Dying Gasp

by Leighton Gage

  He found himself pointing it at the forehead of a woman who wasn’t more than a foot away. She gave a yelp and dropped the pipe she’d been smoking onto the window sill. Ashes and sparks exploded from the bowl.

  Arnaldo lowered his gun.

  “Calma, Senhora,” he said. “I’m a cop.”

  The woman only had eyes for his pistol. She licked her lips and followed the Glock all the way back to the holster on his belt. Then, and only then, she said, “A cop, huh? What happened? You fall asleep? Spend the night? You better get your ass outta here. The Goat doesn’t like anyone inside after closing time. The girls know that. The Goat finds out which one of them you were with, he’s gonna whip her for sure.”

  She had black skin and gray hair, and she wore a dress with short sleeves. She looked to be at least seventy. And now that she was over her fear, she was starting to get angry.

  “I’m not a customer,” he said. “I’m a federal, and I just arrived.”

  “A federal? You after The Goat?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I can think any damned thing I want, doesn’t mean I have to tell you. You scared me half to death.”

  “For which I’m truly sorry. How long have you been sitting there?”

  The woman retrieved her pipe and stared sadly at the empty bowl.

  “Maybe ten minutes. I like to have a pipe before I get my hands in the suds. I just lit this one.”

  “You see anybody go by?”

  “Nobody special. The Goat, Osvaldo, some girls.”

  “How many girls?”

  “Hell, you think I’m gonna count ’em as they go by?” She stabbed at the air with her finger, did it three times. “One . . . two . . . three.”

  “I don’t need an exact number, just an estimate.”

  “Well, you’re not gonna get one.”

  “A dozen?”

  “Maybe a dozen.”

  “Young ones?”

  “All young ones.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  She pointed toward the end of the alley, curved her wrist to indicate they’d taken a turn to the right, toward the river. “Merda,” Arnaldo said and went back to fetch his companions.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE GOAT TOOK THE binoculars from their case on the console, looped the strap over his neck and looked back at his floating dock. The men on it were standing in a compact group, shading their eyes and looking out at the water.

  He was at least a kilometer away, and even with binoculars he couldn’t see the cops’ features. That made it damned near certain they couldn’t see him at all.

  And besides, there were at least two dozen boats within sight of that dock. There was no way they could know which one was his.

  His heartbeat began to slow as he assessed his options.

  Federals were bad news. It wasn’t likely he’d be able to bribe them, and he couldn’t expect any help from Chief Pinto. Pinto wouldn’t want to do anything that might bring the wrath of the federal government down on his head. But without the girls, the federals didn’t have a case. All he had to do was to send them off to somewhere safe and keep them there until the fucking federals went back to Brasilia, or wherever the hell else they had come from. In a flash of inspiration, it occurred to him that he was sitting on the solution: the boat. It would be a little cramped, but it was the dry season. Some of them could sleep on deck, or at worst, in shifts, some girls sleeping by day and the others by night. The Anavilhanas Archipelago was less than a hundred kilometers away. There were more islands there than days in a year, lots of beaches, too, where the girls could escape the cramped quarters, go ashore and lie around on the sand.

  He had plenty of fuel. All he had to do was stop off at one of those floating shops, lay in a supply of food, cigarettes, and cachaça, then keep the bow pointing upriver. Once he’d found a hiding place amid the islands, he could drop anchor and sit there until things blew over. They’d never find him.

  Him? Hang on! Why the hell should he go himself? Without the girls, what could they prove? Why didn’t he just send Osvaldo?

  He’d taken Osvaldo on the boat for two reasons: firstly, because the old bastard was a lousy liar and, secondly, because he knew far too much. It would be disastrous if the federals got a chance to grill him.

  Osvaldo had been a fisherman. He knew the river. He’d jump at the chance. Who wouldn’t? Jesus. What was better than being anchored off a sandy beach with no work to do, plenty of cachaça, and a boatload of underage whores? The dumb fuck should pay him.

  The Goat disembarked at a place where he could catch a passenger boat going toward Manaus. Osvaldo couldn’t wait to get away. When he was about fifty meters off, the motor going flat out, a broad smile creasing his face from ear to ear, he looked back over his shoulder and gave The Goat a happy wave.

  IT TOOK him three hours to get home. He had to take a taxi from where the boat came in, the immense floating dock near the center of town. It had been built by the English nearly a century ago at the height of the rubber trade. The city fathers kept assuring everyone it was safe, but The Goat didn’t trust them. He expected that dock to sink sometime soon, and he was never entirely comfortable when he was on it.

  Rosélia started talking as soon as he came in the door. And the more she talked, the more worried The Goat became. When she’d finally spilled all of the details about the visit from the federal cops, The Goat promptly reached for the telephone and as promptly slammed it down again.

  What am I thinking? The bastards might already be running a tap.

  So he went outside, got into his truck, and drove around for a while, always with an eye on the rearview mirror. When he was absolutely certain that he wasn’t being followed, he went to Carla’s place.

  The guy who answered his knock was one of Carla’s thugs, the one who looked like a Viking. He raised his eyebrows when he found The Goat on the other side of the door.

  “You here to see Carla?”

  “I’m sure as hell not here to see you,” The Goat snapped. “Get her.”

  “You better watch your mouth,” the Viking said, but he stepped aside. Carla’s other capanga, the guy with the bags under his eyes, was standing just behind the door, putting a big pistol back into his shoulder holster.

  While the Viking went to get Carla, the guy with the bags made small talk about the weather, which was stupid because the weather in Manaus was always the same: rain during the rainy season, less rain during the dry season, hot and humid all year long. But guys from the south were like that. They got four seasons a year down there, all variable, and when they had nothing else to talk about, they talked about the weather.

  When the Viking came back, Carla was with him.

  She found The Goat pacing back and forth between the door and the window.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Hello, Carla,” The Goat said. “What makes you think something’s wrong?” He was eyeing Hans and Otto.

  “There’s got to be something wrong, or you wouldn’t have shown up here unannounced,” she said. “And anything you’ve got to say you can say in front of them.”

  “Aren’t you gonna offer me something?”

  She led him to the kitchen. Hans and Otto trailed along behind. They’d been drinking coffee. Their cups were still on the table, still steaming.

  “Coffee?” she said.

  “You got something stronger?”

  She took a bottle of cachaça out of a cupboard, a glass out of another, and put them both on the table.

  “Take a seat,” she said.

  Claudia and her capangas sat down as well. The Goat poured himself a drink, polished it off in one gulp and immediately refilled his glass.

  “Before you have any more of that,” she said, tapping the bottle with the nail of her index finger, “maybe you should tell us why you’re here.”

  So he did. He told them about waking up to the sound of a shot, the visit of the cops, how he�
��d sent Osvaldo upriver with the girls who were too young to practice their trade legally.

  “Lucky bastard,” Otto said.

  Claudia ignored the interjection.

  “Sounds like you’re home free,” she said. “What are you worried about?”

  “When I got back,” The Goat said, “Rosélia told me they showed her a photo of that girl I sold you, the young one.”

  “Marta?”

  “Her. You have any idea who she is? She’s the granddaughter of that deputado Malan, that’s who.”

  “Merda,” Claudia said.

  “Merda is right. She told Rosélia who her grandfather was, but Rosélia didn’t believe her. I wouldn’t have either. What would the granddaughter of a deputado be doing sleeping on a beach, huh?”

  So they’re not here for me after all, Claudia thought.

  She felt a surge of relief. It made sense that a big-shot deputado like Malan could bend the federal police to his will, even get them to assign Silva, the best man they had, to lead the search for his granddaughter.

  “Where is she?” The Goat asked, drawing Claudia away from her thoughts and back into the conversation.

  Claudia raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” she said. Then she added, as an afterthought, “You sure you weren’t followed?”

  “Aha,” he said. “So she’s still here in the house?”

  He tossed off his drink and poured another.

  “I’d go easy on that stuff if I were you,” Claudia said.

  “Yeah? Well, you’re not me. So she’s still here in the house?”

  Claudia nodded. “Locked up in her room.”

  “Those cops told Rosélia they knew she’d been at my place, knew it.”

  “How?”

  “God knows. What did you do with her girlfriend?”

  “Andrea?”

  “Yeah, Andrea. What did you do with her?”

  “You already know what I did with her. I passed her on to some friends in Europe. Why?”

  “Because your friends in Europe snuffed her, that’s why.”

  “What?”

  “Those federals had a picture of her, too. Said they have a video of her getting fucked and murdered.” The Goat narrowed his eyes and leaned closer. “You didn’t have any idea that your friends were going to do something like that, did you, Carla?”

  “The cops are lying. They’re just trying to pressure you.”

  The Goat stared at her for a moment. Then he moved on.

  “You’ll never be able to get that little bitch, Marta, on an airplane. Not now. They’ll be watching the airports like hawks. Use your boat. Go upriver. Hook up with Osvaldo and leave her there.”

  Carla snorted.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you telling me what to do with my property?” She looked at her Viking, who went into Rottweiler mode, lowering his eyebrows and making a growling sound.

  The Goat ignored him.

  “Do it,” he said.

  “No,” Claudia said.

  “Don’t be stupid, Carla. Listen to what I’m telling you.”

  The Goat was getting red in the face.

  “She’s promised to someone,” Claudia said. “It’s a done deal. I’m not sending her upriver, I’m sending her to Europe.”

  “How the fuck do you think you can get her out of the country?”

  “That’s my problem, not yours.”

  The Goat’s eyes went cold.

  “If the federals get their hands on her,” he said, “it’s our problem, Rosélia’s and mine. We’re the ones who snatched her; we’re the ones who held her for the longest time. She’s seen both our faces. She’s not afraid of anything, so threats don’t work. If she squeals . . .”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Claudia said, “but it won’t be by sending her upriver.”

  The Goat poured himself another shot, drank it off in one draught, and stood up.

  “All right,” he said, “do it your way, but do it—and soon.”

  Claudia bristled.

  “I’m getting tired of your threats,” she said.

  “I don’t give a shit whether you’re getting tired of them or not,” he said, “but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll take them to heart. Don’t fuck with me, Carla. Don’t ever fuck with me. I’ll make you sorry if you do.”

  When the door closed behind The Goat, Claudia picked up the bottle of cachaça, poured a hefty dose into her coffee cup and took a ladylike sip. If Hans and Otto hadn’t been watching her, she would have gulped it down.

  “We have to find out,” she said, “how Silva and his pals knew Marta was at The Goat’s place.”

  “Maybe they didn’t know,” Hans said. “Maybe they were bluffing. Maybe they told the same story to everybody.”

  Sometimes he surprised her.

  “Good point,” she said. “How many other people do you know who run brothels?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I musta tried every one in town some time or another. Maybe a hundred?”

  “Call around. See if the federals told anybody else the same story.”

  “And if not . . .”

  “We’re going to have another talk with The Goat.”

  “NO WAY,” The Goat said three hours later.

  They were in his bar, sitting at one of the tables. The front door was open, allowing some light to spill in from the direction of the parking lot, but the room was otherwise dark. They would have been there sooner, but two of the three hours had been spent in making sure they weren’t being followed and that The Goat’s boate wasn’t under surveillance.

  “No way,” he repeated, shaking his head.

  “Had to be,” she said. “No other explanation makes sense.” “I can’t believe it. There’s no way one of my own girls would talk to somebody about what happens in this house. And, even if she did, she’d come to me and tell me.”

  “You’re acting like they’re your daughters,” Claudia said. “They’re not. If you don’t think they have their little secrets, you’re a fool.”

  “Watch out who you’re calling a fool.”

  “I take it back. Let’s ask them a few questions.”

  “All right,” he said, then raised his voice: “Rosélia, turn the lights on and bring the whole gang out here.”

  THE QUESTIONING went on for an hour, first communally, then one by one.

  “Satisfied?” The Goat said when the last of them, tears running down her face, was allowed to go back to her room.

  “With them, yes,” Claudia said. “You said you’re keeping the others on a boat. Where’s the boat?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” the Goat said. “Somewhere in the Anavilhanas.”

  “The what?”

  “The Anavilhanas Archipelago. This time of the year, the water goes down and you get sandy beaches and canals. Some of the cruise ships go there, but they don’t go very far in.”

  “How long would it take to find them?”

  The Goat shrugged. “With luck, maybe a few hours; without it, a couple of days. Why?”

  “Because,” she said, “We’re going to pay them a visit.”

  CLAUDIA’S BOAT wasn’t as big as The Goat’s, but it was faster and more comfortable: twin diesels, air-conditioning, two staterooms, a saloon, and a hot-water shower with an electric pump.

  At first, The Goat was reluctant to go along, but when he saw how eager Hans and Otto were, he decided it might be a good idea. He didn’t want the two thugs getting among his girls unsupervised.

  Claudia had never been to the Anavilhanas Archipelago, but she’d been around boats since her childhood. And it wasn’t as if the river posed any navigational problems. All she had to do was to keep the bow pointed upstream and stay close to the bank to minimize the effect of the current. She decided someone had to stay behind and keep an eye on Marta. Hans and Otto drew straws. Otto lost.

  They planned their departure for two thirty in the morning. Any ear
lier, and they’d find themselves among the islands in the dark.

  MARTA AWOKE to the ringing of an alarm clock. It was on the other side of the wall, and it wasn’t very loud, but she’d always been a light sleeper. She threw off her sheet, got out of bed, and walked to the window. The moon was still high in the sky, almost full. With her cheek against the side of the glass she could see it sparkling on the river, a thin band of silver painted on the black water.

  A light in the neighboring bedroom went on, illuminating the grass. She heard a toilet flush and footsteps in the corridor. She put an ear against the door.

  “I don’t know how long it’s going to take to locate the damned boat.” Carla’s voice. “Don’t expect us back before dark, and don’t forget to feed the girl.”

  “Feed the girl. Feed the girl. Caralho, Carla, how many times you got to say it? You think I’m stupid or something?” That was the one with the bags under his eyes. He sounded sleepy, maybe a little drunk.

  “Don’t be impudent with me, you imbecile.”

  Still sniping at each other, they moved off in the direction of the kitchen.

  What they were saying became indistinct, but she could hear the rattle of cutlery. A little while later she smelled coffee. When the back door slammed, she returned to the window. Carla and the big man were walking toward the boat. Just before they vanished from her line of sight, she heard Carla say something about picking up The Goat at his dock. A minute or so later, the boat’s engines came to life, loud at first, then fading, fading until they were gone. The house was silent again, the only sound the nightly chorus of insects in the nearby jungle.

  It was the chance she’d been hoping for. She didn’t think she’d get a better one. For a while, she sat on the edge of the bed, getting up her courage. All that time she could feel her heart pounding, feel the sweat on her palms. She tried controlled breathing, taking the air in through her nose, four seconds for every breath.

  Finally, when the moon was down, and the darkness as deep as it was going to get, she stood up, put on her clothes and attacked the door. She left the middle pin for last, broke a nail getting it out. There was a squeak, then a thump when the door disengaged from the frame. She caught it on her shoulder, got a hand on either side, and lowered it gently to the floor. Once it was down, she paused to listen. The thug was still snoring.