“Have a good vacation, Captain,” he said smiling. “Off hunting, aren’t you?”
“Hunting and—with luck—fishing,” Da Silva said with satisfaction. “Up in Goiás, on the Araguaia, near the island of Bananal. Do you know the area?”
“Not me, sir,” said the sergeant, horrified at the thought. “I was born right here in Rio de Janeiro, and that’s as much jungle as I ever want to know.” He raised a hand, smiling. “Have a good time, sir. And get back safely.”
“Se Deus quiser,” Da Silva replied in accepted fashion, waved at the sergeant genially, and drove from the garage into the busy thoroughfare of the Rua de Catete. He followed the traffic for two blocks to the Rua Silveira Martins, pulled into the center of the street, and waited for the light to change so he could cut down past the Museum of the Republic, the old Presidential Palace, to the Avenida Beira Mar, and thence south toward Wilson’s abode.
At that moment he would have been the most surprised police captain in the world had anyone even suggested that on this trip, at least, the nearest he was going to get to Goiás, the Rio Araguaia, or the Isla de Bananal would be less than fifty miles from the garage he had just left.…
Chapter 3
The traffic light at the intersection of the Rua Silveira Martins and the Avenida Beira Mar was just turning from green to yellow as he approached; for one mad moment he considered trying to run it but instantly changed his mind as a huge omnibus charged through on the red, crossing before him, swaying dangerously, making no attempt to stop or even to slow down. Its driver, Da Silva surmised as he braked to a halt, either didn’t see the light, saw it improperly, or saw it properly and couldn’t have cared less. Any one of these three were generally considered adequate excuse for crashing a light in Rio.
He depressed the clutch, slipped the gearshift into neutral, and bent forward a bit in his seat, leaning negligently against the steering wheel, watching the pendant traffic light above. The light breeze from the bay beyond the new park was refreshing on his damp skin, relaxing him; beneath his feet the engine pulsed silently, its immense power leashed for the moment but ready for instant mobilization. So intent was Captain Da Silva on both the red light above him and the smoothly running power plant below that the rear door of the taxi had opened and a young lady had entered and seated herself before he could even attempt to stop her. He swung about, glaring in irritation, but it was irritation at himself for having forgotten to lock the rear doors on the inside. It wasn’t the fault of the passenger, who had—obviously—made a natural and innocent mistake.
“I’m sorry, senhora,” he said brusquely. “This cab is not for hire.”
Even as he spoke he noticed that the girl in the back seat was extraordinarily beautiful, with a lovely complexion, delicate features, large olive eyes, a smooth waterfall of dark hair curving gracefully to her shoulders, and giving the impression—even seated on the hard cushion of the rear seat—of being tall and slim, yet marvelously curved. As she leaned to one side to pull the rear door closed behind her—paying not the slightest attention to his protest—he noted confirmation in the full profile of her proud bosom, drawn up almost challengingly to stretch the taut front of her low-cut dress.
What a damned pity! Da Silva thought instinctively with a sudden inward rueful smile. A perfect example of my luck! Why couldn’t a girl like this climb into my Jaguar some evening when I pull up to a red light? Why now, when I have things to do and places to go? In the Jaguar you can be sure I wouldn’t try to kick her out. On the other hand, he thought, trying to be rational about the thing, with my luck she wouldn’t be the type to climb into Jaguars. Taxis are probably her limit.
There was a further thing he noted about the girl. Not only was she fascinatingly lovely, but she also showed no sign of getting out of his cab. She had settled back in quite proprietory fashion, making herself as comfortable as possible on the hard rear seat, her white-gloved hands clasped protectively about her small purse as if to guard it while suffering the discomfort of being driven someplace in the battered vehicle. Da Silva sighed.
“I’m extremely sorry, senhora,” he said, his voice this time honestly apologetic for having to disappoint uma uva like her. “As I said before, this cab is not for—”
His reasonable tone was suddenly drowned out by a blaring imperative blast of a horn behind him, instantly echoed in Rio fashion by, it seemed, every car within two blocks. He twisted sharply to the front, glancing up at the light. As he had already begun to suspect it had changed to green. He put the car into gear, pulled around the corner into the Avenida Beira Mar, and drew up to the curb. The taxi that had been behind charged past, tires squealing, driver glaring. Da Silva raised his shoulders and automatically brought one hand up to the lump on his forehead. This hadn’t been his day since he banged his head on the transmission housing, and nothing seemed to be improving it. At least tomorrow—he thought mistakenly—I’ll be miles from Rio, well on my way to a much needed vacation. And none too soon. He turned back to his passenger.
“I’ve been trying to tell you, senhora,” he said as patiently as he could under the circumstances. “This cab is just not for hire. If you’ll get out, I’ll get along. There are plenty of cabs available this time of day at this corner. You’ll get one in a few minutes.”
She gave him a brilliant smile, disclosing perfect teeth between full and sensuous lips, and then leaned forward, taking him into her confidence. Da Silva forced himself to raise his eyes from the billowing cleavage of her gown, but it was not without effort.
“Senhor,” she said sweetly, “how would you like it if I were to call a policeman? And tell him that you refused to carry me as a passenger? It’s against the law, you know, and you can lose your license, as I’m sure you also know. The first two cabs I stopped said they were on their lunch hour—”
“Taxi drivers eat, too,” Da Silva murmured, trying to be objective, somehow feeling empathy for his fellow cabbies, although any driver who would normally turn down this dish in favor of food needed help badly. On the other hand, maybe they were all on the way to their vacations. His passenger overlooked the comment.
“—and the next one swore he had a broken coisa—something or other—and he had to get to a garage immediately. I think he was lying. Frankly, senhor, at this point I’m tired of lazy, dishonest taxi drivers. One would think you people would be happy to get a fare, but it doesn’t seem to be that way. Now, I’m afraid, I’ve lost all patience. Your cab appears mechanically fit, and you don’t look starved at the moment, so will you please take me where I want to go? Or must I call that policeman?”
Da Silva began to feel put upon, which always had a tendency to make him stubborn, even with pretty women. He studied her face almost clinically and then sighed.
“You don’t understand, senhora. I already have a fare, a passenger. I’m on my way to pick him up now, and I’m already late. He’s waiting for me at this minute.”
The fact that this was a close approximation of the truth did not convince her in the least. In fact, her cold smile seemed to consider his effort the weakest she had encountered all day.
“Your meter flag is up, senhor. By law that means you are available. And we’re both wasting time. Do you accommodate me or must I really resort to a policeman?”
Da Silva sighed. What a day! What I should really do at this point, he thought, is let her call her policeman and then watch her face when he salutes me. And asks me if I want her run in. The thought made him smile, and he shrugged lightly. So their vacation would be delayed an hour or so; so they wouldn’t make Juiz de Fóra that night. So he’d take the pretty lady where she wanted to go. I just hope, he thought, that some day we meet in more favorable circumstances—at a cocktail party, possibly—and we’ll share a hearty laugh over this. She’ll realize, of course, how indebted she is to me.…
He turned back to the wheel, managing a morose look as the expression most logical for a driver losing an argument to a passenger. He reached over, pushing the me
ter flag down. Since it was one of the few features of the cab he never bothered to check, he suddenly hoped it was connected and functioning, but his worry was needless. The little black box instantly began ticking, pushing numerals along in steady order. His humor improved steadily. Who knows? he thought; we may even make expenses. The department could certainly use it.…
“All right, senhora. You win. There’s no need to call the cops. Where do I take you?”
Had he seen the sudden flash of triumph that momentarily crossed her face, he might have thought it nothing more than the natural reaction of a woman winning her way against the enemy, man—or against the superenemy, cabdriver. Had he studied the intensity of the expression, however, he might have wondered a bit, considering it slightly exaggerated for so minor a victory. However, by the time he had adjusted his rear-view mirror and peered at her through it her features were well under control, and he was facing only a demure look.
“Senhora?” he repeated. “Your destination?”
She viewed him calmly. “First, just drive to Copacabana—through the new tunnel and the Avenida Princesa Isabel. I’ll give you further directions from there.”
“A senhora que manda.”
It was the standard Brazilian fatalistic acceptance of those orders which cannot be avoided. Da Silva put the cab into gear and eased into traffic heading south along the edge of Flamengo. Well, at least she didn’t want to go to one of the northern suburbs of the sprawling city; that was a comfort. Copacabana wasn’t really out of the way; he knew a radio shop in the Avenida Nossa Senhora only a block from his own apartment on the beach; he could pick up a set of tubes there. He grinned at the odd situation and settled down to being a standard Rio cabdriver, delivering a passenger in standard fashion, although trying to do it a bit less recklessly than standard.
Behind him the smile of triumph had been erased from the face of Romana Mariana Vilares, but inside that pretty and clever head congratulations were being bestowed with a lavish hand. While normally as truthful as most women, Romana had fibbed a bit in her story concerning her problem of locating a cooperative cabdriver. Rather than being rejected by the various drivers as she claimed, she had actually spent two intense hours rejecting them. Not that they were aware of the rejection; she had merely inspected the drivers who had stopped at the traffic light at the Rua Silveira Martins in empty cabs, and then let them proceed. What she was searching for was one who appeared tough enough not to question her purpose, larcenous enough not to worry about any legality which might arise from her proposition, and poor enough to be driven to accept. When Da Silva had braked at the light, she was sure she had found him, and she had no intention of allowing him to escape. This curly-haired, husky, moustached bandit seemed perfect, and his obvious distaste for the minions of the law only added to his desirability.
Actually, she thought idly, glancing at the slightly hawklike profile and the strong jaw, and noting the wide shoulders and the muscular arms, I imagine he’d be quite attractive if he ever washed his face. She thrust the thought from her at once; she wasn’t here for romance. Still, the thought returned. Compared to Chico, there was no doubt that Chico came out of it looking terribly young. On the other hand, it was doubtful if her brigand of a driver could pay cash for a decent meal, while Chico not only had an allowance but would soon have a lot of money in one lump. And so would she, if she managed to involve her driver in the scheme. And it was time to be getting on with it.
She leaned forward, tapping him on the shoulder, well aware that her low-cut blouse was visible from an even more advantageous angle through the rear-view mirror.
“Senhor?”
Da Silva glanced up to the mirror casually, noted the gaping neckline and its firm contents, and swallowed. “Senhora?”
She smiled enigmatically and leaned back, pleased but not surprised by the results of her feminine ploy. “Tell me, senhor: in which favela do you live?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Momentarily Da Silva took his eyes from the road to glance over his shoulder in surprise at the question, and then brought his head back at once. Silly questions could be answered anytime; the traffic in Botafogo, where he now found himself, had to be answered every second or it had a tendency to answer itself, usually with tragic consequences. He slowed down a bit, edging toward a slower lane, smiling to himself. If it gave his passenger any feeling of superiority to believe he lived in one of those mountainside slums, then let her believe it. Actually, it was a perfectly logical supposition. He supposed, thinking about it, that 95 percent of the city’s cabdrivers, together with most other underpaid service workers of the city, lived in favelas. It was all they could afford.
And when that day finally comes, he thought, when we happen to run into each other at that future cocktail party, your confusion is going to be all the greater for that assumption. As will be my advantage, naturally. He managed an expression that neatly combined a certain fatalism concerning his condition of poverty with a justified resentment of her exposure of it.
“I, senhora?” He picked one out of the air. “The one on the Lagôa Rodrigo de Freitas.…”
“The one they call Praia do Pinto?”
That hadn’t been the one he had picked. “No, senhora. The one across from it, on this side. On the Morro dos Cabritos. They call it the Catatumbá.”
She bit back a smile of satisfaction. This man was proving more ideal for the purpose by the minute. The Catatumbá was a slum that not even the police entered. Not even in pairs; not even in squads. It would be perfect.… She continued with her questioning.
“And I suppose the senhor is married?”
“Married?” An odd question, but he imagined that cabdrivers, in the course of a day’s work, got even stranger ones. “No, senhora.”
“But certainly a young, healthy man like yourself must have some—some friend of his? To cook for him? Or wash his clothes? Or—well, to take care of him?”
Da Silva frowned. He knew that some people liked to talk to cabdrivers the way others liked to talk to barbers, or still others to talk to themselves, but he was beginning to form a strong suspicion that there was a purpose behind the interrogation. He also knew there were some women who got their sexual pleasure from making love to their social inferiors, and the greater the difference in position the greater the pleasure. It seemed to satisfy some feeling of guilt within them. He glanced into the mirror, meeting her cool, steady eyes, and then looked back to the road again. No; her purpose in questioning his love life was not to share it. What a pity! Still, she obviously had something in mind, and the only way to discover it was to continue the masquerade.
He smiled sadly, tilting his head to indicate his shirt and its definitely unwashed condition.
“No, senhora; I’m afraid I’m not that fortunate. Nobody washes my clothes for me; I wash them myself, when I have the time. And nobody cooks for me. I eat where and when I can.” His tone invited sympathy; it was the exact tone of voice any cabdriver would have used in his place. Its purpose was equally obvious—to extract as large a tip as possible.
“I see.…” His passenger leaned back, almost as if the conversation were at an end, her face expressionless. So this one cooked for himself, did he? And where could a person go to make a bet against it? Still, it did look as if he lived alone, or if not, could easily get rid of any partner for a few days. Da Silva waited patiently; he was sure the interrogation was far from finished. He entered the Túnel Novo, emerged into Copacabana, and crossed the Rua Barata Ribeiro, slowing down, glancing into his mirror.
“This is where the senhora wished to be taken. The Avenida Princesa Isabel.
“Just keep driving. Along the beach. Toward Arpoador.…”
“A senhora que manda.”
For a woman who threatened to call out the police if she weren’t taken where she wanted to go, she certainly seemed undecided as to destination. Which simply meant that he had been right; the questioning had not yet run its course. He s
uddenly thought of a possible third reason for her uncertainty, that she had no money. He put the idea aside at once. It would be too sad if that was the best he could give Wilson as a reason for being late. And speaking of Wilson.… Da Silva bent down, grinning wickedly and hiding his grin behind his arm. He twisted a knob and flicked a switch. If Wilson was anywhere near his shortwave set let him enjoy the puzzling conversation as well. At worst he’d know the reason for the delay. At best he might well be a valuable witness.
His passenger stared out of the window, preparing her next words with care. There was no doubt the man was perfect for the job; he lived alone in the toughest slum in town, and he certainly didn’t look the type to be nervous about taking in a roommate for a few days. Nor did he look the type to refuse money for doing it. She sighed, making up her mind, leaning forward. Her dress gaped once more, but this time it was unconscious on her part; the coquetry had gone.
“Senhor?”
“Senhora?”
“Pull up to the curb somewhere along here for a moment, will you? I want to ask you something.”
Da Silva managed to keep the cab going for several additional blocks, slowing down. She had asked him at the worst possible moment, directly in front of his own apartment. It would have been quite embarrassing—probably for both of them—to have the porteiro open the cab door and greet the wrong person. He found an empty spot at last, drew up to the curb, and switched off the ignition. He turned around, leaning one arm on the back of the seat, studying the girl over it.
“Yes, senhora?” His tone indicated that if she was broke, he was sure some arrangement could be made. She read his expression perfectly, flushed, but kept to her planned questions.
“First of all, what’s your name?”
“Me, senhora?” He stared at her with the proper combination of suspicion and puzzlement. “Why?”
“Because I want to know. What’s your name?”
He shrugged. “José Maria Carvalho.”
The Xavier Affair Page 3
