“—but let’s just go after him for running the dock racket in Santos,” Da Silva finished, paying no attention to Wilson. “You can stress the amount of pilferage that goes on, on the docks, in your article; it all eventually comes out of the pockets of the Brazilian people—”
“And,” Wilson added, cutting in, “it makes a nice sum which should be attractive to anyone who might want to take it away from this José Maria Carvalho.”
“Forget that part,” Da Silva said, and frowned disapprovingly at Wilson. “Just stick to the fact that this Carvalho is a thief on a very major scale.”
“Odd,” Rangel said, not smiling. “I was under the impression that the Santos docks were one of the most competently policed docks in the world. From what information we have at the paper, I would have said that stealing on any major scale there was next to impossible.”
“Ah!” Da Silva raised a finger dramatically. Wilson was relieved to see that at least his friend refrained from tapping his nose with the finger; in a histrionic mood there were few limits to Da Silva’s capabilities. “You see? That impression is just because you don’t know! Everyone believes there’s no stealing on the Santos docks. That’s precisely why this Carvalho gets away with it. And anyway,” he added, relaxing a bit and brushing ash from his cigarette, “if everyone knew all about the stealing, it would scarcely be news when you exposed it, would it?”
“True,” Rangel said, and allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. If it was a game, he was fully prepared to join in; he was sure he would be given the rules if it became necessary. Still, normal precautions were in order. “You understand, of course, Zé, that a newspaper has to be very careful of libel suits—”
“No problem, I assure you. I guarantee. Besides, I expect you to allege, suggest, quote certain-private-sources, and so forth. This isn’t your first expose, for heaven’s sakes.”
“Besides,” Wilson added, “this Carvalho is basically a coward. Confront him with the truth and the chances are he’ll flee—” he paused, thinking, “to Paraíso?”
Da Silva frowned, considering it. “Maybe. I suppose it’s a possibility. I’m not sure.” He thought about it a bit longer and then shook his head. “No, probably not. Not without a good and logical reason. Damn! We keep coming back to that same damn question! Why Paraíso?”
Rangel had been listening to this exchange with a frown that grew more puzzled by the moment. He could understand his old friend’s desire to be labeled a thief — under a pseudonym — because it was obviously a trap of some sort; what he could not understand were all the side references.
“What’s Paraíso?”
“Nothing. Forget it,” Da Silva said, and dropped the matter. He looked across the room, remembering his duties as a host. “Can I refresh your drink?”
“No, thanks.” Rangel stared at Da Silva. “Zé, are you really serious about this?”
Da Silva stared back. “Do you think I dragged you down here at this hour of the night to play games? Of course I’m serious. And I want this story spread all over the country, not just in your one paper, and not just in Rio. You’ve got the contacts in radio and television; you know people in the wire services. Get them to push the story if only as a favor to you. I want it spread around, and fast!”
Rangel shrugged. “If we print it, it’ll be picked up by everyone; papers, magazines, and the media as well. After all, we are the Correio de Manha.” He dug into an inner pocket, bringing out a notebook and a thin gold pencil. Unlike Perreira’s rubberband-restrained wad of paper, this notebook was bound in fine leather and the corners were delicately decorated with gold. The newspaperman turned the pencil carefully, and then examined the extended lead much in the manner of a physician checking a hypodermic needle. Satisfied that his instruments were ready for the operation, Rangel looked up. “First of all, the description of the man.”
“Of course. In fact, that’s most important. Well,” Da Silva said, as if he had been thinking about it, “he’s about my height and weight. In fact, he looks like me. Handsome—”
Wilson snorted.
“Handsome, I said,” Da Silva went on, not at all perturbed by Wilson’s uncouth sound, “around six feet tall, maybe one-ninety in weight; generally a fine figure of a man—”
“Who wears his hair short, plastered down with grease,” Wilson added.
Da Silva stared. “What?”
“And who is clean shaven,” Wilson went on implacable. “No mustache.”
“What!”
“Short hair and no mustache,” Wilson repeated firmly. “We wouldn’t want him to look too much like another person whose vanity has allowed him to get his picture into the media as often as he could. A mistake in identity could waste us valuable time.” He thought a moment while the distasteful idea sank into the captain’s head. “He might also sport a distinctive scar on his face,” Wilson added helpfully. “Something genuine, I would think. Which I’d be only too happy to arrange, if desired.”
“No mustache...” Da Silva sighed musingly. “I suppose it makes sense, and a different hair style isn’t a bad idea. But I honestly can’t see him as the type to put grease in his hair. Or ever get into enough trouble — he couldn’t handle — where a scar might result. He strikes me as being more the dark-glasses type. A sort of Tarcísio Meira. Suave, you know, but reserved, as befits a man who shuns the limelight.”
Wilson looked at Da Silva with a grin. Rangel, taking notes, paused and looked up. “Which will it be? Scar or no scar? Grease or no grease?”
“No grease; no scar.”
Rangel noted it. “And where does he live?”
Da Silva looked surprised. “Santos, of course.”
Rangel frowned. “And nobody has ever seen him there? Doesn’t that seem a bit farfetched?”
“No. He—”
“Yes,” Wilson said positively. “It sounds preposterous. Where he lives is São Paulo, where you could hide an army. When he has to go to Santos he drives down and back the same day — it’s only an hour’s run. Still,” he added, “we don’t want him never to be around Santos. Make him the retiring type; but your intrepid reporters have been able to get telephoto shots of him in various places around Santos. Shots,” he added slowly, “that lack enough clarity to allow a reader to identify the man at close range.”
Da Silva nodded, pleased with the idea.
“You can get pictures of him coming out of one of those bars down by the Praça Guilherme Bacia, looking as if he’d just concluded a deal to steal one of the Moore-Mac ships; or at the docks themselves, speaking with a crude type — Wilson can play that role — or in a relaxed mood, taking a drink in the garden at the Parque Balneário.”
“With an American confederate,” Wilson added.
Da Silva shook his head. “No American confederate.”
“Why no American confederate?” Wilson sounded irked.
“Because we don’t want to scare them off by looking like a gang.”
Rangel had been waiting, a trifle bored. “American confederate or no?”
“No,” Da Silva said, his tone closing the matter. “Now, what about an address in São Paulo?”
“We ought to be a bit subtle,” Wilson said. He still wasn’t happy at not being the American confederate, but he was willing to let it go for the time being and give his all to their efforts. “Let them do a little work in getting the address, or the phone number.” He looked at Rangel. “You have any place we could put up in São Paulo? Your newspaper, I mean?”
“We maintain an apartment, yes.” Rangel thought about it a moment and brightened. “It would be a good place, actually. There are often different people staying there, so the neighbors have long since stopped paying attention to anyone they see in the hallway.”