The Fall Guy

by Ritchie Perry

  My plan was simplicity itself. Appropriating Miguel’s empty beer bottle I took the service lift at the back of the building to the ninth floor, soft footed it up

  to the floor above, where my apartment was, and parked myself outside the tradesman’s entrance. A couple of minutes later I heard the main lift ascending with Miguel inside, armed with my front door key. I waited until he started fumbling with the lock, then I noiselessly unlocked the kitchen door. Reece was standing with his back to me, peering round the edge of the door connecting the kitchen with the living-room and evidently expecting me to walk through the front door at any second. I really hated to disappoint him but I broke the bottle over his head just the same.

  The first indication of Reece’s return to consciousness was a groan. It wasn’t much of a groan so I stayed out on the balcony overlooking the beach, sipping at the outsize batida which was rapidly taking over where the Benzedrine had left off. In the next five minutes the groans became more heartfelt and increased in authority. Judging the time was ripe I lit a Bahian cigar, collected the jug of melted ice from the kitchen and poured the contents over Reece’s head. After a lot of spluttering and some language which should have had him out of the Civil Service like a shot Reece succeeded in pushing himself into a sitting position, one hand tenderly clutching the back of his head.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d still be here,’ he said thickly, droplets of iced water trickling from his nose and chin.

  ‘Nor did I,’ I told him, helping him up and steering him to the sofa. ‘Apparently I do have a conscience after all. Luckily it’s not so highly developed that it’ll stop me from belting you again and heading for pastures green unless you come up with a hell of a sight better story than the one you fed me at the villa.’

  Reece sat on the edge of the sofa, his head held in his hands while he thought things over. I didn’t rush him. As far as I could remember I’d never felt too good immediately after being hit on the head with a bottle. Eventually he raised his head but he still wasn’t ready. We passed some more time, me puffing at my cigar and Reece staring fixedly at the coffee table.

  T thought Playboy was banned over here,’ he said at last, pointing to where the magazine lay on the table.

  ‘It probably is.’

  There was no need to explain. It was pleasant to think there was at least one of my deals, however small, that Reece didn’t know about.

  ‘I’m still waiting,’ I said after another two or three minutes had gone by.

  ‘All right, Philis. I suppose you deserve the full story though my boss will have my guts for garters if he ever finds out. The thing I omitted to tell you earlier was that Schmidt is working for us. Or rather he’s been seconded to the Treasury from Ml6. He’s been acting as observer for them ever since nineteen forty-eight. Incidentally, you’d be surprised how many war criminals there are working for British intelligence. They make ideal agents.’

  Of course I’d be surprised, the same way I’d be surprised if a word Reece told me turned out to be true. It was a new story all right but this didn’t mean I had to believe it.

  ‘Since when has Porto Alegre been a nerve centre of the cold war?’ I asked. ‘I know damn all about the workings of British intelligence but I do know that a permanent agent based there would be the biggest waste of money since the Titanic.’

  ‘He’d be no use at all,’ Reece agreed. ‘As I said, Schmidt was only an observer. An honorary observer in view of his past.’ A thin smile accompanied this remark. ‘In the twenty-odd years he’s been on MI6’s books he hasn’t done a thing beyond keeping London informed about people who might conceivably prove to be useful. On the other hand he was always there in case of emergency. This is the first time he’s been operational.’

  An unpleasant thought had taken root in my mind. I tried to dismiss it but it only grew stronger.

  ‘Otto was the one who gave you all the information about me,’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s right,’ Reece confirmed. ‘He spotted you as

  someone potentially useful. In his report he mentioned you weren’t exactly a patriot and that the Photostat might be helpful in winning you over. Always assuming you were ever needed, and at the time the prospect seemed pretty remote.’

  I mulled things over. Reece’s story, even in the present, revised version, still struck me as belonging to the world of fantasy. The one thing I really couldn’t stomach was the global counterfeiting network. Subtly I intimated my doubts.

  ‘I think the international forging part is a load of crap,’ I said.

  ‘It was a trifle exaggerated,’ Reece admitted without a blush. ‘It had to be if you were going to believe my original story. There really is some forging taking place in the Porto Alegre area, though. That’s why we borrowed Schmidt for a while. It didn’t seem worthwhile sending someone all the way from England when we had a man on the spot, so to speak. It’s only a pipsqueak operation, poor forgeries and not many of them. So far, however, the local police have got nowhere and Schmidt has disappeared. We want you to find out what has happened to him while I link up with the police. It’s as simple as that.’

  Personally I didn’t think it was at all simple and I wasn’t any happier with Reece’s new line than I’d been with the old. There was a false ring to it which would have made me discount the story completely if I hadn’t known Reece was telling the truth about Otto’s disappearance. I couldn’t pinpoint what had stopped me packing and prompted me to make a couple of phone calls while Reece was unconscious but, whatever the reason, I was now stuck with the results. Otto had to be in bad trouble to cut himself off from the two men I’d rung, the knowledge leaving me with a straight choice. The easy way, the way I’d taken on every other occasion the question had arisen, was to head for Caracas and a fresh start. The hard way was to go back to Porto Alegre, not for Reece but to try to help Otto. And to salvage some self-respect. I’d been run

  out of Porto Alegre and I was blown if I’d be run out of Brazil as well. It was my country and I liked it enough to make it worthwhile for me to fight to stay.

  ‘You win,’ I said grudgingly. ‘I’ll do my best to find Otto but if I’m successful don’t expect me to come running straight to you. I’ll want to hear what Otto has to say first.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Philis,’ Reece told me with a tight grin. ‘I’m going to Porto Alegre as well. I’ll be around.’

  Chapter 3

  Seen from the air Porto Alegre looked pretty much the same as when I’d last been there. Jutting out into the lagoon was the city’s commercial centre, its eye-catching, multi-storied skyline enhanced by one or two recent additions. On the landward side the sprawling residential districts, gradually petering out into rural slums, probably covered a larger area but not enough to be readily noticeable. And across the river the suspension bridge was still standing, its graceful lines making Sydney harbour bridge look like a clumsy piece of Meccano. I had plenty of time to examine the city because the pilot muffed his first two approaches, offering unintelligible, metallic explanations over the tannoy. Not that this bothered me. I had absolute confidence in the efficiency of an airline that could dig up hostesses as attractive as the ones we had aboard.

  To divert myself I filled in the extra time by endeavouring to spot the big, fancy cemetery which was another feature of the city. From the outside it had the appearance of a five star, rancho hotel, with its exotic gardens, sparkling fountains, long, cool verandas and softly piped music. At night the cemetery was even floodlit. I knew exactly where it should be, up on the hill beside the Scirocco Club, but it was impossible to pick it out from the plane. Not that this really mattered, I was merely indulging a morbid fancy. Gordinho owned the Scirocco Club and if he intended to keep his word I ought to start thinking about booking a plot next door.

  At ground level the city hadn’t altered much either. The approaches to the city were still guarded by the statue commemorating the splendour of the gaucho, one of th
e sick jokes of all time. The average gaucho had the intelligence you’d associate with someone who spent his entire life chasing cows, smelled even worse than the tic-bitten horse he rode and would cut his own mother’s throat for the price of a drink. Possibly the statue was intended as a boundary line beyond which the gauchos were not to pass for Porto Alegre was predominantly a German city. This made it one of the cleanest, most modem cities in Brazil, with the best beer in South America and the best restaurants, shops and hotels in Brazil outside Rio and Sao Paulo. At the same time it retained its peculiarly Brazilian character, helped by the swarms of shoeshine boys and beggars and by its ten thousand registered prostitutes out of a population of little over three quarters of a million. It was a fair example of what the journalists like to call the two faces of Brazil. At the tip of the iceberg the lucky few enjoyed a standard of living comparable to that in the capital cities of Europe while a much larger portion of the population lived in the favelas on black beans and rice, sending their daughters out on the street when they were twelve. Not that I was complaining. I’d long since forgotten what black beans tasted like and some of the daughters were bloody attractive.

  I booked into the Hotel Broadway, wishing I’d had time to have some false documents manufactured. Lacking them I had to use my real name and hope news of my arrival took a long, long time to percolate through to Gordinho. One point in my favour was that none of the staff at reception knew me. It was a new hotel, not quite up to the standard set by the City, Plaza or Everest but still worthy of the odd star or two under the English ratings.

  All in all it had been an exhausting day. After a shower and an enormous churrascoed steak in the hotel restaurant I went back to my room, more than ready for bed. The brightly wrapped parcel on the bedside table woke me up fast. Lighting a cigarette I sat down on the edge of the bed, in no particular rush to open it. No one, not even Reece, should know where I was staying and the unexpected present meant Gordinho’s information service had excelled itself. So much for my hopes of a day or two’s grace.

  Picking up the phone I had the operator put me through to reception. There I was told that the parcel had been brought in by the shoeshine boy whose pitch was outside the hotel. Without too many expectations I sent the receptionist to question him. All the boy could say was that a man had driven up in a Volkswagen and asked him to take the package into the hotel, telling him it was for Sir Philis in room 609. This didn’t help me a bit but I thanked the receptionist for his trouble just the same. The way things were going I could do with a few friendly people around.

  The parcel stayed on the table and I remained sitting on the bed, still feeling no great compulsion to open it. Not that it ticked or anything dramatic like this. It just rustled. There was obviously a box underneath the garish paper and inside the box was something which was alive. Knowing Gordinho for the simple fun lover he was it wasn’t difficult to guess what it might be. My cigarette finished I went through to the bathroom, half filling the bath before I dropped in the parcel. Then I held it under the water for a good five minutes, watching the bubbles bursting to the surface, and allowed two more for good measure after they’d stopped. The plate-sized spider, with its obscene covering of black, bristly hairs, I flushed down the lavatory, the soggy card I took back into the bedroom to decipher. This didn’t take me very long. ‘Dear Philis,’ it ran, ‘I heard you were back in Porto Alegre. Take good care of yourself.’ At the bottom were the X and thumbprint which constituted Gordinho’s signature.

  It was ludicrous, of course, but then everything about Gordinho was ludicrous except his ability to make money. Even the name everyone knew him by was a joke, a reference to the excessive amount of flesh he carted around on his large frame. Apart from his massive paunch he was famous for his total illiteracy, indubitable illegitimacy and the fact he was probably the most powerful man in southern Brazil. According to local legend he’d started in business some forty years before, selling rotten fruit from one rickety bar-row. Now he was the largest fruit wholesaler in Porto Alegre, ran seven supermarkets, had a fifty-one per cent interest in a flourishing domestic airline and owned half a dozen night clubs.

  For a man who couldn’t write his own name this wasn’t bad going and it was just my bad luck that I’d happened to lay his mistress. I’d know Gordinho by sight, having seen him several times at one of his night clubs or in the Je Reviens Bar, and had heard all about the female sex bomb he had set up in a bungalow near the Leopoldville Tennis Club. Unfortunately I hadn’t connected the woman I’d met at the Mil et Um Noites with this information, although sex bomb was certainly an apt description of Giselle. Nor did either of us know Gordinho was so jealous of his proprietary rights that he had one of his men following her. The first inkling I’d had of impending trouble was when I was forcibly dragged to Gordinho’s headquarters at the Scirocco Club, worked over by a couple of his goons and told by the man himself that it might not be a bad idea for me to be somewhere else by the next morning. It hadn’t occurred to me to argue.

  To judge by the contents of the parcel all was still not forgiven, no stretch of my imagination being able to describe it as a goodwill offering. On the credit side it had been more of an appetizer than a genuine attempt to dispose of me, although I might have been a hospital case if I’d been fool enough to open the package without precautions. Before I retired for the night I slipped my antique Colt under the pillow. Up to now I hadn’t fired the thing and I hadn’t used a hand gun since my first few months in Santos but there seemed to be a fair chance I’d soon get in some practice.

  *

  The last thing Gordinho could have expected was that I’d pay him a visit. This was why, bright and early the next morning, I took a taxi ride up to Scirocco Club. Seen from the road it appeared deceptively small, only the unlit neon sign on the white façade to show the club wasn’t a private residence. Because the bottom half of the front was windowless and the only entrance was at the top of a steep flight of steps it gave the impression of being a single-storied building. It was also impossible to guess how far the premises stretched back from the road. In actual fact there were two floors and the place was a veritable rabbit warren. Apart from the two large rooms providing for drinking, dancing and propositioning the hostesses the club was large enough to include forty bedrooms for the girls and a personal suite for Gordinho. The club itself only operated between 9 p.m. and 4 a.m., after that all business was conducted in the rooms at the back, accompanied by a squeaking of laboured bedsprings. Considering the volume of trade it was surprising the whole building didn’t quiver on its foundations.

  With my taxi paid off I hiked up the wooden steps and pushed open the door to the club. Although the bar was deserted no one had bothered to lock the place, an indication of Gordinho’s position in Porto Alegre. Only someone with a death wish would steal anything from him, the same way no one would dream of having it away with his mistress. Having done the one it didn’t make much odds about doing the other and I hunted around the bar for a bottle of whisky, not the local rubbish but the genuine scotch Gordinho kept for his friends. Although I wasn’t exactly a bosom buddy of his I knew it had to be there. After all, in the old days, I’d helped to supply him.

  Twenty minutes later and a couple of good glassfuls down the bottle a car drew up outside. Before I heard the footsteps coming up the steps I knew it had to be Gordinho. One of his men had followed me from the Broadway and if Gordinho had already been on the premises I would have had company earlier. The ruddy great Colt jammed in my waistband was becoming uncomfortable so I slipped it out and had it down by my side when the outer door opened, allowing a group of men to come in. It took a second or two for their eyes to adjust to the dim light, an opportunity for me to look them over. Gordinho, of course, I recognised at once and he didn’t seem a day older than when I’d last seen him. Even the crumpled, white suit he was wearing could have been the same one. He definitely missed out on the young, vital and alert category of businessman
for, despite the years of success, he still looked more like a barrow boy than anything else. Apart from the cluster of expensive, ostentatious rings on his fingers, that is.

  The three men who followed him in I’d never seen before, a preliminary survey not making me think the loss had been mine. They were all of a kind, lean, hard-eyed waterfront toughs who would think nothing of murder if it earned them enough for a square meal and a bottle of cachaça. Men who had come in from the outback to seek a livelihood in the big city, only to find the grinding poverty they’d come to escape. Someone who lived in the favelas couldn’t be expected to hold life as anything but cheap. When the life under consideration was mine I begged to differ.

  No one seemed particularly bothered with the niceties of social etiquette. I sat at the bar, clutching the gun in a damp hand, and watched the group just inside the door. They stood there and looked at me. The expression on Gordinho’s seamed, peasant’s face didn’t suggest the return of the prodigal.

  ‘Throw him out,’ he said flatly, speaking to the hired assassins behind him.

  There had obviously been a briefing prior to their arrival because between them they produced one length of lead piping, a baling hook and a machete. None of these were specifically designed to do me any good but the very thought of being worked over with a machete gave me the cold shivers. I raised my right hand from my side to show them the gun.

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ I said pleasantly. ‘The hero remembered to bring his trusty six shooter. It’s loaded as well, just in case anyone’s interested.’

  They were interested all right, so much so that they shelved the idea of bouncing me out of the club. Instead the three hard cases concentrated exclusively on avoiding any move which might make me pull the trigger. A.45 is a big gun and if you’re looking up the barrel it seems like a cannon, hence the sudden respect. Except from Gordinho, that is. He remained where he’d been standing since he’d come in, sizing me up. Apparently I looked as though I might be able to hit someone if I wanted to.