“Why?” Wilson asked a bit ironically. “If they were all nasty, wouldn’t that be reason enough for your mythical death squad?”
“Those weren’t mythical dead bodies,” Da Silva said flatly, and looked over Wilson’s shoulder. All that was visible through the small oval window were fleecy clouds. “I hope this thing gets in on time. We have a lot of work to do.”
“I don’t know about you,” Wilson said, “but I know I have a lot to do. If I have to go up to some forlorn place in the middle of nowhere for an indeterminate sentence, I expect to spend this evening tasting the fleshpots of Rio. Building up a reserve, you might say; memories to buoy me up through the long celibate nights.”
Da Silva stared at him.
“You really don’t know much about small towns in the interior, do you?” he asked wonderingly. “They’re like small towns everywhere — except Ohio, possibly. They don’t have the wide assortment of entertainment we have in the big city, so they are forced to depend on the oldest and cheapest form of amusement. You won’t have any trouble. We’ll probably have to send a posse up there to drag you back.”
“If what you say is true, I’ll even forgive you that crack about Ohio,” Wilson said, and grinned.
Chapter 4
When Joaquim Saldanha Valadares first started in his chosen profession at the tender age of twenty, he selected each girl personally, broke her in himself — naturally — and brought her along as quickly as he felt proper for her fullest development and greatest profit potential. But now that he had prospered to the extent of twenty-six houses in fourteen cities, all of the highest caliber, and all run from his headquarters in Rio de Janeiro, he found — unfortunately — that it was impossible to give the hiring of new talent that personal touch so often recommended by most business consultants. Instead, Valadares had on his payroll an assortment of people for that purpose; spotters in hospitals for unwed mothers, doctors who specialized in illegal abortions, as well as many bartenders, those psychologists of the people who could spot in an instant which nervous female drinker was potential fare for the vast organization Valadares ran, or which amateur hustler would happily trade the outdoors for the indoors.
Still, whenever Joaquim Valadares had an opportunity to do a personal job of recruiting, he was far from unwilling to do so. He only wished he had more time for that most necessary phase of the business.
A prime target for such consideration, to his way of thinking, was the girl working over some man’s hand at manicurist table number three, when he arrived for his usual weekly appointment at his regular barbershop. She was new, a black-haired beauty, with the full, rounded breasts and slender waist that Joaquim favored; with dimpled cheeks, cameo features, smooth dark skin, and even dimpled elbows, an attribute that Valadares — as well as many of his clients — felt added sexiness to a girl. Much better, he thought, than Velma, the woman she had replaced at table three; Velma had to be thirty if a day, and looked as if she were constantly worried — about her four children, possibly. Well, may she stay home with them indefinitely, he thought, and sat down in a chair, reaching for a magazine, although he knew he would be doing little reading with the girl to look at instead.
Armando, his barber, glanced over. “I’ll just be a moment, Senhor Valadares.”
“No rush,” Valadares said, and was pleased that the girl looked up at mention of his name. Could it be that he knew her from someplace? No way, he thought. Who would ever have forgotten that one?
The girl dropped her eyes again to her work, but there was a slight quirk to her lips, a restrained smile, that indicated clearly she knew he was staring at her and did not find it objectionable. And why should she, Valadares thought? After all, he was only thirty-eight — forty-two, if you insisted on the truth, but even that wasn’t very old — and he was in fine shape and not bad-looking, if he said so himself. And it had to be apparent to this girl, or any girl, that just from his appearance he was far from poverty-stricken. And since nobody in the shop knew any more about him or the source of his income than that he was a regular client and obviously not broke, there was no danger the girl might have heard something about him from the other girls — although she did not really look the type to mix with a bunch of hags like the others. A loner, and all the better.
He was about to follow up by taking the place of the man just rising from her table, when Armando tapped him on the arm and he felt himself being led to a chair. He seated himself, waited until the protective apron had been fastened neatly about his neck and Armando had taken scissors from the sterilizer, and then twisted his head to look at the barber.
“Who’s the new girl, Armando?”
Armando shrugged. “A replacement for just this week,” he said. “Sent from the agency. Velma has a bad cold, although she sounded all right when she called in.” He shook his head as he waited for his customer to put his head right for him to start work. “That agency should be ashamed! She’s terrible at her job, if you want the truth.”
Valadares looked over at the girl and was pleased to see that from this angle he was able to note a long extension of perfect leg, including a generous portion of thigh. He wet his lips and spoke to the barber without taking his eyes from the girl.
“What’s her name?”
Armando frowned. It was impossible to trim hair if the head refused to maintain the proper position, and if the mouth kept opening and closing. Still, Senhor Valadares was a good customer, so he tried hard to remember. At last it came to him. “Bettina,” he said.
“And her last name?”
Armando looked honestly surprised, as if it had never occurred to him that manicurists had last names at all. “I don’t know,” he said at last, half-apologetically, and then added, as if in expiation, “Velma’s been here four years, and I don’t know hers. And Maria at table two three years and I have no idea. Why?”
“I was just wondering,” Valadares said, and leaned back finally allowing Armando to get to work. “Do a good job. I have a reception at the Yacht Club tonight.”
The barber nodded, clipped for a moment, then he paused to lean closer, speaking into Joaquim’s ear. “Do you want her to give you a manicure? She’s free. Although,” he added, straightening up, “if you’ll take my advice, you’ll take one of the other girls. This Bettina is awful!”
“But beautiful,” Valadares said softly, and wet his lips as if in anticipation.
Armando shrugged and clipped a little more. “If you say so, senhor. Do you want her over here?”
“No,” Valadares said, and twisted to look at Armando over his shoulder, almost getting the scissors in his ear. “Do you mind if I ask her to go out to lunch?”
“Mind? Why should I mind? You can take her out to lunch and keep her out from now on,” Armando said sourly. “I was going to fire her today, anyway, before she drove all my customers away. She uses more iodine than nail polish!”
“Good!” Valadares said with satisfaction and leaned back, this time closing his eyes and allowing Armando to get on with the job. Against the screen of his eyelids he could picture the girl looking at him, admiring him; his fantasy took him past lunch, to dinner — in his apartment — and beyond the intimate dinner, by candle light, of course, with her decollete revealing mouth-watering delights, to the comfort of his circular bed and the mirrored walls and ceilings... It was a breath-taking vision, and he hoped it all came true. A girl like this, he added to himself, in an attempt to be practical, would easily fit into the best house in São Paulo, if not in Rio, itself.