Dying Gasp

by Leighton Gage

  The widow was getting fed up with the cost and aggravation of maintaining the property by the time a woman who styled herself Carla Antunes came along.

  SELVA MACIEIRA, the real estate agent who handled the transaction, was more than a little surprised when Carla declared an intention to make her home in Manaus.

  Selva, an Amazonense herself, knew as well as anyone that Manaus was a cesspool of filth, that it suffered from a dreadful climate, that the inhabitants were mostly limited in their intellectual capacity and that they were overwhelmingly lethargic.

  Intelligent people, if they could afford to do so, moved out of Manaus. They didn’t move in. Not unless they had a compelling reason to do so. Carla Antunes was obviously intelligent, so she must have had one. Selva, one of the nosier women in the city, was anxious to find out what it was.

  “You have relatives here?”

  “I want a place on the river,” Carla said.

  “Ah. The river. We have quite a few people who come for the river. Scientists mostly. Are you a scientist?”

  “Preferably with four bedrooms,” Carla said, “and preferably with a dock at the back.”

  Except for the fact that there were five bedrooms instead of four, Carla could have been describing the paulistano’s place. Selva lost interest in the woman’s background and concentrated on the sale. In the end, she managed to dump the place for a little less than half of what it had cost the paulistano to build it, which was pretty good considering the fact that there had been no previous offer.

  The widow wasn’t overjoyed with the deal, but her husband had been worth millions, and the fishing lodge was only a minor issue in the brewing legal battle between her and the paulistano’s kids from his former marriage.

  THE GOAT’S second post-heart-attack visit to the house was when the new owner invited him to discuss what she’d called “a business deal.”

  She’d received him with two thugs who apparently lived with her, both of whom she treated like servants, not lovers. “I understand you run a stable of girls,” she’d said.

  “What’s that to you?”

  “The European market. I have contacts.”

  “You want me to get you whores?”

  “Yes.”

  The Goat drained the whiskey she’d offered him, put the glass on the table, and got to his feet.

  “Forget it,” he said. “Why should I sell you any of mine? Go get your own.”

  One of the two thugs, a guy with bags under his eyes, took a step forward, but the woman held up her hand.

  “I want the ones you’re finished with,” she said.

  “I already got people I sell them to,” The Goat said.

  The guy with the bags under his eyes let out a low growl, like a watchdog, but The Goat ignored him.

  “You don’t understand,” the woman said. “I want the ones you can’t sell.”

  The Goat shook his head. “You don’t want them,” he said. “They’re too old.”

  “Not for Europeans,” the woman said.

  “Oh, yeah?” The Goat said. He sat down again and held up his empty glass.

  THE GOAT’S next visit to the lodge was when he finally gave up on Marta. By that time, Carla had already purchased thirteen of his girls and had, he believed, shipped them all off to Europe.

  She received him on the terrace overlooking her floating dock. The whiskey she offered him was brought by a capanga— tough guy—with bags under his eyes.

  “Thanks,” The Goat said.

  The capanga grunted like a pig and made himself scarce. While The Goat was making his proposition, the mayor’s yacht went by. The old buzzard was sitting there in the stern with one of The Goat’s girls. They were being served drinks by a guy in a white coat who The Goat knew for a fact was on the city payroll.

  The Goat waved and the mayor waved back.

  “How come you’re being so generous?” Carla said, when The Goat was finished with his sales pitch.

  “What do you mean?” The Goat said innocently.

  “Come off it,” she said. “I get your rejects. I know that. It’s fine. It suits my clientele. But now you come along and tell me you want to sell one of your young ones. What’s wrong with her?”

  The Goat looked pained. “She’s trouble,” he admitted.

  “Trouble?”

  “I couldn’t break her. I tried everything, but I couldn’t break her.”

  The tip of Carla’s tongue came out. She licked her upper lip.

  “She’s still a virgin?” she said.

  “Yeah, a virgin.”

  “Why don’t you fuck her yourself? That should bring her around.”

  “It won’t. She’s like a wildcat. She’d bite off my ear or something.”

  “Tape her mouth shut. Tie her spread-eagled so she can’t move.”

  The Goat sighed and shook his head. “You don’t have to teach me my business,” he said. “If I thought it would help, I’d do it. But it wouldn’t. I could never trust her with a customer.”

  “So what you’re basically asking is if I’ll take her off your hands?”

  The Goat took a pensive sip of his whiskey.

  “Maybe in Europe she’d act differently, being so far away and all. Maybe she’d even like being over there. It’s a different life. I met a girl once, friend of my middle sister. She worked in Switzerland, later in Holland. Got enough money to come back here and buy a house. Except she didn’t come back here. She went to Bahia.”

  “What kind of shape is she in?”

  “Over the hill. She admits to being thirty-seven, but I think she’s at least—”

  “Not your sister’s friend. The girl.”

  “Split lip, chipped tooth, some bruises. Look at this.” He displayed his discolored hand. “I hit myself while I was taking a hose to her. It made me mad, and I kind of got carried away. Beat her like I never beat anybody, and when I was finished she spit in my face.”

  “Messed her up, did you?”

  The Goat shook his head.

  “I know how to hit a girl. She’s not too bad. Give her a couple of weeks, and she’ll be as good as new—except for the tooth.”

  “So I’d have to keep her until her looks improve?”

  “Her looks aren’t that bad now. Anyway, we could do a deal. You pay me up front, and I’ll keep her for you.”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred a week.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. At those prices, I’d keep her myself.” “So you’re interested,” The Goat said.

  She made him wait for an answer.

  “Maybe I could use her,” she said.

  The Goat started to smile.

  “However,” she continued, “if I took a chance on somebody like that, there’s no way I’d pay you full price.”

  The Goat’s smile became a scowl.

  “You mean full price for a chick.”

  In the parlance of the trade, a chick was a girl under eighteen. Hens, girls who looked older, were cheaper.

  “No, not the full price for a chick,” she said. “And not even the full price for a hen. Tell you what: I’ll give you two thousand American dollars.”

  “Two thousand? You’ve got to be kidding. She’s worth more than that.”

  “To whom? You think you can get a better deal? Two thousand and that’s it. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it,” The Goat said.

  Carla went inside to get the money. The Goat sat there, watching the river, remembering the day The Kiss had called him, remembering the dead paulistano’s flabby body, the way he looked when he’d seen him last, his organ still partially distended.

  Unpleasant thoughts.

  Like his conversation with Chief Pinto about the federal cop.

  Carla came outside again with a glass of beer in one hand and a wad of banknotes in the other.

  She sat down, put the beer on the table and started counting the money. When she finished he scooped it up, folded it, and put it i
n his pocket.

  “When do you want to pick her up?” he said.

  “Tomorrow. Around noon.”

  She took a sip of her beer.

  “Suits me,” The Goat said. “There’s something else I gotta talk to you about.”

  She didn’t say anything, just sat waiting for him to tell her. “There’s a federal cop snooping around town,” he said.

  She suddenly got very still. Her eyes locked on his.

  “How do you know that?” she said.

  “Chief Pinto. He tells me things.”

  “And what did he tell you about this federal cop?”

  “It’s like this: a while back a request came in from Brasilia, asking about Damião Rodrigues. Remember him?”

  “Sure I remember him,” she said. “That pistoleiro. Friend of Chief Pinto’s.”

  “‘Friend’ is a stretch. More like a business associate. By the way, have you seen him around lately?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. Funny. He hardly ever missed a Friday night. Anyway, the federals had a picture of him. They asked the Manaus PD to match it with a name.”

  “And?”

  “And they did, and it was Damião. The clerk who handled it, some rookie, shot off a reply before checking with his boss. Asshole. Trying to show how efficient he was.”

  “And then?”

  “Chief Pinto heard about it. He knew Damião did me the occasional favor, knew I wouldn’t appreciate having the federal police mucking around.”

  Carla sipped her beer. She feigned unconcern, but he didn’t buy it. She was definitely acting.

  “Pinto called in the clerk and reamed him,” he said, “told him to make himself scarce. Then he trashed the file, told the feds it had gone missing and the clerk had quit.”

  Carla put down her glass so violently that it was a wonder it didn’t break.

  “It sounds to me,” she said, “like there are at least two assholes in the Manaus PD, and one of them is Chief Pinto. Didn’t it occur to him that acting like that would bring the feds down on him like a swarm of hornets?”

  “Apparently not. Anyway, the swarm turned out to be just one guy. He started asking questions about the exploitation of minors and all that kind of crap. He had authorizations from the mayor and the governor, and he wanted personal access to the archives. The chief said he’d be happy to help. The Fed said no, he’d do it himself, and he didn’t want any company. One of the chief’s guys peeped through a crack in the door while the fed was working. The fed had a bunch of photos, and he was comparing them to rap sheets from the archive.”

  Carla’s pupils seemed to dilate. Her eyes hadn’t left his. Her mouth was slightly open.

  “This federal cop,” she said, “what’s his name?”

  The Goat rubbed his forehead.

  “Armando something . . . or maybe Arlando something.” “Not Costa,” she said. “Not Hector Costa.”

  The Goat shook his head.

  “The chief told me, but I really don’t—”

  “Silva?” she said. “Mario Silva?”

  “Silva?”

  Now, she’d surprised him.

  “Silva?” he repeated. “Hell, no. Not him. Him, I woulda remembered. What makes you think a big shot like Silva would be interested in people like us? Unless, maybe, there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Is there?”

  “What is this?” she said. “An inquisition?”

  The Goat sat back in his chair and took another sip of whiskey.

  “All right, Carla,” he said. “I don’t tell you my business, why should you tell me yours? But you’d better make goddamned sure that yours doesn’t interfere with mine. And if the feds pick you up, you’d better keep your mouth shut. You don’t say a word about me. Not a goddamned word, understand?”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Are you threatening me?” she asked.

  The Goat drained his glass and stood up.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  WHEN THE GOAT LEFT, she summoned Hans and Otto.

  Hans Hauser and Otto Weil were descendants of Bavarian immigrants who’d settled in the southern state of Santa Catarina. Their ancestors’ reluctance to mix their blood with that of inferior races like the Portuguese, Spanish, and Italians who’d also populated the region resulted in inbreeding. Physically, the effect had been minimal. Both were splendid specimens of Teutonic manhood. Mentally, though, it was a different story. They were, moreover, as mean-spirited as they were stupid. They’d been the kind of children who’d beat up smaller kids on the playground, drowned stray cats, and pulled the wings off butterflies. Then they’d grown up and graduated to theft, rape, and murder.

  Hans, being slightly more intelligent, was the leader of the pair. He had long blond hair and a moustache that made him look like a Viking. The hair and moustache turned heads on the street, even back home in Santa Catarina and especially in Manaus, where blond hair was rare.

  Otto’s salient features (apart from the tattoos on his upper arms, one of which was a dagger dripping blood and the other a girl who’d wiggle her hips if he’d tighten his bicep in a certain way) were the bags under his eyes.

  Claudia had never seen him without those dark circles. She wasn’t sure if they were there because Otto never got enough sleep, or whether they were simply part of his physiognomy. Distressed at having to stare into those dark pits every time she looked at him, she’d taken to buying him sunglasses. He kept losing them, one pair after the other.

  They sat in front of her like a couple of Rottweilers expecting dinner while Claudia told them about the federal cop who was poking around in the police archives.

  “I want you to follow him,” she said. “Make damned sure he doesn’t notice you.”

  “He won’t,” Hans said. “We’re good at that.”

  “What do you want us to do with him?” Otto said.

  “I just told you.”

  “I mean after we follow him,” he said.

  “Take a camera,” she said. “Take photos. I want to know what that federal cop looks like.”

  “You think he’s after us?” Hans said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Why maybe?”

  She considered how much to tell them. After a long moment, she said, “Arie Schubski, my distributor in Amsterdam. The police got him.”

  “Merda,” Hans said. “Somebody should go over there and shut that bastard up before he spills his guts.”

  The implication was that the “somebody” should be Hans himself. Mostly, it was Otto who got to do the bag work, carrying tapes to the Netherlands and bringing the money back. Hans had been angling to be chosen for the next delivery, but a murder would do just as well. Claudia knew how his mind worked. He was already thinking about getting high in one of those coffeehouses and fucking a blond girl.

  She shook her head.

  “What Arie had to tell,” she said, “he’s already told. Besides, he didn’t know a hell of a lot. Not even my real name.”

  “So what brought the federals to Manaus?”

  “That’s what we’ve got to find out,” she said.

  Apparently, it didn’t occur to Hans that she might be lying to him as well.

  “I dunno,” Otto said. “Maybe we should just keep out of his way. Maybe lay low for a while.” Otto was the dumber one of the duo. He’d been caught more often. It had made him cautious.

  “Let me do the thinking,” she said. “You just do what you’re told: follow the federal, make sure he doesn’t know he’s being followed, take photos.”

  “You’re the boss,” Hans said.

  “You’re goddamned right I am,” she said.

  WHEN HANS and Otto left, she sat down and contemplated her next move.

  Now that she’d struck a deal for the girl, she was anxious to get started. It had been too long between videos, and she was beginning to feel restless. Restless
wasn’t perhaps the right word, but it had been the word her uncle Ugo always used when he came to her in the night.

  “I’m feeling restless,” he’d say. Then he’d ruffle up her nightgown. He always cried afterwards. She was only eleven at the time, and often she’d cried with him. Then he’d wipe away his tears, and hers, and tell her that she mustn’t ever tell anyone what they’d been doing, “because then they wouldn’t let us do it anymore.”

  As if she cared. She didn’t care about sex then; she didn’t care about it now. And she didn’t cry anymore either. About anything.

  The Goat’s description of her latest acquisition had intrigued her. She rather liked the idea of a girl who was a virgin and would fight to stay that way. Her customers were accustomed to seeing girls willingly submit to the sex, sometimes even get actively involved in it, before being surprised by the sudden turn of events. Now, she’d be able to offer them something different: a girl who struggled from the very beginning, a girl who’d be beaten bloody before she was penetrated.

  She began thinking about a protagonist, the man who’d do the raping and the killing. One thing Arie Schubski had taught her, and he’d taught her a great deal in that single meeting of theirs, was that anyone shown on camera couldn’t be left alive.

  “It’s bad for me,” Arie had said, “and bad for you too. They get nabbed, sure as hell they’re going to squeal. They’re the only ones who don’t have deniability. What they’ve done is right there for all to see, and they’ll be looking for a deal with the prosecutors. You have to prevent that. You have to kill ’em all, or we don’t do business.”

  He’d been right, of course. Just as he’d been right about covering the snuff in one continuous shot, without intercuts; right about the trick of opening up the aperture on the lens so the blood wouldn’t be underexposed and register as black, rather than a rich, full red; right about the value added of leaving the volume control on the microphone open to capture the victim’s dying gasp.

  Arie was a man who knew his business, knew all the ins and outs, knew the technical side, knew what his clients liked. But she wouldn’t miss him. She could trust The Surinamer to come up with another distributor. The Surinamer could always get you anything you wanted, drugs, false papers, anything. He could have people killed, even Dutch cops. All you needed was the money to pay him. She could have used a man like The Surinamer right now, but he was far away, in Amsterdam. She’d have to make do with what she had.