“And are you at present wanted by the police?”
His puzzlement turned to disgust. “If I were wanted by the police, senhora, would I be driving a taxi under their noses all day long? The police are not blind, and I’m not stupid.”
His tone indicated that her question was. She bit her lip. Da Silva grinned to himself. You need practice at this sort of thing, querida, he thought, and decided to help her. Otherwise the chances were he never would get off on his hunting trip.
“Senhora—you want something from me. You don’t have to be afraid. What is it?”
She nodded, relieved that the initiative had come from him. “How would you like to make some money?”
Da Silva’s eyebrows rose and then returned to normal. “I always like to make money, senhora. How much money are we talking about?” His voice was cautious. “And what would I have to do to earn it?”
“I’m talking about a lot of money. A thousand conto—a thousand new cruzeiros, that is.”
Da Silva’s face remained expressionless, but beneath his calm exterior a touch of irritation appeared, gnawing at him. For some time now he had been quite aware that his particular cab had been selected for a purpose, and while he had known it was not because of his manly beauty, it was still a bit irksome to discover it was apparently because he looked like a thug. He realized the advantage this gave him as a policeman, apparently being in on some bit of lawlessness even before it happened, but he still felt a bit put out. Well, if she wanted a thug, she’d get one.
“For a thousand conto, senhora, I don’t care what I have to do to earn it. Consider it earned.”
The girl smiled at him, pleased she had gauged his cupidity so accurately, and yet, somehow, a bit disappointed that he should be so acquiescent, even for money. Or, perhaps, just for money. Had she asked him as a favor, without hint of payment, would he have done it just for her? You’re being ridiculous, she advised herself; are you in it for fun?
“It really isn’t so bad,” she said quietly. “All I want you to do is to let a friend of mine spend two or three days with you in your house in the Catatumbá.”
For a brief moment he wondered if he might have misread the situation after all, and then he knew he hadn’t. Still, he thought, let’s pretend we had and keep in character. And possibly learn some more. He leered at her.
“A friend? Or you?”
It got the response he expected: a shocked, angry look.
“Let’s not get any mistaken ideas, senhor,” she said in a tight voice, and then forced herself to relax. You were looking for a tough, immoral, sinful person, so don’t act so surprised when you found one. And above all, don’t lose him! They don’t grow on every bush, or flower in every taxi. What you’re really angry at, of course, she admitted to herself with sudden, unexpected honesty, is that his suggestion happens to be so inviting. She thrust the thought away, concentrating on her mission, keeping her voice calm.
“Not me, senhor. A friend. A man.”
The tall detective rubbed his stubbly chin with the back of his hand, looking dubious. Acting the part of a thug was really more fun than he would have thought; when he saw thugs it was usually in his office or at the delegacia, and they didn’t seem to be having any fun at all. They should try driving taxis, he thought, and banished the idea. A lot of them did. He brought his mind back to business.
“There’s a certain problem with your friend being a man, senhora. I have but the one bed.…”
Romana’s expression momentarily became almost violent. So this poor soul did his own cooking, did he? And his own washing? I’ll bet! Possibly his girlfriends didn’t sleep in, but they probably drew lots all over the favela to see who would visit him and his one bed! She forced herself to calmness, to sound indifferent.
“If the senhor isn’t interested in the money.… If the quantity is too small for a man of his abilities.…”
“Oh, but I’m very interested in the money!”
“Then I’m sure you can manage, even with only the one bed!”
Her icy tone indicated he could also spend the two or three nights involved pacing the floor—assuming the shack had a floor—or sleeping standing up, for all she cared. Somehow she didn’t want to think of him arranging accommodation in someone else’s shack, although she was sure that was what would happen.
Da Silva grinned inwardly. You should really be nicer to me, he thought reprovingly. After all, we’re on the verge of becoming partners in crime.
“When one must manage, one manages,” he said sententiously, and considered her face carefully. “I can only assume your friend would not want the police to annoy him. I can assure the senhora that in the Catatumbá police are no problem.”
“It’s really nothing like that.” She didn’t know why she felt bound to explain; they had made their deal. “Actually, it’s only a joke. A part of a fraternity initiation.”
He frowned, puzzled. “Fraternity, senhora?”
“It’s like a club. They have them in universities. This friend of mine wants to join this club, and they insist that he does this—” She paused. How did one explain the word “hazing”? But it really wasn’t necessary, because when she looked up the expression on the driver’s face clearly indicated she wasn’t being believed in any event.
“It isn’t necessary, senhora,” Da Silva said gently. “For one thousand contos one doesn’t require involved explanations. I do have one question, though. What is his name? This friend of yours?” He looked apologetic. “After all, for two or three days I can scarcely call him, ‘Hey, you!’”
“His name is João.”
“A good name. João what?”
She looked at him evenly. “João Fulano.”
It was the equivalent of John Doe. Da Silva smiled in appreciation and understanding. “That’s an even better name. And more common than you’d think on the hill. And where do I pick him up? And when?”
“You pick him up tomorrow.” The girl was speaking quickly now, as if anxious to be done with the business. “He’ll be at the intersection of the Fonte de Saudade, where it cuts off of the Epitácio Pessôa. It’s a very short distance from your favela. He should be out of sight—I mean, off the main road and in your shack—I mean, your home—in the time it takes—”
“In the time it takes him to climb five hundred meters,” Da Silva said dryly. “Straight up. I hope he’s in good shape.”
“He’s in good shape. He’s an athlete—” She bit off the words, angry with herself for giving out more information than was necessary to the plan.
“And the hour?”
“Nine o’clock in the morning. Sharp.”
“I’ll be there on time.”
“And if, for any reason, he isn’t there tomorrow, you don’t have to wait for more than a few minutes. But he’ll be there the day after. Is that clear?”
“Completely. And how will I recognize him?”
“He’ll probably be the only one on that corner. Normally, there isn’t anyone there except an occasional babá airing a baby.” Romana hesitated, realizing this might not be the case, recognizing the need for better identification. “Well, my friend is fairly tall, rather thin, young—”
“How young?”
“In his early twenties. University age.”
“And how will he be dressed?” He held up his hand. “Maybe it would be better if I told you how he should be dressed. He doesn’t sound as if he’s ever been in a favela before, and I’d suggest he won’t want to look out of place, especially if he’s hiding.” He held up his hand again, cutting off her denial. “Let’s say he isn’t dressed any better than I am. With an old cap, if he can find one. They aren’t too common on the hill, but a few have them, and they do hide the hair and a part of the face. And tell him not to get a shave between now and then. And if his clothes—his old ones, that is—are just last year’s styles gone out of date, he’d better borrow something from the rubbish collector, or just roll in the dirt.”
&n
bsp; “I’ll tell him.”
Da Silva thought of something else, more important.
“And tell him to be particularly careful with the shoes. If he wears a decent pair of shoes, not only will he look odd, but the chances are he’ll be robbed of them. And anything else he has with him at the time, of course. Good shoes are at a premium in a place like the Catatumbá, where you have to climb up and down a mountain several times a day.”
“I’ll tell him.” If her driver’s knowledge of organizing a hiding out seemed a bit advanced, or his language—despite his appearance—a bit more educated than one would have expected, she made no comment on it. “Is that all?”
“Far from it.” Da Silva studied her face. Lord, it was lovely! However, no time for that. He hardened his jaw, narrowing his eyes. “You’re forgetting the small matter of payment. How do I collect? And when?”
She bent over her purse, fumbling within it. “I’ll give you fifty conto on account. My friend will have the balance with him tomorrow. Or the next day, depending.”
“Good enough,” Da Silva said. “Tell him to make it old cruzeiros. I hear the new ones were being counterfeited before the government had a chance to issue them officially.” It was true; he had not only heard it, he knew it. It was one of the many cases he would have to get back on after his vacation. His vacation? He put the thought away.
“I’ll tell him,” the girl said. “These are all old cruzeiros. I haven’t seen any of the new ones yet.” Her eyes came up; she spoke slowly, carefully, wanting the meaning of her next statement to be clearly understood. “My friend won’t be carrying any more than the difference, and that already belongs to you. So nobody would gain anything by robbing him.” She folded a thick packet of notes and handed them over. “Here you are. Plus two conto for the taxi fare.”
He nodded abruptly, made no attempt to count it, but twisted, slipping the bulky package into his trousers pocket. He turned back to the wheel and to the mirror reflecting her face.
“Nobody’s going to rob him.”
He turned the ignition key, listened to the motor instantly respond, and then glanced back to the rear-view mirror.
“Good enough. Tomorrow at nine. If he isn’t there by nine fifteen, the day after. Name, João Fulano. Corner of Epitácio Pessôa and Fonte de Saudade.” He nodded. “And now, senhora—where do I take you?”
“You don’t,” she said quietly. She snapped her purse shut. “I’m going to leave you here. And there would be nothing to gain by your trying to follow me, so I suggest you don’t.”
Da Silva kept a straight face, even managing to look indifferent, but it was with an effort. Certainly she should know better than that! As a dishonest cabdriver, it would definitely be to his advantage to know who she was and where she lived; this affair could well be the basis for very lucrative blackmail. In case, for example, the fraternity initiation might not be as innocent as she claimed. And as a police officer, of course—even though she didn’t know about the police bit—it would be unthinkable to watch this drama unfold without a program giving the cast of characters. For all he knew, Joāo Fulano might merely have a walk-on role.
And lastly, of course, as a normal, healthy man with nobody to cook or wash for him—or take care of him—how could he possibly let this beautiful woman just walk away and never be seen again? He couldn’t, and any sensible woman should realize it. He decided he’d have to tell her about it at that nebulous future cocktail party. If, he suddenly thought, I don’t have to tell her all about it earlier down at police headquarters. He shrugged away the unpleasant thought and repeated his litany.
“A senhora que manda.”
“Good.” She opened the door and stepped to the sidewalk, closing the door behind her, and paused. She bent over the open window of the front seat, one hand now protecting her blouse from gaping. Da Silva bit back a smile at the unconscious gesture. Her eyes studied his face.
“Don’t try to follow me.” She tried to make her voice cold and commanding, looked at him enigmatically a moment more, and then stepped to cross in front of the cab, moving toward the center of the street, waving at a cab that had stopped and whose driver was watching.
Da Silva raised his eyes heavenward in despair for amateur plotters, immediately marking down the license number of the cab she was entering. He had no intention of losing her, but there was no point in taking chances. He tucked the slip of paper into his shirt pocket and put the car into gear. Not follow her? Really! Some people shouldn’t be allowed out of the house without a nursemaid. He waited until the cab she had taken had passed the next traffic light and eased from the curb, allowing several cars to occupy the space between him and his quarry.
It would be most interesting to discover who was so free with money just to finance innocent fraternity initiations. Especially since fraternities usually did their bidding for membership at the beginning of the school year, and not during the Christmas holiday; or at least they did when he went to the university. On the other hand, was it possible that his lovely passenger had been fibbing to him?
A terrible thought, he said to himself sadly, and followed along, keeping the other cab easily in sight.
Chapter 4
Wilson, dressed in old clothes in preparation for his trip to Goiás in the taxi—but still no more noticeable to the average observer for the change from his bland gray suits, standard shirts, and colorless neckties—glanced at his wristwatch for the tenth time in the past hour and then frowned morosely from his window, studying the traffic hurrying past in the avenue below, searching for some sign of the familiar cab. Normally the scene from his top-floor apartment along the east shore of the Lagôa was one he always enjoyed, with the huge ring of mountains in the near distance rising sharply to culminate in the sheer walls of Corcovado, topped by its gleaming statue of Christ, all sharply reflected in the mirror-like surface of the placid lagoon. It was a scene that had sold him on the apartment in the first place, despite its exorbitant rental, and one which he still appreciated, even though his salary forced him to evaluate it anew each time he penned a check to the building agency.
At the moment he was more concerned with his friend’s arrival, or lack of arrival. Damn! He should have reported in to work today and arranged to start his vacation tomorrow! One day lost because Da Silva had to check out that damned taxi, and it was dead certain that all the taxi would do was get them into trouble! It always had and it always would. Da Silva had said half an hour—which in itself meant little, since few Brazilians have any clue as to time, and Da Silva least of all—but even so!
Normally it took less than twenty minutes from Catete to the Lagôa, either by way of Voluntários da Pátria or the Rua São Clemente, and neither route at that hour should have been clogged by traffic. And if, for any reason, he came by way of Copacabana, add five minutes—no more. And Wilson was also aware that ten minutes was more than enough to fill a car with gas and oil, even the monster. No; Zé should have been there long before, and Wilson was beginning to get irked.
With a grimace of distaste at the delay, he marched back to the small bamboo bar that blocked off one corner of the large, airy room and dragged a stool back from the rail with a jerk. He seated himself on it and poured himself a brandy, far from the first since his vigil had begun. And, he thought blackly, if we end up taking only three bottles of Remy Martin with us instead of four, my late friend José Da Silva will have nobody to blame but himself. And will I blame him? If we run out of cognac? Yes!
He tossed the drink down, feeling it, and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply to calm himself, trying to read the tiny print on the back of the bottle in lieu of anything better to do. It suddenly occurred to him that nobody ever read the tiny print on any bottle of liquor, front or back. Maybe instead of listing alcohol percentages, or bottling plant addresses, he suddenly thought, the minuscule letters actually declaimed any responsibility for poisoning. Was it possible? Of course it was possible! He squinted his eyes a bit to check out his
newly found theory, when he heard a sputter of static, followed by some indistinct sounds that might well have been voices.
Wilson frowned, feeling the accumulation of alcohol he had consumed during his wait. The noise couldn’t be from the neighbor upstairs because he didn’t have a neighbor upstairs. And it couldn’t be from the neighbor downstairs, because (a) she was normally quiet, and (b) she was away for a week’s holiday. Wilson suddenly disliked her. Why should she rate a vacation when he couldn’t? He realized the unfairness of his critique, especially since she was a good-looking girl, single, and one who gave him long looks in the elevator. Besides, she—he paused, listening. The noise was coming from the shelf across from the bar, where he had his shortwave radio set. He hiccuped gently and considered the problem.
Was it possible that Da Silva had switched on his car set again? Of course it was possible. With Da Silva, anything was possible. But for what purpose? Wilson frowned, concentrating. Obviously, to tell him where he was, or at least why he was late. Well, if Da Silva was more than a block away with that poor imitation of Marconi’s original oatmeal box, it was all a waste of time. The mystery would remain a mystery for all time. On the other hand, Wilson suddenly thought, if God decided for His own reasons to keep the reception clear, maybe he could receive Da Silva’s weak alibi for his tardiness.
Wilson shook his head, partially in disgust and partially to clear it. Excuses, excuses! he thought, and walked around the bar a bit unsteadily, leaning over the set, flipping a switch. He bent over the microphone that sat atop the oblong box.
“Yes? Zé? Is that you? And where the hell are you?” He suddenly remembered the revered formula and applied it. “Sorry about that. I meant—come in, please.”
He flipped the switch to receiving and fiddled a bit with the knobs, more for luck than through any hope of success. His only response was more of the same static. Either Zé was too busy with something else at the moment, or his Brazilian friend had forgotten how to work the damn radio himself, or the miserable bucket of frazzled wiring had finally given up the ghost. Or maybe all three at once. Wilson decided to turn the set off in sheer disgust when he suddenly heard his friend’s voice, both recognizable and understandable.
The Xavier Affair Page 4
