The Street Angel

by Robert Gollagher

  Richards remembered how much the article had pleased his ex-wife, Emily. She told him she loved him with all her heart. Until the firm went under. Then she promptly left him. Emily had expensive tastes, expensive friends, and expensive lawyers who screwed him for every penny they could lay their grubby little paws on. That was strike one. Then the IRS all of a sudden wanted a million dollars in back-taxes. Strike two. When an angry creditor from the wrong side of town started knocking on the door of Richards’ upmarket, fifteenth-floor Manhattan apartment and making unpalatable threats, it was the last straw. Strike three. Richards figured he had two choices. He could open the window and jump out, or he could get on the telephone and use his Platinum Visa card one last time before it got cancelled, buy a one-way ticket to Brazil, whistle down a cab and tell the driver to take him to JFK, and get the hell out while the going was good.

  Richards sighed. It was such a cliche. Escape to Brazil. When did my life turn into a cliche? he wondered. But he had reached the hotel.

  “Good day,” he said in Portuguese to the doorman.

  “Good day, Senhor.”

  Richards strolled into the lobby and took a seat. Here he waited impatiently to see the Chief of Military Police. Richards had arrived twenty minutes early. He wanted to be very, very sure he was not late.

  Richards spoke Portuguese without effort, as if he were merely speaking English. He even spoke it in the comical Pernambuco accent. The worst thing about it was that nobody pronounced the letter R. Instead, they made a sort of guttural H sound. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they were incapable of finishing a word in a hard consonant without putting an E on the end of it. This meant that Bob Richards had to endure the indignity of being called ‘Bobby Hichards.’ It drove him constantly mad, but no matter how many times he would coach the locals, all they would do was laugh at him apologetically and call him ‘Bobby Hichards.’ To be fair, even Rio was not Rio, but ‘Hio.’ Recife was not Recife but ‘Hecife,’ pronounced, ‘Heh-see-fee.’ So he could hardly expect them to manage ‘Richards.’ Still, it made his life seem even more absurd to him, like some kind of very bad joke that he was trapped inescapably in the middle of.

  Richards didn’t feel like laughing. He was about to see one of the most dangerous officially sanctioned killers in Recife. Still, business was business and the general was a legitimate customer. Richards would simply set up the deal and not worry about it. He had long since learned to keep his nose out of other people’s dangerous concerns and just be a broker. After all, it was only a jewellery sale. How much trouble could it be? At that moment, a clerk walked into the lobby and started calling out his name.

  “Senhor Bobby Hichards! Paging Senhor Hichards.”

  Richards stood up. “I’m Bob Richards.”

  “Oh what, Senhor?”

  Richards let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m Senhor Hichards.”

  “Oh yes, Senhor. Come this way. The general will see you now.”

  At last, Richards thought, his chance to make some real easy money had arrived. He followed the clerk to the elevator.

  “The general is on the eleventh floor, Senhor. Report to the guards there and they will take you to him.”

  Richards nodded as the elevator doors closed. When they opened again, he was confronted by two huge soldiers in grey military police uniforms. They each carried a sub-machine gun but Richards thought they didn’t need to. Either of them could easily have killed him with their bare hands.

  “You are Senhor Hichards?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  One of the soldiers frisked Richards briefly. “Very well.”

  “Thanks,” said Richards. He left the soldiers standing in the lobby of the luxurious suite and proceeded into the enormous living area. Huge windows revealed a panoramic view of the crowded beach and the endless Atlantic Ocean. The city was named for its reefs. Richards looked out over the shining sea and saw a few tiny fishing boats working their trade in the distance, beyond the submerged hazards. It was an impressive view.

  “Mister Richards. Mister Bob Richards, isn’t it?”

  Richards swung around. “General del Campo.” He held out his hand.

  “A pleasure, Mister Richards. Glad you could make it.”

  “I didn’t know you spoke English, General.”

  “Not very well, I am afraid. But I manage. My wife and I are fond of vacationing in Florida. Disney World, you know. My grandchildren like it.”

  “You speak it very well, General.” In truth, the general had a heavy accent, but Richards wasn’t about to point that out. He had gotten his name right, after all. And regardless of the general’s casual attitude, the man had a legendary temper. He seemed deceptively ordinary, dressed in a red silk shirt which hung out over his black pants. His thick fingers were stained with tobacco. He was smoking a fat cigar.

  “Oh, how rude of me. Would you like a ... smoke, Mister Richards?”

  “Thank you, General.”

  “They are Cuban. Unpatriotic of me, I know, but they are the best.”

  Richards lit his cigar. “Outstanding.”

  “Well, you must excuse me but perhaps we should get down to business. Have a seat, let’s talk about diamonds.”

  “Of course.” Richards sat down on a huge chesterfield sofa. The dark, leather-upholstered furniture seemed somehow out of place in the tropics, but it was comfortable and luxurious, unlike the cheap sofa he had at home.

  The general threw a newspaper onto the glass coffee table between them. “Unfortunately I have a – How do you say it? – a niece with expensive tastes. If you understand what I mean.”

  Richards was interested only in the five percent spotter’s fee he was about to pocket. But if the old general wanted to confide in him about his sordid love affairs, so be it. He forced a laugh. “Ha ha ha. Your niece.”

  “Exactly. Women. They are an expensive addiction, don’t you agree?”

  “I’ll agree with that, General. I’ll agree with that.”

  “But where would we be without them, uh?”

  “A whole lot richer.”

  “Perhaps. But a whole lot poorer as well, don’t you think?”

  The old bastard was a romantic. Richards hadn’t suspected this. He assumed the necklace must have been to get sex. Now it sounded like del Campo might actually care for this woman, whoever she was. In that moment, Richards decided to add another fifty grand to the asking price. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Hmmm,” said the general, considering his cigar. “I know I am. Now, this necklace I see here in the newspaper. They call it, The Tears of the Angels. My sources tell me you know the dealer, a Senhor Fontaine?”

  “Your sources are good, General. I do know him.”

  “Can you set up a meeting for me? My niece wants this particular necklace, you see, for her ... um ... birthday in July. I’d like to close a deal.”

  “No problem, General. Your aide already spoke to me about it. Pierre Fontaine’s coming to Recife next month, the twenty-third. He’s got some other business here and he’d be able to see you in person.”

  “Excellent. Now, what of the price?”

  “Well, I understand the necklace is an antique. One of a kind. Pierre tells me it’s valued at two hundred and sixty-five thousand. US dollars, of course. There’s been a lot of interest in it from buyers in Colombia, but I’ve assured Pierre he should talk to you first.”

  “Hmmm. I see. Well, Mister Richards, I don’t think we need to waste time. I’ll give you quarter of a million for it. I think that’s fair.”

  Richards said nothing for a few long seconds. He was trying to look cool but all he could think about was the twelve thousand dollars he had just made from five minutes’ work. It was good to have an old friend who was a jewellery dealer, an old friend who was desperately looking for new customers. “All right, General, two hundred and fifty it is. Consider it yours.”

  The general stood up. Richards followed suit. They shook hands.

  “A
very wise sale, Mister Richards. You understand, my niece must have this necklace. Be sure your Senhor Fontaine is here on time.”

  Something about the general’s voice frightened the hell out of Richards, but he told himself it was just a transaction, just another customer. “He’ll be here, General. You can be sure of that.”

  “Excellent. I regret I’m due at the barracks.” The general smiled, then called out in Portuguese to his men. “Show Senhor Richards out.”

  “Thank you, General.”

  “Thank you, Mister Richards.”

  Richards bought a coconut at the beach afterwards, to celebrate. As the vendor hacked off the top of the nut with a huge machete, Richards reflected that life in Brazil wasn’t so bad after all. He drank down the warm milk and looked out at the ocean. Bob Richards was in the money.

  Chapter 3

  Bob Richards liked women. He respected them. He had even once tried to love one of them – and he had the lawyers’ bills to prove it. When his money had run dry and his wife had left him, she kept his name. Emily Richards. He knew a woman could steal your heart. He never really realised they could steal your name as well. That was nearly five years ago.

  “Forget sex,” Pierre Fontaine had once told him. “What you want is a woman who can talk. Good conversation, my friend. That’s the key.”

  Richards had a better idea. Forget conversation. Go for the sex. So much simpler. No emotional involvement. Just fun. And no lawyers at the end of it, providing you were suitably careful. And Richards was. You just had to find the right kind of woman, one who was looking for exactly the same thing you were. Just find a suitable woman. Or three.

  Carina Arantes was exactly Richards’ kind of woman. At thirty-five, she was old enough not to be an idiotic kid. He didn’t want someone who was going to go and fall in love with him over a little casual sex. He had met her in the travel agency on the corner, a comely brunette in a short blue skirt. She had a boyfriend, a pilot with Varig. Theirs was an open relationship, she had told him over an illicit cup of coffee. Oh, how Richards loved a liberated woman. When Ayrton was away in Buenos Aires, or Sydney, or Singapore, Carina would give Richards a call. This was a most agreeable arrangement. And when Carina wasn’t available, there was Maria, the office manager at the club, who would occasionally take pity on his loneliness and hers and invite him back to her apartment. Last but not least was Patricia, from the language school. That little affair had been going for years. Richards was not a religious man, but he had to admit he had a tremendous admiration for Brazilian Catholicism. For a Catholic people, Brazilians had the most liberated attitude to sex you could possibly imagine. If you were going to escape to some foreign country, you might as well go somewhere the women were gorgeous and willing. In this regard, Richards had made a good choice. He was eternally grateful to those bright sparks who had invented the thong bikini and the lambada dance, both of which he profoundly admired.

  Carina Arantes looked stunning in a thong bikini. But then Carina Arantes looked stunning in just about anything. She had even taught him the lambada, which he had made a complete fool of himself trying to do. “You Americans have no rhythm,” she used to complain. And she would laugh at him. Then she would take him to a bedroom and have her evil way with him. Richards was a handsome man, which was fortunate since his financial affairs were pretty shaky. His money was not going to attract women. Carina Arantes was interested in more basic things.

  A few days after he had seen the general, Carina had called Richards and informed him that Ayrton had just left for London. She suggested dinner. Richards had gladly obliged. They ate Italian food and got drunk.

  Richards had left his car in the underground security lot back at the apartment. He knew if they went in the car he would have to find somewhere safe to park it, then be forced to pay some grubby street kid fifty cents to protect it from thieves while they ate. Actually, it was more like paying some kid fifty cents to agree not to take a knife to the tyres. And Richards would have to leave the handbrake off, so the car could be pushed if someone else wanted to park nearby, or else he would return and find the windows smashed in. Naturally, he would not have stopped at any red lights, either. Too dangerous. It was all just too much trouble for a quick trip down the road. He knew the rules. It was safe enough. So, they would walk.

  After the meal at the Little Napoli, a cheap but tasty cafe on a quiet road two blocks behind the impressive Golden Beach Hotel, Richards was eagerly walking Carina Arantes back to his apartment. Their steps were heavy, echoing off the high concrete walls of the quiet houses. Carina’s ample cleavage kept peeking out of the top of her blouse, and she was complaining loudly about her new jeans being uncomfortable, which Richards could only take as a very encouraging sign. It was already nearly midnight, and his apartment was only a ten-minute walk away. It was a hot night. Carina’s drunken laughter was warm in his ear. She leaned on him constantly as they walked. Richards was enjoying the anticipation.

  He was also getting impatient. He knew he could get home faster if he took the shortcut, and the sooner he could casually suggest that Carina might like to get out of those uncomfortable jeans, the better. So he steered her left, down a dirt alley behind several well-fortified houses.

  They were about fifty yards down the long alley when Richards realised he had made a mistake. There were children sitting in the shadows, peeking out from gaps between the houses, waiting for passers-by. There was just enough light to make out their crouched figures.

  “Oops,” Richards said under his breath, as he turned Carina around and decided they had better take the long way home, after all.

  As he did so, five kids stepped out into the alley in front of him. The youngest was probably about nine, the eldest perhaps fourteen. Now that they were close, he could smell them. They were street kids. Dirty, violent, dangerous street kids. He saw the flash of a knife in the hand of a skinny, blonde-haired kid in the middle of the group. Richards was an average-sized man, even a little bulky. These were skinny little kids. They were no match for him physically. They were just children. But Richards knew there was always more to these situations than met the eye.

  Carina had stopped laughing. “Street kids,” she said soberly.

  “Just leave it to me,” Richards replied. “And don’t do anything silly.”

  “Okay, Bobby. Okay.”

  The blonde-haired kid looked about twelve years old. He was wearing a white T-shirt that was so grubby it had nearly turned black, but Richards could still make out the writing on it as the kid stepped nearer. It said, ‘Mercy of God Orphanage.’ Obviously the kid wasn’t too bright.

  “Your wallet, Senhor,” the kid said in a nervous voice. “Your wallet.”

  “Okay, I will give you my wallet.” Richards moved very, very slowly. He put his right hand in his trouser pocket, just finger and thumb, no sudden movements, and drew out the spare wallet he always carried when walking. He wore no watch, no jewellery, and his real wallet was at home. He bent down and put it slowly on the ground.

  “The lady’s also,” said the child. He pointed the knife pathetically. Richards wondered how the hell this little skinny-armed kid thought he was going to do any damage with the tiny blade, but he played along anyway.

  “Give him your wallet, Carina. Put it on the ground.”

  Carina gingerly took out her wallet and dropped it in the dirt.

  Two of the other children ran in and grabbed the wallets off the ground, then began flipping through all the money excitedly. The thick wads of cruzeiros were the equivalent of about forty dollars. It was nothing to Richards, but to the kids it was a fortune. The kids were laughing.

  “Okay, okay. We go now,” said Richards. He led Carina backwards.

  All of a sudden an older boy stepped out of the shadows and called out to Richards, just to let him know he had been watching. The boy was tall and thin, with pale skin and a couple of missing teeth from some previous encounter. He held up a dirty, rusty revolver so Richa
rds could see it. “Yes. Senhor, you go now. You are a very smart man. Goodnight.”

  Richards nodded, to let the boy with the gun know he understood that it was his decision to let them live, and to thank him.

  Richards led Carina quickly out of the alley.

  Five minutes later, more at a jog than a walk, they had reached his apartment. He sat Carina down on his cheap sofa and got her some water.

  “Are you all right, Carina?”

  “Oh, Bobby, you’re so sweet. Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry. It was my fault. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It’s all right, Bobby Hichards. It’s just a few cruzeiros.”

  “I wanted to get you back here quickly. It’s my fault.”

  “You wanted to undress me, didn’t you? Huh? I know you, Bobby.”

  Richards was glad she was so drunk. It had made her only half-aware of the whole robbery. Probably she never even saw the kid with the gun, never even realised they nearly got killed. “No, I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  Carina put a hand on his cheek. “You are really worried.” She kissed him and ran her hands through his hair. “Let me make it better. Okay?”

  “Carina, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can, tonight.”