They went to the sofa bed and fucked until the inspector’s gauze was entirely torn away.
“This is going to make a good scab,” said Mattos, looking at the condition of the burn on his hand.
PRESIDENT VARGAS received the visit of his son, Deputy Lutero Vargas, on the second floor, in his office.
When Lutero entered, Vargas told his aide, Major Dornelles, that he didn’t want to be interrupted.
Lutero was surprised by his father’s exhausted and worried appearance.
“That shot that killed Major Vaz also hit me in the back,” said Vargas.
Lutero, who unlike his sister Alzira had never felt at ease in the presence of his father, remained silent. His recent talks had been less than pleasant. His father had been hard on him at the time of the episode, widely exploited by the press, of the robbery of eleven thousand dollars he had suffered in Venice, on a recent trip to Europe, criticizing him for making himself vulnerable to attacks by the family’s enemies.
Now, his father’s prostration mortified him. Accustomed to seeing his father as a man of great power and strength, he was surprised to see him so discouraged. He wasn’t the same man who, furious at Lacerda for having called his son debauched, shameless, degenerate, a scoundrel and a thief, had forced Lutero to file a lawsuit against the defamer. Where was the outrage, the indignation, the will to fight, now?
“You’re being accused of ordering the crime,” said Vargas. “I want to hear it from you that you’re innocent.”
“I swear I’m innocent,” said Lutero.
Vargas looked for a long time at the face of his son. Lutero had never lived up to the expectations Getúlio placed on him. Darcy, his mother, had inculcated in her son a horror of politics, helping him to dedicate himself to the profession of medicine, thus distancing himself even further from his father, who having no son to carry on the family tradition, had transferred to his son-in-law Hernani do Amaral Peixoto, a naval officer, his political sponsorship. Only upon Vargas’s return of to the presidency in 1950, not as dictator but elected in a democratic election, had Lutero decided to “go into politics.” But it would have been preferable, both for him and for the entire family, if he had continued practicing medicine. As a politician, Lutero had given no cause for pride to his father, who in reality was more interested in the political future of his son-in-law, then governor of the state of Rio de Janeiro.
Without knowing whether or not his father believed his oath, Lutero said goodbye to him ceremoniously and left the palace.
eight
ILÍDIO, THE NUMBERS GAME BANKROLLER assaulted by Inspector Mattos, was a proud man. He had started his life as lawbreaker by working for Mr. Aniceto Moscoso, the great numbers game financier in Madureira. With extreme efficiency he provided security for Mr. Aniceto’s betting sites. He avoided the use of violence but, when necessary, hadn’t hesitated to kill the usurper of a site or anyone else who was creating serious problems for Mr. Aniceto’s business. His industriousness had led to several promotions within the rigid hierarchy of the numbers game command. Finally, with the help and protection of his patron, and the acquiescence of the other large-scale bankrollers, Ilídio came to control several gambling sites in the city. He became a small-scale bankroller. His businesses, like those of all the others, large or small, prospered endlessly. Ilídio’s ambition was to one day become a major bankroller, like Mr. Aniceto.
The humiliation he had suffered at the hands — or rather, the feet — of that inspector had become unbearable for him. He believed that in the world of lawbreaking, and especially among his subordinates, there was no one who didn’t know and talk about what had happened. The only way to put an end to his shame and recover the prestige he assumed he was losing was to kill the inspector. This was something he couldn’t do personally: killing a person with his own hands was a violation of the rules established and followed by bankrollers, and he planned to obey them. So he ordered the summoning of a trustworthy assassin known as Old Turk.
Old Turk owed that nickname to his white hair. He was only forty-two and was younger than another gunman called Young Turk, a guy who couldn’t be trusted, not only because he dyed his hair and mustache but also because he was a coward and a liar. Old Turk, on the other hand, a reserved man, mysterious, dedicated to his family and his work, was respected for his discretion and feared for his efficiency. No one had ever seen him boast, and yet in the performance of his activities he had already killed more than twenty people — all of them men.
“I want the old one, you hear?” The message was spread among the annotators and other subordinates of Ilídio.
Old Turk was tracked down in Caxambu, Minas Gerais, where he had gone over the weekend to visit his mother.
“Mr. Ilídio, day after tomorrow I’ll be in Rio to do the job,” he said after hearing the proposal.
Aniceto Moscoso also learned of the summoning of Old Turk. Concerned, he called a meeting with Ilídio, at a barbecue restaurant in Saenz Pena Square.
“We don’t kill policemen,” said Aniceto, “we buy them.”
“The fucker isn’t for sale.”
“They all have their price. I speak from experience. I’ve been in this business a lot longer than you.”
“The bastard humiliated me. The whole city’s laughing at me. He’s gotta die, so I can look my children in the eye again.”
“The best revenge is to buy the guy.”
“That son of a bitch doesn’t have a price; he’s crazy. Everybody knows that.”
Aniceto Moscoso tried to convince him that it was a mistake to go forward with his plan, but Ilídio wouldn’t yield and left without promising anything. It was the first time in the relationship between the two that a request of Moscoso’s was not quickly heeded by his former employee.
That same day, Moscoso went to see his friend Eusébio de Andrade, the big bankroller in the West Zone and a mentor to whom the other bankers would go for advice. The two men had in common a passion for football. Andrade was a benefactor of the Bangu Athletic Club and Aniceto Moscoso was the honored patron of the Madureira Athletic Club, whose football stadium had been built with his money. In general, the numbers racket was viewed as criminal, but Andrade’s and Moscoso’s sports activities gained them favorable publicity in the media and in society, despite both clubs being small groups in the outskirts. Andrade and Moscoso urged the other numbers bosses to sponsor activities that interested the public, without, however, encountering much receptivity. “The problem is that our colleagues are very ignorant,” said Andrade. “They can’t see six inches in front of their nose.”
After hearing what Aniceto had told him, Eusébio de Andrade agreed that they would go together to talk to Ilídio, to convince him to give up his plan.
“What would you do if a cop kicked you in the ass?” Ilídio asked.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” replied Eusébio de Andrade. “You know I’m a person who tries to be well informed before making a decision, even if it’s something simple. I’ve gotten some information about that inspector. His colleagues don’t like him, his bosses don’t like him.”
“We don’t like him,” joked Aniceto.
“Nobody likes him. But if we kill the guy, he becomes a hero. Haven’t you seen what happened with that Major Vaz? They killed the guy and caused that shitstorm we read about every day in the papers. Killing the major was stupid. In the same way, if Old Turk kills the inspector, he’s going to stop being considered a son of a bitch by his colleagues. And the cops’ll get you.”