Blaine changed into shorts and a loose-fitting shirt, then took a hotel cab the fifteen-minute stretch to the Meridien Hotel at Copacabana Beach. Cars were parked diagonally across the stone walkway separating the street from the sand, and the cab pulled into an open slot. Blaine paid the fee in the Brazilian cruzeiros he had obtained at the Sheraton and stepped out. The beach before him was enormous and, since it was Saturday, crammed with people fighting for every inch of sand. Some boys battled for soccer balls in the sand; others played volleyball.
Blaine strode toward the beach between two of the many thatch-roofed stands along the street. Native fruits and foods were available, as well as Coca-Cola. Nearby a marimba band played. McCracken was about to step out onto the beach as instructed when a pair of strikingly beautiful Brazilian women in bikinis closed in on him from either side. One was black, the other looked more Latin.
“This way,” the black woman said, and moved forward to take the lead. The other woman brought up the rear. He had expected to be met by the typical muscle-bound thugs and found the surprise quite pleasant indeed.
The women escorted him onto the fine sand of the beach. They walked carefully to avoid the cluttered patches of blankets and towels and to avoid soccer balls in flight. Blaine watched as a kicked ball rolled to a stop in front of the first guard. The young players froze. No one made a move or said a word until she had kicked it back at them.
“Obrigado,” one muttered.
“De nada,” she answered.
Close to the sea, they swung left toward a section of the beach that appeared strangely vacant. There seemed to be only a single cluster of beach chairs under a canopy. Four tall, beautiful women were going through patterned dance steps in two pairs. The moves possessed a balletlike grace, but the daring near-misses with hands and feet, along with lightning responses, suggested martial arts kata. As he got closer, Blaine could see the women’s bodies were layered with well-defined muscles. Sweat glistened off their washboard abdominals and bulging bronzed shoulders. In addition to these four, he now noticed three more sunbathing off to the right of the canopy.
A single clap of hands brought the quartet of female practitioners to rigid attention, chests heaving from their exertion under the hot Rio sun. Beyond them Blaine glimpsed a single figure beneath the canopy. He was seated in a half-lounge chair that seemed buried in the sand, and he made no effort to rise as Blaine drew closer.
“Step into my office, McCrackenballs,” Fernando Da Sa said.
He stretched out his long legs and clasped his hands comfortably behind his head. He wore a white shirt unbuttoned to reveal a firm midsection that protruded slightly over his bathing trunks. The flesh was the same dark bronze color as his face, accentuated further by his jet-black hair, which showed gray only at the temples. A thin, shiny mustache graced his upper lip.
McCracken stopped at the entrance to the crime lord’s canopy. A nod from Da Sa, and one of his female guards placed a beach chair directly facing his.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.”
The chair had been placed so Blaine’s shoulders remained in the sun, but the front of his body was shaded by the canopy. “You like my girls, eh, McCrackenballs?”
“Most men with eyes would, Mr. Da Sa.”
“The routine you saw them performing is called Capuela. It was developed by slaves who were forbidden to practice self-defense. Because of its dancelike appearance, the masters paid no attention to it, but it is actually a deadly fighting art.”
Blaine stole a glance at two of the participants who still lingered just beyond the canopy. “I don’t doubt it.”
Da Sa smiled with pride. “My girls are the best fighters in all of Brazil.”
“Tough to conceal a gun in those outfits, though.”
“You did not check beneath the towels, my friend.”
“Perhaps I shall.”
Da Sa laughed gently. “I am glad to see you came unarmed. It is a gesture of good faith on your part and is much appreciated.”
Da Sa bowed his head slightly at that, and McCracken returned the gesture. Obviously the two women who had escorted him here knew he wasn’t carrying without needing to pat him down. That implied a high level of proficiency.
McCracken struggled to get his beach chair settled evenly in the sand.
“Can I offer you a drink, McCrackenballs?” Da Sa asked.
“Absolutely. Something from one of those coconuts. Unleaded.”
Da Sa gave the appropriate signal. “I understand you don’t drink alcohol.”
“Afraid I might get to like it too much.” Blaine glanced around him. “Especially in a place like this.”
“I can understand what you mean.” The crime lord hesitated. “It seems strange to you, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“That I can conduct business here without any worry.”
“Your counterparts elsewhere in the world couldn’t work this openly.”
“My manner of conducting business is not like the others in my field. I am not a criminal, Mr. McCracken, I am a purveyor, an entrepreneur. To the people I am a hero, but I am at home among them. I am just one of them who has reached a different station.”
“A station that requires nine bodyguards.”
“One has certain enemies, Mr. McCracken.”
“The Red Phalange, for example, Mr. Da Sa?”
Da Sa nodded. “I see you have done your homework, Mr. McCracken. My enemies in the phalange are not welcome here and they know it. Would you care to hear why?”
“Of course.”
“The people. They do not have the support of the people. They have done nothing for them except take their money. You have heard of Esquaderão da Morte?”
“Death squadrons.” Blaine translated.
“With the tolerance — even the support — of the police, these roving bands murder homeless children and dump their bodies in the sewers. They claim the purpose is to reduce street crime. They claim these children have no families. But I am their family, Mr. McCracken. I am family with all of Rio.”
Blaine’s drink came and he accepted it gratefully. It was cold coconut milk, and he drained half of it in the first two gulps. He licked off his upper lip and dabbed with his arm what he had missed.
“You fund orphanages, halfway houses for released convicts, and food banks for the poor.”
“There are a great many in my country.”
“There were a great many more before your war with the Red Phalange.”
“I centralized power, McCrackenballs, and the results speak for themselves. I give back a huge percentage of what I take in from the city. It is good business. I am a good businessman.”
“And it’s important that I know that?”
“It’s important that you know how I function, my friend, in the event I am not able to grant your request.”
“I think it will be in your best interests — as well as the best interests of the party I am seeking.”
“Really?”
“This is beyond your usual sphere of influence, Mr. Da Sa.”
“This is Rio, McCrackenballs.”
“The roots are elsewhere.”
The crime lord shoved his chair closer to McCracken’s. “The roots of what?”
“Sometime within the last week a man came to you, an American. He asked for new identity papers, perhaps for protection.”
“Was this man in trouble?”
“Not necessarily,” Blaine said, the drink cooling his palms. “He was simply part of something that didn’t exist anymore. Maybe if he had walked into the U.S. Embassy, everything would have been all right. But he didn’t.”