Ipojucan liked to talk about his mechanical leg. It was a way of not feeling awkward about his stiff and unsure manner of walking. Now that he was the lawyer of a numbers game banker and made more money, he planned to order a mechanical leg from the United States.
“I have a mechanical leg,” Salustiano told Inspector Mattos.
“It doesn’t seem like it,” said Mattos politely.
“If I may ask, what is the reason for this summons? Has my client committed some crime?”
“For now, I only want to question him, in keeping with the law. You’re aware, counselor, that it’s a punishable offense to refuse law enforcement demands, solicited with proper legal authority, for data or information concerning identity, marital status, profession, domicile, and place of residence.”
“Of course, sir. I know the law.”
“Tell your client that he can’t stay hidden for long in the clinic, and if he doesn’t get well by Tuesday, I’m going to prove that that medical certificate is phony, which is a crime punishable by law. You don’t want to make things worse for your client, do you?”
Salustiano consulted a small calendar taken from his pocket. “Tuesday, the twenty-fourth. That’s just four days from now. I don’t know if he’ll get well in such a short time.”
“If he doesn’t, a police doctor will go to the clinic to examine him.”
IN THE CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES, the deputy and jurist Bilac Pinto spoke affirming that Vargas would have to sit in the defendant’s chair beside his gunmen. Citing Article 25 of the Penal Code — whoever in any way colludes in the commission of a crime is subject to the penalties imposed thereto — Bilac Pinto said that Vargas, by organizing a band of criminals, killers, thieves, and perjurers as his personal guard, had assumed the risks stemming from his action and choice. His preventive custody must be decreed, and Vargas must be taken into custody and subsequently tried by the Federal Supreme Court. There was no need for the Chamber to agree to a leave of absence, for it was a matter of common, rather than political, crime.
THE PROCURESS LAURA had told Mattos that Lomagno had a boxing instructor who was black. There were lots of black boxers, and that was the problem. Mattos was looking for one whose name started with F. Many fighters were known only by their nicknames; most were constantly on the move, fighting in arenas in the country’s hinterlands.
Mattos had asked for the help of the Surveillance division to search the city’s boxing schools for black men who taught boxing. For days no useful information came to his attention. But soon after the lawyer Salustiano left the precinct, an investigator from Surveillance came to tell him that at the Boqueirão do Passeio club there was a black boxing instructor called Chicão.
Mattos looked up the Boqueirão do Passeio number in the phone book. The guy who answered said they didn’t have any teacher called Chicão, and that their boxing instructor was Kid Earthquake. Earthquake could be found at the club that Friday at the eight p.m. class.
The Boqueirão do Passeio was on Rua Santa Luzia, near Rua México. It was a boating club; boxing, as well as basketball and yoga, were secondary activities of the Boqueirão.
When Mattos arrived, there were half a dozen athletes in the gym. One was hitting a speed bag; two others were pounding the heavy bag. Others were skipping rope. In the ring, a pair, in protective headgear, were fighting, oriented by a potbellied old man with a broken nose. Mattos concluded, accurately, that he must be Kid Earthquake.
Mattos waited patiently for the activities to end, which took over two hours. Then he addressed Kid Earthquake.
“I’d like five minutes of your time. We could have a beer while we talk.”
“About what?”
“I’m from the police.”
“Having beer with a cop isn’t good for your health.”
“Sorry, Kid, but you’re going to have to talk to me one way or another. All I want is some information. It’s nothing to do with you.”
Kid Earthquake appeared to meditate about what Mattos had said.
“I’m going to change clothes.”
He returned soon, carrying an enormous bag. “I don’t leave my stuff here. They stole a new pair of gloves last week. There’s thieves everywhere these days. But you know that better than I do.”
They went to a bar in Lapa that stayed open late. On the round marble tabletop someone had written in penciclass="underline" “Marietta, I’m going to drink ant poison because of you.”
“Ant poison with guaraná is a sure thing,” said Kid Earthquake, who had read the words written on the marble. “I had a cousin killed himself that way, also a woman thing. She put horns on him.”
Mattos ordered a beer and a glass of milk.
“All we have is warm milk,” said the waiter.
“It’ll do.”
“You don’t drink beer?” asked Kid Earthquake.
“I have an ulcer in the duodenum.”
“That’s in the stomach, isn’t it? I’ve got a cousin with that problem.”
When Kid Earthquake finished his second bottle, Mattos asked him about Chicão.
“He doesn’t work with me anymore. He was a black man, strong as hell, but he didn’t have good technique. Just brute force. He served in the FEB. He learned to fight from the Americans in the war. Has he fucked up?”
“No, he hasn’t done anything. I’m looking for him so he can give me information about a guy who was a student of his at the Boqueirão. One Pedro Lomagno.”
“Then it was that guy who fucked up.”
“Nobody fucked up.”
“Then why’s the police interested?”
“Well, you I can tell. This Lomagno seduced a girl.” Whenever Mattos needed a pretext for an investigation he always used seduction. It had been that way at the Catete when he visited the quarters of the former personal guard of the president.
“Seduction. I never much understood that crime,” said Kid Earthquake.
The crime of seduction — unlike rape — didn’t evoke strong reactions from anyone who wasn’t directly involved, like the victim’s father and mother. Or the accused.
“The crime of seduction occurs when a man, taking advantage of the inexperience or the justifiable trust of a female older than fourteen and younger than eighteen, has carnal relations with her.”
“Carnal relations is the guy sticking his knob in the girl, right?”
“It’s necessary that she trusts him or is inexperienced.”
“How?”
“The guy’s engaged, and says they’re going to get married. The girl consents, believing the promise. Or else the girl doesn’t know what she’s doing, because she’s so naïve—”
“Sir, do you believe that? Women know what they’re doing from the day they’re born. It’s men who don’t know.”
Mattos ordered another beer.
“You’re a decent cop,” said Kid Earthquake, “I saw that right away in your face. I’m going to come across for you, because that Pedro Lomagno is a rich guy with a swelled head. I’m surprised at you telling me he did a girl wrong, ’cause I always took him to be a fag. I got my suspicions that he used to get it on with Chicão. He set up a boxing school for Chicão, but Chicão screwed up and from what I hear had to close down the school.”
“Do you know where that school is located?”
“Yeah. Chicão gave me the address and asked me to send him students. But you think I was going to send him students when I barely got enough to cover my expenses?”
“Does this Chicão wear a heavy gold ring?”
“Uh-huh. He liked to show off the ring. Never took it off his finger. Only when he put on the gloves or took a bath. He said soap was bad for the ring. He used to say a lot of dumb things.”