by Paulo Levy
There were rumors that he and his company benefitted from his political position. Although many tried, no one was ever able to prove anything that incriminated him. It could only be one of two things: either Nildo Borges was an example of integrity, or he was a Harry Houdini in the way he was able to dodge investigations that, according to the word on the street, were all settled by under-the-table agreements and give-and-take deals. He turned to Dornelas.
“Shall we talk in my office, Inspector?” he turned back to Marina. “We’ll talk soon.” Dornelas caught the wink he threw in her direction and was once again intrigued.
While he followed him and sat down in front of a big, littered desk, Dornelas puzzled over the relationship between the two, which seemed to have evolved from a student friendship into something bigger, some kind of close association that was difficult to define.
Nildo Borges closed the door behind him, took off his jacket, hung it on a hook on the wall and fell into a reclining chair; Dornelas feared for its hinges.
“How unfortunate for the man in the mangrove, don’t you think Inspector?” he asked rhetorically while running his hands through his black and shiny gelled hair, like Vito Corleone in the The Godfather.
“Dying is part of life.”
“But like that, ditched in the mud for the vultures to feed on! Whatever happened to human dignity?”
‘Is it now going to be the Councilman’s turn to rant on about communism to me?’ thought the Inspector before going on.
“You called me here, sir, hinting you have information I don’t.”
“That’s true,” said Nildo while he settled in the chair like a chicken hatching eggs. “Inspector Joaquim Dornelas, you know I occupy this seat due to the confidence the less favored classes deposited in me. I am the voice of the poor and the needy on the City Council, the voice of those who struggle for a dignified life, who want nothing more than their own homes, safe streets and good schools for their children. Look at what we pay the teachers! It’s a disgrace, Inspector. Walk around the streets and see the deplorable state the city’s in: clogged up gutters and open air garbage dumps that contaminate our water. A calamity, Inspector. A calamity.”
Dornelas sighed and nodded his head heavily while he imagined the magnetic effect this performance would have at a political rally: the crowd with arms raised in the air, jumping up and down while screaming wildly and waving little banners to the tune of a carnival march loud enough to drive you out of your mind.
“Well then. You must also know that the least favored region of our beloved city, the poorest, to put it frankly, is on Monkey Island, on the other side of the bay.”
“Uh-huh,” mumbled Dornelas, visibly bored. Impossible to remember how many times in his career he had been forced to listen to politicians’ dull speeches, always the same tedious bullshit.
“Great. Because it is due to my close contact with these people that I received information early this morning that the dead man was part of a drug trafficking gang operating in the city, much to the population’s distress since they have to live with this kind of danger at their doorsteps. A damn shame, don’t you think?”
It was so tiresome and at the same time so simple. All Nildo had to do was give him a name. Dornelas felt like leaping over the desk and violently shaking the man’s identity out of him the way you shake pennies out of a piggy-bank.
“Do you have a name, sir?” he asked dryly.
The music stopped, the crowd fell silent, the rally disappeared.
“José Aristodemo dos Anjos, better known as White Powder Joe.”
Dornelas had thrown out the bait not knowing he was going to catch such a big fish. Nildo went on.
“According to my information he was making his way up the hierarchy.”
“Threatening the Doorman?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.”
The Doorman was the big boss of drug trafficking in the city. From Monkey Island – which actually became a peninsula after the city canalized part of the riverhead – he commanded a small army of young boys and adolescents who spread nickel bags of cocaine, marijuana and especially crack all over the city.
He was known as a violent man who stops at nothing to eliminate his rivals, no matter who they are. It’s a long list. Nobody knows where the nickname came from. Some say it’s in honor of his first kill, when he crushed a guy’s head in a car door. Others say it goes back to when he was a doorman at a club at the beginning of his career. And still others claim he got it in Hell itself, so large was the myth surrounding him.
“I’ve only heard of White Powder Joe by his nickname. The pictures we have of him aren’t good,” said Dornelas. “It’s difficult for us to enter some parts of the island. I don’t want to send my men in and have them be executed in cold blood.”
Unlike Rio de Janeiro, which possesses elite troops specially trained to enter the slums, equipped with bullet-proof vehicles and weapons more powerful than those of the Civil and Military Police, the resources available to Dornelas were ridiculous even compared to those used by the drug dealers.
While the Civil Police have .38s or 9mm revolvers, the drug lords can count on HK-47 rifles and more. And the larger the caliber, the more unfair the war. It’s a big boy fight, an even-up match for the Federal Police, who sometimes sign agreements with the Civil and Military Police in each state to combat trafficking on a regional basis. The division of labor between the two is very clear: the MP take preventive action, the Civil deal with legal and administrative issues. Sometimes these roles get mixed-up. And when the salaries are not equal, it turns into a battle among brothers.
“I understand what you’re saying. And think I can help you,” said Nildo, clasping his hands together and taking on the magnetic look of a psychic, like the one successfully used by that famous king of telemarketing who was consecrated on TV as the apostle of Miami’s rich and needy female airheads. “Here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to mobilize my allies on the Council to raise the police department’s budget to help you eradicate this cancer from our society once and for all.”
Realizing that the councilman was going to insist on continuing his campaign speech, Dornelas brought the conversation to an end. He stood up.
“I appreciate your willingness to help,” he said, shaking the politician’s hand.
“You can count on me. If I learn anything else I’ll inform you immediately.”
Time to go. He said good-bye to Marina and left. As the elevator door was opening a sudden thought erupted in his mind and Dornelas went back. He entered the reception area. Marina was talking to a woman. He told her the reason for his return and re-entered Nildo Borges’ chamber.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Councilman, but could you tell me who informed you of White Powder Joe’s death?”
Nildo Borges froze on the spot as if he’d been caught in bed with another woman.
“A voter,” he responded impulsively.
“Could you give me his name, sir? I’ll need to talk to him.”
“Ah, well, I received a call at home, very early, around seven-thirty in the morning. It was a man and he didn’t tell me his name. It would help if I could give you the person’s number, but unfortunately I don’t have caller ID on my phone.”
“Another question, if you don’t mind.”
“Fire away, Inspector.”
“One thing puzzles me. Can you think of any reason why they would call you instead of the police?”
“Inspector Dornelas, I asked myself the same question as soon as I hung up. I have no idea. I’m very sorry.”
“I see,” he said regretfully. “Thank you again for your help. If you find out anything else please let us know. Have a good day.”
“The same to you, sir.”
And he left.
Chapter 4
Back on the street Dornelas searched in his pocket for his cell phone and remembered he’d left it on his desk for Anderson to download the pictures he’d taken in t
he morning. He was thinking of going over some issues regarding the investigation with Solano and Lotufo. With that plan aborted he headed towards Vito’s Bar.
He went up the high stone step and came face to face with Vito himself, a cranky Italian who had left Italy, his wife, children, dog and parrot and come back to live with a Brazilian woman he had met during his vacation and had fallen in love with.
The woman was pretty, charming, worked in the kitchen and had a natural talent for dealing with her husband’s grouchiness, a trait Flavia lacked and that Dornelas admired. Maybe a little of that from his ex-wife, just a little, would have saved their marriage. Maybe. The thought saddened him.
Vito’s Bar was known for being laid-back, featuring half a dozen tables, simple plates and silverware, cream cheese jars for glasses and a limited menu, but with an Italian touch that Dornelas liked in addition to the selection of cachaças – Brazilian sugar cane rum – filling the shelves behind the counter. He was also attracted by the prices and the coffee, which Vito could make like no one else.
“Good-a afternoon, sir. Whatta it gonna be today?”
“Coffee, please.”
“And a little cachaça?”
“Not yet.” And he fell silent.
The memory of his ex-wife and the strain of a badly-slept night hit him like a sack of cement. He would like to have the quiet moments back, moments that brought him peace, not like now, up to his neck in this mud pit of badly resolved issues between him and Flavia. A hot breeze blew through the door bringing with it the nauseating stench of the bay. Dornelas could actually see his anguish taking shape, gaining consistency.
Lost in his thoughts, he drank his coffee in silence while watching on the TV hanging next to the kitchen door a blurry image of someone who looked liked himself dragging a man out of the bay by the arm, probably taken on some tourist’s cell phone. In the foreground an expressionless reporter saying something he didn’t want to hear.
He paid the bill, thanked Vito and hit the street.
*
“Inspector, Inspector, can you talk to us for a minute about the body that was found in the mangrove?” asked a guy holding a little notebook and a pen, jumping on him as soon as he stepped into the precinct. Two identical characters remained seated with the same expectant look on their faces.
“Not now.”
The guy sullenly sat down again. The other two looked at him sympathetically. Dornelas turned to Marilda.
“Any messages?”
“No, but there’s a woman who wants to speak to you. It sounds urgent.”
Marilda pointed to the bench on the other side of the reception area where a woman was seated wearing very colorful and tight clothes, almost a second skin, leaving nothing of her firm, curvy and compact body to the imagination.
The outfit began at the ankles, went up her legs, hips and stomach, and then opened into a plunging neckline from where her breasts, pressed together like two headlights on a truck, seemed ready to jump out.
“Good afternoon. I’m Chief Inspector Joaquim Dornelas,” he said, extending his hand to her.
She shook it and quickly got up, while clutching at the cleft in her garment and pulling it up.
“Charmed. My name’s Maria das Graças.
“What can I do for you?”
“Inspector, I really need to talk to you!”
“Could you give me fifteen minutes? I’ve been out all day.”
“I can help you with this morning’s crime.”
Dornelas was surprised.
“Please, come with me to my office.”
As the woman entered the room and sat down, the inspector saw the heads of his men pop out into the hall like mushrooms in search of a last glimpse of Maria das Graças. He closed the door.
“How can I help you, ma’am…?” he asked, stretching out in his chair. He was tired and didn’t care if it showed
“Not ma’am. Just Maria das Graças, please. Ma’am makes me feel older than I am.”
“Excuse me. What can I do for you, Maria das Graças?”
She squeezed the little gold purse in her hands.
“I’m José Aristodemo dos Anjos’ sister. I know how he died.”
Dornelas jumped in his chair as if stung by a wasp. He settled back down and stared at her.
“What did you say?”
“Just what you heard. I know how my brother died.”
And they stayed that way, staring at each other for a few seconds in silence, until Dornelas decided to pressure her:
“Then tell me!”
“It’s not so simple.”
“Why not? You either died or you didn’t. What’s so complicated about that?”
This logic led Maria das Graças to tears.
“I’m sorry, I’m just over tired,” he said, taking a box of tissues out of his drawer. Maria das Graças was not the first woman to cry at the police station, nor would she be the last.
“I forgive you. It’s just so recent,” she said while drying her tears and blowing her nose. “I’ve been getting myself ready for this day for a long time, big help that was. When the time comes it hurts all the same.”
“I understand what you’re saying.”
His ex-wife came back to mind.
“Would you like a glass of water, ma’am?”
“Please, just Maria das Graças,” she said smacking her lips together while she touched up her makeup with the help of a little mirror.
Dornelas picked up the phone and dialed three numbers.
“Marilda, have someone bring a glass of water to my office, please.”
“Right away, sir.”
It took only two minutes for Solano to materialize in the doorway with a glass in his hand. In all his years working in the Palmyra Police Department he could not remember ever seeing Solano serve water in his office, or anywhere else in the precinct for that matter; not even once, to anybody. The detective placed the glass on the desk while taking a long look at the woman’s cleavage.
“Thank you.”
“Anytime,” Solano said sweetly.
Dornelas flashed him a menacing look and he left. She sipped from the glass and put it on the desk.
“My brother was murdered, Inspector.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard it.”
“What do you mean, you heard it?”
“I heard it, you know, like you hear music.”
“Please explain.”
“Well,” she began, settling into the chair, “it was late, maybe early morning. My brother’s asleep and I’m in the room next to his, workin’, if you know what I mean. The doorbell rings like it does all the time. I was busy so he gets up to answer it. When he opens the door some men grab him and tell him not to yell. But he did yell in a sorta smothered way, as if they’d put a gag in his mouth. Then they injected him with somethin’ and left. It all happened real fast.”
Dornelas remembered the round band-aid inside the fold of the left arm.
“How do you know they injected him with something?”
“’Cause I found this outside the front door.”
She took a dirty, disposable syringe out of her purse, with the needle still attached to it, and put it on the desk. Dornelas studied it as if it were a museum piece. He got a transparent plastic bag out of his drawer and bagged it, careful not to touch it.
“Let’s go back a bit. Tell me in more detail what happened after they came in.”
She took another sip of water.
“First they held him down and stopped him from yellin’. Then when he couldn’t move they started swearin’ and callin’ him every name in the book. I remember a few of ‘em: ‘this is so you’ll learn a lesson, you asshole’, and ‘you oughtta mind your own business, you son of a bitch’, ‘you double-crossed the boss muthafucker.’ Stuff like that.”
“Did you see who they were, or how many there were?”
“I think there were maybe three or four…I was terrified, Ins
pector. As soon as they came in me and my client was paralyzed, we just stayed the way we was, he on top of me, and him panting so much he had to bury his head in the pillow. My heart nearly jumped outta my mouth. I thought they was gonna come into my room and kill us both too. Then I heard, ‘that’s it, ma’man, just be cool and see if you can get in a good word with Jesus.’ And then I didn’t hear nothin’, it was all quiet. I waited a bit and when I felt safe I got outta bed and went to his room, but I didn’t see anyone. I went into the living room and still nobody. The front door was open so I went out and found the syringe on the ground.”
“Do you suspect anyone?”
“I can make you a list if you want. I don’t think it’ll help much.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Half the city’ll be on it.”
“Explain yourself.”
“My brother was involved with drugs for a long time. And that meant gettin’ involved with lotsa people, lotsa bad people.”
“Can you give me a name?”
Maria das Graças was struggling in her seat. It looked like she was losing her breath, and was trying to get it back.
“Right now, off the top of my head, nobody,” she squeaked in reply.
Dornelas fell silent. Stuck in his chair, motionless, he looked inward and instinctively confirmed the conclusion he was arriving at: that she was lying shamelessly. Sensing the distrust in the air, Maria das Graças grabbed her purse and stood up, wanting to end the conversation.
“I want your client’s name.”
The woman fell into the chair again like a sack of potatoes.
“Client-professional confidentiality Inspector, if you know what I mean.”
“I can arrest you right now for obstruction of justice. What do you think of that?”
She showed no surprise at the possibility, but since she had to get back to work, she opened her purse, took out her cell phone and pushed a few numbers.