by A. D. Flint
She was already on her way.
There were two lumpy-faced bouncers standing at the top of the steps into the octagon. They had obviously decided that there was enough mayhem inside the octagon already, and were swatting away anyone trying to enter.
Eliane didn’t break stride, running up the steps and flashing an ID card at them. “I’m a doctor, let me in,” she demanded. “This is my colleague.” She waved behind at Jake.
One of them was buying the story but the other looked past her at Jake. He wasn’t convinced and he didn’t budge. “There’s a doctor in there already,” he said.
“And is he a consultant neurologist too?”
Now he wasn’t so sure.
Eliane kept going. “If he has bleeding on the brain, every second counts – you must know that, don’t you?”
He came down the steps, ushering them past with a tick of his head. There was another hopeful coming up behind Jake and the bouncer straight-armed him in the throat with the heel of his hand. His victim flew back onto a couple of guys below.
Inside the octagon it was chaos. Jake barged through the melee ahead of Eliane. Bottles were flying in from the crowd, wheeling end over end, spraying beer over the knots of fighting men.
“Stand back, let the doctor through,” Jake shouted at the men jostling Marinho. It checked them for at least a few moments. Marinho was looking right at him, but there was no recognition. Jake grabbed him by the shoulders. “Come on, man, let’s go.”
Flashing his hands up defensively, Marinho checked. He cocked his ear. “Jake?”
“Yes. Of course. Let’s go.”
“I can’t see you, Jake. I can’t see anything.” His cheek was swollen and his eyes were closing up.
“You’ll be all right when the swelling goes down.”
“No, it’s gone, I felt it go.”
Jake was having to hold onto Marinho, the storm around them pushing and hitting. Most of the blows were wild, untrained shots in close confines, but Jake caught one in the back of the head that shorted out his lights momentarily. A peal of sparks in the darkness like the last of a fading rocket.
No one had got around to paying Eliane any attention but she was still getting thrown around in the crush.
Jake took one of Marinho’s hands and placed it on his shoulder as he turned. “Keep your hands on my shoulders and I’ll lead you. We need to get out of here right now.”
Marinho did as he was told, head down, close to Jake’s back. Eliane tucked in close to Marinho with her arm around him. Jake powered through the crowd, chopping aside anyone who didn’t get out of his way quickly enough. Marinho’s trainer and cornerman saw him going and were able to thrash their way through to follow, the men attacking them now having to fend off their own attackers.
A young guy blocked Jake’s path, waving a crumpled betting slip in his face, jabbing a finger at Marinho, shouting about his disgust at the result.
Jake aimed his punch carefully, angling down into the solar plexus. The guy crumpled immediately, winded. “You’ve got to step over a body,” he shouted over his shoulder to Marinho. It was easier than going around.
Jake caught a glimpse of Marinho’s opponent, still an unconscious hulk on the canvas, men crowded around him. It was astonishing that Marinho had managed to beat him.
There was a startled scream from Eliane behind him.
A cop-looking guy of maybe thirty had hold of her ponytail. She was wincing, trying to hit out as he twisted, pulling her to him.
“Not so fast,” he shouted at Marinho, “the boss wants you. And the gringo, and this little bitch.” He lifted the hem of his tee shirt to show them the butt of the semi-automatic sticking out of his waistband.
Marinho didn’t see the warning. Instead, he cocked his ear to the voice, letting go of Jake’s shoulders. He flashed a straight right. It caught the cop sweetly on the chin. Poleaxed, his grip on Eliane’s hair relaxed and he keeled over, knocking into guys behind him before smacking down on the canvas.
Eliane was on him instantly, pulling the handgun from his waistband and ramming it under his chin. She slapped him around the face to bring him to. “Where’s my father?” she shouted in his face.
The cop looked at her groggily. “I don’t know.”
She slapped him again and moved the barrel of the handgun over his eye. “Tell me, you shit, or so help me God, I will blow your brains right through this canvas.”
“I don’t know. I swear it.”
She spat in his face and rose, tucking the handgun into the waistband of her jeans.
“Okay,” she shouted to Jake and Marinho, “keep moving, keep moving.”
Marinho hooked back on Jake’s shoulders.
Jake shouted back at him, “I thought you said you couldn’t see?”
“I can’t, but there’s nothing wrong with my ears.”
Jake was no longer fighting against the tide but riding with the throng going out of the octagon and down the steps. Everyone wanted out now rather than in.
Chapter 51
Vilson
The underground garage was a small concrete space with room for maybe fifty cars, dull strip lighting overhead. Vilson was crouched behind a concrete pillar next to a car. A vantage point, looking through the side windows at a doorway at the opposite end to the exit ramp. Beyond the doorway was a concrete stairwell that led up to the main hall above. An angry rumble of booing and catcalls rolled down the stairwell.
He watched as Nogueira made his way down the stairs, mobile phone in one hand, rubbing at his belly with the other and grimacing. Vilson didn’t squash himself down further in fear as he might once have done. He held the old revolver in his lap, ready. He felt nothing other than resolve.
Nogueira stopped just inside the garage and dialled a number on his mobile. Putting it to his ear he waited, looked at the screen again and then cursed and walked on.
“Not so fast, Chief,” a voice called out from the stairwell behind Nogueira.
Nogueira turned slowly, unhurried. He was practised with the tough-guy show, thought Vilson.
Franjinha came down the stairs, wearing his hip-hop city gear, and Vilson saw the anger flare in Nogueira when he saw him. “Idiot. You don’t follow me about in here.”
“I lost a lot of money tonight. What are you going to do about that?”
“I lost money too. Everyone did.”
They were talking more quietly now, Vilson straining to hear.
“Are you double-crossing me?” Franjinha asked.
“Pull yourself together. Leave the paranoia to your boss.” Nogueira turned on his heel.
“I’m not finished with you yet,” Franjinha shouted.
Nogueira whirled on him, drawing his open hand back, as if to slap a kid.
Franjinha shrank back.
“That’s better,” said Nogueira. “My patch, my rules. Remember? Just do what I told you earlier, and let me do my thing. They think they’ve got the better of me but all they have is a house of cards. I pull one out from the bottom and the whole thing comes down. And I’ll get to each fallen card and burn it at my leisure, believe me. Now go. Go on and disappear.”
Nogueira turned and walked to his old VW. Franjinha stared at him for a few moments, a half-hearted show of defiance before he sloped off and went back up the concrete stairs. Nogueira opened his car door, pulled a handgun from the waistband beneath his loose shirt and reached in to place it on the driver’s seat before he got in. Vilson had heard that cops were in the habit of driving around with their handguns lodged beneath a thigh for quick access. They had a lot of enemies.
Nogueira got in, the engine started and Vilson saw the front windows opening with an electronic whine. He came out from his hiding place, taking care to stay out of the view of Nogueira’s mirrors. Nogueira was leaning across the car. It looked like he was trying to get something from the glove compartment. He came back upright, and then Vilson saw a jet of cigarette smoke coming through the open window.
Vilson edged closer, stopping at the rear bumper of the car parked next to Nogueira’s side. He saw Nogueira smack the wheel. Frustration or anger, maybe both. More smoke drifted out the window and then the gearbox clunked and the reversing light came on. Nogueira reached an arm behind the passenger-seat headrest to look out the rear window as he edged the car backward. Vilson knew he had seen him then. He pointed the revolver at Nogueira. “Kill the engine and get out of the car,” he commanded. The brake lights bathed Vilson in red as the car halted.
Nogueira took his hand off the headrest and turned his head toward the driver’s window, trying to get a better look at Vilson. “I’ve got money, here,” Nogueira said, the cigarette bobbing on his lips.
“Both hands on the steering wheel,” Vilson said.
Nogueira obliged but lifted them to gesture as he spoke. “I can’t pass you the money with my hands on the wheel, son. We could be here all night if we don’t put a little trust in one another.”
“I said keep your hands on the steering wheel.” Vilson knew Nogueira was trying to test him by lifting his hands from the wheel. But he was not playing with the old Vilson. Things were different now. “And kill the engine. Do it slowly.”
“Look, son,” Nogueira said, “hands on the wheel or turn off the engine – which is it? And I really need to get rid of this cigarette, the smoke is getting in my eyes. Would you mind?”
“Kill the engine or I’ll kill you,” Vilson said calmly.
“You know it wasn’t me who shot your friend? It was young Marinho who killed him.”
“I know.”
That was Nogueira’s last card. Vilson knew it; Nogueira knew it.
The engine roared and the tyres squealed on the shiny concrete surface as Nogueira snapped the clutch and ducked down. Vilson jumped back as he saw him haul the steering wheel down. Nogueira was trying to crush him.
The front passenger wing caught a concrete pillar as the car swung round, bouncing the front of Nogueira’s car back into the car on Vilson’s side. Slewing violently out of the space, Nogueira still had the steering hard in lock.
Vilson held the heavy old revolver with both hands, aiming through the driver’s window at Nogueira’s crouched upper body. The gunshot cracked loud over the sound of the revving engine. He couldn’t see if he had hit. The car kept going, the front whipping round as it came clear of the parking space, clipping the line of cars opposite. The car bounced from side to side with the inertia of the suspension. Close to the dead end of the small concrete garage, Nogueira was taking the only option open to him – backing out between the two lines of cars to the exit ramp.
Careering along in reverse, Vilson saw Nogueira’s head come up to look out the rear window, trying to correct, trying to veer away from the line of cars. He looked back at Vilson for just a moment and then glanced at something in the rear-view mirror. For just a millisecond, Vilson saw horror fill Nogueira’s face before he hauled on the steering wheel, his head snapping back to look behind again.
The car swerved violently, rolling on its suspension, stacking into a concrete pillar and flipping round, the driver’s side smashing into the line of cars. A hammer blow of metal against metal. Breaking glass. It settled with the bonnet wedged beneath a fancy pickup with jacked-up suspension.
The wheels were spinning on the concrete, acrid smoke billowing up from the burning rubber. It was stuck fast, twisted metal trapped beneath twisted metal. Vilson approached, unhurried.
He heard the revs drop for a moment and then the clunk of gears. Nogueira wasn’t dead yet. The car jumped and bucked in first gear and then back in reverse, grinding metal, groaning as it tried to tear itself from the big pickup.
The revs fell away to idle as Vilson approached. There was a small gap between the mangled driver’s side of Nogueira’s car and the line of smashed-up cars. Nogueira was thumping his shoulder into the door, but it refused to shift. He gave up and was trying to climb across to the passenger’s side as Vilson got to that door.
Catching sight of Vilson, he looked frantically around for his handgun. He looked in the back. The only thing there was the smouldering cigarette that had flown from his lips. He sank back in the driver’s seat.
Vilson pointed the revolver at him. It didn’t look like he had hit Nogueira. There was no blood, save for some nicks on his hands and forearms from the smashed glass. If he wasn’t hit, Vilson couldn’t understand why he had swerved and crashed.
Nogueira looked up at him, anxiety in his face. “Is the girl okay?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t see a girl?”
“Cut the bullshit, there’s no girl here.”
“I thought I saw my grand—” Nogueira stopped himself. “I thought I saw someone, but it couldn’t have been.” The anxiety went from him. There was no fear to replace it. “Now I think of it, she wouldn’t dress like that. All in white. Huh, I really thought I saw her, but there was no one. Good. That’s good. She’s safe.”
Nogueira brushed little cubes of the smashed glass from his shirt and trousers, and examined one of the nicks on the back of his hand. He seemed to notice then that the car’s engine was still running and he turned off the ignition.
“You killed my best friend, my only friend,” Vilson said. “You probably don’t even know his full name. Jose Carlos Machado da Silva – Babão to me. He was a good kid and he didn’t deserve to die.”
Vilson pulled the hammer back on the old revolver. Nogueira nodded, looking Vilson steadily in the eye.
Vilson fired once.
He wafted at the tyre smoke that was drifting around the car in heavy layers and peered inside at Nogueira’s slumped body. He thrust the revolver closer and fired once more into his head.
Hatred coursed through Vilson, but he was willing to give the cop one thing. He had met death with courage.
Chapter 52
Jake
The crowd moving toward the lobby wasn’t so hostile, focused instead on escaping the chaos inside. Mostly. Men were still shouting insults and threats, and jostling. Marinho’s trainer and cornerman were now protecting his flanks, with Jake still the buffer upfront.
The stream mushroomed around the single door that led into the lobby and they had to wait a couple of minutes with people pressing up behind them. Once through the door, people raced through the open lobby and out the multiple doors at the entrance.
The air outside was sticky and hot but free of the febrile atmosphere inside. Any remaining anger seemed to have evaporated from the crowd. Out of the bear pit, angry guys were back to being the ordinary guys they had been before they had entered.
“My car’s a block down that street,” Eliane said, pointing to a side street along from the building.
They didn’t need to huddle now, but Jake only picked up the pace a little – Marinho still had his hands on his shoulders and his steps weren’t confident.
They heard two dull reports.
Marinho tilted his head. “That’s gunfire.”
“It’s okay, we’re here,” Eliane said, clicking the doors open on her car with her key fob and running a few metres ahead to open the passenger door for Marinho.
Jake got him in and pulled the seatbelt across as Marinho’s guys got in the back. Eliane was turning over the engine as Jake closed the passenger door on Marinho, the guys shuffling up on the back seat to make room for him.
Marinho hit the window from inside. “Jake!” he shouted.
He’d heard them coming before Jake did.
Jake only managed to half turn before they hammered him into the side of the car.
There were four of them, a couple of them nearly as tall as Jake. He covered up to take the punches, pistol whips and kicks, lashing out a few shots of his own.
Keep your feet. Jake knew that going to the ground with this bunch kicking at his head would be fatal. He used the car to prop himself up, pushing his back against the passenger door to prevent Marinho getting out.
/> Another guy came running up behind the others with a handgun. His arms and face had reddish–pink patches of healing skin. Jake remembered him from before his burns.
Marinho’s trainer and cornerman were scrambling to climb out the back of the car.
Franjinha pointed his gun at them. “You get back in and stay there,” he shouted. They shuffled back in and he slammed the door.
“Good,” said Franjinha. “I like sensible people. Now let’s get those two chumps out of the front.”
Jake turned his back on the group, scarcely registering the blows to his spine and kidneys. Marinho’s face was tilted up, his sightless eyes screwed shut. Eliane had the gun she’d taken from the cop in the octagon in her hand, going for the door handle.
Jake slammed his open hand on the window. Eliane’s face was filled with fear but her eyes were sharp on him.
“You drive this car now,” Jake shouted fiercely. Franjinha’s boys were still hitting him but they were also trying to drag him away now to get to the door and to Marinho.
Another of them was running around the front of the car to get to Eliane.
Her eyes stayed locked on Jake’s, even as she pushed the gearstick forward and hit the accelerator.
Taking off with stuttering wheelspin, the car collected the kid at the front, rolling him over the bonnet. He went off the passenger side, hitting the kerb.
Jake spun around and hit the nearest boy as hard as he could. He caught him on the side of the jaw with the flat smack of fist on flesh. One of the biggest, he went straight down, clattering to the pavement. Franjinha fired a shot at the car. There was no shattering of glass. He’d missed. Jake lunged and swung again, catching Franjinha on the brow, knocking him backward before he could fire another shot.
Something hard hit Jake behind his ear with a sickening thud. The power went out from his neck down and he went to the pavement. He wasn’t out cold but the blow shorted him out. He only had an awareness that they were hauling him up and carrying him along, his feet trailing along the pavement. The iron tang of blood seemed to fill his head and he felt sick.
