul, and the State of Rio Grande do Sul was famous for its beef.
“This restaurant,” Arnaldo continued, “is less than ten minutes from here. The owner flies his steaks up from Porto Alegre. According to Lefkowitz, they are untainted by fish.” “Lead us to this marvel,” Silva said.
The heat outside hit them like a Turkish bath. Arnaldo went over to speak to the valet. Hector reached for his sunglasses. Silva, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, was the first to see a figure scuttle out from under the shrubbery and head toward them at a dead run.
He was a thin young man in dark shorts and a T-shirt, wearing tennis shoes, and carrying what appeared to be an empty water bottle. One of the cab drivers caught sight of him, got out of his car and put a hand under his jacket, a move that attracted the attention of the federal cops. All three of them reached for their weapons. The driver took in the situation, got back into his cab and took off down the drive with a screech of rubber.
By that time, the young man was in front of them, panting from the effort. He reached out a hand and took Silva by the wrist.
“You’re Silva, aren’t you?” he said. Then, without waiting for an answer, “You people have gotta help me.”
Bento Rosário started talking right there on the street. He was still talking when they were shown to a table in the Recanto Gaúcho, the restaurant suggested by Lefkowitz. He paused long enough to drink an entire bottle of mineral water, asked for another, and continued his story.
The three federal cops nursed glasses of beer. Silva and Hector sat where they could keep on eye on the entrance. Arnaldo chose the other side of the table, next to Bento, and covered the door leading to the kitchen.
Bento finally took a break to scan the menu. He ran his finger down the offerings and frowned.
“Hey,” he said, “what’s the matter with this place? They don’t serve fish.”
FROM THE restaurant, they went directly to Manaus’s sole federal magistrate, a man by the name of Rosenblatt. After being sworn to secrecy, and listening to Bento Rosário’s story, Judge Rosenblatt issued a fistful of warrants and wished them good luck. He too was no fan of the chief’s.
Silva told Arnaldo to call Brasilia from the judge’s chambers.
“Get Gloria up here,” he said. “We can’t do this alone. We’re going to need her.”
Gloria Sarmento, a woman who, according to Arnaldo, had “more balls than a pool table,” headed ERR1, one of the federal police’s elite hostage rescue teams.
“Gloria isn’t going to like it,” Arnaldo said. “She hates Manaus.”
“Tell her to bring six of her people,” Silva said. “We shouldn’t need any more than that.”
“Which six?” Arnaldo said.
“Let her choose.”
“No, no, no,” Arnaldo said. “What if she brings Diogo Carmo?”
Diogo Carmo was one of those people who couldn’t finish a story. You’d meet Diogo in the hallway and he’d say something like, “On the way into the office this morning I stopped off for coffee, and speaking of coffee, have you ever bought coffee at that little shop down among the warehouses in Santos? Oh, yeah, Santos, that reminds me, how about that game between Santos and São Paulo last Thursday? You know, Thursday, the same day. . . .”
And so on and so forth. He drove his colleagues nuts.
Silva considered for a moment, then shook his head.
“Gloria won’t bring him,” he said. “Diogo has the same effect on Gloria as he does on everybody else.”
“Gloria,” Arnaldo said, “might get so pissed off about coming to Manaus that she’d pick Diogo just to—”
“I get the point,” Silva said. “Tell her not to include Diogo.”
From Judge Rosenblatt’s chambers, they went directly to the municipal dock, where they rented a boat. They told the owner/captain to moor the vessel in the mouth of an out-ofthe-way tributary, turn on the air-conditioning, and leave them alone in the cabin.
While Hector took a handwritten statement from Bento, Silva made calls from his cell phone. One of them was to the reception desk at the Hotel Tropical. There’d been two calls from Chief Pinto and one from Silva’s wife, Irene. He ignored the messages from the chief and was lucky to catch Irene still relatively sober. He told her to expect him the following evening in Brasilia.
“I’ll pick you up at the airport,” she said. “We’ll share a cocktail when you’re safely home.”
“Don’t start without me,” he said.
AT ELEVEN o’clock that night, the three federal cops took the boat back to the municipal dock. They left Bento aboard and packed themselves into a cab for a quick trip to the airport. Gloria and her people arrived on time, aboard the 11:30 P.M. flight from Brasilia. It took three more cabs to carry the personnel and equipment. Thirty minutes later, they arrived at the headquarters building of Manaus’s Municipal Police.
Silva assigned men to oversee the operations of the switchboard operator and the radio dispatcher, then assembled the rest of the small nighttime staff. He identified himself, showed his credentials, and waved a paper.
“This,” he said, “is a search warrant for this building and these”—he waved two other papers—“are arrest warrants for Chief Pinto and Coimbra, the guy who runs the archives. Under no circumstances are you to attempt to contact them. Nobody leaves the building. All calls, incoming and outgoing, are going to be monitored. Turn in your cell phones to the little lady with the big gun and line up to submit yourselves to a body search, men on this side, women over there.”
His listeners were more accustomed to pushing people around than being pushed, but they did it. An examination of Alberto Coimbra’s desk revealed no list of what might have been protected felons. They moved on to Pinto’s office, where the search for any kind of incriminating evidence proved equally disappointing.
“Only one more chance,” Silva said. “Where the hell is Lefkowitz?”
“Here, Chief Inspector,” Lefkowitz said, coming in through the doorway, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. One of Gloria’s men had commandeered a police car and picked him up at home. They’d made record time in getting there.
“I seem to recall you tap telephones,” Silva said. “Are you any good at it?”
“I’m a virtuoso.”
“Good. I want you to tap the chief’s.”
“His home?”
“His home.”
“Got a warrant?”
“I do.” Silva showed it to him.
Lefkowitz grinned. “It’ll be a pleasure,” he said.
“When you’re finished there,” Silva said, “go to Coimbra’s place and do the same thing. Here’s his address. Arnaldo will meet you there. Hector, take Enrique and follow Lefkowitz to the chief’s home. Keep an ear glued to his calls. If he gives you probable cause, break in and slap the cuffs on him. If he sticks his nose out the door, and you think he’s going to make a break, do the same.”
COIMBRA, A bachelor who lived alone, was awakened from a sound sleep by the pounding on his door. He grabbed the phone next to his bed and made a desperate call to the chief.
The chief’s wife and two kids were in Rio, visiting his mother-in-law. The woman next to him in the king-sized bed was the maid. She picked up the telephone and handed it to him.
“Chief?”
“Coimbra? It’s three-ten in the fucking morning. What’s so import—”
“The federals are pounding my door.”
The maid slipped her hand down from Pinto’s stomach to his groin. Angrily, he brushed it away.
“Merda! Where’s your copy of the list?”
“Under my mattress. I brought it home after Carvalho missed his shot at Rosário.”
“Destroy it. Now!”
And Coimbra would have, if Arnaldo hadn’t put the earphone aside and broken down his door.
The chief’s first
outgoing call was to a Sargento Carvalho, but all he did was to ask him for a telephone number, which he promptly called. It turned out to be the cell phone of Carvalho’s boss, Tenente Jordão. “What the hell’s going on?” The chief was getting angrier by the minute. “Did I give you an order to kill those goddamned federals, or didn’t I?”
“Sorry, Chief, but we can’t kill them if we can’t find them. They left their hotel at lunchtime and never came back.”
“Go to Coimbra’s place. He says they’re there, pounding on his door.”
“Merda. They must be tooled up for an assault. I’ve only got two men with me.”
“So get some more,” the chief said and slammed down the phone.
The tap bore additional fruit. Calls provided links to two more of the chief’s accomplices. He berated the first one for having allowed Bento Rosário to fall into the hands of the federal cops.
“You saw him, for Christ’s sake. You saw what he was doing. All you had to do was to shoot the bastard.”
“I told you, Chief, there were three of them, and they all—”
“I haven’t got time for this. Get your stuff together and get out of there. If Rosário recognized you, they’ll be at your place next. Hell, they might be on their way over there right now.”
PINTO WAS locking his front door, when he heard the rustle of leaves. Hector stepped out of the samambaia ferns that lined the path.
“Bom dia, Chief,” he said, “You’re up early.”
“Yeah, I am. Not that it’s any of your business. What do you want?”
Hector crossed his arms. He wasn’t holding a gun.
“To arrest you,” he said.
“On what charge?”
“Racketeering.”
“You’ll never make it stick.”
“Oh, I think we will.”
The chief’s hand dropped to the revolver on his belt.
Enrique, behind him, said, “Thumb and forefinger, Chief. Just the thumb and forefinger. Then hold it up so I can grab it.”
The chief closed his thumb and forefinger around the butt of his Taurus. Then, in a last gesture of defiance, he tossed it into the bushes.
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