“Wait a second,” he said slowly. “I know this filho. He’s cute.” Bernardo stared at Emil, frowning. Normally this diversion of attention might have given Da Silva a chance, but the gun in the driver’s hand was unwavering. “Cute,” Emil repeated. “I saw him pin one of our gang to the back of a chair, once, with a knife he had up his sleeve. Chico made a bad move and the next minute — zoom!” He smiled grimly at the memory.
Bernardo didn’t require directions printed on the package. The hand with the gun was jammed forward, bringing an involuntary grunt from the captain; Bernardo’s other hand pinched at the sleeves of Da Silva’s jacket, one by one. The knife was released from the spring sheath and tossed into the front seat.
“Keep the bastard covered while I give him another going over,” Bernardo said, and ran his hands down Da Silva’s leg. The ankle gun was located and withdrawn; Bernardo shoved it into his pocket and continued his search until he sat back at last, satisfied.
“I told you,” Emil said triumphantly; he sounded proud of Da Silva for having proven him right. “He’s cute. Goes around like Tenório in the old days. A walking arsenal. Cute.”
Bernardo grunted. “He may be cute, but his baby teeth have just been pulled.” Emil thought this funny, but Bernardo didn’t even smile at his own mot. He looked at his frozen-faced prisoner and spoke to the driver without taking his eyes from Da Silva’s face.
“Let’s go.”
“Right,” Emil said. He flipped off the overhead light and put the car into gear. They moved from the curb, cutting to the center of the road. Emil spoke over his shoulder as he drove.
“Hey, Da Silva! What were you figuring on? Catching me and Bernardo asleep? You know what, Da Silva? You’re a dreamer. Nobody catches Bernardo asleep. You know how many guys Bernardo has knocked off—?”
“Shut up,” Bernardo said.
“Right,” Emil said happily, and turned back to the wheel.
Da Silva stared through the windshield over Emil’s shoulder; the traffic was non-existent at this hour of the night, and the rare buildings on either side of the roadway were silent and darkened. His face was impassive, but there was a sour taste in his throat and his stomach felt unusually uncomfortable. What idiotic notion made him think they wouldn’t find his extra weapons? Although, to be honest, if that Emil hadn’t been along and hadn’t recognized him, he would almost certainly have been able to get away with it. Or it was nice to think it, anyway. What he should have done was conceal a ray gun in his socks; Buck Rogers would never have been caught like this.
He shook his head, trying to put aside ridiculousness. This is serious, he told himself. This is for real. Now, after all the cases, after all the women, after all the brandy, this was the way it was going to end. What a stupidity! Well, you always knew you wouldn’t die in bed — or, anyway, not of pneumonia — but you never thought it would be on a lonely road in a town you didn’t know, a thousand miles from Rio. He tried to picture the execution and wished he had questioned Isabela more so he could get the details straight. That’s not going to be an actor falling down, he told himself; that’s not going to be a stranger dying — it’s going to be you. And that won’t be ketchup, that’s going to be blood; your blood. He felt an almost uncontrollable desire to giggle and bit it back, gripping his lip with his teeth and biting it painfully. No hysterics, whatever, by God! But somehow he knew he wouldn’t die hysterically, anymore than he would die particularly bravely. He would simply die stupidly, which is the way he deserved to die. What a mockery! No more women, no more brandy, no more sunshine on the beach. Hard to believe, but true. Believe it. What a Goddamned dumb way to get killed! And dying without even knowing exactly why he was dying...!
He spoke without being fully conscious that he was speaking.
“Why?”
“Why, what?” It was Emil. Bernardo had made no indication that he had even heard the question.
“Why? If you’re going to kill me, at least tell me why. Why all these killings? Why Paraíso? Why the people selected to be killed? Who’s paying for this? What purpose is being served? Why—?”
“You’ve been reading too many detective stories,” Bernardo said dryly. He shrugged. “Why you? Why not you?”
“Yeah,” Emil said from the front seat happily, “why not you? Who’s going to miss you, Da Silva?”
Isabela will, Da Silva suddenly wanted to say, and Wilson and Perreira and Ruy and Dona Dolores and Maria, the maid at his apartment he’d never see again, and a hundred girls and his red Jaguar would miss him, and the porter in the building — although probably not until Christmas — and Mario at his restaurant would miss him, and the waitress at the Villarino Bar — what was her name? The one with the lovely legs...
Or was it just that he would miss them? Remember Sergeant Pires, Roberto Pires, with his quick laugh and his sleek hair? He was killed in a crash chasing some hopped-up kids on his motorcycle on the Avenida Brasil, and they braked in front of him purposely and the pavement was wet and Pires skidded into a telephone pole and crushed his skull. How long ago was that? Six months? Eight months? And I don’t even remember how long ago it was, he thought, and this is undoubtedly the first time I’ve even thought of Pires since his funeral. And we were supposed to be friends. Well, that was probably as much time as anyone would remember him, if that long. People forgot. There were too many problems involved in just living, to allow much time for worrying about the dead, or even the dying. It was sad...
He became aware that the car was bumping roughly and realized they had left the main road and were rocking slowly over a rutted dirt road. To his left, moonlight glinted on the ruffled surface of water; that must be the lake they had referred to. This was the place. This was where it all ended. Had he really wanted to giggle a few minutes ago? Not now; not now! In a few minutes he would be dead. Should he make a final break for it when the car door was opened? Take at least one of them by surprise, hurt him at least, before they gunned him down? Grab one and use him as a shield? To his surprise he found that the idea was not appealing. Suddenly he felt too lethargic to even try to save his life. Let them shoot and get it over, and to hell with the bastards. At least it would eliminate that sickening cold feeling he had been trying to deny gripped his stomach. They didn’t even have to give him the minute for prayer. It had been years since he had prayed, and anyway, what would he use the minute to pray to? He thought, they say there are no atheists in foxholes, but it really was surprising, if true. To face death and know it to be unreasoning, to know that the wrong people were being killed, was scarcely a situation to inspire faith.
The car jolted to a sudden stop, interrupting his mental meandering. The ignition was turned off, leaving silence. He shuddered.
“This is the place,” Emil said. He sounded like a real estate dealer about to show a property to a prospective client. He climbed down, took his gun from his pocket, and stood back, waiting.
“Out,” Bernardo said harshly, and prodded. Why not? Da Silva thought, and fumbled at the door handle, turning it, stepping down. The ground seemed to be remarkably distant; his foot found it and pressed it for support. He took a wavering step and then stood still, like a subject awaiting a photographer’s direction before assuming a final pose. I supposed your life flashed before you, he thought; but all he could think of was that it was cold, and that he couldn’t think of anything else in particular. What was he supposed to do? What would be normal? Run? Yell? Scream? He didn’t want to be different than the others. Beg? Not that begging was beneath his dignity; it was past his strength. He took a deep breath and stared into the night, the lights of the car illuminating the road for a brief distance, and outlining the anticipatory smile on Emil’s thin face.