by Mark Dawson
“Yes,” Drake said. “It’ll be just the same as it’s always been.”
Saverin shook his head and chuckled. “It’s not as if I have a choice,” he said. “How do you say—you have me over a barrel. It’s my daughter’s recital. She’s already mad at me that I can’t go. If I told her the whole thing was off, I doubt she’d ever talk to me again.”
“I have all the details,” Drake said. “We’ll drive them to the school, guard them while they’re there, and then drive them back.”
“There’s a small change of plan afterwards,” Saverin said. “You’ll bring them back here to collect their things and then take them to the airport. They’re coming back to Curitiba with me.”
“Why? The case isn’t finished, surely?”
Saverin paused, as if contemplating whether he should say what he had in mind. “No,” he said. “It’s not, but we’ve had a breakthrough. We’ve arrested a man who can open it up for us. A very senior man. We arrested him yesterday—you probably saw it on the news. I’ve been with him all night. It will mean there is more attention on me. I would like them somewhere a little safer until it dies down again.”
Milton wondered what that meant for Drake’s contract but kept his face straight.
Drake remained professional. “What time do you need them at the airport, sir?”
“The flight is at six, so if you could have them there for four thirty? Five at the latest.”
“Of course.”
Saverin turned back to Milton. “It was good to meet you, senhor Smith.”
“You too, sir.”
“Take care of my girls. They are very precious.”
“We will. You don’t need to worry.”
“I’m afraid that I do. I have a lot of enemies, and they would like to hurt me very much. I don’t take them lightly. Neither should you.”
25
The young man took Paulo into the building and up to the first floor. There was a corridor that led away from the stairs with a series of doors that opened onto it.
“Hands against the wall,” the man said.
Paulo did as he was told, and the man frisked him, expertly running his hands down his body. Once he was satisfied that Paulo was unarmed, he opened one of the doors.
“Inside,” he said. “You wait.”
The room was simple: wooden floors, a decent sofa, a table with a decanter and two glasses, a television. There was a window on the other side of the room, and Paulo walked over to it. The window’s shutters were ajar, and the thin muslin drape blew inside between the panels, ruffled by the gentle breeze outside.
Paulo took a deep breath to try to bring his racing pulse under control. When he held up his hands, he saw that his fingers were trembling.
He was left alone for ten minutes before the door opened and Antonio Rodrigues came inside. Paulo knew plenty about Garanhão and had seen pictures of him, but he was different in person than he had expected. He was slender and short, a good three inches shorter than Paulo, and surprisingly feminine. His hair was bouffant, coiffed so that it fell down beyond the collar of his shirt. He was brown skinned, and his eyes were perfectly black. The don was accompanied by two guards toting AKs, and, compared to those soldiers, he looked almost insignificant.
“Don Rodrigues,” Paulo said, bowing his head.
“You are Paulo?”
“Yes.”
“I understand that you want to talk to me.”
Paulo started to reply, but his throat was too dry to speak.
Garanhão saw his discomfort and smiled warmly at him. “There’s no reason for you to be fearful.”
Paulo swallowed again and found the moisture to say, “I appreciate your time, Don Rodrigues.”
“Sit down, please.”
Paulo looked around, decided that the sofa was his best choice, and sat. Garanhão turned to the two guards and dismissed them with a cursory wave of his hand. The two men glared at Paulo, whose attention was fixed on their weapons, and left the room.
Garanhão went to the table. Paulo could smell his fragrance as he drew near. The don took the glass decanter and held it aloft. “Would you share a drink with me?”
“Thank you,” Paulo said.
Garanhão poured liquid into two glasses and handed one to Paulo. It was chilled, and the cold wetness of it refreshed his dusty mouth.
“It is chá de abacaxi com capim-santo,” he said. “Do you like it?”
Paulo knew what it was: you infused the water with lemongrass and pineapple peelings and then chilled it down. “I’ve never had it.”
“Really? I don’t drink alcohol or do drugs. Bad habits. Iced tea and cigarettes are my vices. I prefer to keep my wits about me.”
Paulo shifted uncomfortably. Garanhão noticed, smiled again, and came around to sit next to him. He folded one leg over the other, revealing a half inch of his tanned ankle and an expensive loafer. They were flat shoes; Paulo had wondered whether Garanhão might have worn shoes with lifts to compensate for his lack of height, but it appeared that the legend was true: he really didn’t care that he was short.
“Do you know that I know your father?”
“Yes,” Paulo said.
“How much has he told you about me?”
Paulo couldn’t say what he knew: that his father hated Garanhão, that he described him as a cancer, and that he longed for the day when someone—the police or a rival—finally did away with him. He couldn’t say that, so he said, instead, “Not a great deal.”
“We worked together—years ago. Your father is a dear friend of mine. He is a loyal man. The police offered him a deal—he could walk free if he implicated me in the work that we were doing together. Did you know that? He went to Bangu rather than betray me. That tells me a lot about him as a man. And it makes me wonder—is it a characteristic that is shared by his son?”
Garanhão stopped talking. Paulo had been concentrating on keeping his fear at bay and didn’t realise that he had been asked a question until he saw the don looking expectantly at him.
“I’m sorry, Don Rodrigues. Could you say that again?”
“I was talking about loyalty,” Garanhão said, the smile still twisting the edge of his lip. “Are you as loyal as your father?”
“I don’t know,” Paulo said before he could consider what he should say. If he said yes, what would that mean? He was wrong-footed, and Garanhão’s ambiguous motives were confusing him.
“Can I be honest with you?” Garanhão didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve always been interested in your well-being—yours and your mother’s. Your father’s silence has been a blessing to me, and, when I speak of loyalty, you must know that it flows both ways. I am grateful for what he has done, so I have always made sure that your mother had enough money to raise you. I have been paying her every month for the last ten years—ever since your father went to jail. Did you know that?”
Paulo’s mother had never been explicit about the packages that were delivered on the last Friday of every month. She had always been secretive about them, opening them when she thought Paulo wasn’t looking, but there had been occasions when Paulo had been able to peep through the crack in the door. Paulo had watched her open one of them, tearing away the brown paper wrapped in duct tape to take out a small bundle of banknotes. He doubted now that the payments had amounted to very much, especially not to a man as rich as Garanhão, but they had allowed them to keep their apartment and to ensure that they never went hungry. There had also been enough to pay for his mother’s regular trips to the prison. Paulo had guessed that the money was dirty and that it was being paid in order to win his father’s silence. He gave a single nod now to acknowledge this.
“It was the least I could do. I prefer not to talk about it.” The don got up from the sofa and collected the iced tea from the desk. He refilled Paulo’s glass and then his own. “Now—you have walked up the Hill to see me. What can I do to help you?”
Paulo took another sip of the tea as he compos
ed himself; here it was, the moment he would rather have avoided, the opportunity that he had no other choice but to pursue.
“My daughter is unwell,” he said. “She has cancer. The doctors say that she can be saved, but the treatment that they have recommended is expensive.”
“And you don’t have the money to afford it.”
“No,” Paulo said.
“What is your daughter’s name?”
“Eloá.”
“Do you have a photograph?”
Paulo found himself wrong-footed once again by the don’s request but said that he did and took out his phone. He had hundreds of pictures of his daughter, and he selected one of his favourites and handed the phone over. Garanhão looked at it and smiled.
“She is very beautiful,” he said. “How old is she?”
“Six.”
The don handed the phone back to him. “How much money do you need for her treatment?”
“Thirty thousand reais.”
“And how much do you have?”
“Nothing,” he admitted.
“Nothing?”
Paulo had not intended to tell Garanhão about what had happened two nights ago, but he found the man’s charm disarming and was unable to stop himself. He explained that he had been gambling on his racing to put the money he needed together, and that he had lost it all thanks to the sabotage of his car.
“And who did this to your face?” Garanhão pointed to Paulo’s bruising.
“I owe money to a moneylender.”
“Who?”
“Palito.”
“Really?”
“Do you know him?”
“Of course I know him. I told him he wasn’t welcome in Rocinha.” As Garanhão spoke, a flicker of menace passed across his face. “Leave him to me, please, Paulo. I’ll take care of it.”
Paulo was confused by the direction that the conversation was taking and, in his bewilderment, he found he was fixated on the amount of money that he had just asked for and the person to whom he would be in debt. Now that the don had suggested that he might say yes, Paulo found that the consequences of his request were coming into focus. “I know it’s a lot,” he said. “Perhaps I should ask for less.”
“And how will that help Eloá? It’s all or nothing, Paulo. She needs to be treated. Please—wait here.”
Garanhão got up, crossed the room, and called out to the men waiting outside. Paulo couldn’t see through the door, and the noise of the street outside meant that he couldn’t hear what Garanhão was saying. The don closed the door and came back to sit down on the sofa again.
“The money will be waiting for you when you are ready to leave,” Garanhão said. “Thirty thousand. All of it.”
“Thank you,” Paulo said, trying hard to ignore the fresh fear that had started to worm around in his gut. “You’re very generous, Don Rodrigues. I can’t tell you how much that means to me—to my family. You’ve saved my daughter’s life.”
Garanhão smiled and, instead of acknowledging Paulo’s gratitude, he stood and collected the decanter again. He refilled Paulo’s glass and then his own. “There is the question of repayment, of course,” he said blandly. “What do you propose? Do you have a job?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I’m a mechanic.”
“But it doesn’t pay very well?”
“I make four hundred reais a week.”
Garanhão smiled gently. “I charge interest on the loan, of course. I doubt you would be able to service it with a wage as small as that. Something else, then.”
“Yes,” Paulo said. “Of course. What do you suggest?”
“You said you raced cars.”
“Yes.”
“So you are a mechanic and a good driver?”
“I am.”
“Excellent. Then you will work for me.”
“I’m sorry?” Paulo said, confused.
“It’s the best way. The job I have for you is safe, it pays very well, and it will give you more than money. The demands on your time will be light, so you would be able to spend more time with Eloá and Rafaela.”
Garanhão dropped Paulo’s wife’s name into the conversation with flippant ease. Paulo had no idea how he knew it, but it was not difficult to see it for what it was: a demonstration of his command of the favela and a thinly veiled threat.
Paulo’s throat was dry once more. “What would I have to do?”
“You would drive,” he said. “Sometimes for me, sometimes for others. There are many people in Rio who would like to see me harmed. I am well protected, and my name is warning enough for most to respect me, but there are some who are less sensible than others.”
“So I’d be your chauffeur?”
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose so. I would pay you generously: I was thinking fifteen hundred reais a week with a week in advance as a bonus for saying yes. How does that sound?”
Paulo felt dizzy and was grateful that he was still sitting down. Six thousand a month? That was nearly two thousand dollars. He would be able to pay the debt back in less than a year.
“And you would be able to maintain my cars, check that they haven’t been tampered with, that they are safe.”
“Of course, Don Rodrigues.”
“There will be other times when I need things delivered or people picked up. You can be responsible for that, too. Yes?”
“Yes—I can do that. Thank you.”
Garanhão stood. “Tell your employer that you quit. Use my name if you have to.”
“When?”
“You will start now,” he said. “Today. Two of my men have business to attend to in Ipanema. You will drive them there and bring them back again.”
Paulo knew that there was no way that he could say no. Any choice that he might have once enjoyed was gone. He had sold himself to Garanhão in order to save Eloá’s life. He had no option but to do what he was told. And although he knew it was foolish greed, he could not ignore the change to their lives that six thousand reais would make once the debt was repaid. They could find a bigger place, for a start, somewhere that didn’t leak when it rained, somewhere without mould on the walls. He ignored the part of him that was yelling out that it couldn’t be as simple as the don had suggested, that he wouldn’t pay that much cash for a chauffeur and a mechanic, that he would want his pound of flesh.
“Where do I find them?” Paulo asked.
“In the warehouse,” he said, gesturing toward the window in the direction of the industrial buildings. “The cars are kept inside the last one on the left. Go there now and ask for Alessandro. Tell him I sent you and that you will be driving them.”
Garanhão stood, smiled warmly, and put out his hand. Paulo took it.
“Thank you.”
Don Rodrigues withdrew his hand, put it on Paulo’s shoulder, and guided him toward the door. Paulo thanked him again and allowed himself to be shepherded out of the door. The two young men with AKs were lounging around outside, their eyes and teeth shining in the gloom. Another of the don’s men was waiting there; he had a white plastic bag in his hand and, as Paulo approached, he held it out so that Paulo could take it. He did.
“Thirty,” the man said.
Paulo opened the mouth of the bag and looked inside; he could see bundles of banknotes, all of them stuffed haphazardly into the bag.
The man eyeballed him. “You want to count it?”
“No,” Paulo said. “Of course not.”
Paulo put his back to them all and descended the stairs. He heard the sound of their voices, and then Garanhão’s, and then a peal of discordant laughter. He swallowed down on his dry throat and stepped out into the bright light and the heat of the early afternoon. He stopped. He felt dizzy, buffeted this way and that by a riot of emotions. He opened the mouth of the bag again and looked more closely at the contents. There was a rainbow of yellow twenties, brown fifties and blue hundreds. The money was Eloá’s salvation, and he felt numbing relief that he had managed to find it.
He was jostled out of his daydream by the clatter of automatic gunfire somewhere below him in the streets of the favela.
The relief collapsed into the fear upon which it had been built.
He stared across the road in the direction of the warehouses.
What had he just done?
26
Milton rode in the back of the Range Rover with Valentina Saverin and her daughter. Milton was on the passenger side of the vehicle, and the girl was next to him, with her mother on the opposite side.
“I’m good at singing and dancing,” the girl said.
Milton’s attention was on the window, and he hardly heard her.
He felt a hand tapping against his leg. “Senhor Smith?”
He turned from the window; the girl was looking up at him.
“I’m sorry, Alícia,” Milton said. “What was that?”
“I said I’m good at singing and dancing. It’s my favourite thing.”
“So you must be excited about today.”
“I am,” she said. “What about you?”
“Am I excited?”
“No,” she said, her nose crinkling as she shook her head in childish exasperation. “Are you good at singing and dancing?”
“Oh,” Milton said. “No. I’m afraid not. I’m terrible at both.”
“You don’t like music?”
“No,” Milton said. “I love music. Very much. But no one would want to hear me sing.”
Milton glanced up and saw that Alícia’s mother was watching the exchange with an amused expression on her face.
Milton couldn’t help but smile, too.
“I’ve heard senhor Smith’s singing,” Drake offered from the front of the car. “Trust me, Alícia. He’s right. I don’t think there’s anything that could be done for him.”
“Everyone can sing,” Alícia protested. “I’ll teach you.”
“Well,” Milton said, keen to change the subject before she could go any further, “I’d certainly like to hear you sing.”
“You can hear me today,” she said and, with that, she turned to the front and looked out of the windshield, a happy smile on her face.
