Carioca Fletch f-7

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “You all right?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “What hotel are you in?”

  “The Jangada.”

  “Very posh.”

  “Bring lots of money.”

  “We’ll have breakfast together. At your hotel.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Come straight to my room with the money. Room nine-twelve.”

  “Right.” He had been in a bedroom of hers before.

  He walked with her to the break in the hedge.

  “I’d send you back in a taxi,” he chuckled, “but I’m not wearing shoes.”

  Distantly, she said, “I’d rather walk.”

  Eight

  There was no answer when he tapped at the door of Room 912.

  He knocked louder.

  Still the door did not open.

  He knocked again and then placed his ear against the door. He could hear nothing.

  As quietly as possible, in his own room at The Hotel Yellow Parrot, Fletch had showered and changed into fresh shorts, a shirt, sweat socks and sneakers. Laura was still sleeping. He left a note for her, I have gone to the Hotel Jangada to have breakfast with someone I know.

  He had driven the short distance between the hotels in his MP.

  After knocking on Joan Collins Stanwyk’s door at The Hotel Jangada, he went back down to the lobby and called the room on the house phone.

  No answer.

  At the hotel desk, he asked the clerk, “Please, what is the number of Joan Collins Stanwyk’s room? Mrs Alan Stanwyk?”

  The clerk consulted his plastic-tabbed file. “Nine-twelve.”

  “She hasn’t checked out, has she?”

  The clerk squinted at his file. “No, sir.”

  “Obrigado. Where is your breakfast room, please?”

  Joan Collins Stanwyk was not in the breakfast room. She was not in the bar, which was open.

  On the terrace of The Hotel Jangada were two swimming pools, one which was in the morning sun, the other which would be in the sun in the afternoon. Already a few were sunning themselves around one pool. Around the pool in the shade a few were having breakfast. Two fat white men had their heads together over Bloody Marys.

  Joan Collins Stanwyk was not in the pools area.

  On the ninth floor, Fletch knocked at her door again.

  From the lobby he called her room again.

  At the desk, he left her a note: Came to have breakfast with you as arranged. Can’t find you anywhere. You fell asleep? Please call me at Yellow Parrot. If I’m not there, leave message. Enclosed is taxi money.—Fletch.

  “Will you please leave this for Mrs Stanwyk? Room nine-twelve.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Fletch watched the desk clerk put the sealed envelope in the slot for Room 912.

  “Teo? Bom dia.” Fletch phoned from The Jangada.

  “Bom dia, Fletch. How are you?”

  “Very pleased by your new paintings. Thinking of them has made me happy.”

  “Me, too.”

  “When do you want to see me?” Three North American oil-rig workers in heavy blue jeans got off the elevator, staggered across the lobby of The Hotel Jangada, and went straight into the bar.

  “Any time. Now is fine.”

  “Shall I come now?”

  “Well have coffee.”

  Nine

  “You do want coffee, don’t you?”

  “I guess I need it.”

  A houseman had led Fletch downstairs in Teo da Costa’s house to the small family sitting room. Dressed in pajamas, a light robe and slippers, Teo sat behind his glasses in a comfortable chair reading O Globo.

  “Have a busy night?” Teo folded the newspaper.

  “We went to Seven-oh-six. With the Tap Dancers.”

  “It’s a wonder you’ve had any sleep.”

  “I’ve had no sleep.”

  Standing, Teo nodded to the houseman, who withdrew.

  “You look fresh enough. You look like you’ve been out jogging.”

  “I have been.”

  A look of concern flickered across Teo’s haughty face.

  Fletch said, “I don’t feel like sleeping.”

  “Sit down,” Teo said. “Is there anything bothering you?”

  Sitting, Fletch said, “Well, I arranged to have breakfast with this person I know, from California. When I went to the hotel, she wasn’t there.”

  “She went out on the beach, perhaps.”

  “I had arranged to meet her less than an hour before I went to the hotel. She could have fallen asleep.”

  “Yes, of course. In Rio, night and day get mixed up. Especially as Carnival approaches.”

  The houseman brought two cups of coffee.

  Teo sipped his standing up. “People don’t realize it, but Brazil’s second-largest export is tea.”

  After the houseman left, Fletch asked, “You wanted to talk to me, Teo. Privately, you said.”

  “About what you’re doing.”

  “What am I doing?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Brazil is not your home.”

  “I feel very comfortable here.”

  “What would you most like to do in this world?”

  “Sit on Avenida Atlantica in Copacabana, eat churrasco, drink guaraná, and watch Brazilian women of all ages walk. Listen to Laura play the piano. Go to Bahia, occasionally. Run, swim. Jump up and down to the drums. Love the people. I am learning a little Portuguese, a few words.”

  “Do you mean to stay in Brazil?”

  “I haven’t thought.”

  “How long have you been here now? Six weeks?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’ve bought a car. You’ve met Laura.” Teo sipped his coffee. “Don’t you have any plans?”

  “Not really.”

  Teo put his cup and saucer on a table. “A young man should have plans. You’re a young man. From everything I can see, a very healthy young man. You are attractive. You have a brain. Because of the business we have done together, I know how much money you have. I do not know the source of that money, but I know you are not a criminal.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I am only speaking to you, Fletch, because I am sixty, and you are only in your twenties. Your father is not here….”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “It is not good for a young man to live without a plan.”

  “Are you saying I should leave Brazil, Teo?”

  “Brazil is a difficult place, even for Brazilians.” Teo scratched the back of his head and laughed. “Especially for Brazilians.”

  “Is this about Laura, Teo?” Fletch fixed Teo in the eye. “Did Otavio Cavalcanti ask you to speak to me?”

  Teo used his hooded eye on Fletch. “Brazil is not that way. Not intolerant.”

  “Otavio is.”

  Teo laughed. “Otavio Cavalcanti is one of the most liberal men we have. So liberal he cannot go to New York and read his poetry at a university.”

  “About some things he is liberal. About his daughter…?”

  “And what do you think of Otavio?”

  “He is a great scholar and poet who does not answer my questions.”

  “Brazil is difficult to understand.”

  “Did Otavio speak to you last night, Teo?”

  “Yes,” Teo admitted. “He did. That is not what concerns me.”

  “Laura put a frog under our bed.”

  “Yes,” Teo said. “So Otavio told me. You know what that means?”

  “I do now.”

  “You see, you do not know Brazil. Perhaps cannot know Brazil. There is so much here that came from the Nago and the Bantu, particularly the Yoruba. You can have no feeling for it.”

  “Saravá Umbanda!”

  “What did you do before you came here? You were a journalist?”

  “I worked for a newspaper.”

  “Then you must make a plan to work
for a newspaper again. Buy your own small newspaper, somewhere you want to be. Understand the new technology of communications. Grow along the course you were on.”

  Fletch sat silently a moment.

  Then he finished his coffee.

  “Teo, have you heard about this Janio Barreto … situation? That I am someone who was murdered here forty-seven years ago—?”

  “Yes. I was told about it last night. It worries me.”

  “Why?”

  “It worries me that you might not understand.”

  “Of course I don’t understand. Perhaps you could help me to understand.”

  “I’m sure the woman—What’s her name?”

  “Idalina. Idalina Barreto.”

  “I’m sure the woman is entirely sincere in what she believes. There is no scam, swindle. There is no trick involved, as you asked last night.”

  Upstairs, a vacuum cleaner was being run.

  “Teo, do you personally give any credence to such a thing?”

  “Do I think you are a peri-spirit?” Teo smiled. “No.”

  Fletch said, “Phew!”

  “I worry that you won’t know what to do about it.”

  “What do I do about it?”

  Teo hesitated a long moment. “I don’t know either. Brazil is one of the most modern nations on earth …” His voice dwindled off.

  “I think I understand what you are saying, Teo.” Fletch stood up. “I promise I will think.”

  “It’s just that your father is not here.”

  “I will think of a plan.”

  In shaking, Teo held Fletch’s hand a long moment. “The Tap Dancers,” he said, “Your father would not want you to become a tap dancer on life.”

  Ten

  “Laura?”

  The window drapes were open. The room had been made up. Fletch pushed the ajar door to the bathroom all the way open.

  “Laura?”

  There was a note for him on the bureau.

  Fletch—

  Otavio called. He is feeling too tired to stay for Carnival in Rio. He wants to be home in Bahia. He said this morning he feels too tired to travel alone, through all the Carnival crowds. So I am helping him travel to Bahia.

  Surely I will be back Sunday. Enjoy the Canecão Ball tonight even without me. If you get too lonely without me, I have left you Jorge Amado’s Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands—a great Brazilian classic. And I will bring you a present from Bahia—something I want for you.

  Ciao,

  Laura

  Across the utility area, the man was still painting the room.

  The phone rang.

  “Janio?”

  “Not here, at present.”

  “Is Fletcher there?”

  “Yes, he’s here. I think.”

  “Toninho Braga, Fletch.”

  “How are you? Have you slept?”

  “We thought you might like to spend the day with us. Drive up to a place we know in the mountains. Laura can go shopping.”

  “Laura’s gone to Bahia with her father.”

  “That’s well. Then will you come? A place we know, very amusing, very relaxing. It is important to get away during Carnival.”

  “Toninho, I haven’t slept. I went running.”

  “This place is very relaxing. You can have a sleep there, after lunch.”

  “Teo da Costa is expecting me for the Canecão Ball tonight.”

  “Oh, we’ll be back in plenty of time for that. We are going to the ball, too.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Just Tito, Norival, Orlando, and myself. Get away from the women a few hours.”

  “I think I should try to sleep.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand anything.”

  “We are downstairs in the lobby, expecting you.”

  “Toninho.”

  “You will come?”

  Fletch looked at the freshly made bed. “É preciso terno?”

  Such was a tourist joke. In Brazil a suit was never necessary.

  “You will need no clothes. Do you have money?”

  Fletch felt the wad of cruzeiros in his pocket he had taken out of the hotel safe for Joan Collins Stanwyk. “Yes.”

  “Good. Bring your money. We will gamble. We will gamble and take your money away from you.”

  “Okay.”

  “You coming right down?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t say that.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Before leaving the telephone, Fletch called The Hotel Jangada and asked for Room 912.

  There was no answer.

  He took a full liter of mineral water from the bathroom.

  Before leaving the hotel room, Fletch checked under the bed.

  The frog was still there.

  Eleven

  “Bum, Bum,” Toninho said.

  The black four-door Galaxie was on the sidewalk close to the hedge in front of The Hotel Yellow Parrot. Around it, dressed only in shorts and sunglasses, were the Tap Dancers. Norival, the only one with his belly hanging over his belt, held a can of beer in his hand.

  “Bom dia, Fletch,” Tito said.

  “Tem dinheiro?”

  Tito grinned. “É para uso pessoal.”

  In front of the hotel, half in the road, half on the sidewalk, a samba band was beating its drums at full strength in the strong Saturday morning sunlight. At their center was an old pickup truck casually decorated with palm fronds, some of which had been dyed purple and red. Seated in the back of the pickup truck, facing backward, was a huge black papier-mâché monster. Its arms were out, to embrace; its eyes were big and shiny; its smile was friendly. A girl dressed only in a G-string and pasties sat on the monster’s head, her legs dropping over its face. Of course she had gorgeous legs and a flat belly and full breasts. Her long black hair fell over her face. On the ground near the truck, a tall man in a long black evening gown and cherry-red face rouge danced wildly to the drums. A nine-year-old girl also danced in a black evening gown, while puffing a cigarette. A bare-legged middle-aged man danced while holding his briefcase. Perhaps there were fifty or sixty people dancing around the band.

  “Bum, bum, paticum bum,” Toninho said.

  Fletch tossed his plastic liter bottle of water onto the backseat of the Galaxie.

  “Senhor Barreto,” the doorman said quietly.

  In one swift motion, Tito pulled Fletch’s tennis shirt over his head and off him.

  Orlando put his forefinger against Fletch’s chest. “Look! Skin!”

  “He has skin?” Norival asked, looking.

  Tito ground a couple of knuckles into Fletch’s back. “Muscle!”

  “He is there?” Norival asked. “Really there?”

  “Senhor Barreto.” the doorman said, “Mister Fletcher.”

  “Bum, bum,” Toninho said.

  Behind the doorman, tall, stately in her white gown, big-eyed Idalina Barreto came through the crowd. On each side of her she had a child by the hand. Three older children were in her wake. The children were clean enough, but the jerseys on the girls were too big or too small. Below his shorts, from above his knee, the ten-year-old boy had a wooden leg.

  “Janio Barreto!” the hag shrieked over the sound of the samba band.

  “Ah,” Toninho said solemnly. “Your wife.”

  The doorman stood back.

  Tito handed Fletch his shirt rolled up into a ball. Fletch threw it into the car.

  The old woman cackled rapidly. She was presenting the children to him.

  “She says they are your great-grandchildren, Janio,” Tito said. “Are you catching their names? The boy is called Janio.”

  Fletch put his hand on the head of one of the small girls.

  At first, Idalina Barreto smiled.

  As Fletch ducked into the backseat of the black Galaxie, her voice became shrill. She pressed forward.

  Toninho got into the driver’s seat. “Aren’t you going to
ask your wife if you may go gambling?”

  Orlando got into the front passenger seat. Entering from the other side, Tito sat in the middle, beside Fletch. Norival sat near the left window of the backseat.

  Fletch handed two of the children money through his back window.

  Toninho started the car. “Bum bum” he said.

  As the car rolled forward, the hag’s face continued to fill Fletch’s window. Her shrieking voice filled the car.

  “Ah, wives,” Tito said.

  Soon the car bumped off the sidewalk and got into traffic on the avenida.

  Through the rearview mirror, Toninho was staring at Fletch.

  There were many cans of beer on the floor of the backseat of the car.

  “Bum, bum, paticula bum” Toninho said, driving through traffic.

  “Carnival.” In the front seat, Orlando stretched. “How nice.”

  Toninho shook his head sadly. “Think of driving off and leaving your wife and great-grandchildren that way! To go gambling! What is the younger generation coming to!”

  “Um chopinho?” Norival held out a can of beer to Fletch.

  “Not yet.”

  Stuck in traffic, Norival handed the beer through the window to a child no more than twelve. Then he opened one for himself.

  In the traffic near them was a big, modern bus. All that could be seen through the windows of the bus were bare, brown upper torsos, moving like fish in a net, the arms flailing the insides of the bus, the feet apparently stomping the floor with the rhythm, the faces raised in some song. The bus was being used as a drum, being played from the inside by more than one hundred fists, more than one hundred feet. The bus being used as a drum from the inside did not seem to impair its modern beauty or impede its rollicking progress through the traffic.

  Finally the Galaxie turned into a side street and picked up speed for a short way until they came to another samba band almost clogging the street. A small seventy-year-old lady, all by herself, dressed in a red dress and red shoes, a red plastic handbag hanging from one forearm, danced to that band, taking perfect small steps with perfect dignity.

  Creeping the car past the samba band, Toninho shouted through the window at them, “Bum, bum, paticum bum, prugurundum!”

  Some of the people who heard him waved.

  “Bum, bum, paticum, prugurundum,” Fletch tried to say. “What’s that?”

  “An old carnival song,” Tito said, picking a beer off the floor.