"Tell me about the league."
"What do you want to know?"
"Help me to understand them. What kind of people are they?"
Father Brouwer scratched his chin, and then said, "They're the stubborn ones."
"Stubborn?"
"Stubborn. The ones who haven't given up, the ones who've rejected migration to the big cities, the ones who've elected to stay and fight."
"That's well and good, Father, but they shouldn't be doing it by occupying land to which they have no right-"
"No right? No right?" Father Brouwer scowled. He took a deep breath then let it out, slowly, through his nose. "Tell me this, Chief Inspector: Who has a greater right to the land, someone who's born on it, sweated on it, drawn his subsistence from it, or some capitalist who paid for it with money, or stole it by forging false documents?"
"Capitalist?" Silva said, raising his eyebrows.
Father Brouwer leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking Marxist, you're thinking communist. But you're wrong. I'm neither. I believe in God."
"How about liberation theology? Do you believe in that?"
Brouwer exchanged a glance with Angelo. "How could l?" Brouwer said. "After all, my superiors in Rome have condemned it."
"It's forbidden," Angelo said. "I'm surprised you didn't know that."
"Condemned?" Silva said. "Forbidden? So no priest could ever publicly commit to it, right?"
"Right. Not publicly," Brouwer said.
It didn't escape Silva that neither one of the priests had actually denied being a liberation theologian. He looked from one to the other. The conversation was going nowhere. He rose to his feet. "I think I've taken up enough of your time. I'm at the Excelsior. You will call me, won't you, if anything else occurs to you?"
"Of course," Father Angelo said.
Father Brouwer didn't say anything at all. He didn't even nod.
When Silva got back to the hotel he was surprised to find a note from Arnaldo:
If you're reading this, I'm in the coffee shop.
It would have been impossible for Arnaldo to arrive in the few short hours since he'd authorized Hector to summon him. His nephew had clearly jumped the gun. Silva made a mental note to take him to task about it.
Arnaldo was where he'd promised to be. It was still lunchtime, and the restaurant was crammed with people dressed in the fashion of the countryside. At that time of the year, with temperatures peaking around 40 degrees Celsius104 degrees Fahrenheit-the men were clothed almost exclusively in thin cotton shirts open at the neck. Arnaldo, in a beige suit, starched white shirt, and blue necktie, stuck out like a penguin in a chicken coop.
He was frowning at a menu when Silva slipped into a seat in front of him.
"A cheeseburger, medium," Arnaldo said to the hovering waiter.
"And to drink, senhor?"
"Guarana."
"What a surprise," Silva said.
In coffee shops, Agente Arnaldo Nunes always perused the menu from appetizers to desserts, and almost always ordered a cheeseburger and a guarana.
Arnaldo was an experienced man, considerably older than Hector, almost as old as Silva himself. He was a good cop, but his lack of formal education had blocked his advancement. The law required federal delegados to have a law degree from an accredited university and Arnaldo, having married young, could never find either the money or the time to get one. He was condemned to working out his time as a lowly agente. Silva had known him for over twenty years. They were comfortable with each other, despite the difference in rank.
The waiter offered Silva a menu. Silva shook his head.
"One cheeseburger, medium, and one guarana. That's it?" the waiter said, looking at each of them in turn.
"That's it," Arnaldo said.
"You got it."
The waiter turned on his heel, managed to look right past an aged couple trying to get his attention, and strolled off toward the kitchen.
"The guy's a real pro," Arnaldo said, in mock admiration. "Those geezers coulda shot off rockets, and he wouldn't have raised an eyebrow."
He scanned the tables around them, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. "We got a trace on the incoming phone call, the one from Edson Souza to the bishop. Turns out it originated right here in Cascatas, from the post office."
"Post office?"
"It's one of those places where you fill in a form and make a deposit. Then the operator sends you to a booth and places the call. After you finish, you go back and get your change."
"And nobody remembered the caller, I suppose?"
"Nobody remembered. But I got these."
Arnaldo took a transparent envelope from his breast pocket.
Silva examined the objects inside: Forms the post office used for requesting telephone calls.
"Why didn't you send them off to have them dusted for prints?"
"I thought maybe you wanted to use that local guy..
"Ferraz?"
"Yeah, Ferraz."
"No. We'll do it ourselves. Send them to Sao Paulo. It'll be quicker than going through Brasilia."
"Okay. I took the prints of the clerk for comparison. Same guy was on duty both times."
Silva held the bag closer to his nose and studied one of the forms. The name of the caller and number he'd called were filled in with a blue pen. The amount of the deposit, the cost of the call, and the amount of the balance were written in another hand, in black ink.
"Souza is lefthanded," Silva said.
"How can you tell?"
"The heel of his hand brushed over the wet ink while he was writing. Look here. See?"
Arnaldo took the envelope. He was still studying it when his guarana arrived. He put the envelope back in his pocket, took a sip, and said, "What's next?"
"Ferraz's men know the town," Silva said. "We don't. As much as I hate it, I'm going to ask him to help." He glanced at his watch. "He's probably back from lunch by now. I'll go over and have a talk with him."
"Want me to do it?"
"No. He gave Hector the brush-off. He'd do the same to you. Hector says he's a son of a bitch." He briefly summed up what his nephew had learned about Ferraz and added what Father Angelo had told him.
"Sounds like a real sweetheart," Arnaldo said. He would have embellished his remark, but the waiter arrived with his cheeseburger. Arnaldo moved his drink aside and sat back in his chair while he was served. When the waiter had gone he opened the bun and made a face.
"Medium, my ass," he said, and probed the overcooked meat with his fork. "You want company? With Ferraz, I mean."
Silva shook his head. "You start checking available sources to see if we can't get some information on this Souza. Credit cards, bank statements, utility bills, all the stuff that's easier for us to get than it is for Ferraz."
"You think somebody who uses a post office telephone has a credit card?"
"No, but maybe we'll get lucky. Maybe he didn't have to use it. Maybe he decided to use it. Anyway, we have to go through the motions. Check the phone book."
"I already did. It's thinner than the director's dick and there's no Edson Souza."
"Do you talk about me like that? And how do you know about the director's dick, anyway?"
"Only behind your back, and because the director has been fucking me ever since he got his appointment."
Arnaldo was referring to the current freeze on salary increases. Silva definitely didn't want to get him started on that subject.
"Hector's on his way back from Presidente Vargas," he said. "After I see Ferraz, I'm going to make some telephone calls and turn in early. Let's all meet for breakfast. Here, at nine. I'll leave him a note."