by Paulo Levy
“Nildo, I appreciate the opportunity to have you show us the work you’ve developed here at Peixe Dourado. Once again, my congratulations,” said Dornelas when they arrived at the car.
“Any time, Inspector. If you’d like to come back to see what we weren’t able to today, please call me and we’ll set a date.”
“Thank you in advance for that.”
They shook hands. Solano shook the councilman’s hand as well and they got in the car to go back to town. Dornelas turned on the headlights against the late afternoon’s coming darkness as soon as they went through the entrance gate and got on the road.
*
“So?” shot out the Inspector.
“What do you mean?”
“What did you see while I was learning how to gut a snook?”
“Is the fat guy in the yellow shirt the councilman’s brother?”
“That’s him.”
“He’s who gave the wad of cash to a guy on the boat that was being unloaded.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you mean, ‘that’s it?’”
“What was in the plastic boxes, under the layer of ice?”
“Pink shrimp. But they wouldn’t let me stick my hands in without gloves.”
“Why not?”
“They claimed I’d contaminate the merchandise.”
“What do you mean, contaminate?”
“They said I could only touch anything if I wore gloves.”
“And you didn’t ask them to lend you a pair of gloves?”
“I did, but they didn’t give me one.”
“Spit it out, man! Do I have to ask every single thing?”
“They didn’t give me any gloves because they’re all numbered, each employee is responsible for his own. That’s what they told me. What was I supposed to do?”
“Jesus, we’re talking about a pair of gloves here…,” Dornelas slammed his hands on the wheel. “How can a company that size not have an extra pair of gloves?”
“Sir, they didn’t want me to put my hands in there, picking around the shrimp. The gloves were only an excuse. I didn’t want to insist so I wouldn’t arouse their suspicion, like you said.”
“It’s possible.”
There was a brief silence.
“Or not,” pondered Solano.
“What do you mean?”
“If the trafficking is done using the boxes that come off the boats and enter the company, then the employees who unload the cargo and those in the processing room are all part of the scheme. I mean, if that’s true, then it’s a part of the company’s business, its daily routine. Don’t you think that’s just a little weird? That sort of thing is done on the down low, in the middle of the night, with only a few people involved.”
“That makes sense,” said Dornelas. “But what about the payoff you saw, isn’t it sort of strange for one of the company’s owners to be giving a pile of cash to a fisherman?”
“That is strange.”
“Damn right it is! A serious company wouldn’t do business that way, payments are only made against a receipt or an invoice. And a company belonging to a councilman who’s constantly in the press’ sights wouldn’t operate any differently.”
“But don’t you believe they have a slush fund?”
“I do, but I don’t think everybody knows about it.”
Solano agreed with a nod of his head. Dornelas continued:
“If Wilson’s doing something under the table, he’s doing it without his brother knowing.”
“That’s possible.”
There was a new, brief silence.
“But on the other hand, maybe not,” Solano pondered once more.
“You’re a real pain in the ass today, you know that?!” the inspector fumed.
“Bear with me, sir. What’s wrong with an owner giving money to a fisherman? Maybe they were settling up some other service he provided, a job outside the company, I don’t know. These things can happen.”
“Maybe something he did related to Wilson’s businesses, which, by the way, don’t seem to have much of a future.”
“What businesses are we talking about?”
Dornelas explained in a few words and added.
“A front, I don’t know.”
Solano nodded in understanding just as the inspector’s cell phone rang and he answered.
“Dornelas.”
“We need to talk.”
“When’s good for you?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. I don’t have to work at the cabinet.”
Marina’s voice was quivering in a strange, nervous way.
“I’ll call you later to pick a time and place.”
She hung up. Dornelas parked the car in front of the precinct and asked Solano:
“Do you remember the name of the boat?”
“Cê Que Sabe.”
“Great. Get more information on it and its owner. We’ll go from there.”
“Okay, sir.”
Chapter 13
It was after eight and Dornelas still hadn’t found a gift to bring Dulce Neves. He couldn’t show up at her house empty-handed. How she might interpret whatever he gave her, however, frightened him. He would pay dearly for the wrong present.
Flowers would signal the blossoming of a passion. He gave up on that idea. A bottle of wine might be seen as disguising his desire to get her drunk so he could get her in bed right away. He didn’t want to rush things. A blouse or a dress was out of the question. Not only were they too personal, but if he got the size wrong he’d have to find an elegant way to answer the fateful question – to which there is no safe answer – women often loved to throw out: ‘do you think I’m fat?’
He left the dress on the hanger.
In an imported goods store he found the ideal gift; not too big, not too small, perfect for defining the situation between them.
He paid, had it gift wrapped and left.
*
With the present in his hand and butterflies in his stomach, Dornelas entered Vito’s bar at precisely 8:30. Showing up at Dulce’s door exactly on time would never do. Fifteen minutes, half an hour late would be politely right. He sat down, put the package on the table and ordered coffee.
“And the cachaça?” asked Vito.
“On second thought, let’s do the following: cancel the coffee and bring me just the cachaça.”
Vito, satisfied, went behind the counter. He came back a minute later with a bottle of Canarinha, the inspector’s favorite, and a small glass which he filled to the brim. Dornelas brought the glass up to his nose, breathed in the fiery and sugary aroma, took two sips like a humming bird and then downed the rest in one shot.
He put down the glass, paid the bill, took a deep breath and went out.
*
The ruffles on her blouse fluttered as soon as the door opened, flowers in the breeze.
“Good evening, Joaquim,” Dulce murmured with a waggish smile. She was positively radiant.
Dornelas, stunned, was left speechless, glued to the spot. Pleased by her friend’s reaction, Dulce stepped closer and kissed him on the cheek, giving him a sweet whiff of her perfume.
“Please, come in.”
He did so mechanically. She closed the door and went to the living room, leaving a trail of perfume in her wake. Like a predator tracking its prey, Dornelas followed the scent.
“You look beautiful,” he got out.
“Today I believe you,” she said without modesty.
“I brought you a little something.”
Dulce took the package and carefully, not wanting to ruin the ribbon or rip the paper, unwrapped a rectangular red velvet box and opened it. Her eyes opened wide in surprise.
“How romantic! A Swiss army knife!”
In his male obtuseness Dornelas was unable to grasp the extent of her sarcasm, so short a distance is there between a compliment and contempt in the curves and twists in a woman’s way of communicating.
“It’s very useful to
carry in your purse,” he said, somewhat disconcerted. “The blade is very sharp... it has a magnifying glass, tweezers, even a little pen.”
Dulce came closer and planted a wet kiss on the corner of his mouth.
“Thank you very much. It’s the most original present I’ve ever received.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it, really.” She pressed the little box to her bosom. “How about a drink? I have wine, scotch... I know you like cachaça.”
“It’s too late for that. What are you going to have?”
“White wine. What do you think?”
“Great.”
“I’ll go get a bottle. Make yourself at home.”
Dulce went to the kitchen. Dornelas sat on the wicker couch among the white jute pillows and studied the room around him: the wooden pillars, the mirrors and engravings on the walls, the fishing net and its old glass buoys hanging from the ceiling, the maritime artifacts in polished copper on the coffee table; the antique and mismatched furniture artfully placed around the room gave the environment an aura of casual good taste that pleased him.
Dulce came back with a chilled bottle and two crystal wine glasses that she handed to him along with the corkscrew.
“A man’s job.”
“Leave it to me.”
He opened the bottle and poured the golden liquid in the two glasses. He passed one to her and picked up his.
“Tim-tim, as they say in my mother’s country.”
“Tim-tim,” repeated Dulce, touching her glass to his.
They drank.
“Very good,” said Dornelas.
“So, as we agreed, while you watch the soap I’ll take care of dinner. Here’s the remote.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Just make yourself at home.”
Dulce skipped away. Dornelas settled in on the couch and turned on the TV feeling at ease and pleased by her genuine and mature enthusiasm. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Flavia like that, happy simply to be enjoying his company.
As he crossed his legs he brushed his hand along his left calf and was reminded of the tension that arose between him and his ex-wife when he was shot. Like a crack that gradually widens due purely to being left untended, their marriage had crumbled less than a year later.
Resigned, Dornelas picked up his glass of wine, took another sip and turned his attention to the last chapter of the soap that had already begun with scenes from yesterday’s episode.
*
“José dos Anjos’ sister went to the morgue this afternoon with one of your detectives. Caparrós, right?” asked Dulce, taking a scoop of vanilla ice cream from the container and placing it on Dornelas’ plate, right on top of the slice of apple pie.
“Thank you. That’s right. Did she identify the body?”
Dulce put a smaller scoop on her plate and they both began to eat.
“Immediately. But she didn’t scream or get hysterical, nothing like that. She cried softly and left the room.”
“This pie is delicious!” exclaimed the inspector. “The problem is that I don’t have an ID or any other document of his, nothing that proves that he and she are brother and sister.”
“A family recipe... Why don’t you ask for a DNA test?”
“For a drug dealer? I don’t have the budget for that.”
“I can’t keep the body much longer.”
“Could I have another piece of pie?” Dornelas asked, holding his plate out to Dulce. “But you also can’t bury him as an indigent. Maria das Graças identified him.”
“It’s not enough, but better than nothing,” she said putting a generous slice on his plate. “More ice cream?”
“One scoop. Small, please.”
Dulce served him.
“Thank you.”
“How much time do you need?’
“Three, four days?”
“As long as a massacre doesn’t fill up my freezers, I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you.”
*
As she opened the door Dulce barred his way and, with a languidness in both her movement and look, pressed him against the wall.
“What did you think of our first dinner, did you have a nice time?”
The mere suggestion that other dinners were to follow scared him. Whatever this was – friendship, a date, a moment – it was going too fast for him. Like a boxer trapped on the ropes, Dornelas tried to keep things under control.
“It was nice…,” he murmured cautiously.
His hesitation hovered in the air.
“Relax Inspector Joaquim Dornelas. I have no intention of handcuffing you to anything.” She gave him a mischievous smile. “For the time being.”
Dornelas smiled uncomfortably and, moved by an inexplicable impulse, lowered his head and kissed her lightly on the lips, just a peck.
“Thank you for dinner. It was great. Next time is at my house.”
“It’s a deal.”
She returned the peck and freed him for the night.
*
Saturday began early. At six on the dot ABBA’s Take a Chance on Me blared out from the clock radio. Happy to be in his house, in his bed, Dornelas got up, went into the shower and took his first piss of the day while the hot water was running down his neck.
Through the bathroom window he could see the pale blue sky with thin clouds like little tufts from a cotton ball rolling past. He noticed there were no swallows, a sign that it would not rain, and got quickly dressed in the most worn-out clothes in his closet. The shorts, T-shirt and running shoes Flavia had threatened to throw out more than once were his favorites. ‘How I wish I could wear this every day,’ he fantasized.
He made the bed – Neide didn’t work on weekends – put his cell phone, wallet and sun block in his pockets, went downstairs and had a yogurt smoothie and a large slice of white cheese.
He put a couple of cans of soda in the cooler, along with two bottles of mineral water, plastic cups, a loaf of bread, a knife and a chunk of yellow cheese. He would get crushed ice at the fish market on the way to the pier.
Watching all this unusual activity, Lupi kept close tabs on his owner, following him everywhere. Finally, as he always did on fishing trips, Dornelas put the leash on the dog, picked up the cooler and left.
*
The Historical Center was quietly waking up. Seven in the morning on a Saturday is too early for the tourists. The people in the street were either tradesmen on their way to work, residents out to buy fresh bread and milk, or the employees of both. With luck the pier – which the natives called a pontoon – would also be empty, with only a few boats almost ready to take their owners to the best beaches before they were invaded by outlanders.
Dornelas was holding the dog by the leash in one hand and the cooler in the other as he stepped on the pier’s first plank and saw the schooners being readied to receive the day’s tourists.
Sailors were opening the wooden cabins, sweeping the decks, putting up the awnings, preparing sandwiches, pouring crushed ice on top of the drinks in the Styrofoam coolers, giving the quarterdeck a final polishing and plumping the cushions. Signs with the daily itineraries, pictures and prices were hung on the pier’s wooden framework like fishing tackle awaiting a shoal of fish.
Knowing the schooners’ routine – casting off everyday full of people, even more so on the weekends when they were jam-packed – most of the fishing boats would remain moored during the day. Sharing the ocean with noisy tourists would be a waste of time and fuel.
There was some activity, but only from the fishing boats that had just docked and were beginning to unload the catch from their days on the open sea onto the pier. On one of them three men were taking plastic boxes lined with fish and crushed ice out of the hold and stacking them up in different piles on the pier.
A older lady with unkempt hair wearing a colorful dress pulled a big corvina out of one of them and began to lift it up and down by the tail, weighi
ng it with her own arm while grousing to a man. He listened to her patiently. A mangy dog chewed on the rests of a fish, its colored tail hanging out of the dog’s mouth, at the same time Lupi approached it. They exchanged growls.
Dornelas used the walk down the pier to read the names of all the boats in hopes of finding Cê Que Sabe. Unsuccessful, he passed the dog and the old woman and soon saw Claudio moving around the deck of the Janua, almost at the end of the pontoon.
“I got ice at the fish market on my way,” he said, handing the cooler to his friend and jumping on the boat. Lupi followed him.
“Then we’ve got everything we need.”
“Great. Let’s go. But remember – the fuel’s on me.”
“Okay, sir.”
Claudio turned the key and pressed the ignition button. A hard jolt produced a kind of dry cough, black smoke spat out of the exhaust, there was a squeaking sound and the engine caught, making the whole boat shake. The inspector untied the ropes and rushed to the bow to lift the anchor.
In a few minutes they were heading out of the bay on calm waters, on their way to Hunger Island.
Happy to be able to spend the day outdoors in the fresh air, Dornelas breathed deeply and watched a low-flying booby, its wings nearly grazing the water.
The rhythmic husky sound of the engine rocked him into a kind of trance, leading him to think of his children, of Dulce, of his ex-wife. Like a ball of yarn held fast, the web of thoughts began unwinding as the boat got farther away from land, to finally break up with a subtle snap and leave him free on the open sea.
The Mangrove Crime switched on in his head with the same effect as a spotlight in total darkness. Dornelas saw himself in the middle of an arena with all the pieces in the case laid out around him – characters, facts, statements and theories – ready to be moved about however he saw fit.