Dying Gasp cims-4

by Leighton Gage

  If the recruit was interested, his next question was usually, “How much?”

  Claudia made sure her answer always exceeded his expectations.

  The deal struck, the prospect would soon find himself on a bed with one of The Goat’s girls, surrounded by Hans playing the European, Otto playing Claudia’s assistant, and Claudia herself operating the camera. The lights would be switched on and the couple would be told to begin.

  Claudia hardly ever bothered to roll the camera during her so-called screen tests. She wasn’t in the business of making simple pornos. And she never did the test and the shoot on the same day because she could never be sure of the man’s ability to turn in a repeat performance.

  Test or shoot, it didn’t matter, she always had the whore service Hans and Otto first, so they’d be sated and keep their minds on business. That, however, required a willing female. It wasn’t going to work with a fifteen-year-old recalcitrant virgin. And there was another good reason for not carrying out the screen test with Marta herself: when the protagonist discovered he was in for a fight he might refuse to get near her the second time around.

  She resolved both problems by arranging to rent a whore from The Goat. The whore would service Hans and Otto, then apply herself to the “talent.” On the day of the shoot, she’d rent another whore, or maybe the same one all over again. She’d be for Hans’s and Otto’s use, to be returned prior to rolling the camera. Marta would be kept for the killer. The rentals would add to expenses, but not by much. The Goat’s girls were among the most expensive in the city, but Manaus was Manaus. She could get two of them for the price of a decent bottle of wine.

  Chief Pinto came through, as he always did. Forty-eight hours later, Claudia was conducting the test.

  The room smelled of sweat and testosterone. Little motes of dust had been kicked up by all the lunging and plunging on the mattress, and they danced in the glare of the lights. The candidate, a certain Delfin Figueiredo, gave a final thrust and groan and collapsed on top of the whore. The whore, looking over his shoulder, had a bored expression on her face. She rolled her eyes at Claudia as if to say, What are you waiting for? He’s finished, but Claudia gave Figueiredo another ten seconds or so before she switched off the lights.

  Figueiredo had performed more than adequately, and the girl had done her job. Otto was tasked with taking her back to The Goat’s. She slipped into a dress, no underwear, put her feet into a pair of plastic sandals, and was out the door sixty seconds after Delfin rolled off of her.

  Hans, playing the European, signified he was satisfied. He hadn’t said a word during the entire process, and he didn’t now. He simply handed over the wad Claudia had given him and left. Hans’s silence had been an absolute necessity. He was no actor, and Figueiredo would have pegged him for a Brazilian the minute he’d opened his mouth.

  Claudia promptly counted off the agreed-upon sum from the wad and handed it to Figueiredo. He counted it again, folded it, and reached for his underpants.

  “You got any more work like this,” he said, putting the underwear on, “I’m your man. Easiest money I ever made.”

  “What you earned today is a trifle,” she said. “You could be earning a lot more if you’ve got the balls to go for it.”

  Claudia had questioned Delfin’s manhood. Delfin reacted like she knew he would.

  “What the fuck you mean ‘If I got the balls’?”

  “Just what I said.”

  “I got the balls for anything,” he said. “Anything,” he repeated.

  “Then I’ve got a proposition for you,” she said.

  Thought lines creased what was normally a smooth brow. Delfin gave her a suspicious look, stuffed the money into a pocket of his jeans, and lifted one foot in order to pull them on.

  “What have you got in mind?” he said, his foot still in the air. “I hear you kill people.”

  He put his foot back on the floor.

  “Who the fuck told you that?”

  “Just something I heard,” she said.

  He lifted his right foot again, slid it into the jeans, and did the same with the left. Then he pulled the pants up to his hips, closed the top button and zipped the fly.

  “Someone’s got a big mouth,” he said. “And why should you care?”

  “Because,” she said, “I’ve got a proposal that a man with your background won’t be able to refuse, as long as he’s got balls, that is.”

  Behind the door, Hans, who hadn’t left, was listening to every word.

  Carla was at the point where she was telling the dumb bastard there was only one thing her “European” liked better than watching people fuck.

  Hans waited for a reaction. There wasn’t any, at least none he could hear.

  Carla went on for a minute or two more, then stopped.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “How much?” Figueiredo’s voice.

  Hans smiled, put his Glock back into the holster on his belt, and strolled into the kitchen to get a beer.

  When Marta heard the rattle of keys, she sat bolt upright and set her back against the wall behind her.

  But when the door opened, it wasn’t The Goat. It was a woman, and she was carrying a tray.

  Marta hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. Even her pitcher of water was long since empty. She smelled coffee, and milk, and, yes, pao de queijo, the little round cheese breads she’d always loved, especially when they were dripping with butter.

  “Hungry?” the woman said.

  Marta nodded, her throat too dry to speak.

  The woman knelt, put the tray on the floor, and slid it forward with her foot.

  “Well, then,” she said, “eat.”

  Marta stretched out a hand, watching the woman all the while, and felt around until her fingers touched one of the little yellow balls. It was still warm from the oven. She grabbed it, stuffed it in her mouth, and almost choked. Her throat was that dry.

  “Take your time,” the woman said. “Drink some coffee.”

  Marta dropped her eyes long enough to make sure she got a good grip on the mug, expecting it to be hot.

  It wasn’t. It was lukewarm. She meant to take only a sip or two, but the cafe com leite had been sweetened, and once she got going she couldn’t stop. She drained more than half in one go.

  “I’m Carla Antunes,” the woman said.

  Marta didn’t care what the woman’s name was, but she very much cared about the remaining cheese breads. She took another one, savoring the chewy consistency, wishing the woman had brought butter.

  “I’m going to get you out of here,” Carla Antunes said.

  Marta stopped chewing.

  “Let me see your face,” Carla said. Then, leaning in closer, “Oh, my. You poor thing.”

  That did it. A memory struck Marta with the force of a blow. She and Andrea had been on the beach together, Marta had stepped on a shard of glass from a broken bottle, and Andrea, as she was examining the wound, had used exactly those words: Oh, my. You poor thing.

  Marta started to cry.

  Carla was ready with a paper handkerchief, then another and another. When the sobs subsided, she let Marta finish her meal, not hurrying her at all, even telling her to slow down so she wouldn’t make herself sick.

  “Who are you?” Marta asked her when she’d eaten the last of the bread and drained the last drop from the mug.

  “I told you. I’m Carla Antunes.”

  “But why are you-”

  “All in good time, Marta. Shall we go?”

  The woman took her by the arm, gently, and they stepped through the doorway into the corridor.

  They walked through the boate and approached the main entrance, a double door that Marta had only seen when it was chained and padlocked. But now the padlock was gone, the chain was hanging in a loop, and the doors were ajar. Daylight was streaming through the crack. She hadn’t seen that much daylight in over two months.

  She turned her head to look behind her. Topa
z stuck her head around the doorjamb that led to the bedrooms and quickly withdrew it, but she saw no one else, not The Goat, not Roselia. Outside, the sun was near its zenith. She blinked in the dazzling light. A man was waiting there, a big man with long blond hair and a moustache that made him look like a Viking.

  Momentarily, it occurred to Marta to run. But she rejected the idea almost as quickly as she thought of it. The man looked to be in good shape, and his legs were much longer than hers. She wouldn’t have gotten very far.

  The Viking led them to a car and ushered them into the back seat. Then he climbed behind the wheel and started the engine, all without saying a word. They took her to a house with a tiled roof and whitewashed walls. Beyond it, a cabin cruiser, not unlike the one her grandfather kept in Brasilia, was floating at a dock on the river.

  As they got out of the car, Carla took her arm again. The big man with the mustache moved in front, took out a key, and unlocked the front door.

  The house looked old on the outside, but inside it was modern. The floors and window frames were light-colored wood, varnished to a high gloss; the light fixtures were brushed aluminum; the walls were painted in pastels. Through a doorway, she caught a glimpse of a large room with tripods, cables, and what looked like photographer’s lights. A king-sized bed occupied the center of the space.

  On the opposite side, ten steps further down the corridor, was a bedroom.

  “Here’s where you’ll sleep,” Carla said.

  The space was a considerable improvement on her accommodations at The Goat’s. There was a coverlet on the bed, an air-conditioner hummed away in the wall, and a bedside table supported a lamp. There was a bookshelf, piled high with paperbacks and magazines, all well thumbed. There was an armchair, a wardrobe cupboard, even a window. The window looked over a green lawn to a distant stand of trees. But there were bars set into the masonry.

  “I’m going to be straight with you,” Carla said. “I’m not Mother Teresa. I’m a businesswoman. I send girls to Europe.”

  “Prostitutes?”

  “I prefer to call them escorts. They’re working girls, yes, but they don’t have to work anywhere near as hard as the girls work at The Goat’s place. They wear beautiful clothes and go to good restaurants. Sometimes they stay with a man for as much as a week, sometimes only for a night, but they never have to make love to more than one man a day.”

  “You call that making love? It’s not making love, it’s fucking for money. I won’t do it.”

  Carla smiled. “We’re going to have to let those bruises heal,” she said. “There’s a bathroom through that door. Soap, towels, shampoo, conditioner, everything you need.”

  “I told you I’m not going to do it. Do you have any idea who I am? Do you have any idea what kind of risk you’re running here?”

  “Risk? No, frankly I don’t. Enlighten me.”

  “I’m the granddaughter of Deputado Malan.”

  “Really?” She could see the woman didn’t believe her. “Let’s talk more about it when you’re rested, shall we? Are you still hungry?”

  Marta nodded.

  “There’s bottled water in the cupboard. Hans will bring you some food.”

  Carla turned to leave.

  “I have a friend,” Marta blurted out.

  Carla had almost reached the door. She turned around.

  “I know,” she said. “Andrea.”

  Marta’s mouth opened in surprise.

  “You know Andrea?”

  Carla nodded.

  Marta took a deep breath.

  “You know where she is?”

  Another nod.

  “Would you like to join her?” Carla inquired.

  “Oh, yes! Yes!” Marta said.

  “I think that could be arranged.”

  Hans was waiting in the corridor. Claudia led him down the hall, out of earshot.

  “Get her some food,” she said. “What have we got?”

  “Pacu.”

  Claudia made a face. Pacu was one of the most common fish in the river, no less prized by Amazonenses for all of that.

  “It’s all we got,” Hans said, “that, and rice, and beans, and corn meal.”

  “Okay,” Claudia said, “Give it to her. She’s probably hungry enough to eat anything.”

  “How about the shoot?” Hans said.

  The shoot. Talking like he belonged to a film crew.

  “Soon,” she said. “Now that we’ve recruited the talent, there’s no sense putting it off.”

  “Right,” Hans said; then, as she turned away, “Where are you off to?”

  “Out to find something better to eat than pacu.”

  Inside her room, Marta was exploring. She slid up the window sash-it moved easily in its tracks-and wrapped her fingers around one of the white-painted bars. It was warm to the touch, probably steel. She shook it, but it didn’t budge. She tried all of the bars, one by one. None of them budged. When she drew her hand back, some flecks of paint came along with it. Her efforts had done no more than expose bare metal. The space between the bars was narrow, so narrow she couldn’t get her head between them, much less her shoulders. Above and below, the bars were solidly set into the thick concrete wall. Without tools, there wasn’t a chance she’d be able to get out through the window. And even with tools, removing them would make far too much noise.

  She checked the closet and the bathroom, the walls and the ceiling. No vents, not a single one. She managed to get the front cover off the air-conditioner and examined the mounting screws. That, too, was a dead end. The screws were deeply embedded in the masonry. She left the door of the room for last. The one at The Goat’s had been sheathed with metal. This was solid wood, hung to open inward. The hinges drew her particular attention. She leaned forward for a closer look.

  Like the hinges in her room at home these were made out of brass with little decorative spheres drilled and threaded to hold the hinge pins in place. The night she’d escaped and fled to Andrea’s, she’d had to take a pair of pliers to the spheres because they’d been frozen in place by a coat of paint. But these were different. They were larger, fluted on the outside, and had never been painted. Gingerly, she reached out a hand, grasped the topmost sphere as tightly as she could and tried to turn it.

  It didn’t budge. She tried the one at the bottom of the same hinge, felt it give, then give some more and finally begin to turn. If she could remove just one sphere on each of the three hinges, she could pull out all of the pins. And once the pins were out, she’d be able to remove the door. She screwed the sphere she’d been working on back into place and attacked another one.

  When Claudia got back from lunch, Otto was waiting.

  “I got the photos,” he said.

  “Finally. What took you so damned long?”

  “The guy at the photo shop said they were going to be ready by nine this morning. They weren’t.”

  “You ever hear of a digital camera?”

  “I don’t understand those things. They got too many buttons.”

  “Give me those,” she said, and snatched the envelope.

  The first photo was of an athletic-looking man crossing a parking lot. Arnaldo Nunes. She recognized him immediately. The second shot showed him entering the main entrance to the airport. Both shots were in profile, the background out of focus, obviously shot with a long lens.

  She shuffled to the third photo in the stack and froze.

  Otto came around to look over her shoulder.

  “Those are the two guys he met at the airport,” he said.

  When she didn’t say anything, he prompted her. “You recognize them?”

  “That one,” she said, “is Mario Silva.”

  Otto leaned forward for a better look. “No shit?” he said. “That’s Silva, huh? You sure? He looks different from when you see him on the news and stuff.”

  “It’s the outfit,” she said. “The bush shirt. Every damned photo you ever see of the man, every time he’s on television, he’s
wearing a gray suit.”

  “He’d have to be crazy to wear a suit in Manaus. A suit would kill him in this climate.”

  “Then I wish he’d wear one and save us the trouble,” she said.

  Otto looked at her nervously.

  “Hey, Carla,” he said, “you’re not thinking of offing a federal cop, are you?”

  “Why not?”

  “Uh… well, if you are, we gotta talk about it.”

  “What’s to talk about?”

  “That’s heavy stuff, killing a federal. What are you worried about? What makes you think he’s after us?”

  “He’s after me,” Claudia said.

  Otto looked at her, waited for her to tell him more. When she didn’t, he said, “What makes you so sure?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “What?” he insisted.

  Again, no reply.

  “You’re sure it’s him? Really sure?”

  She stabbed the photo with her forefinger.

  “ That’s Silva, and that’s his fucking nephew, Hector Costa. And the guy who met them, the guy who was already here in Manaus, is an old-time sidekick of both, an agente named Arnaldo Nunes.”

  “But how can you-”

  “Shut up, Otto. I know what I’m talking about.”

  She wasn’t about to tell him why she was so sure, or why she knew he was after her. That, and her real name, were none of his damned business.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Irene was sitting under a beach umbrella, reading a book, just the trace of a smile on her face. Silva was stretched out on blinding white sand, soaking up the sun, his head on his arms. He had one eye open and was studying her.

  He heard his son call him.

  “Look, Papa, look!”

  He turned his head toward the voice, toward the clear, green sea. Little Mario, his ankles bathed in receding foam, was pointing at three dolphins swimming in the shallows, their dorsal fins skimming along the surface like the sails of tiny boats.

  And little Mario wasn’t so little anymore. He looked to be about twelve. His olive skin had been darkened by the summer sun, and his smile showed teeth like pearls.