The refinery was passed, shadowed hulks of tank trucks lined up before the illuminated pumps like a litter feeding at a sow’s belly, guzzling only to disgorge a few hours later in the early morning at some pôsto de gasolina, or some factory storage tank. Beyond, he could see the lights of the airport and the neon sign on top of the hotel. The tower was a lighted tiara hanging in the darkness, and the runways stretched between rows of flashers to disappear into the night. The roar of a jet could be heard rising to a crescendo, and even as they neared they could see the plane free itself from the ground and hurl itself over them into the sky.
A sudden thought came to Chaney and he frowned darkly. If this was a kidnaping, who had fingered him? Dorn? Not a chance — Dorn was one guy who knew his spot with the boys back at Vegas and knew he wasn’t worth anything as a hostage; or at least nothing worth while. The judge? He put the thought away. More important than who had fingered him was the bigger question — why? Anyone who knew him knew the mob wouldn’t put up a plugged dime for him, so why? Why?
It just had to be a case of mistaken identity; nothing else made sense. Unless they just took a chance that any guy wearing a three-hundred-dollar suit had to be loaded, but that didn’t make any sense, either. Brazil had to be as full of fourflushers as Vegas, and who pulled a snatch on the basis of any meatheaded reasoning like that? No. They had to have him confused with somebody else — another American, of course. Maybe one of the VIPs from one of the factories they had passed. Coca-Cola, maybe; or General Electric. Well, he thought, relaxing a bit on the uncomfortable cab seat, he’d find out soon enough. He just hoped they had something decent to drink where they were taking him. He could use it after a day like this one!
Beyond the airport they came to a large arch to one side of the road, covering the entrance to another road, this one unpaved, leading apparently to some estate or other. The driver slowed enough to take the turn into the smaller road without undue strain on the cab, cutting beneath the arch, speeding up as soon as they were past. The road wound through darkness, bumpy and badly banked, with tall stands of trees on either side cutting off visibility; and then they were through the small woods and onto a type of plain, with faint lights in the distance, indicating a settlement of sorts. The lights grew brighter as they neared, outlining a large ranch, its independent buildings more evident the closer they got. The main building was now clearly discernible. Well, Chaney thought with some satisfaction, not bad! It didn’t look like he was going to suffer overly during his incarceration. Anyway, it had to be better than some of the slop joints he’d stayed in on his way up from Chicago’s slums; and also, he thought, you don’t run a spread like this without plenty of help, a lot of it female, and at least one of the girls ought to look halfway decent and be open to a simple business proposition. He smiled at the thought, and congratulated himself on his cool, his ability to make the best of the situation — until, of course, he was free to dig these clowns up and teach them not to horse around with George Chaney. He leaned back, savoring the pleasant thought of his eventual revenge, and then was suddenly thrown forward.
The driver had inexplicably braked. He leaned forward and cut the ignition. Chaney straightened up, suddenly wary, frowning. In the silence, the sounds of the night and the country came clearly, blending with music he could now hear coming faintly from the main house; there were the soft cries of invisible birds, the whisper of water tumbling over rocks in a nearby creek, the sudden scurry of some small animal, startled by their invasion. It was all very idyllic and suddenly very chillingly frightening.
The man beside Chaney sat still while the driver reached beneath the dashboard of the taxi and extracted a gun. He checked it under the dash lights and climbed out, coming to open the rear door on Chaney’s side. He stood behind it and, with a small wave of the muzzle, invited Chaney to get out. The gun in Chaney’s ribs repeated the invitation with a sharp prod.
“Outside,” said the man beside him.
Chaney swung around, scowling. “What the hell is this?”
“Outside.” This time it was more a jab than a prod and came close to being painful. There was a definite finality about it.
Chaney stumbled through the open door and straightened up. In the near distance the lights from the fazenda beckoned welcomingly; the music, gay and lilting, promised far more pleasant distractions than the two men facing him. Beyond the lights from the house, the reflection of the refinery against the low hanging clouds could be seen. For a moment Chaney considered making a break for it, but he knew this would be suicidal. He didn’t know the terrain, and the lights from the car were blinding him. Anyway, you didn’t get amateurs excited or present them with a situation which didn’t leave them an out. You talked to them. In a language, of course, that they could understand.
The man who had been sitting next to Chaney had stepped from the car and was standing a safe distance from him, watching him with an expressionless face, as if trying to read his mind. Chaney swung around to face him, suddenly sure this was all a mistake, and equally sure of the proper approach to resolve it.
“Look,” he said calmly, reasonably, “you guys pulled a bull, that’s all. I don’t know who you think you grabbed, but you grabbed the wrong guy, is all. It’s happened before; it’ll happen again. My name is Chaney; I don’t work for any big company and nobody would give a dime for me. But what the hell, I’m not broke. Make a decent price and we’ll deal. I want to get out of here.”
“There’s no mistake,” the man said quietly.
“Look,” Chaney said, getting a bit irritated with this thickheadedness. “You’re telling me somebody gave you guys a contract on me? I don’t believe it. There’s no reason.”
“Get over in front of the headlights,” the man said.
Chaney moved over without really being aware of it, for now he was angry.
“Okay,” he said. “If somebody gave you clowns a contract on me, tell me the tab and I’ll double it. With the names thrown in, of course. But if it’s a snatch on your own, you’re wasting your time. You think sending my monogrammed tie, or even my ear, is going to get any one of the boys in Vegas to shell out one red cent, you’ve got the wrong gang. They couldn’t care less. But me, I’ve got some dough. Me, personally. And I know when the other guy has the best hand. I’ll pay off. How much were you guys going to ask for me?”
The man he was facing suddenly snaked an arm from his sleeve, exposing a wrist watch. He glanced at it in the reflected light from the headlights of the car. “If you know how,” he said evenly in his accented English, “you have just one minute to say your prayers.”
Chaney stared. A cold hand seemed to squeeze his chest. These crazy clowns were crazy! Insane! It suddenly occurred to him there was a good chance he was going to get killed. Him!
“I tell you, you guys got the wrong man,” he said hoarsely. It seemed to him he was a mere spectator at the affair; he seemed to be standing to one side listening to some stranger plead for his life in a voice he didn’t recognize. “You’ve made a mistake. My name is Chaney, George Chaney. I can prove it. Look in my billfold. I’m from the States. I’m a U.S. citizen. I live in Rio, at the Beira Mar Hotel, room 1205. It’s the truth. I’m no tourist. They’ll tell you at the hotel. I don’t work for any big company. My name is Chaney, George Chaney. I’ve got lots of dough in my safety-deposit box in Rio. I’ll pay you guys what you want. But I’m the only one can get into the box. You shoot me and you don’t get a dime. Nobody else will give you a dime. And nobody else can get into my box. You’ve made a mistake. I don’t know who you think you’ve got, but my name is Chaney, George Chaney. Look in my billfold. I’m a U.S. citizen. I’m no tourist. I live here permanently. I only came to this town—”