They’d chosen to call their organization the Spartan Rowing Club. In those days, to be a Spartan meant simply to be a great warrior. The word hadn’t yet taken on the more recent connotations of frugality and austerity.
The battles those warriors fought were on the lazy current of the river, and they consisted of racing each other in sculls of one, two, or four men.
Time brought radical change. By the last years of the twentieth century, and on into today, no one would think of entering the water, boat or no boat. The Tietê had become little more than an open sewer, devoid of fish and poisonous to man.
As the quality of the water degenerated, the rowing club evolved. Females were admitted, and the members began to take up other sports. The boats disappeared, replaced by tennis courts, swimming pools, athletic fields and a clubhouse, in which there was a ballroom and a restaurant.
Most important of all, in the northernmost corner of the complex was the football stadium, capable of seating 78,420 people and home to the CFS, the Clube de Futebol Espartense, the Spartan Football Club, nine times national champions.
Twenty-five city blocks had been demolished to construct the building and the parking lot that surrounded it. Packed to capacity on game days, the lot was largely empty when Silva and Arnaldo drove in. The two federal cops were able to find a spot not fifty meters from the main entrance.
They passed through portals hung with the club’s flags (red Grecian helmets on a white field) and approached a security checkpoint. Seated there, in a uniform as grey as his hair, an old man was reading a newspaper. He looked up when Arnaldo leaned on the counter.
“Senhores?” he said.
“Jordan Talafero,” Silva said. “We want to see him.”
DESPITE THEIR surprise visit, Talafero didn’t keep them waiting. Within five minutes of their arrival, the two cops were in comfortable chairs, sipping coffee.
Talafero sat with his elbows propped-up on a desk that appeared to have been made out of a solid plank of jacaranda. A picture window in the wall behind him overlooked the playing field. The other salient feature of Talafero’s office was his clocks.
They were of all sizes and types. There were clocks sheathed in plastic, in wood, in different kinds of metal, in domes of glass. There were clocks on the walls, clocks on the desk, clocks on the side tables, clocks on the bookcase.
“Little hobby of mine,” Talafero said in a high, squeaky voice ill-suited to a man of his considerable height and bulk.
“Good thing you guys arrived just before the hour.”
“How so?” Silva asked.
Talafero held up a hand. “Wait for it,” he said.
Just then, one of the clocks started to chime. It was still chiming when another clock kicked in. In seconds, the office was filled with the sound of clocks tolling the hour. Talafero sat listening with a smile on his face.
“That first one was a little bit off,” he said when the ring of the last chime had died away. “I gotta adjust it.”
“Quite a show,” Silva said.
“That was nothing,” Talafero said. “You want to hear them pull out all the stops, stick around until noon.”
Silva studied a model standing on his side of the desk. Inside a crystal case, three spheres, supported by a central axis, rocked back and forth. They were fashioned of the same gilded metal used for the hands.
“How many have you got?” he said.
“Seventy-four. When I got my sixtieth, my wife made me bring them into the office, said they were driving her nuts.”
“Some look quite old.”
“Some are. See that one over there? That’s from 1873. The date of manufacture is inside, etched into the frame.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I don’t just collect them, I repair them. I even build them, make ’em for Christmas presents. See this one? It’s one of mine.”
Talafero was in his mid-forties and running to fat. A Spartan T-shirt was tightly stretched over his bulging belly. It wasn’t particularly warm in the room, but his underarms were soaked with sweat. So was his forehead. He seemed to be agitated about something.
“Enough about clocks,” he said. “We got more important things to talk about. You’re here about the Artist’s mother, right?”
Silva raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think so?”
“Stands to reason. Who else would you talk to first? Who’s closer to the Artist? Answer me that.”
“Frankly, Senhor Talafero—”
“Nobody. Nobody’s closer. I’ve known him since he was twelve. I know his mother. Hell, I even know that girlfriend of his, although sometimes I wish I didn’t. You guys are federal, right?”
“Right.”
“Good. Because, if you were from the Civil Police, I wouldn’t talk to you. He’s got all of those guys on his payroll.”
“Who?”
“The man who did it. Captain Miranda.”
“Miranda, the bicheiro?”
By bicheiro, Silva meant a mobster, a banker for the jogo do bicho—the animal game. Brazil’s illegal lottery was an import, with minor variations, of a similar form of illicit gambling run by organized crime interests in the United States. There, it was referred to as the “numbers racket.”
“Him,” Talafero said. “He’s the one. He snatched Tico’s mother. I’m sure of it.”
“You may be sure of it, Senhor Talafero, but can you prove it?”
“No, I can’t.”
“So why do you think he did?”
“I don’t think he did, Chief Inspector, I know he did. He takes the whole carnival thing very seriously. He—”
“Wait,” Silva said. “Back up. What’s carnival got to do with it?”
“It’s got everything to do with it. He’s not just a bicheiro, he’s the patron of Green Mangos.”
“The samba school?”
“Of course, the samba school. You know anything else called Green Mangos? We’ve beaten the bastards three years running. Miranda doesn’t want it to happen again.”
Silva scratched his head. “Miranda wants his school to win the competition, so he decides to kidnap the Artist’s mother? I don’t get the connection.”
“Maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself,” Talafero said, mopping his brow. “Let me lay it out in terms that even your muscle man here will understand.”
“Hey,” Arnaldo said.
Talafero ignored him—as he’d been doing since the beginning of the conversation. “You heard about my deal with Real Madrid?”
“I heard about it,” Silva said with distaste.
“You got no call to be looking at me like that,” Talafero said. “It’s just business.”
Business that had become front-page news, business that had caused a great deal of discontent among Brazilian sports fans. The Artist’s pending transfer to the Spanish club, Real Madrid, was immensely unpopular.
“People got no right to be so pissed off,” Talafero said defensively. “It’s not like it’s going to fuck up our chances of winning the Cup.”
It didn’t. In the World Cup, players always represented their home countries. The Artist would play for Brazil no matter who owned his contract.
“Yeah,” Arnaldo said, “but from here on in we only get to watch him on television.”
“Most people watch him on television now.”
“That’s because he’s playing here, for the Spartans. How many people really care what he does in Spain?”
“How many? Forty million Spaniards, that’s how many. Listen, you guys aren’t here to question my business decisions. You’re here because it’s your job to get the Artist’s mother back.”
“Thanks for reminding us,” Arnaldo said. “We almost forgot.”
Talafero ignored the sarcasm. “Let’s not get off on a tangent.”
“You were talking about—”
“I know what I was talking about. Here’s the thing: I haven’t got Real Madrid’s signature on the dotted line. T
hey can still back out.”
“Why should they?” Silva said.
Talafero threw up his arms, revealing sweat-stained armpits. “Give me a break! Isn’t it obvious? When the Artist finds out his mother is dead—”
“What makes you think she’s dead?”
“That’s the way Miranda works. That bastard kills people, and when the Artist finds out he’s done it to his mother, he’ll go all to pieces. Believe me, I know. I know how Tico is, and I know how he thinks about her. There’s no way he’s going to get over it in time.”
“If she’s dead,” Silva said, “I’d have to agree with you. We have less than two weeks before—”
Talafero, impatient, cut him off in mid-sentence.
“You think I’m talking about the Cup?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Hell, no. I’m talking about the option with Real Madrid. It’s only got twenty-seven days to run. If they don’t sign before then, the deal is off.”
“But not for long,” Silva said. “There’s only one Artist. He may be distraught right now, but sooner or later, whatever the outcome, he’ll get over it. Then the scramble will start all over again. Now that the other European teams know you’re willing to sell, you might even get a bidding war going.”
“You don’t have to tell me my business. I know all that. Thing is, I don’t need the money in three or four months. I need it now. I need it for Carnival.”
“Carnival? Carnival is eight months away.”
“You got any idea how long it takes to put together a first class desfile? Eight months is cutting it short.”
“Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You think Miranda snatched the Artist’s mother so he can ransom her for five million dollars, so he can invest it in his samba school, so he can win next year’s competition? With all due respect, Senhor Talafero, nobody takes Carnival that seriously.”
“Miranda does. He hates Silver Carnations, and he hates me. And he’s not doing it for the five million. By snatching the Artist’s mother, he queers the deal with Real Madrid and makes sure I don’t have the money to invest in costumes, or floats, or dress rehearsals. Meanwhile, the prick already has a business that nets him hundreds of thousands every month. He doesn’t need the ransom money. That’s just gilt on his fucking lily.”
“So, according to you, the kidnapping of the Artist’s mother is an ego thing? It’s all about who can put on the best show?”
“What the fuck is wrong with that? The public wins, right? You think they go to the Sambadrome to see poverty? You know who likes poverty? The fucking intellectuals and bleeding-heart liberals, that’s who! Them with all their bullshit about the integrity of the common man, the noble worker, all that crap. If that’s what you think, Chief Inspector, I got news for you. What the common man wants is luxury. That’s what they go to the Sambadrome to see, the kilometers of skirts wrapped around the Bahianas, the sequins on the bikinis of the destaques, the floats as big as a ten-story building. They want to see luxury. And luxury costs money.”
“So by snatching the Artist’s mother—”
“Miranda fucks up my deal, prevents me from getting my hands on the money we need, and Green Mangos wins. To top it all off, he pockets five million dollars. It’s that simple.”
Chapter Thirteen
THE RUA AUGUSTA WAS once a fashionable place to shop. But that was once. In recent years, it had become a strip of potholed asphalt and broken sidewalks lined with down-market snack bars, second-class boutiques, and third-run cinemas.
Caio Prado’s office was two flights up, above a store that sold cheap Chinese knickknacks. The hand-painted sign in the flyblown display window read, Sale! Everything less than two Reais.
The sale must have been going on for a long time, because the letters were faded, and the paper was curling at the edges.
Prado’s receptionist looked to be in her late teens and, like most females of any age, seemed happy to find Gonçalves standing in front of her. Her smile revealed braces.
“Help you?”
“Here to see the boss.” Gonçalves flashed his badge.
“Agent Gonçalves.”
She fluttered eyelashes heavy with mascara. “You have a first name?”
“Haraldo.”
The smile got wider. “I’m Ana.”
“Prazer, Ana. As much as I’m enjoying our little tête-àtête, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Okay,” she said, reaching for her telephone, “keep your shirt on. Or maybe not.”
Less than a minute later, Gonçalves found himself being led into the presence of an elderly gentleman in a faded blue suit. Prado was thin, almost frail, had an ingratiating smile and looked rather like everyone’s favorite uncle. He offered coffee. Gonçalves accepted, and kept his eyes on Ana’s undulating derrière as she left to fetch it.
“How old is she?” he asked when she was gone.
“Eighteen, going on thirty-five,” Prado said, “and before you get any ideas, she’s my niece.”
“Ah,” Gonçalves said. “Seems like a sweet girl.”
“Seems that way to a lot of people,” Prado said. “It’s an illusion. But mostly those people are a lot younger than you are, which is the way my sister and brother-in-law prefer it.”
“How old do you think I am?”
Prado looked at him speculatively. “Twenty-two?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Really? You don’t look it.”
Gonçalves sighed. “I know,” he said.
Ana returned with two cups on a tray and stood there, fluttering her eyelashes until Prado told her to leave.
At which point Gonçalves got down to business: “It’s my understanding you undertook some inquiries on behalf of Juraci Santos.”
Prado stroked his chin. Gonçalves was beginning to think he didn’t intend to answer at all. But then he said, “Did you read the brass plaque next to the front door?”
“Caio Prado. Confidential Inquiries. That one?”
“That one. Confidential, Agent Gonçalves, is the operative word. My clients prize discretion.”
“In this case, Senhor Prado, I think your client would value release from captivity over discretion.”
“There’s nothing I could tell you that would lead to her release.”
“We already know you were investigating Cintia Tadesco, and we know you were doing it on behalf of Juraci Santos. What else is there to know?”
“Very little. Senhora Santos largely wasted her money. And you, Agent Gonçalves, are wasting your time.”
“I’d like to be the judge of that.”
“I’m sure you would. But no one wants a private investigator who spreads their business all over town. It’s not your welfare I’m considering, it’s mine.”
“Talking to the Federal Police can hardly be characterized as spreading it all over town. Look, Senhor Prado, your client is in trouble. Do we agree on that?”
Prado nodded. “Of course.”
“Then it should be clear you can best serve her interest by telling me what you know.”
“Her interest, perhaps, but not mine. If it got out that I—”
“It’s not going to get out,” Gonçalves said.
“Isn’t it?”
“No. We’re quite accustomed to dealing with confidential sources. You can count on me not to go bruiting your name about.”
“Can I?”
Gonçalves’s patience was wearing thin. He threw aside the carrot and picked up the stick.
“Listen to me, Senhor Prado. Let me make something clear. We, and by we I mean the Federal Police, have got everybody in the goddamned hierarchy right up to the President of the Republic on our backs. I’m not asking you anymore, I’m telling you: you’re going to brief me on everything you know, and you’re going to do it right now.”
Prado shook his head. “What I know is of no relevance, no relevance whatsoever, to your case.”
“You’re not listening. Now, we can do
this the easy way, or the hard way. You decide.”
Prado was probably an ex cop, certainly knew how the system worked. He was going to have to give Gonçalves something, but he made a last attempt to give him as little as possible.
“Here it is in a nutshell: Juraci Santos neither liked nor trusted her prospective daughter-in-law. She asked me to investigate her background. I found nothing incriminating. That’s it.”
“That’s nowhere near enough. I want more than the nutshell, I want the nut. Let’s start at the beginning. How did you acquire Juraci as a client?”
Prado gave a deep sigh—and crumbled.
“The Artist’s mother was recommended to me by one of her friends, a lady who’d employed me in a divorce action. Juraci called me and asked me to drop by her home to discuss a matter she described as being highly confidential. I told her I’d consult in my office for free, but a house call was something I’d have to charge for. She told me money was of no import. It was a statement, I confess, that aroused my immediate interest. Clients like that don’t come along often.”
“What was her brief? Exactly.”
“To discover whether the Tadesco woman was doing, or had done, something that might damage the Artist in any way. A romantic liaison with someone other than Tico, for example, or if there was something in Cintia’s past that might engender a scandal.”
“Do you think Juraci was simply being cautious, or did she give you the impression she’d be pleased if you could come up with something negative?”
“The latter. It was evident from the way she spoke about Senhorita Tadesco that she’d taken a dislike to her.”
“So her true objective was to find some way to encourage the Artist to break off his engagement?”
“I believe that to be the case, yes.”
“And your investigations revealed … what?”
“I told you. Nothing. Nothing she could use.”
Gonçalves took note of the qualification and pounced.
“But there was something.”
Prado paused to consider his words.
A Vine in the Blood Page 8
