“I’m The Man,” she said, laughing.
“What about the other half?”
“He’s going to give it to me when I—I mean, was going to give it to me—”
“Let’s agree on something. You call him and say the job’s done. Ask him to set a time and place to pay you the rest.”
“I’m running the risk of death if he learns I’m ratting him out.”
“You’re already at risk of death, immediate death right here. Besides which, I’m going to eliminate the sonofabitch, don’t worry about that. Go on, Xania, make the call.”
I stuck the pistol against the back of her neck.
“I’ll count to three. One, two—”
“Wait, wait,” said Xania, taking the cell phone from her purse.
It took a while, at least that was my impression, for the Dispatcher to answer. With my pistol in Xania’s neck I leaned my body so close to hers that I could feel her ass against my groin.
“The job’s done,” Xania said.
I heard the Dispatcher’s voice asking if I’d given her a hard time.
“Not at all. He thought I was the waitress. What now?”
“Put another bullet in his head,” I heard the Dispatcher say.
I took the Parabellum from the tray and fired. I gestured for Xania to continue the conversation.
“Done. There’s brains splattered all over the floor.”
“In an hour, come to Niraki, the Japanese restaurant,” I heard the Dispatcher say. “Know where it is?”
Goddamn, the Japanese restaurant where Olive Oyl tried to teach me how to use chopsticks. What was the Japanese name for them? For chopsticks?
Xania and I got a taxi.
“You go in first. Sit down with the Dispatcher if he’s already there. If not, wait for him. I’m only going to shoot the sonofabitch after he pays you the other half.”
The restaurant was surrounded by glass, and from the street I could see what was going on inside. It was six p.m. and beginning to get dark. The Niraki was empty. The Dispatcher hadn’t arrived yet. Xania sat down at a table.
It crossed my mind that the Dispatcher might not show up. After I’d waited for fifteen minutes that seemed like fifteen hours, he finally showed up. He arrived in a large chauffeur-driven car and went into the Niraki.
The Dispatcher sat down at Xania’s table, and after they exchanged a few words he handed her an envelope. I entered quickly and shot him twice in the head. I’ve already said that I always shoot for the head. The fucker had his back to me and never even saw me.
I looked at Xania, who looked back at me and saw what was going to happen. I felt bad and hesitated a little, but I did what had to be done. The two collapsed on top of each other.
The Dispatcher had made me kill two women, and I hate killing women. I pressed the pistol against his face and opened a large hole where his nose had been. The fucker would need to have a closed-coffin funeral.
The waiters looked at me in horror.
I left, went to the Dispatcher’s car, and knocked on the window. The driver opened the glass, and I put two bullets in him, in the head like always.
Afterward, I went to the apartment I’d just rented, shaved off my beard, threw the glasses into the trash. The Portuguese tenant was no more.
I put on a beret and went back to my old place. The Luger and the tray were still on the table. I needed to make plans for a trip, but I was tired and it could wait till the next day. I lay down and slept badly.
It was a relief when day began to dawn.
be my valentine
IF THERE’S ONE THING I CAN’T STOMACH, it’s a blackmailer. If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t have left home that Saturday for all the money in the world.
Medeiros, the lawyer, called me and said, “It’s blackmail and my client will pay.” His client was J.J. Santos, the banker.
“Mandrake,” Medeiros continued, “the matter has to be settled without leaving a trace, understand?”
“I understand, but it’s going to cost a bundle,” I said, looking at the blonde princess who was with me.
“I know, I know,” Medeiros said. And he did know; he’d been a politician, he’d been in the government, he was a retired cabinet minister, he was on top of things.
I got off to a bad start that Saturday. I woke up out of sorts, with a headache, hung over from a night of drinking. I walked around the house, listened to some Nelson Gonçalves, opened the fridge, and had a piece of cheese.
I got my car and headed for Itanhangá, where the upper crust play polo. I like to see rich people sweat. That’s where I met the blonde. She looked like a dew-covered flower, her skin healthy and clean, her eyes shining with health.
“Polo players are going to hell,” I said.
“What?” she asked.
“On the Day of Judgment the rich will get screwed,” I answered.
“A romantic socialist!” she laughed disdainfully.
That was the blonde who was in my apartment when Medeiros, the lawyer, called.
J.J. Santos, the banker from Minas Gerais, was arguing with his wife that same Saturday about whether they should go to the wedding of the daughter of one of his partners.
“I’m not going,” J.J. Santos’s wife said. “You go.” She preferred to stay home and watch television and eat cookies. Married for ten years, they were at that point where you either resign yourself and die imprisoned or send your wife packing and live free.
J.J. Santos put on a dark suit, white shirt, silver tie.
I grabbed the blonde princess and said, “Come with me.” It was Valentine’s Day.
“Did you ever read a book of poetry?” she asked me.
“Look,” I replied, “I’ve never read any kind of book, except law books.”
She laughed.
“Do you have all your teeth?” I asked.
She did have all her teeth. She opened her mouth, and I saw the two rows, upper and lower. That’s the rich for you.
We got to my apartment. I said, “What’s going to happen here, between the two of us, will be different from anything that ever happened to you before, princess.”
“Roll the preview,” she said.
When I was born they called me Paulo, my father’s name, but I became Mandrake, a person who doesn’t pray and speaks little but makes the necessary gestures. “Prepare yourself, princess, for something never before seen.”
Then the phone rang. It was Medeiros, the lawyer.
The altar was covered with flowers. The bride, escorted by her father, came slowly down the aisle of the church, to the sound of choir voices singing in harmony. The groom, as always, wore a foolish expression as he waited for the bride at the altar.
At eight o’clock J.J. Santos left the church, got into his Mercedes, and went to the home of the bride’s parents in Ipanema. The apartment was packed. J.J. Santos exchanged greetings with people, joked with the bride and groom, and left unnoticed half an hour later. He didn’t know for sure what he wanted to do. He certainly had no desire to go home and watch old dubbed movies on the color TV. He got his car and drove along Ipanema beach, in the direction of the Barra da Tijuca. He had only been living in Rio for half a year and found the city fascinating. About five hundred yards ahead, J.J. Santos saw the girl, standing on the sidewalk. Stereo music poured from his car’s speakers, and J.J. Santos was emotionally predisposed. He had never seen such a pretty girl. He had the impression that she had looked at him, but he must be mistaken; she wasn’t the type for a street hooker, like those who pick up customers in passing cars. He was to the end of Leblon when he decided to go back. Maybe the girl was still there; he wanted to see her again. The girl was there, leaning over the door of a Volkswagen—haggling over price? J.J. Santos stopped some twenty yards behind, blinking his high beams. The girl looked, saw the big Mercedes, and left the guy in the Volks talking to himself. She approached slowly, with perfect balance, knowing how to put one foot on the ground and distribute her weight along the muscles of her body as she moved.