The chief didn’t greet the policeman and immediately asked what the information was that he wanted to sell.
“Take it easy, Zéu. Nothing to be gained from haste,” replied the corporal theatrically. “First I want the girl.”
Keitte was an Indian, with the same large prominent mouth that had earned her brother the nickname of Lizard, with the subtle difference that he was hideous and she was pretty. She was frightened, but it was her brother who was crying.
“You’re gonna have the girl. Robocop, take her to Jacaré’s bedroom, lock it, and give the corporal the key,” Zéu ordered.
The giant took the hand of the girl, who began weeping softly but offered no resistance.
With a wide grin, Corporal Saraiva took the key that guarded his prize. He stuck it in the pocket of his tight pants, over which jutted his swollen belly, and cleared his throat: “Okay, now we can start the conversation... Here’s the deal, comrade: I know the day and time the favela’s going to be raided.”
Zéu glanced at Lizard in recognition of his innocence. Robocop gazed at the floor. The trafficker stared at Corporal Saraiva, indicating for him to go on.
The policeman continued, solemnly: “Prepare yourself, emperor. The police are going to raid the day after tomorrow, Friday, at midnight.” And he addressed Lizard, smiling and pointing to the bedroom: “Don’t let my little girl go the dance Friday, cool? It might be dangerous...”
Zéu shifted his dead-fish gaze to Robocop and said without raising his voice: “Kill this pig.”
Corporal Saraiva quickly drew his pistol but was unable to use it. The giant’s rifle had already blown his head off.
Turning on his heels and heading toward the stairs to leave, Zéu commented, “You’ve been practicing, eh, Robocop? That one there doesn’t even know he’s dead... Lizard, take your sister home.”
At the exit to the Guanabara Palace, a police car stopped the man who was leaving the governor’s residence on foot. Romário recognized the same pair who had approached him so curtly as he was leaving the Sheraton. This time, however, they were brimming with politeness.
“The governor told us to take you wherever you want to go.”
Romário kept walking. “Thanks, friends, but where I’m going is too dangerous for you.”
Lounging on a plastic mattress floating in the crystalline waters of the pool, Zéu had the afternoon sun in his eyes and didn’t even see Roma arriving. He only noticed when he heard his panting voice.
“Goddamn, Zéu. With all that money you could install a cable car on this shithole, couldn’t you? Next time we’re going to talk by telephone, ’cause climbing all this way isn’t good for my heart, you hear?”
The trafficker continued to float, without moving a muscle. “The raid’s tomorrow at midnight.”
Roma gulped. He removed his sneakers and sat on the edge of the pool with his feet in the water. “Where’s that coming from, Zéu? Nobody knows the day of the raid... How’d you find out?”
“A friend told me...”
“What friend, man?! You don’t have any friends! I’m your only friend.”
“It’s just to remind you that if Laura Furtado isn’t here tomorrow at four o’clock, you die.”
“What bullshit, Zéu! You’ve got an irritating habit of constantly threatening people! I knew that already, goddamnit. You called me here to repeat that shit?”
“No. I called you here to say that Laura will come up but she won’t go down.”
“Are you crazy?! The woman’s the wife of Fernando Furtado, the biggest entrepreneur in the state. They’ll send the army, the navy, and the air force in here!”
“No, they won’t. The bitch is gonna be my shield. Two hours before the raid, you’re gonna call your friends in the government and tell ’em the bigwig’s wife is up here. And that she’ll only come down alive if the raid is cleared with me, the way it’s always been: I put a couple of old rifles in the cops’ hands, along with half a dozen bags of blow and weed for them to photograph for the papers, and that’s that. You’re gonna tell them that if the raid is for real like they’re sayin’, the bitch dies.”
Romário looked deep into Zéu’s sunglasses. “I’m not saying a goddamn thing. I’m not calling anybody.”
Robocop, who was listening in on the conversation, took a step forward with his hand on his rifle. The chief signaled for him to stand down.
Noting the gesture, Roma decided to speak: “Know where I’m coming from just now? The governor’s office. RJ-171 isn’t a band anymore, it’s an NGO. I have authorization from the government to receive donations. And a multinational wants to bankroll me too. I’ve got a show scheduled in Switzerland. I have the governor’s personal phone number. He received me in his home in Leblon, and he knows I grew up with you, Zéu. And that I go to your house. Know what he asked me about you? Nothing. Know what I told him about you? Nothing.”
Romário splashed his suntanned face with water from the pool.
“You take good care of this water, Zéu. It’s nice and clean... I’m going to honor my agreement with you: the woman will be here tomorrow. And after that I don’t owe you anything more.”
He left carrying his sneakers, and Robocop grabbed his arm. But Zéu intervened: “Let him go.”
The next day, Friday, at three forty-five in the afternoon, Romário received an urgent call. It was Nareba, Narguilê’s brother and an employee of RJ-171, who was taking Laura Furtado to the meeting with the trafficker. The news couldn’t be worse: police security at the entrances to Rocinha was being increased, and everyone going through was being searched. There was no way the socialite could take that chance.
And Roma couldn’t take the chance of not delivering Laura to Zéu. It was certain death. He could abort the plan and hope for Zéu to be killed in the raid. But he didn’t want to see Zéu dead. And he also didn’t want to betray the crazy woman who had opened the way to the governor. That’s how Roma was — principled, as his mother said affectionately; full of tricks, as his colleagues in the favela said affectionately.
Romário told his emissary to abandon the socialite’s car and go up the hill on foot. Halfway up they would catch a mototaxi. To get by the police, she would have to disguise herself as a washerwoman, wearing old clothes and carrying a bundle on her head. Roma prayed the woman would agree to the plan. She not only agreed but became even more excited. Nareba informed Robocop that Laura would be a little — or perhaps a lot — delayed.
It was late afternoon when the socialite arrived, sweaty and unkempt, at Zéu’s bunker. But the sultan of love was acting as general, readying the troop’s resistance to the invasion — which Laura didn’t know would take place. She was cordially greeted by Robocop, who informed her that the chief would see her in half an hour. Fascinated by the gladiator’s size, she asked if he could give her a massage, as the climb had been exhausting. Robocop broke into a cold sweat at the thought of what would happen to him if he did that — and sent Laura to the sauna.
When the trafficker entered his living quarters, the socialite was already on the bed, in a silk robe that emphasized her figure and a glass of champagne in her hand. Zéu stripped without saying a word. As he was about to touch her, he heard the sound of a helicopter, followed by a burst of rifle fire. The police had merely waited till nightfall to begin taking the favela.
“Goddamn shitass informant!” roared the trafficker, pulling on his pants and racing to find Robocop.
With gunfire drowning out Laura’s screams, the giant burst into the room and followed the chief’s orders: now with no sign of cordiality, he dragged the woman to a cubicle where he locked her in after telling her not to cry too much in order to conserve oxygen.