The bartender dutifully lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, it was the shock... What on earth are you doing here in Rio? I thought — I mean, I heard you were in Portugal.”
“I am,” Nacio said. He turned and brought the bottle closer, reached for a glass and poured himself a drink.
“And how did you get here? I didn’t hear you drive in.”
“A fairy godmother brought me.” Nacio drank and then gestured with his head. “From the highway. By bus.” The taste of the liquor was pleasant to him; the rich warmth of his choice spread through his body almost at once. How stupid of Sebastian to ban a drink! Which reminded him — He set down his glass and looked at the other calculatingly.
“I need a gun.”
“A gun?” The bartender wiped his hands against his apron; they had begun to sweat. “Look, Nacio, I don’t want any trouble. And besides, I don’t have—”
“You have a revolver under the bar out there,” Nacio said coldly. “You always had one there, and I’m sure you still have. And if you don’t want any trouble, don’t argue. Go in there and get it for me.” He smiled faintly. “Don’t worry; I’ll see that your boss gets paid for it.”
“But I keep that gun just in case—”
“Consider this ‘in case’!” Nacio’s voice was beginning to tinge with anger. He poured himself another drink, threw it down his throat, and jerked his head in the general direction of the wall. “Who’s out there?”
The bartender shrugged helplessly. “Just one couple, dancing — one of the girls and a fellow comes in here to see her regularly. And a single, some oddball. You know how dead it is here on a Monday.”
“An oddball?” Nacio’s eyes narrowed; he set his empty glass down on the bar slowly. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. A character. He’s alone, doesn’t expect anyone, doesn’t want a girl...” He suddenly remembered what had brought him here. “He wants Maciera Five-Star. Ah, here it is!”
Nacio’s hand clamped on his arm. “What does he look like?”
“How do I know what he looks like? Go into the kitchen—”
But Nacio had already dropped his arm and had slipped through the door to the kitchen. He slid back the door of the service hatchway the merest fraction and peered through it. Wilson, facing him across the room, was given a minute inspection. Nacio frowned and reached for the bartender’s arm once again as that one came through, bearing a bottle in one hand.
“How long has he been here?” It was a taut whisper.
“Ten minutes. Maybe five.”
“I see.” Nacio stood thinking a moment, and then made up his mind. “You go out there and give him his drink. And then bring me back the gun. And after that—”
“Yes?”
“After that you manage to go outside and find out what he’s driving.”
“But why?” The bartender was almost wailing. Three years this Nacio had been out of Rio, and now he had to come back on his shift! Why couldn’t he have returned when one of the other bartenders was on duty? “Look, Nacio, I don’t want any trouble.”
Nacio’s jaw tightened; his eyes glinted dangerously. “Then you’ll do what you’re told!” He pushed the other man brusquely. “Now, get going!”
Through the thin slit in the hatchway opening he watched the bartender pause at the bar, pour a drink shakily, and carry it over to Wilson’s table. He came back, wiping his hands furiously, and with an exaggerated air of innocence picked the revolver from beneath the bar and hid it under his apron. Nacio, watching him, seethed inwardly. Had anyone been paying attention, the idiot would certainly have been discovered! He waited until the bartender had come back through the kitchen door and then jerked the revolver from the reluctant hand that held it timidly forward. He checked it and stuffed it beneath his belt, and then buttoned his jacket tightly over the slight bulge. He jerked his head.
“Now I want to know what he’s driving.”
“But—”
“And don’t argue!”
The bartender shook his head in resignation, and slowly went back to the bar. He glanced about and then walked to the open doorway leading to the patio, attempting to appear casual; one cavernous yawn and he stepped out into the warm darkness. Through the slit in the hatchway window Nacio’s eyes flickered over the dancing couple and then returned to study the man sipping cognac at the other table.
Nacio frowned. A man alone in a place like this, who neither brought his own bed-partner nor requested one from the management — that in itself was quite unusual. And a man who managed to arrive so conveniently just a few moments before he himself did. His eyes ran over the relaxed figure. Certainly innocuous enough to outward appearance, and looking almost too harmless, and yet there was something about the man that led Nacio to believe he was actually neither. He nodded his head in growing conviction; this was exactly the type a miserável like Sebastian would use to follow and check up on him. The heavyset filho de mãe would have enough brains to pick someone he assumed Nacio would never suspect. Iracema had undoubtedly notified Sebastian the moment he had left the hotel room, and where was the first place someone would be sent to find him? The Maloca, of course!
Except for one little thing, Nacio thought, a cruel smile creasing his thin lips: they are still only looking for me. They haven’t found me yet!
The bartender wandered in from the compound as vaguely as he had wandered out, and managed to reach the kitchen without actually breaking into a sprint. Nacio cast his eyes toward the ceiling imploringly, and then returned them to the white face before him.
“Well?”
The bartender took a deep breath. “He’s driving a Chevrolet, only five or six years old. Practically new. It’s turned around so it points at the gate. And it isn’t locked.” His voice betrayed his shock; he didn’t know what Nacio was so upset about, but he had to admit that this leaving a car unlocked in Rio de Janeiro was certainly a most suspicious circumstance. Especially one that was practically new. He looked at Nacio a bit slyly and then delivered his piéce de résistance. “And he’s left his keys in the ignition!”
Nacio nodded; he was not surprised. It was the only explanation that covered all the facts. Well! So Sebastian wanted to play games, did he? He smiled faintly, leaning forward.
“Now, look — this man will be wanting another drink soon. He’s planning on waiting here as long as he has to. So when he orders, you will serve him his Maciera. But in it you will put a knockout drop.”
The bartender opened his mouth to deny that a respectable establishment like the Maloca de Tijuca had such potions, and then closed it. Some other time and to some other person, but not to Nacio Mendes! He cleared his throat nervously. “And then you will steal his car?”
“Then,” Nacio said quietly, “I shall not steal his car. Then I shall leave you alone. Without even visiting your little playmates in the back.” His unhappiness at this turn of events was evident in his voice.
“But what will I do with him? He’ll fall on the floor! I can’t...”
Nacio thought quickly. “You will tuck him into his own car; you said it was unlocked. And then?” He shrugged humorously. “Forget about him. You close up at four. Go home and let the man who opens up in the morning worry about him.”
“But—”
The light humor that had appeared on Nacio’s face disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I said...” He paused, listening, and then glanced through the slit in the hatchway. Wilson was tapping in a polite manner on the table with the edge of his glass. Nacio turned back. “He wants another drink. You know what to do.”
He pushed the unhappy bartender toward the door, and then watched through his peephole. When the drink was finally delivered to Wilson’s table, it was done with far less nervousness than Nacio had feared, but then he remembered that the serving of knockout drops was not a rare occurrence at the Maloca. Quite often it was the only means of maintaining the peace and quiet so necessary to a respectable establishment of its kind, and the bartenders had all learned long since the most efficient manner of serving them.