Silva leaned back and locked eyes with the old man. Father Angelo blinked, gave the slightest of nods, and took over the interrogation.
“But you spoke to Dom Felipe, didn’t you?”
“That was different. I didn’t know him. And, besides, it was by telephone.”
“What you told him, it’s important, isn’t it?”
The boy didn’t look up. He swallowed again, nodded again.
“And you know that I love you and that Anton loved you and that nothing could ever change that, no matter what you’ve done?”
The boy searched the old priest’s eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “I know that.”
“Remember how proud you were of Anton? About how brave he was?”
Another nod.
“Don’t you think he’d be proud of you if you were to be brave now?”
The answer was some time in coming. When it did, it was only a single, strangled word: “Yes.”
“Well, then,” Father Angelo said, as if it was all settled, as if the boy had just agreed to speak.
And, after a good ten seconds of silence, he did.
Chapter Forty-one
IT HAD RAINED THAT night, a persistent, steady downpour that cut visibility to no more than fifty meters and kept most of the kids off the street. But Edson was broke, and he had to work, so as soon as it slacked off a bit he grabbed an umbrella, went out to his usual corner, and started trolling for business.
The streetlights on Republic Square had been smashed since forever, so there was never much light even under the best of circumstances. That night, with the rain coming down, it was even darker than usual. But, light or no light, he wouldn’t have been able to see much of the guy’s face anyway because he was wearing a big rainhat, and he had it pulled down so that it almost covered his eyes.
Edson’s customers normally didn’t approach him on foot. On the rare occasions when they did, it generally meant that the John hadn’t come out of the closet and didn’t want to run the risk of having his wheels spotted.
“How much?” the man in the rain hat asked.
“A hundred and fifty,” Edson replied, expecting a counter-offer.
“Okay,” the guy said, surprising him, “but there are conditions.”
“I don’t take it in the ass,” Edson said, “and I don’t swallow. Find somebody else.”
“Your conditions are okay,” the man said, “you want to hear mine?”
“I’m listening.”
“There are two of us, and my boyfriend’s shy.”
“Which means?”
“He doesn’t want you to see his face. You have to wear a hood until we get there.”
“And then?”
“And then you do us in the dark.”
“Let’s see the money,” Edson said. The double act didn’t bother him. He’d done that before.
“You see the money when we’re in the car,” the man said. “What do you call yourself?”
“Pipoca. How about you?”
“You don’t have to know. Are you coming, or not?”
The car was a Passat, and not a new one. The inside stank of tobacco and of something else, too, something sweet and flowery. Once he was behind the wheel the guy lifted his ass to get at his wallet and counted out the hundred and fifty.
“You do a good job,” he said, “and there’s a tip at the end of it.”
Edson folded the money and put it in the pocket of his jeans. “Remember the deal,” he said.
“I remember. You suck, but you don’t swallow. You fuck, but you don’t want to be fucked, right?”
“Right.”
Rainhat reached under his seat and came up with a plastic trash bag.
“What’s that?” Edson said.
“You don’t listen, do you? It’s to put over your head.”
“A hood, you said.”
“What the fuck do you think we are? Seamstresses? Bite a hole with your mouth so you can breathe.”
The plastic was resilient, and Edson had to put it on and take it off a few times before he got it right. The man waited until he did before starting the engine.
They drove for almost twenty minutes. The first eight turns were all to the left. Edson could feel his body being pushed to the right by the inertia. He figured the guy had taken him a couple of times around the square. After that, it got confusing. He soon gave up trying to figure out where they might be going. He really didn’t give a damn anyway. He already had the money.
“Sit tight,” the man said, coming to a sudden stop.
He heard a garage door open. The Passat rolled forward and then stopped. The door closed again. The man killed the engine, got out of the car, came around to Edson’s side, and helped him out.
Edson asked if he could take off the hood.
“Not yet. Put your hands on my shoulders and follow me.”
The guy had apparently done this sort of thing before. He warned him when they were coming to each of the two flights of steps and he told him exactly how many of them there were both times.
At the top of the second flight, he could feel carpeting under his feet.
“Now, stand still.”
He heard a door open. And then he smelled it again: that same cloying, flowery smell from the car.
A new voice. “So this is our little whore for the night, hmm? I want to see your face, boy, but I don’t want you to see mine. Shut your eyes. Are they shut?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Keep them that way. There’ll be more money if you do, trouble if you don’t.”
Edson kept his eyes tightly closed, felt the plastic bag slide off of his head, felt the new man’s breath on his face: he was that close.
“Yes,” the man said. “Well done.”
The words weren’t meant for him.
“I’m glad you approve,” he heard the first man say. His voice sounded different, as if dampened by their surroundings. Edson imagined a place with a lot of curtains on the walls. He heard a click. The light beyond his eyelids went out.
“Now you can open your eyes.”
He did, not that it made any difference. Everything was pitch black.
“Move forward, until you feel the bed with your knees.”
He did that, too.
“Now, slide to your right. No, no, you stupid boy, to your right. Good. Keep going until you feel the bedside table.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you feel it?”
“I said, yeah.”
“Don’t be insolent. Think of the money. Now disrobe.”
“What?”
“Take off your clothes and drop them on the floor next to the table. That way, you’ll be able to find them again when you leave.”
The next ten minutes were strange and the five that followed them, a nightmare. To begin with, they didn’t ask him to do any of the things he was used to doing. They just let him lie there while they did it to each other. When he started to join in, as he thought they wanted him to do, they pushed him away. And then, suddenly, it happened. They were all over him. Worst of all, one of them was in him. And not in his mouth, like he’d agreed, but where he’d specifically said he didn’t want them to go. He tried to struggle, but he was just a boy and these were two strong men. One held him down, while the other did it to him. They didn’t use any jelly or anything.
He tried to bite the one who was holding him down, but the man let go just long enough to give him a blow that made him see a white flash and then blue stars in the night.
“Keep still, you little bastard, keep still.”
He stopped struggling. It was too late, anyway. The thing he’d never wanted done to him had been done to him. He started to whimper, and that seemed to encourage his tormenters all the more. One of them climaxed with a long cry and, after a moment of satiated rest, made way for the other.
The second one reached under Edson’s body, grasped his flaccid penis and squeezed it when he climaxed. And then it was over,
and they were telling him to get dressed, and that he’d be taken back to where he came from.
Tears still creeping down his cheeks, he did what they’d told him to do: As a guide to finding his clothes, he felt for the table. And when he did, he touched a fat wallet. Without thinking twice, he palmed it, and as soon as he’d located his jeans, he stuffed it into a pocket.
His heart started to beat faster. If they turned on the light, they’d be sure to notice.
But they didn’t.
“You dressed?” the first man said a minute or two later.
“Almost.”
“You earned another hundred. Put this on.”
He felt the plastic bag, took it, and slipped it on. He had to turn it to position the hole in front of his mouth.
“Okay. The same drill. Hands on my shoulders.”
Fifteen minutes later he was back on Republic Square, 250 reais richer, feeling dirtier than he had in all of his young life and with the wallet still in his pocket.
Chapter Forty-two
EDSON CAME TO THE end of his story without meeting Father Angelo’s eyes.
The old man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Look at me,” he said.
Edson did, and something in the priest’s expression must have encouraged him. His posture straightened and his sunken shoulders rose.
“Tell us the rest of it, why don’t you?” Father Angelo said.
“The wallet belonged to that canalha Farias,” Edson went on, faster than before, eager to get it over with. “There wasn’t much money, but there was his identification card and his driver’s license and even a credit card. I tried to use the credit card, but that was only the next day, in the afternoon. He’d canceled it by then.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Threw it in the river.”
“The wallet too?”
“All of it. Everything except the cash.”
“Where?”
“I threw it off the Goulart Bridge.”
Silva looked at Father Angelo.
“The river is deep there, and fast flowing,” the priest said, shaking his head. “I think it’s highly unlikely you’d find anything.”
Silva addressed Edson directly: “What did you do then?”
“I sent a letter to Dom Felipe.”
“Why didn’t you tell Father Brouwer or Father Angelo?”
“I . . . I was embarrassed. I didn’t want them to think . . .”
“Okay. Why the bishop?”
“Because I didn’t know him, and he didn’t know me, and he’s the boss of all the priests.”
“Did you tell the bishop everything you just told us? About what they did to you? About the wallet?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he believed you?”
“Maybe not at first, but after a while he did. He asked me to go with him to the police.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean—”
“Yes, it does. Because I told him I was afraid of the police, and he said that he couldn’t stop Father Gaspar without me coming forward, and I said I’d like to help, but I couldn’t, and he said I had to, that it was my . . . Christian duty, yeah, that’s it, Christian duty, and that it had to be stopped, because it had happened before and it would happen again if I didn’t—”
“Happened before? It had happened before?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Why would he share anything like that with you?”
“How the hell would I know? But he did.”
“All right, Edson. Stand right where you are for a moment. Gentlemen, a word.”
Silva drew Arnaldo and his nephew into his bedroom and closed the door. “Well?” he said, lowering his voice. “Do we believe him?”
“I sure as hell do,” Arnaldo said.
“The smell clinched it for me,” Hector said. “Gaspar drenches himself in that lilac cologne. And when we check the army records of that surly bastard, Euclides, I’ll bet we’re going to find out he’s an expert marksman.”
“So here’s how it probably went down.” It was Arnaldo again. “The bishop talks to the kid, and he tries to get him to come in. The kid refuses. The bishop pressures Gaspar anyway. Gaspar gets nervous, and he gets Euclides to kill the bishop.”
“Maybe,” Hector said, “or maybe not. Maybe the priest didn’t have anything to do with it. Maybe Euclides took the initiative himself.”
“Not likely,” Silva said. “The bishop talked to Gaspar. Why would Gaspar go whining to Euclides unless he expected him to do something about it?”
“Good point. Case solved?”
“Solved, maybe. But not proven and, therefore, not worth a damn. We’ve only got the kid’s word for the motive, nothing else. Gaspar was on the steps of the church when the bishop was shot, and everybody saw him. The gun’s untraceable, and there are no prints. Euclides doesn’t have a motive unless we can prove that Gaspar had a motive, and we can’t. All we’ve got is the word of—”
“A street kid who’s just admitted to being a prostitute and a thief,” Hector said.
“Precisely. And that, as Father Angelo was kind enough to point out to me earlier today, is the same as nothing at all.”
“So where do we go from here?” Arnaldo said.
“You go rent a car.”
“What for?”
“Never mind, just do it. Meanwhile, Hector and I will take the kid over to Gaspar’s place and confront him. If we take him by surprise, maybe Gaspar will crack and say something stupid.”
“What about Ferraz?”
“He won’t crack. Not him. And I don’t want him to know we’ve got the kid. We’ll leave Ferraz for later. Let’s go back and tell the kid.”
“SOAS soon as we leave Gaspar’s place,” Edson Souza said when Silva explained the plan, “you send me to my mother, right?”
“That’s right,” Silva said.
“Okay. But I want Father Angelo to go along, to Gaspar’s I mean.”
The old priest shook his head. “It wouldn’t be appropriate, my boy. Just keep on being as brave as you are.”
Edson’s face assumed a sullen expression, but he nodded. He didn’t like it, but he’d do it.
“As for you, Father,” Silva said, “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’re the next one on Ferraz’s hit list. How about accompanying Edson to Riberão?”
“Thank you, Chief Inspector. I appreciate the suggestion, but, no.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure. I have unfinished business here. You will inform me, won’t you, about what Gaspar has to say? I think I’ve earned the right to know.”
“I don’t think—”
“Please, Chief Inspector. It’s . . . very important to me.”
“Well, then . . .”
“Thank you.” Father Angelo fished a small notebook out of one of the pockets of his cassock and made a note. “I’ll be at this number,” he said, tearing off the page and giving it to Silva, “waiting for your call.”
Chapter Forty-three
WHEN EUCLIDES SAW EDSON standing between the two cops, his eyes started to narrow. When he noticed where Hector had placed his shoe, they became mere slits.
“There you go again,” he said. “Take your fucking foot out of the door,” he said.
“I thought you didn’t hold with foul language,” Hector said. “Where’s your boss?”
“Not here.”
“Really? Then we’ll wait for him. Get out of the way.”
“You can’t come in here. You need a warrant.”
Silva’s patience, held in check since he arrived in Cascatas, took that moment to run out.
“We do like hell,” he said. “All we need is this.”
Euclides took one look at the gun and stepped back out of the way. They pushed past him and headed straight for Gaspar’s study.
The priest was seated at his desk, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose and a pen in his hand. When they burst in,
he dropped the pen and whipped off the glasses.
“I tried to stop them, Father,” Euclides said, “but the old guy pulled that.”
Gaspar ignored where his manservant was pointing. He only had eyes for the boy.
“Recognize him, do you?” Silva asked.
He slipped the Glock back into its holster without taking his eyes off the priest.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“It’s him,” Edson said, pointing a finger. “I recognize his voice. And he’s using that same stinky stuff.”
Gaspar tore his eyes off the kid and addressed Silva.
“What do you mean by bursting in here with this . . . this . . .”
“This what, Father? What do you think he is?”
“I have no idea. I told you. I’ve never seen him before.”
“He says you have.”
“Then he’s a liar.”
“You used me like a girl,” Edson was shouting now. “I told you what I didn’t like, told you what I wouldn’t do, but you did it anyway, you and him.” He pointed at Euclides. “He had a hat pulled down over his eyes, but I recognize his voice, too.”
“Preposterous.”
“He picked me up on Republic Square, and brought me up to your bedroom, and the two of you—”
“Outrageous.”
“—fucked me in the ass.”
“Disgusting.”
“This boy’s name,” Silva said, grasping the kid firmly by the shoulder to quell his outburst, “is Edson Souza. You probably know him as Pipoca, and you also know that he’s a male prostitute—”
“Aha!”
“Let me finish. He says—”
“I don’t care what he says. He’s a liar.”
“He says,” Silva repeated, “that he took your wallet.”
“If he did, which he didn’t, then he’d be a thief as well as a prostitute.”
“He said the wallet was on the table next to your bed.”
“I lost my wallet. On the street. Maybe to a pickpocket. Isn’t that true, Euclides?”
“Yeah.”
“You see? How dare you—”
“Did your man here kill Bishop Antunes?”
“What did you say?”
“I asked you if your man killed Bishop Antunes.”
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