Dying Gasp (11 page)

And, if God couldn’t help, you had only to climb a flight of stairs where you could visit a fortune teller, a homeopathic physician, or a lawyer. The remaining floors in the building were given over to apartments, four opening off each landing. Queiroz’s place was listed as 3C, but the name next to the bell said Cintra. The girl who answered the door wore a red dress with a neckline that plunged to her navel and a hem that ended just below her crotch. She didn’t look to be more than twenty, but it was a hard-lived twenty. The smile on her face faded when Hector asked about Carlos Queiroz and disappeared completely when he made it clear he had no interest in her services.

“Abilio,” she said, raising her voice just a little.

A door opened somewhere behind her. Seconds later a mean-looking guy with a single earring pushed her aside and intruded himself into the doorway.

“What do you want?”

“I just told your girlfriend. I’m looking for Carlos Queiroz.” “Never heard of him,” the guy with the earring said. He started to close the door, but Hector inserted his foot.

“What the hell. . . ?” the guy said, blustering.

Hector waved his credentials in the guy’s face. “Let’s start all over again,” he said. “This is who I am. Who are you?”

“I don’t want any trouble,” the guy said, backing down.

“Me neither. Answer the question.”

“Abilio.”

“Abilio who?”

The guy paused for a moment then said, “Sarmento.”

Hector figured it was probably true. He also figured it wasn’t a name that Abilio normally answered to. Most people in Abilio’s business didn’t use their real names, hence the “Cintra” on the mailbox.

“Prove it,” Hector said.

Abilio nodded as if he’d expected that and stepped back from the door. “You can come in,” he said, as if he had a choice.

Like most places in Manaus, the place stank of fish. And it was hot, hotter even than down on the street. A sweat-stained couch, a folding aluminum table, and a TV set were the only furniture in the living room.

Abilio was wearing a pair of faded bathing trunks, plastic sandals, and nothing else. The sandals made little flopping sounds as Hector followed him down the hallway into the kitchen. The girl, barefoot, sloped along behind them. A pair of men’s trousers had been tossed in a heap in the corner. Abilio bent over to retrieve them. As he rose a wallet fell out of one of the pockets.

The sink was piled high with dirty dishes, the stove with unwashed pots. Another girl, who could have been a younger sister of the first, was squatting on the floor, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. She looked at Hector, then down at her bare toes, her brow furrowing as she tapped ash on the floor.

She’s not just using marijuana
, Hector thought.
She’s on
something stronger. Crack, or maybe heroin.

Abilio rifled the contents of the wallet and came up with a dog-eared identity card. He handed it to Hector.

Abilio Sarmento, aged twenty-four, looked ten years older.

“Who else lives here?” Hector said.

Abilio said nobody did, said they’d been renting the apartment for the last three months, and that hell, yes, the girls were over eighteen.

Again, Hector told him to prove it.

Abilio left the kitchen and returned with both girls’ identity cards. Like him, they were named Sarmento: Aparecida Maria and Maria Aparecida, nineteen and eighteen years old respectively.

“My sisters,” Abilio said, before Hector could ask.

“Your parents didn’t have much imagination, did they?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Anyone got a record?”

All three of them did: the young women for lewd conduct, Abilio for stealing a car and possession of cocaine. He’d pleaded guilty, done thirteen months, and claimed he’d been clean ever since.

None of them knew Carlos Queiroz. Aparecida Maria, the sister who wasn’t stoned, said the building superintendent probably did. He lived down in 2D.

Hector told Abilio to show him around the apartment.

There were two bedrooms and three mattresses, two in one bedroom, one in the other. Clothes and personal effects overflowed cardboard boxes being used in lieu of furniture.

In the bathroom, shampoos, conditioners, and lotions surrounded the bathtub. Creams and cheap perfumes crowded the glass shelf above the sink. There was no shower curtain. The floor was wet from someone’s recent bath. Nothing suggested that anyone else lived in the apartment.

Hector said he was going down to talk to the building superintendent, but he might be back.

Abilio didn’t seem overjoyed by the prospect.

T
HE SUPERINTENDENT was a full-blooded Indian, not an unusual situation in a city where there were more natives than on any single reservation. From the way he spoke Portuguese, Hector figured he’d been educated by missionaries in his youth. That youth was gone, but he didn’t have a single gray hair. He could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy, and was dressed in a clean blue shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. His living room was well furnished and a good deal cleaner than the one occupied by the Sarmentos.

“Carlos Queiroz?” he said. “Yes, I remember him. Good riddance.”

“How long ago did he move out?” Hector asked.

“I’m not sure.”

Hector frowned.

The Indian shook his head.

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” he said.

“What am I thinking?”

“That I don’t want to help. You’re wrong. I’m happy to help, but we have a high turnover. It’s easy to lose track.”

“I don’t need a specific date, just an approximation.”

The Indian pulled his lower lip. “Look,” he said, “it’s this way: I collect the rent. It’s due on Mondays. I go from door to door, pick up the cash, and take it down to the bank, where I deposit it in Senhor Aquino’s account. Senhor Aquino owns the building, but he only drops by about once a year.”

“So?”

“So on a Monday, about nine weeks ago—or it could have been eight or ten—I knocked on Queiroz’s door, expecting to collect, as usual. He didn’t answer, which I thought was funny, because it was about eleven A.M., which is the time he usually got up. I went back the next day and the next. I tried him in the early morning. I tried him late at night. It was always the same. For the whole two weeks he never answered, and I never saw him again.”

“Two weeks? Why two weeks?”

“When they move in, everyone pays three weeks in advance. Two of those weeks are the security deposit. Tenants are supposed to pay every Monday after that.”

“For an additional week, in advance?”

“Exactly.”

“So, when he missed his payment, Queiroz had a right to stay for an additional two weeks?”

“Either that, or give us notice, tell us he’s moving out. Somebody does that, we return what’s left of their deposit.” “But Queiroz never did?”

“Give us notice? Never.”

“Okay. And when the two weeks were up?”

“I did what I always do. Used my passkey. He’d left dishes in the sink. There were cockroaches all over the place. Big as
that,
” he said, showing how big
that
was by distancing the tips of his thumb and forefinger.

“Queiroz left a light on,” the superintendant continued, “as if he’d gone out at night and never come back. Very inconsiderate of him. Electricity is included in the rent, but Senhor Aquino doesn’t count on people leaving lights on twenty-four hours a day. Queiroz’s sweaty and dirty sheets were still on the bed. I didn’t even want to touch them. The man lived like a pig.”

“What else did you find in there?”

“His clothes. Everything I ever saw him wear. Some furniture, not much. Just a mattress, a kitchen table, a couple of chairs, and an old sofa.”

“What did you do?”

“Left the furniture. Put a sign in the window. It didn’t take long to find another tenant. These places are cheap, and they’re close to the center of town.”

“What about his personal effects?”

“I put them in boxes and stored them down in the basement. This Queiroz, he’s . . .”

“He’s what?”

“Well, for want of a better word, mean. Mean and a bully. I didn’t want him coming back here and getting mad because I threw his stuff away.”

“Can I have a look in those boxes?”

“Sure.”

The boxes were of no help. Clothes, some condoms, a few pornographic magazines, toiletries, two bottles of cachaça, one of them full. There was nothing that gave Hector an insight into Carlos Queiroz or suggested where he might have gone.

“What do you think?” the Indian asked, gesturing toward the little pile of boxes. “Do I have to keep holding on to this stuff?”

“I wouldn’t bother if I were you,” Hector said. “I can pretty much assure you Senhor Queiroz won’t be coming back.”

“NESTOR PORTO lived with his mother and grandparents,” Silva said.

“And wouldn’t hurt a fly, sang in the church choir, and helped little old ladies cross the street,” Arnaldo said.

The three federal cops were back at the Hotel Tropical, having a drink at the bar.

“Not quite,” Silva said. “The grandfather seems like a hard-working guy, an electrician. Nestor was born when his mother was fifteen. Nestor’s father took off when he found out she was pregnant. Nobody’s seen him since. The grandmother was supposed to be taking care of Nestor while his mother finished school, but the grandmother contracted lung cancer and died within a year. The kid got into a bad crowd, dropped out of school, started using drugs, built up a habit, got caught robbing a house.”

“Same old, same old,” Arnaldo said.

“They put him away for fourteen months. Third day he was back, he smashed all the dishes in the house and beat the shit out of his grandfather.”

“The grandfather file a complaint?”

“No. Nestor apologized, said he was on crack, swore he’d never do it again. After that, they pretty much left him alone, never knowing what might set him off. He started going out at night, coming back at all hours, sometimes not coming back for two or three days. Then he was arrested again. Armed robbery. He got five years, three of which he served with the big boys.”

“I remember reading that part on his rap sheet,” Arnaldo said. “The three years, I mean. They must have wiped the juvenile charges.”

“Now, here’s the thing,” Silva said. “Last November, about two months after he got sprung for the second time, he joined his mother and grandfather for breakfast. They were surprised to see him at that hour of the morning. Normally, he didn’t climb out of bed before noon. They asked him what he was doing at the breakfast table. He told them to mind their own business. When he left, he said he’d be home for dinner, but he never came back.”

“So he disappeared,” Hector said, “just like Carlos Queiroz.” “Indeed,” Silva said. “Just like Carlos Queiroz.”

Chapter Seventeen

E
ARLY ON, BEFORE SHE started testing prospects, Claudia had a disagreeable experience. A guy by the name of Pedro Soares told her that if she paid him enough he’d let her photograph him fucking anything on two legs and several things on four. But when it came time for him to perform, he’d proven to be a disappointment. The female lead was deft with both her mouth and her fingers, but her ministrations hadn’t helped a bit. She couldn’t tease an erection out of him. By that time, though, Pedro already knew too much to be allowed to live. Claudia sent him out on the river with Hans and Otto and sent the still unsuspecting girl back to her room.

A second mishap had been worse. The sex part went off without a hitch, but when it came to the snuff the subject balked.

“I’m not gonna do it,” he said. “And I’m not gonna let you guys hurt her.”

He was a big man, bigger than Otto, and accustomed to getting his way. He was already out of the bed and halfway toward Otto when Hans shot him,
pam
,
pam
,
pam
, three times in the chest, then, when he was down,
pam
, once more in the head. By then, of course, the cat was out of the bag. The girl knew what was going to happen to her, and she was already screaming. Claudia had to tell Hans to put a bullet in her head.

The camera captured it all, but Arie Schubski refused to distribute it. He said his customers didn’t want quick kills with anonymous bullets coming in from out of frame. They wanted to savor the act. They wanted to see life slowly being forced out of a woman by a man who’d just had sex with her, not a quick execution carried out by an anonymous perpetrator.

So Claudia had been out the cost of the girl, a set of satin sheets and the time and effort that it took to clean things up. From then on, she preselected people who’d already proven their contempt for human life. That’s where Chief Pinto came in. For a price, he helped her with recruitment. Sometimes the people he proposed were freelance pistoleiros like Carlos Queiroz and Nestor Porto. Other times, the chief might suggest a full-time employee of one of the great landowners. Every large ranch had a few such men. Their job was to keep the other employees in line, making sure they didn’t start bitching about the pittance they earned, making sure they didn’t run off and, when they did, making sure they came back, alive if possible, dead when it became necessary to set an example.

The man Hans shot had been one of those, a fellow who’d probably killed a dozen people in his lifetime, but who’d inexplicably shied away from strangling a used-up whore. His action demonstrated to Claudia that she could never be absolutely certain how a man might comport himself at the critical moment, so she made every attempt to make the pre-selection as rigid as possible.

First, a candidate had to demonstrate that he was capable of getting an erection while in the presence of a bank of lights, a woman with a camera, and two other men. The way Claudia did it was to tell their prospective recruit that she had a paying customer, a European in Manaus on holiday, who liked to watch the recording of live sex, and who was willing to pay for the privilege.

If the recruit was interested, his next question was usually, “How much?”

Claudia made sure her answer always exceeded his expectations.

The deal struck, the prospect would soon find himself on a bed with one of The Goat’s girls, surrounded by Hans playing the European, Otto playing Claudia’s assistant, and Claudia herself operating the camera. The lights would be switched on and the couple would be told to begin.

Claudia hardly ever bothered to roll the camera during her so-called screen tests. She wasn’t in the business of making simple pornos. And she never did the test and the shoot on the same day because she could never be sure of the man’s ability to turn in a repeat performance.

Test or shoot, it didn’t matter, she always had the whore service Hans and Otto first, so they’d be sated and keep their minds on business. That, however, required a willing female. It wasn’t going to work with a fifteen-year-old recalcitrant virgin. And there was another good reason for not carrying out the screen test with Marta herself: when the protagonist discovered he was in for a fight he might refuse to get near her the second time around.

She resolved both problems by arranging to rent a whore from The Goat. The whore would service Hans and Otto, then apply herself to the “talent.” On the day of the shoot, she’d rent another whore, or maybe the same one all over again. She’d be for Hans’s and Otto’s use, to be returned prior to rolling the camera. Marta would be kept for the killer. The rentals would add to expenses, but not by much. The Goat’s girls were among the most expensive in the city, but Manaus was Manaus. She could get two of them for the price of a decent bottle of wine.

C
HIEF
P
INTO came through, as he always did. Forty-eight hours later, Claudia was conducting the test.

The room smelled of sweat and testosterone. Little motes of dust had been kicked up by all the lunging and plunging on the mattress, and they danced in the glare of the lights. The candidate, a certain Delfin Figueiredo, gave a final thrust and groan and collapsed on top of the whore. The whore, looking over his shoulder, had a bored expression on her face. She rolled her eyes at Claudia as if to say,
What are
you waiting for? He’s finished
, but Claudia gave Figueiredo another ten seconds or so before she switched off the lights.

Figueiredo had performed more than adequately, and the girl had done her job. Otto was tasked with taking her back to The Goat’s. She slipped into a dress, no underwear, put her feet into a pair of plastic sandals, and was out the door sixty seconds after Delfin rolled off of her.

Hans, playing the European, signified he was satisfied. He hadn’t said a word during the entire process, and he didn’t now. He simply handed over the wad Claudia had given him and left. Hans’s silence had been an absolute necessity. He was no actor, and Figueiredo would have pegged him for a Brazilian the minute he’d opened his mouth.

Claudia promptly counted off the agreed-upon sum from the wad and handed it to Figueiredo. He counted it again, folded it, and reached for his underpants.

“You got any more work like this,” he said, putting the underwear on, “I’m your man. Easiest money I ever made.”

“What you earned today is a trifle,” she said. “You could be earning a lot more if you’ve got the balls to go for it.”

Claudia had questioned Delfin’s manhood. Delfin reacted like she knew he would.

“What the fuck you mean ‘If I got the balls’?”

“Just what I said.”

“I got the balls for anything,” he said. “Anything,” he repeated.

“Then I’ve got a proposition for you,” she said.

Thought lines creased what was normally a smooth brow. Delfin gave her a suspicious look, stuffed the money into a pocket of his jeans, and lifted one foot in order to pull them on.

“What have you got in mind?” he said, his foot still in the air. “I hear you kill people.”

He put his foot back on the floor.

“Who the fuck told you that?”

“Just something I heard,” she said.

He lifted his right foot again, slid it into the jeans, and did the same with the left. Then he pulled the pants up to his hips, closed the top button and zipped the fly.

“Someone’s got a big mouth,” he said. “And why should you care?”

“Because,” she said, “I’ve got a proposal that a man with your background won’t be able to refuse, as long as he’s got balls, that is.”

Behind the door, Hans, who hadn’t left, was listening to every word.

Carla was at the point where she was telling the dumb bastard there was only one thing her “European” liked better than watching people fuck.

Hans waited for a reaction. There wasn’t any, at least none he could hear.

Carla went on for a minute or two more, then stopped.

There was a moment of silence.

“How much?” Figueiredo’s voice.

Hans smiled, put his Glock back into the holster on his belt, and strolled into the kitchen to get a beer.

W
HEN
M
ARTA HEARD THE rattle of keys, she sat bolt upright and set her back against the wall behind her.

But when the door opened, it wasn’t The Goat. It was a woman, and she was carrying a tray.

Marta hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. Even her pitcher of water was long since empty. She smelled coffee, and milk, and, yes,
pão de queijo
, the little round cheese breads she’d always loved, especially when they were dripping with butter.

“Hungry?” the woman said.

Marta nodded, her throat too dry to speak.

The woman knelt, put the tray on the floor, and slid it forward with her foot.

“Well, then,” she said, “eat.”

Marta stretched out a hand, watching the woman all the while, and felt around until her fingers touched one of the little yellow balls. It was still warm from the oven. She grabbed it, stuffed it in her mouth, and almost choked. Her throat was that dry.

“Take your time,” the woman said. “Drink some coffee.”

Marta dropped her eyes long enough to make sure she got a good grip on the mug, expecting it to be hot.

It wasn’t. It was lukewarm. She meant to take only a sip or two, but the
café com leite
had been sweetened, and once she got going she couldn’t stop. She drained more than half in one go.

“I’m Carla Antunes,” the woman said.

Marta didn’t care what the woman’s name was, but she very much cared about the remaining cheese breads. She took another one, savoring the chewy consistency, wishing the woman had brought butter.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Carla Antunes said.

Marta stopped chewing.

“Let me see your face,” Carla said. Then, leaning in closer, “Oh, my. You poor thing.”

That did it. A memory struck Marta with the force of a blow. She and Andrea had been on the beach together, Marta had stepped on a shard of glass from a broken bottle, and Andrea, as she was examining the wound, had used exactly those words:
Oh, my. You poor thing.

Marta started to cry.

Carla was ready with a paper handkerchief, then another and another. When the sobs subsided, she let Marta finish her meal, not hurrying her at all, even telling her to slow down so she wouldn’t make herself sick.

“Who are you?” Marta asked her when she’d eaten the last of the bread and drained the last drop from the mug.

“I told you. I’m Carla Antunes.”

“But why are you—”

“All in good time, Marta. Shall we go?”

The woman took her by the arm, gently, and they stepped through the doorway into the corridor.

They walked through the boate and approached the main entrance, a double door that Marta had only seen when it was chained and padlocked. But now the padlock was gone, the chain was hanging in a loop, and the doors were ajar. Daylight was streaming through the crack. She hadn’t seen that much daylight in over two months.

She turned her head to look behind her. Topaz stuck her head around the doorjamb that led to the bedrooms and quickly withdrew it, but she saw no one else, not The Goat, not Rosélia. Outside, the sun was near its zenith. She blinked in the dazzling light. A man was waiting there, a big man with long blond hair and a moustache that made him look like a Viking.

Momentarily, it occurred to Marta to run. But she rejected the idea almost as quickly as she thought of it. The man looked to be in good shape, and his legs were much longer than hers. She wouldn’t have gotten very far.

The Viking led them to a car and ushered them into the back seat. Then he climbed behind the wheel and started the engine, all without saying a word. They took her to a house with a tiled roof and whitewashed walls. Beyond it, a cabin cruiser, not unlike the one her grandfather kept in Brasilia, was floating at a dock on the river.

As they got out of the car, Carla took her arm again. The big man with the mustache moved in front, took out a key, and unlocked the front door.

The house looked old on the outside, but inside it was modern. The floors and window frames were light-colored wood, varnished to a high gloss; the light fixtures were brushed aluminum; the walls were painted in pastels. Through a doorway, she caught a glimpse of a large room with tripods, cables, and what looked like photographer’s lights. A king-sized bed occupied the center of the space.

On the opposite side, ten steps further down the corridor, was a bedroom.

“Here’s where you’ll sleep,” Carla said.

The space was a considerable improvement on her accommodations at The Goat’s. There was a coverlet on the bed, an air-conditioner hummed away in the wall, and a bedside table supported a lamp. There was a bookshelf, piled high with paperbacks and magazines, all well thumbed. There was an armchair, a wardrobe cupboard, even a window. The window looked over a green lawn to a distant stand of trees. But there were bars set into the masonry.

“I’m going to be straight with you,” Carla said. “I’m not Mother Teresa. I’m a businesswoman. I send girls to Europe.”

“Prostitutes?”

“I prefer to call them escorts. They’re working girls, yes, but they don’t have to work anywhere near as hard as the girls work at The Goat’s place. They wear beautiful clothes and go to good restaurants. Sometimes they stay with a man for as much as a week, sometimes only for a night, but they never have to make love to more than one man a day.”

“You call that making love? It’s not making love, it’s fucking for money. I won’t do it.”

Carla smiled. “We’re going to have to let those bruises heal,” she said. “There’s a bathroom through that door. Soap, towels, shampoo, conditioner, everything you need.”

“I told you I’m not going to do it. Do you have any idea who I am? Do you have any idea what kind of risk you’re running here?”

“Risk? No, frankly I don’t. Enlighten me.”

“I’m the granddaughter of Deputado Malan.”

“Really?” She could see the woman didn’t believe her. “Let’s talk more about it when you’re rested, shall we? Are you still hungry?”