She stuck her head in the door and said, “Hello.” Her face was very young, but there was greater maturity in her voice.
“Hello,” J.J. Santos replied, looking around in fear someone had seen him stopping there. “Get in.”
The girl got in and J.J. Santos put the car in motion.
“How old are you?” asked J.J. Santos.
“Sixteen,” replied the girl.
“Sixteen!” said J.J. Santos.
“What of it, you fool? If I don’t go with you, I’ll go with somebody else.”
“What’s your name?” asked J.J. Santos, his conscience relieved.
“Viveca.”
In another part of the city, where I was:
“My name is Maria Amelia. Don’t call me princess. How ridiculous!” the blonde complained.
“Bullshit,” I answered.
“You’re vulgar, gross, and ignorant.”
“Right. Want out?”
“What does that mean?”
“You want to beat it? Beat it.”
“Can’t you even talk?”
“Right again.”
“You’re an idiot!” the blonde laughed noisily, amused, all her teeth shining.
I laughed too. We were both interested in each other. I go crazy over rich women.
“Just what is your name anyway? Paulo, Mandrake, Picasso?”
“That’s not the question,” I replied. “You have to ask me, just who are you anyway?”
“Just who are you anyway?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Paranoia has filtered down to Class C,” the blonde said.
J.J. Santos knew the Barra was full of hotels. He had never been to any of them but had heard the stories. He headed for the most famous one.
He chose the Presidential Suite.
The Presidential Suite had its own pool, color television, radio, and dining room, and the bedroom abounded with chandeliers and was lined with mirrors.
J.J. Santos was excited.
“Do you want anything?” he asked the girl.
“A soft drink,” she answered modestly.
The waiter brought a soft drink and Chivas Regal.
J.J. Santos took a sip, removed his coat, and said, “I’m going to the bathroom, make yourself comfortable.”
When he came out of the bathroom, the girl was naked, lying on the bed, on her stomach. J.J. Santos took off his clothes and lay down beside her, caressing her as he watched himself in the mirrors. Then the girl rolled over on her back, a smile on her lips.
It wasn’t a girl. It was a man, his penis reflected, menacingly rigid, in the countless mirrors.
J.J. Santos leaped from the bed.
Viveca returned to her prone position. Turning her head, she stared at J.J. and asked sweetly, “Don’t you want me?”
“You goddam pe—pervert,” said J.J. He grabbed his clothes and ran to the bathroom, where he quickly dressed.
“You don’t want me?” said Viveca, still in the same position, when J.J. Santos returned to the room. Distressed, J.J. Santos put on his coat and took out his wallet. He always carried a lot of money in his wallet. That day he had two thousand in bills of five hundred. People from Minas are like that. His papers were in the wallet. The money was gone.
“On top of everything else you stole my money!”
“What? What? Are you calling me a thief? I’m no thief!” Viveca screamed, getting up from the bed. Suddenly a razor blade appeared in her hand. “Calling me a thief!” With a rapid gesture Viveca made the first cut in her arm and a thread of blood welled on her skin.
J.J., dismayed, made a gesture of disgust and fear.
“Yes, I’m a faggot, I’m a FAAAAG-GOT!” Viveca’s scream seemed capable of shattering every chandelier and mirror.
“Don’t do that,” J.J. begged, terrified.
“You knew what I was, you brought me here knowing everything, and now you scorn me as if I were trash,” Viveca sobbed, as she gave her arm another cut with the razor.
“I didn’t know anything; you look like a girl, with that makeup and wearing that wig.”
“This isn’t a wig, it’s my own hair. See how you treat me?” Another slash on the arm, by now covered with blood.
“Stop that!” J.J. requested.
“I won’t stop! I won’t stop! I won’t stop! You called me a thief, thief, thief! I may be poor but I’m honest. You have money and think everybody else is trash! I always wanted to die and destroy a big shot, like in the film Black Widow. Did you see Black Widow?” Viveca asked, resting the razor blade against her throat, over the carotid, which was standing out from the force of her screams.
“Forgive me,” J.J. asked.
“It’s too late now,” said Viveca.
In the meantime I was arriving at my apartment with the high-toned blonde. She sat in the easy chair; that aura was building between us, two responsible people calmly exchanging significant glances.
“Roll the preview,” she said.
“Prepare yourself, princess, for something never before seen.”
At that instant Medeiros, the lawyer, called.
“My client, J.J. Santos, picked up a woman in the street, took her to a hotel, and when they got there he discovered it was a transvestite. The transvestite stole two thousand from my client. They had an argument, and the transvestite, armed with a razor blade, threatened to commit suicide unless he got ten thousand in cash. My client asked me for the money, which I have here with me now. We want to pay the money and put an end to the whole affair. You’re experienced in police matters, and we’d like you to take charge of the thing. No police; we’ll pay the money and want everything buried. The matter has to be covered up without a trace, understand?”
“I understand, but it’s going to cost a bundle,” I said, looking at the blonde princess beside me.
“I know, I know,” said Medeiros, “money’s no problem.”
J.J. and Viveca were inside the Mercedes, parked at the beach.
J.J. was at the wheel, as pale as a corpse. Beside him, Viveca was holding the razor blade next to her throat. She really did look like a young woman. I pulled my old wreck up beside the huge Mercedes.
“I work with Mr. Medeiros,” I said.
“Did you bring the money?” Viveca asked, brusquely.
“It was hard to arrange, today’s Saturday,” I alibied, humbly. “We’re going to get it now.”
I opened the door and pulled J.J. out.
I got in and tore off, with the door still open, leaving the dumbfounded J.J. on the sidewalk.
“Is it far? Where’s the money?” asked Viveca.
“It’s nearby,” I said, driving at high speed.
“I want my money right now, otherwise I’ll do something crazy!” Viveca screamed, cutting herself on the arm. The gesture was abrupt and violent, but the blade touched lightly on her skin, just enough to draw blood and scare the suckers.
“For God’s sake don’t do that!”
“I’ll do something crazy!” Viveca threatened.
He must not have known Rio very well, or else he didn’t know where the police stations were located. At the door of the Leblon precinct two cops were talking. I braked the car, almost on top of them, and jumped out, yelling, “Look out! The transvestite’s got a razor blade!”
Viveca leaped from the car. The situation was truly confusing for him. One of the cops approached and Viveca lashed out, cutting his hand. The cop retreated a step, pulled a .45 from his belt, and said, “Drop that piece of shit unless you wanna die right now.” Viveca hesitated. The other cop, who had approached him, gave Viveca a kick in the stomach. Viveca fell to the ground.
We all went into the precinct headquarters. There were four or five cops around us.