“No need. I already did. Twice. I don’t have money com-ing out of my ears.”
“Your own damned fault. You’re too fucking honest. This travel agency, you got an address?”
“Also in the envelope. It’s called Estrela Viagens and it’s on that street they reserve for pedestrians, the one near the Praça da Republica.”
“The Sete de Abril?”
“That’s the one.”
Arnaldo glanced at his watch. “There’s a flight in about an hour. If I hurry, I can make it.”
“So, hurry,” Silva said.
Chapter Twenty-seven
ALONG THE BACK WALL, a glass-fronted case contained petit fours, biscuits, rosquinhas, cookies, Lebanese esfihas, German pretzels, and a variety of cakes. Two attendants, dressed identically in paper hats and starched, white blouses, were behind the counter. They had no more than a half dozen customers and were having an easy time of it.
Not so the six attendants to Arnaldo’s right. Charged with dispensing the bread, they were beleaguered by a crowd that was elbow to elbow and three rows deep. Service seemed to be on the basis of push and shove. Every now and then an altercation would break out. But since most of the buyers were females, fights never seemed to escalate beyond an exchange of insults.
The loaves in contention were marvels of the baker’s art. There were narrow loaves, thick loaves, short loaves, long loaves, loaves made out of barley, manioc, rye, and wheat. There were loaves with sausage, cheese, and onion baked into the dough. There were French baguettes, loaves of Jewish rye, Syrian pitas, and German black breads, all reflec-tive of the multicultural nature of the neighborhood.
Arnaldo could have done without the noise, but he adored the mouth-watering smells and the jostling, rollick-ing atmosphere that was unique to a São Paulo padaria. Brasilia, too, had padarias, but they were nothing like this.
Every few minutes a guy in a white apron, rivulets of sweat running through a dusting of flour on his forehead, would come out of the back where the ovens were. He’d be carry-ing a wicker basket filled with something freshly baked, and he’d dump the contents into one of the unpainted wooden boxes reserved for that kind of bread. The effect on the women was immediate. They couldn’t wait to get at it. It reminded Arnaldo of the time he’d been in the Mato Grosso and had tossed the remainder of a ham sandwich into a pool of piranhas.
Most of the men, Arnaldo included, were gathered around the bar on the other side of the shop. São Paulo bakers sold sandwiches, fresh coffee, and alcoholic beverages, too. This particular baker seemed to be conveniently situated on the way home from work of many of his clients, and those clients appeared to be the kind of people who needed a drink to get their evenings under way.
The bar formed a perfect square. Arnaldo, with no little difficulty, had been able to belly up to a spot on the far side that had a view of the street.
He took another bite of his Americano, a grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich with a fried egg on a crusty French roll, and masticated slowly. The men around him were a diverse group that seemed to share only one characteristic: a taste for their cachaça straight up.
There were laborers and office workers; there were men in T-shirts and men in ties; there were kids barely out of their teens; and there was one gaffer who’d never see the shy side of eighty again. They were all making so much noise, and having such a good time, and demanding so much attention from the two men and a woman who were serving them, that no one bothered to ask Arnaldo if he wanted another beer, which was fine with him, because he wasn’t there for the drink or the food. He was there to check out the travel agency directly across the street.
Estrela Viagens, Star Travel, the place was called, but if the proprietors were trying to suggest that their clients included the noteworthy of Brazilian media or sports, they were liars. Arnaldo had been in place for almost two hours, and the only people he’d seen go through the glass door and climb the stairs had been simple working men. The agency had a discreet sign at street level and a bigger sign in the window one floor up, directly above a shop that sold all sorts of imported junk from cheap perfumes to radios the size of a box of matches.
Arnaldo glanced at his watch. It was eight minutes to six.
According to the information stenciled on the door, busi-ness hours at the agency were almost at an end. Things were likely to go more smoothly if the people waiting on him had their minds on closing the shop. That way there’d be less time for chit chat, less conversation that could lead to a mistake. Arnaldo had never thought of emigrating, never would, and he wasn’t sure he could sustain the role of an emigrant for an extended period of time. He had an idea of what he was going to say, and how he was going to say it, but he wasn’t sure he had it right. How did emigrants talk about the place they were leaving behind? And how did they talk about the country they were going to? And how did they come to make the decision to sneak into a place that didn’t want them? It was all a mystery to him. And it was one of the things wrong with Brazil that more than a few of its citizens were so exasperated by the high crime rate and the lack of opportunity that they were willing to pay dearly to get out of their country.
Time to go. Arnaldo stood up. He’d left his gun at home and traded his jacket and tie for a faded, blue shirt. He put enough money to cover the bill under his beer glass, and moved toward the door. The space he’d occupied was imme-diately filled by patrons to his left and right.
He crossed the narrow street (closed to vehicular traffic during business hours), pushed through the glass door, and climbed stairs that ended in a little alcove. The alcove termi-nated in a counter strewn with airline brochures. Beyond the counter, a girl was perched on a high stool reading a fotonovela.
She looked up, moved her chewing gum to one side of her mouth, and said, “Help you?”
“Yeah,” Arnaldo said. “I’m interested in a trip to the United States.”
“Sure,” she said. “Where to? New York? Miami?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” he said.
“Oh.” She winked. “You better talk to Juan. Hey, Juan.”
The only other person in the office, a man in his midthir-ties with his hair parted in the middle, looked up from a desk by the window.
“Somebody for you,” the girl said, and glanced at her watch. “Hey. Quitting time. See you tomorrow.”
She retrieved a cheap, plastic purse, ducked under the counter, and clattered off down the stairwell. The guy with his hair parted in the middle strolled over, an insincere smile plastered below his sparse mustache. He extended a hand. Arnaldo took it.
“Name’s Juan,” he said in a singsong accent that couldn’t be anything else but Argentinian.
“Arnaldo,” Arnaldo said, trying not to screw up his nose at the guy’s choice of cologne.
“What’s your pleasure?”
“I want to go to the States,” Arnaldo said.
“And?” Juan raised an eyebrow.
“And I can’t get a visa. Got turned down.”
“Why?”
“I worked there for years, overstayed my welcome, came home for my mother’s funeral. They stamped my passport on the way out, and now they won’t let me back in.”
“Sad,” the Argentinian said, but he didn’t sound as if he meant it. “So what makes you think we can help you?”
“I heard you guys organize trips. Through Mexico.”
“And where did you hear a thing like that?”
“Some guy I met.”
“Who?”
“I don’t remember his name. Just some guy.”
“Where?”
“In Pompano.”
Illegal Brazilian immigrants live all over the United States, but there are particularly large communities in Astoria, New York, near Boston, Massachusetts, and Pompano Beach, Florida. The locals drop Beach. They call it Pompano.
“Pompano, huh?”
The Argentinian looked Arnaldo up and down. Arnaldo did his best to look guil
eless.
“You’re a pretty old guy for that sort of thing, aren’t you? Sneaking across borders, I mean.”
Arnaldo hated references to his age. It took a conscious effort for him not to tell the Porteño to go fuck himself.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” he said, “but I got fam-ily there. A wife and two kids.”
“Guy’s got a family, he should be more careful. Maybe you shoulda stayed where you were.”
This time, Arnaldo almost lost it.
“I didn’t ask for your fucking opinion, I just want to know if you can help.”
“Hey, no need to get touchy. Travel is our business. We just got to be careful, you understand. You aren’t breaking any Brazilian laws by trying to get into the States, but if we help you, we are.”
“You want my business or not?”
The Argentinian seemed to come to a sudden decision.
“Cost you five thousand dollars American,” he said.
“And what do I get for my five?”
“Here’s how it works: you give me the five in cash, dollars, not reais. We put you up for a couple of days, room and board included, until we get a group of ten.”
“Put me up where?”
“A place we got. We don’t tell anyone where it is, and you don’t contact anyone while you’re there. No telephone, no letters, no nothing. Once we get a group together, we send everybody to Mexico. These days, the Mexicans are asking for visas from Brazilians. The Americans pressured them into that, but we have contacts. A little money changes hands and the visas get issued like that.” The Argentinian snapped his fingers.
“The visa’s extra?”
The Argentinian shook his head. “Included. Everything’s included. When you get to Mexico City, our group leader puts you in touch with one of our associates. The associate brings you and the others across the border. Once he does, you’re on your own. No guarantees.”
“What do you mean, no guarantees?”
“We provide board and lodging along the way, the ticket to Mexico, the visa, and the services of reliable guides, peo-ple who’ve done this kind of thing hundreds of times. Every now and then, one of them gets caught, which could mean you get caught. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens. The Yankees deport you, you come back here, and you try again. No discounts. If you want to try again, we charge you another five thousand dollars.”
“What kind of a deal is that?”
“It’s the deal we offer. It’s the deal everybody offers. You can try it on your own, of course. Some people do. Most of them don’t get very far. Aside from the fact that you probably haven’t got contacts at the Mexican consulate, your chances of getting across the border without help are pretty low. That’s what we charge for. Not the plane fare. Take it or leave it.”
Arnaldo nodded. “I’ll take it.”
“Good. When do you want to leave?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Then say your good-byes tonight. Come here tomorrow morning at eleven. Bring your luggage, one carry-on only, and my five thousand in cash. We’ll have you on your way to the land of margaritas and mariachis in a few days. You’ll be in the States within a week. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s closing time.”
Less than a minute later, Arnaldo was back on the street.
Chapter Twenty-eight
SYLVIE CHARMET BLEW INTO the restaurant like a squall off the South Atlantic, bussed Gilda once on each cheek, and slipped into the chair the waiter had hastened to pull out. Gilda waited until she had Sylvie’s full attention before pointedly looking at her watch. Then she lifted her eyes and stared at her friend.
“Once, just once, Sylvie, it would be nice if you’d show up for lunch on time.”
Sylvie made a dismissive gesture. She was big on dismis-sive gestures. “I’ve got a new shrink,” she said.
Sylvie was a cardiovascular surgeon, a lithe brunette in her early thirties and, like Gilda, still unmarried. When it came to her work, Sylvie was meticulous, but the rest of her life was a mess. Only the attentions of a full-time faixineira could keep her small apartment in order. The inside of her car looked like a teenager’s room. She couldn’t seem to find a new boyfriend and was flitting from psychiatrist to psychiatrist, trying to fig-ure out why her fiancé of four years, another doctor, had aban-doned her for a medical secretary with wide hips and thick glasses.
“What’s a new shrink got to do with anything?”
“She’s got man trouble, too. I got her to talk about it.”
Gilda rolled her eyes at the breach of professionalism. “The halt leading the blind. Are you helping each other?”
“Too early to tell.” Sylvie settled back in her chair and studied Gilda’s face. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” Gilda said, and buried her nose in the menu.
“Oh, come on. You can’t honestly be in a tiff just because I’m a few minutes late.”
“It’s not that.”
“But it’s something. Man trouble?”
Sylvie was also big on projecting. If she had a problem, she was prone to believe that others had the same problem.
“I wish,” Gilda said. “My boss is sixty-five if he’s a day, happily married with grandchildren. The only young bache-lor in the medical examiner’s office is gay, and my patients are all dead.”
Sylvie didn’t bother to grin. She’d heard the crack about dead patients before.
“Prospects?” she said.
“Maybe one,” Gilda admitted.
Sylvie wriggled in her seat. “Tell,” she said.
“He’s a federal cop, and he’s cute.”
“A federal cop?”
“Not just a cop. A delegado. You have to be a lawyer to be a delegado.”
“Yeah. I know. But Gilda, a cop?”
“You think I should hold out for another doctor?”
“Touché. You have a picture?”
“Not yet.”
“How’d you meet him?”
“I’ll get to that later. And Sylvie . . .”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want you shooting your mouth off about this. It’s in the early stages yet.”
“Your secrets are safe with me, querida. I don’t even know any cops. Yet.”
“Alright then. I’ll trust your discretion. How’s it going with you?”
“In the man department?”
Gilda nodded.
“The usual,” Sylvie said.
“A complete disaster?”
“I work with an anesthesiologist who’s interested, but he’s a creep. I met a guy at a party who wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and I thought he was a legitimate target, but then his namora-da showed up and dragged him off to her lair. My boss is unmar-ried, but he’s even older than yours, and for all the attention he pays to women, he must have shelved his sexuality. Sometimes I think I should have dropped all the medical-school crap and become a secretary. Secretaries find men and get married.”
“So do doctors.”
“Yeah, but most of them marry nurses. Can you see me with a male nurse?”
“Frankly? No.”
“Me neither.” Sylvie picked up the menu and perused it. “What are you going to have?”
“While I was waiting for you, I had a long talk with the waiter. About half an hour’s worth. I know his life story.”
“Married?”
“Yes. Happily.”
“And your point?”
“He said the snapper in lemon butter is good.”
Actually the conversation with the waiter had taken all of thirty seconds, Gilda had no idea whether he was married or not, and he hadn’t said a word about the snapper in lemon butter. It was just that the snapper was the cheapest thing on the menu. The waiter had nodded in a superior fashion when she’d asked him if he could recommend it. Compared to what Sylvie earned, Gilda’s salary was paltry, and she was still reeling in shock over the prices on the menu.
“And it�
�s your turn to pay, right?” Sylvie said, as if she could read Gilda’s thoughts.
Gilda nodded.
Sylvie perused her menu, then looked Gilda straight in the eye and said, “I’m going to have lobster Thermidor and a split of Cordon Rouge.”
“Sylvie—”
“On the other hand, I might have the snapper, but only if you come clean and you do it right now. What’s bugging you?”
Gilda rested her forearms on the white damask and leaned forward.
“Let’s order and I’ll tell you.”
Sylvie snapped her menu shut.
“Snapper it is, then,” she said, “but you’ve got to promise you’ll brief me on the cop before I leave this table.”
Gilda raised her hand and crossed her fingers as children do when they’re making solemn promises.
The waiter thought she was signaling him, and promptly came to the table. They ordered the snapper and compro-mised on a bottle of Chilean white.
When he was gone, Sylvie gestured with her hands, as if she were presenting the place.
“Well?” she said with a proprietary air.
“Very nice, but expensive.”
“Worth every centavo. You’re going to love it.”
Gilda wasn’t sure about that. Even the snapper in lemon butter was a strain on her budget. The waiter came back with the wine and let Gilda taste it. She nodded. He half-filled each of their glasses and went away again.
“So out with it,” Sylvie prompted. “You pregnant? Been fired? Have a particularly bad morning cutting up one of your patients?”
“None of that,” Gilda said.
“Then what?”
“I want you to tell me how you source human hearts.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
SILVIE HAD BEEN LEANING forward, resting her chin on the heel of one hand. She put her hand on the table and sat up straight in her chair.
“What?”
“Hearts. Hearts from people recently dead. The ones you use for transplants. Where do you source them from?”
Sylvie frowned. “From donors, of course. Why?”
“I’m paying. I get to ask my questions first. Where else do you get hearts from?”
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