“What does someone have to do to deserve a bit of, I don’t say affection, but a bit of your compassion?” asked Laura.
“Look, I already have two women, and I don’t know what to do with them. My hands and my heart are full.”
“Whoever has two can have three,” said Laura, seriously. “I like you. It doesn’t bother me that you’re a policeman, it doesn’t bother me that you have an ulcer in your stomach, it doesn’t bother me that you bang your head against the wall. It doesn’t bother me that you have as many women as you want.”
Mattos sat back down.
“Can you get me a glass of milk?”
“What?”
“My stomach is hurting.”
Laura stood up. She was wearing a long, tight satin dress.
Rua Conde Lage.
“I’ll get your milk.”
As she passed close to him, Mattos smelled the perfume emanating from Laura’s body. Rua Conde Lage.
IT WAS STILL DARK, at five a.m., when the troops employed in the hunt for Climerio began their execution of the plan laid out by their commanders. The dogs, after sniffing again Climerio’s clothing found in the home of his friend, became restless and were the first to move, restrained by the soldiers of the patrol.
As soon as the day brightened, the helicopters took flight.
At the top of the mountain, the sounds of the small creatures of the forest, who during the night had terrified Climerio and not let him sleep, began to be replaced by the distant barking of dogs. Soon afterward, a louder sound filled Climerio with fear. He lay curled up on the ground, and saw, through the crowns of the trees, a helicopter circling slowly. The ’copter was so near that Climerio could read the letters on its cabin: FAB.
The barking of the dogs increased.
Climerio was trembling from cold. His hand was so chilled that he had difficulty taking the revolver from his belt. He rested the barrel against his head. He didn’t have the courage to pull the trigger; they’re not going to kill me, he thought, they need me alive.
When he saw the first dogs and the men from the patrol, Climerio came out from behind the trees with his hands raised.
Three shots rang out. The agreed-upon signal that the hunt was over. It was eight a.m.
At eleven, Climerio was disembarking in handcuffs from a helicopter at the military base at Galeão, to the sound of cheers and jubilation. His wife, Elvira de Almeida, had been arrested that morning.
Brigadier Eduardo Gomes, the opposition military leader, was immediately informed of the fugitive’s capture. No thought was given to informing the secretary of the air force, Nero Moura, with the same rapidity. In any case, he was to be replaced that same day by a new secretary, Brigadier Epaminondas. But neither of them was respected by air force officialdom. The de facto secretary was Eduardo Gomes.
IN HIS FORTRESS IN BANGU, Eusébio de Andrade met with his fellow bankers Aniceto Moscoso and Ilídio.
“Did you get the summons yet?”
“Not yet. But the clerk told me it’s coming.”
“That inspector is going to give us trouble yet,” said Aniceto.
“He’s already giving us trouble,” said Ilídio.
“I’m not talking about this. This is something you created,” said Aniceto.
“I already spoke to my lawyer,” said Ilídio.
“You need to change lawyers. That peg leg can’t get it up.” Aniceto and Moscoso laughed; Ilídio’s attorney actually did have a mechanical leg.
“He fell off the streetcar when he was a student,” Ilídio said.
“We can’t have lawyers who fall off the streetcar,” said Eusébio. “Go into a sanatorium this very day, one of those that specialize in rest cures. There’s a very good one at Alto da Gávea. Spend a week there. When the summons arrives, send the peg leg with a medical certificate to say you’re sick. In the meantime, we’re going to act on another front, aren’t we, Aniceto?”
“We’ll find a way. It’ll cost money, your money, Ilídio, but we’ll get out of this jam.”
“Is it going to be a lot?”
“Whatever it takes. That’ll teach you to go off half-cocked.”
eighteen
“I’VE GOT TO GIVE Senator Freitas some information. He’s pressuring me.”
Rosalvo remained silent, meditating.
“You told me the inspector is investigating a homicide in which the senator may be involved. Just what crime are we talking about?”
Teodoro, the Senate security officer, and Rosalvo, aide to Inspector Mattos, were conversing in a restaurant on General Osório Square, in Ipanema.
“Remember that rich guy who turned up dead in the Deauville Building?”
“Is that the case?”
“The high roller was involved in under-the-table business with the senator, import licenses obtained fraudulently from the Cexim, along with other backroom deals. He knew too much, and he got killed.”
“And the inspector thinks it was the senator who killed the guy?”
“His conclusion is that the senator ordered the killing, to hide his role in the larceny.”
“Does the inspector have proof or is it all supposition, a hunch?”
“I don’t know.”
The waiter brought pork loin with manioc flour.
“There’s a rumor that the senator’s a fruit,” said Rosalvo.
“How can you say that! Some people have the habit of calling any fellow who’s not married a pansy. The senator’s a man.”
“Could be a bull dyke.”
“Impossible. If he were, I’d know.”
“Don’t go telling the senator what I said.”
“No way! The senator will get rid of me if I say something like that to him.”
“Inspector Mattos is crazy. Real crazy, the kind who talks to himself and tears up money. Tell the senator that. He has to be careful with him.”
TEODORO LOST NO TIME telling Clemente what Rosalvo had said. The part referring to the senator’s possible homosexuality was omitted.
“I’ll talk to the senator about this. .”
Clemente stared at Teodoro for a long time, until he detected nervousness in his expression. “Can we trust you?”
“But of course, sir.”
“Can the senator trust you? Blindly?”
Teodoro paled.
“The senator will know how to reward that trust,” continued Clemente.
“Whatever the senator asks, not asks, orders, I’ll do.”
Ordering the killing of political adversaries, Clemente said, was common in the interior of Brazil, even more so in Pernambuco, the senator’s home state, but in Rio de Janeiro, capital of the Republic, it was rarer, for one simple reason: it was difficult to find a killer “of faith.” A killer so reliable that if caught he would never reveal who hired him. After this long buildup, Clemente stared at Teodoro and said:
“The senator wants to get rid of that inspector. Could you do it?”
“Me?!”
“The senator has confidence in you.”
“Mr. Clemente, I know someone better than me.”
“Our man can’t be some asshole like that Alcino of the Rua Tonelero business. Who’s the man?”
“My brother.”
“Your brother? I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“He’s the black sheep of the family. He’s been in and out of trouble since he was a boy. He can do what the senator wants. He’s a tough guy from Pernambuco. If he gets caught, he won’t open his mouth; he’ll kill himself first. But that won’t happen. My brother has already killed over twenty people, and they’ve never laid a finger on him. You know who killed the mayor of Caruaru? The chief of police in Maceió? It was him. He’s killed politicians, soldiers, priests. He’s very good.”