The sergeant sensed the irony, and I thought he was about to tell me to shove it up my ass, but he reconsidered, understood he was playing on my field, and related the incident in general terms, in a flat monotone. Then I listened to what the corporal and the soldiers had to say in order to release the patrol. The inspectors on duty could handle any other flesh wound from Antônio Sérgio.
Felipe’s hand was bleeding a little under the bandage, and he looked at it, distressed. If his friend had AIDS, that wound was going to complicate his life. It wouldn’t put an end to it, as it would have twenty years ago, before the cocktails. But it would complicate it, even if the incident never went beyond the precinct. If it did, then yes, Felipe Krauss Barreto was in for a shitload of problems. People in his office were going to look cross-eyed at him, disinfect chairs, a bunch of stupid and shitty things. Therefore it was neither startling nor even surprising when, as soon as the BOPE left, he declared he wouldn’t file a complaint. The volume under the skirt had come as a surprise, the blows in the park had been unplanned, and the razor blade attack was an impulse that, God willing, would have no greater consequences than requiring five or six stitches.
“God willing,” I repeated mechanically.
The silence in the room carried the implications of that observation.
“All of this is a nightmare, and the best thing is to wake up from it,” said Felipe, half to himself, without taking his eyes from the bandaged hand.
The drag queen was quiet, crossing and uncrossing thick legs free of cellulite, exuding charm toward the audience, because queens always draw a crowd in the precinct, but when he heard this he couldn’t hold back: “Nightmare?! Felipe Barreto, you fucker! When it’s suck time—”
All Hudson had to do was squeeze the creature’s clavicle lightly for him to stop roaring, moan weakly, and compose himself. The big black guy looked at me and smiled, satisfied with his physical authority. Good show. His mistake was not being able to resist a wisecrack.
“Look, boss, the doll’s got an off button,” he said, to guffaws from his colleagues.
But I didn’t laugh. “My dear inspector, you must respect every citizen,” I said in as bureaucratic a tone as possible, picking up one of the IDs from my desk. “It’s no different with the citizen Antônio Sérgio Lemos de Alcântara. Or whatever name he, or she, prefers to be known by.”
“Candy. Candy Spears.”
It struck me that it was the first time the transvestite had spoken. Really spoken, without bellowing. A woman’s voice, not that husky mewing that seemed to be the national language of poor cocksuckers. The story from the accountant — who, incidentally, wasn’t an accountant but “a salesman in the field of auto parts” — became more and more consistent. Not that I cared in the least, of course, but under the influence of drugs it was possible to confuse Antônio Sérgio with a bodybuilding woman. The guy’s high, hears that voice, squeezes that thigh, he wants to fuck any which way.
“Candy Spears then,” I agreed.
The pissed-off expression that Hudson made just reminded me that I didn’t like his kisser all that much. That pose of his of the case-hardened cop who disdains police academy graduates. I didn’t think twice before insisting on my line of reasoning. If I had thought twice, I wouldn’t have insisted. What good would come from that playacting? Too bad.
“My dear Hudson,” I said, “apologize to citizen Candy Spears.”
Hudson wasn’t the only one astonished. Paulinho, César Franco, Tião, the pseudo-accountant, and the fake blonde were too.
“Apologize to Candy Spears,” I pressed, before adding, with a gentleness that only further increased the ignominy of the scene, “please.”
Hudson skewered me with his eyes and stomped off, puffing, toward the interior of the precinct. The sound of a fist punching a metal filing cabinet was heard. I felt I had fucked up, but I couldn’t lose face.
“I apologize in the name of the entire precinct, my dear Candy. Just because the citizen, whether male or female, committed an infraction does not give the police the right to put him, or her, down. We must treat everyone with due respect.”
Candy smiled shyly, nodding in agreement. The pseudo-accountant repeated that he didn’t want to lodge a complaint against the fake blonde. I looked at the fat, sweaty face, trying to think of at least one good reason for him to register the incident. Nothing came to mind, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. I knew how to play good cop and bad cop at the same time.
“The blotter guards against future problems, my dear citizen. We’re taking you to Forensics for a corpus delicti examination. It covers bodily harm, it doesn’t have to be attempted homicide. Later you can sue Candy Spears, our friends from the BOPE will testify... She’ll do three months in the slammer, for sure, but unfortunately in a men’s prison. Besides, let’s be frank, you were both disturbing the peace.”
Felipe Krauss Barreto didn’t understand, or pretended he didn’t understand, my threat. I couldn’t sell ice in the desert with that palaver. The phony accountant must have envisioned the scene of the fake blonde providing favors to a long line of locked-up traffickers who hadn’t seen an ass in weeks. He displayed a painful expression. Ah, love.
“So, it’s up to you...” I sighed and left this in the air.
If it was up to him, then that settled it. “Thank you very much, detective, but I really prefer to end the matter here. I don’t want to lodge any complaint. Let’s agree, all of us, that this nightmare...” he said cautiously, looking sideways at Candy, but now she was calm, inspecting her nails. “Thank you very much for your time, your patience, and your courtesy.”
He extended his right hand to me. I didn’t take it. We stood there looking at the blood on his bandage. I gave him two pats on the shoulder, meaning, Hang in there, friend. We accompanied Felipe and Candy to the precinct door to make sure they were heading in opposite directions. We kept the false accountant for a few minutes longer, until the fake blonde disappeared from sight. As if that meant anything, but damnit, there was a ritual to observe. Paulinho, César Franco, and Tião avoided any mention of the case. It was obvious they were pissed at me too. I felt even worse, but I still wasn’t convinced that I’d ever have to apologize to Hudson.
I had just gone back to my chair when two drivers, definitely sober, came in to report a fender bender — petty stuff, no one injured, but the insurance companies were going to demand an accident report. When I finished, I went outside to smoke. I was distracted, thinking about what I’d do on my day off, probably sleep and wake up just for the pleasure of going back to sleep, when Candy Spears appeared from behind the trees whose roots I was using as an ashtray. Crap, what if she was carrying another razor blade? I regretted leaving my revolver in my desk. Candy was larger than Felipe and also bigger than me. I threw the cigarette away so as to have both hands free and planted my feet in a defensive stance. She came around the flower bed, without the exaggerated female flourishes. If Antônio Sérgio had been born ten centimeters shorter and fifteen less around, maybe seventeen less between his legs, he would be a woman. Nature plays tricks on us.