Quartered Love

Quartered Love
(Amor Esquartejado)
by Roger Franchini (cultcoolfreak@gmail.com)
translated by Jethro Soutar (jethrosoutar@gmail.com)
Complete Book Sale on: http://www.livrariasaraiva.com.br/produto/4266217/amor-esquartejado-a-investigacao-do-assassinato-doexecutivo-japones/ - I.S.B.N.:9788576659648
To those members of the So Paulo police force who refuse to be seduced by the temptation of crime.
1. THE SMELL OF DEATH Barbara, baby, when are you going to quit being a hooker and come and live with me? When you pay me twenty grand a month, honey. As soon as his shift was over, Rodrigo had gone to Barbara's flat with the same excuse as ever: for coffee. Before the percolator had exhaled its first plume of steam, before the syrupy smell of toasted beans had begun to fill the air, they were naked in bed. He'd mulled over having a shower before coming to see her. He disgusted himself, having spent the whole morning dealing with the remains of a body dumped on the banks of the Rio Pinheiros. A carcass that was, as it couldn't fail to be, putrefied and unidentifiable. The sour stench of raw flesh had followed him all the way to bed and lain down next to Barbara. In his first few months working for Incident Response, shortly after he'd started at the Homicide Unit, he'd retch at the sight of blood and guts slipping off bone at the slightest movement of the stretcher bearers and slopping about like soapy water. But the image had lost its power over time and gradually been replaced by a repulsion for the scent of death that clung to his body. He thought the girl would notice the smell emanating from his clothes and spurn him. The eagerness with which she embraced him rid him of the idea, but he himself only felt free of death once his own skin bore her perfume - the name of which he never learned, had never been told. They fell asleep covered in the mingled juices of their bodies. Rodrigo slept until just before midday, when the slight rocking of the bed as Barbara got up stirred him. He was impressed at her braving the world outside the warmth of the covers. He stayed in bed, kept his eyes closed and pretended to sleep. He tried to remember the dream he'd been having, which was vanishing fast in the half-light of memory. Steps, people and faces lost in the deep pits of instant amnesia. As he did battle with his memory, he felt a cool breeze enter the room, lifting a faint smell of shampoo off the unoccupied, still-warm pillow beside him. Barbara came in and sat down:
Good morning. The rasping melody of her voice made Rodrigo smile before he opened his eyes. The coffee's ready. Were you waiting for me to drink it? I'd wait a lifetime for you, honey. Rodrigo's tired eyes started to focus and the image of a feminine figure with a thin neck and long black hair began to emerge from the blur of the bed clothes. Sunlight came through the net curtain and rested on her shoulders, carving a shadow on the mattress that made it look like she was back amidst the comfort of the covers. I need to take a shower, she said. I like you the way you are, bareback, Rodrigo replied, tugging her by the arm until she was within reach of his mouth. The detective was her fourth fuck of the night. And the first during which she came. Her tongue, bitter with the taste of coffee, ran around inside the policeman's mouth, reminding her of the old guy with the stubbly grey eyebrows who'd arrived at nine o'clock sharp, as prompt as the evening news, and who only wanted a long kiss. She didn't count that as sex, but she still charged for the full hour. He'd said he was a lawyer and his wife had always been cold with him, though she'd born him two kids forty-odd years ago. Ten o'clock, the stumpy cross-dresser who liked to wear a pair of panties while she sucked him off. Five hundred reais. Eleven thirty, the old, quiet, wellendowed guy, who gave her a pair of earrings as well as her eight hundred reais. One o'clock and her newest client, oriental, smiley. They chatted almost the whole way through. Judging by the time he'd chosen to visit her, the wedding ring on his finger no longer counted for much and he didn't care whether his wife knew he slept with call girls or not. He only left when he noticed sleep was weighing heavy on Barbara's eyes. How many bad guys did you kill today, Rodrigo? I don't kill people. I find out who does the killing... Even if we sometimes have to kill to find out, he thought but didn't say. He'd never been totally honest with her about what he did. His role at the DHPP (the Department of Homicides and Protection of Persons) was merely to attend the scene of the crime, find out the basics and pass the case on as neatly as possible to the detective assigned to the case. But Barbara wasn't interested in the bureaucratic details of the role. He carried a gun in his belt and parked a patrol car outside her building, and that was all she needed to know.
Rodrigo thought that a fair exchange. He was always close by, always just a phone call away, even if only for an affectionate chat. She'd once refused to see a particular client who'd shown up drunk. The client responded by hitting her in the face so many times her battered appearance had prevented her from working for a whole month. Rodrigo had supported her then, paying for urgent bills and medical treatment. She also found out later, from her friends in the business, that her attacker had lost several teeth, along with his dignity, when inexplicably set upon in the toilets at Love Story nightclub. She'd never asked Rodrigo if he were married, engaged or anything like that, and he'd never asked her if Barbara was her real name. I love your Cear accent, he'd once said, but shown no further interest in her background after that. Most of the things he knew about Barbara he'd found out when he came across her, modesty unprotected, on the MClass escorts website. That's where they'd first met: Playboy bunny July 2008 and Sexy magazine cover girl June 2010; dark hair, age 25, 5 foot 8, size 10; available for travel and home visits. High level companionship for people with good taste. Subscribers could also ascertain that she had silicone implants and size 6 feet, was a Scorpio, had a tattoo of a fairy on her hip and didn't do anal (a treat Rodrigo had only been granted after giving her attacker such a beating.) When he was with her he forget the smell of rotting corpses. Rodrigo, don't I disgust you?
2. THE STYLISH MOONLIGHTER The queue for the lifts at police headquarters stretched down the highceilinged corridor as far as the lodge at the entrance to the building. Huge glass panels housed displays of reconstructions and forensics, showing them off as if they were the most advanced technologies in the judiciary. Images of victims adorned the walls in a range of styles and formats, the building's lack of windows and icy architecture lending extra drama to the scene. Those visiting the place who weren't used to seeing so much violence reporters, lawyers, witnesses - could never hide their horror. But despite the shock, it was rare for people to feel any sense of reverence for the dead: the pictures were just poor quality ink on paper after all. The main thing was that it made outsiders fear those who dealt with the misery of death so coldly. For Rodrigo, it was no more than the tedium of waiting for his turn to go up in the lift. It was his tenth year in DHPP and the floors seemed to get higher off the ground with every shift. He remembered when his blood used to boil at the mere sight of the lift reserved for chief officers, always empty while the rank and file had to wait and squeeze into the other lifts. But he wasn't working today. He'd been to the shop opposite the station, The Stylish Moonlighter, to buy a new holster for the little Bulldog he carried strapped to his leg. It had started to rain while he was in the shop, not heavily but enough for the traffic to add two hours to his journey home. Better to go upstairs, sit down in an out-of-the-way armchair and do some reading - and hope he wasn't commandeered into doing anything... All of a sudden he felt a stranger's hand on the steel of the pistol tucked in his waist band. He jumped forward instinctively, banging into the policeman in front of him in the queue. Fucking hell, Gramps, watch where you're going. Want an accidental punch in the face? Little girl get a fright? Mauricio's raucous laughter broke the tension. He had with him a rusty hand-pulled trolley laden down with files, papers that would one day mean something to someone. What are you doing here, kid? I thought it was your day off. Rodrigo didn't bother going into the details of how he'd spent his day, why
he was in town and how he'd been to the shop across the road. He just moaned about the So Paulo traffic preventing him from going home. He wasn't in a chatty mood and besides, he found Mauricio's senile presence rather embarrassing. Mauricio had been his boss for several years, long enough to learn that how diligently you need do a job depends on what you get back in return. Rodrigo only tended to go anywhere near Mauricio when duty required it. He didn't like the vulgar way the old man talked and he avoided looking at him if he didn't have to: Mauricio was fat and had a goitre hanging from his chin, a badly kept beard, crooked teeth and awful breath. Thick white hairs escaped chaotically from his nose and tickled his lips. Rodrigo couldn't stand the thought that one day he'd be Mauricio's age, although he did have some respect for the old man's past. In his years as an active detective, Mauricio had earned himself a superb reputation. He'd been equally skilled at solving cases and taking money off the bad guys, which ensured he was offered the best roles in every department. Rodrigo had been slow to understand the police force's moral code, but years working under Mauricio had put him right. He now did the bare minimum, what his salary was worth and no more. His role in the Homicide Unit was comfortable enough and he didn't get involved in investigations, rulings and other activities that deep down, even if he was careful not to show it, he knew were wrong. He smiled when required to, embraced those he had to. I have to pretend I'm busy doing something in this fucking place, otherwise they'll retire me, said Mauricio. And I won't leave this shit hole until they make me, son. Or until I'm dead. Mauricio took two of the fattest files off the trolley and gave them to Rodrigo, without saying what Rodrigo was supposed to do with them. It's a good job you showed up today. I've been meaning to talk to you. Follow me, kid, you'll be glad you did. Feeling curious and wary at the same time, Rodrigo tried to gather the pages spilling from his arms and follow Mauricio, as the old guy made hesitant steps through the people standing in the queue. Carving a path with his noisy contraption, he came to a stop in front of the chief officers' lift and said in a low voice: Grab hold of this. And this, load yourself down, make it look like you're working real hard. If anyone asks, just say you're giving the old codger courier a hand.
A man approached them dressed in a well cut suit. Evidently of some distinction, his naturally serene air couldn't hide his displeasure at having to share the lift with Mauricio and Rodrigo. Mauricio took the initiative: Good afternoon, Chief. Did Sir get his coffee? The man struggled to recall Mauricio at first, but then broke into a discreet smile, stretched out a hand and thanked him for some gift, praising its wonderful aroma. They went up the floors talking amicably about the southern Minas Gerais coffee plantations, celebrated all over Europe. The long conversation made Rodrigo feel uncomfortable, and he kept his nose pointed in the opposite direction to Mauricio's foul breath, albeit carefully, so as not to cause offence. One of the things Rodrigo had learned about Mauricio was his former boss' ability to be kind and polite to people who didn't deserve the time of day. On such occasions, the old guy was always light hearted and good humoured, and showed no sign of coming out with the obscenities that usually poured forth every time he opened his mouth. Mauricio's natural two-facedness was something Rodrigo grudgingly admired, for he knew he'd never have the same skill for duplicity. When Rodrigo was required to be hypocritical, he managed at best to be cruel and cynical. Mauricio politely bid the chief farewell, promising to send him some highly prized 'peeled cherry' coffee, worthy of only the very best palates. That bastard really fucked over a mate of mine, Mauricio said when the chief had left. So bad my buddy woke up one Sunday and put a gun to his head, right outside the gates of the Consolao Cemetery. It was impossible to know whether the old guy's stories were ever true or not. Rodrigo knew they were at the very least exaggerated, to bring some sense of worth to a decadent career, but often had some basis in fact. Right now, for example, Rodrigo did recall the story of a policeman who committed suicide while staring at the tombstones in a cemetery. But it could have been a random scrap of news he read in the paper, or part of a film he'd seen. Fuck it! He'd never know for sure. As they passed the Fourth F-South squad room, Mauricio waved to the notary who was picking her make-up paraphernalia off the table and putting it in her handbag. Mauricio told Rodrigo to wait there a moment and went in, a sweet smile poking out under his thick beard. They talked with much hand squeezing and intimate whispering, and Rodrigo began to get impatient. The woman appeared to be flattered by Mauricio's gallantry, but as the
conversation went on, Rodrigo could tell it wasn't entirely lascivious in nature. And no matter how much she tried to draw on her femininity, she couldn't hide the natural toughness of those who spend their lives listening to testimony. Discretely - as if it were possible to escape Rodrigo's gaze - the notary took a silver disc out of her bag and gave it to the old man, who thanked her by kissing her hand, a gentle caress on the back of her typing-tired fingers. Mauricio returned and seemed preoccupied as they walked down to his room. Tell me, how many Military Police have died in gunfire so far this year? No idea, Gramps. The strangeness of the question surprised Rodrigo. Of the ones I've dealt with personally, I'd say two or three. If what I've got here is true, two or three deaths is nothing compared with what those MP sons of bitches have been doing to the Civil Police.
3. LEAVE THE GHOSTS OUTSIDE Mauricio's dislike for the Military Police was well known to everyone at the Civil Police. According to those closest to him, the beef dated back to the start of his career, when he'd worked for the Dops - the Department of Political and Social Order. The Dops had been run by soldiers from the armed forces who made young Civil Police recruits conform to military standards of rigour and discipline, in the great fight to stop the spread of Communism amongst the young. The only reason Mauricio didn't hand his gun and badge in right away was because of the way the Civil Police connived to circumnavigate many of the Colonels' orders. Shut the door, kid. Leave this place's ghosts outside. Then there was the money made moonlighting in security, transporting valuables for banks and lottery houses and doing other odd jobs only the police could do, for they were the only ones allowed to drive around carrying guns. For many years Mauricio had been Chief Detective of the city's busiest homicide precinct, cracking big cases every week and covering the DHPP in glory, giving them the best crime-solving statistics of any judicial police unit in the country. Can't we open a window? It stinks in here. Your cracked ass is what stinks. Now sit down on that stool and listen to me. Seeing Rodrigo's confusion, Mauricio pointed to a mountain of rubbish piled up between two cupboards, which evidently hid something resembling a seat. Mauricio's claustrophobic room was as sure a sign as any that he was approaching the professional precipice. The office seemed symbolic of where his career was heading: it was no bigger than most of the toilets in the building. Indeed the attentive observer would notice scars on the walls revealing that it had in fact once been a toilet. The room consisted of a tiny, bashed-up wooden desk surrounded by boxes of paper piled up to the ceiling. Old paint tins contained an assortment of metal instruments, the once essential parts of some machine, or acted as a seat and support to yet more boxes of papers. The room was lost somewhere in the Civil Police's distant past. Hidden on the table amongst exercise books of illegible annotations and pens that had long since stopped working, was a laptop, the only sign of the modern world. It was
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the old guy's best friend, supplier of porn films on lonesome afternoons. Rodrigo, a little bird tells me some big-shot fucking businessman was kidnapped a few days ago... You hear about it? As he struggled to find the stool, Rodrigo showed appropriate interest in his colleague's question. Despite no longer being anybody's boss, younger officers were still grateful for any information Mauricio offered them. Nobody knew quite how, but Mauricio acquired all sorts of useful information as he wandered the station's corridors. Detectives coming to him for help boosted his self-esteem and Mauricio saw it as them paying homage to the many years of loyal service he'd dedicated to the glory of the police force. But the fat and rough-looking man everyone called Gramps was a figure of fun to most. Hidden away in the recesses of the building, he was generally considered outdated, if not downright crazy. Far from the hustle and bustle of shift work, the scheming amongst teams and (to his great regret) the incident reports, Mauricio amused himself trying to solve cases before other officers managed it, by scavenging about for gossip and talking to whoever would listen to him. Even by accompanying Mauricio to his stinking little room, Rodrigo was risking his reputation, which wasn't great anyway. However it was common knowledge that Rodrigo and Gramps had both been close to Eduardo and everyone had liked Eduardo. He'd made millions over the course of a long career on the force and had always been generous in sharing it with those in need. Rodrigo's presence, therefore, could be explained as being something to do with Eduardo. But he'd make sure it was a brief visit. He'd get out of there just as soon as he found out what the hell it was Mauricio wanted. Rodrigo preferred to think he was there out of curiosity rather than any sense of compassion, a sentiment no policeman was worthy of. One day Rodrigo too would no longer have the strength to carry a firearm and maybe he too would end up like Mauricio, at the bottom of some police well, pretending not to be a hindrance, a once essential part of some machine. When he'd heard 'little bird', Rodrigo had understood that the information was genuine but that the source either had to be protected or was of dubious credibility. Either way, that the information shouldn't be discredited. No, nothing.
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Just a little titbit I picked up somewhere. I didn't take it seriously at first, because I thought it sounded too like something out of the movies... As was only to be expected, Mauricio wasn't going to tell Rodrigo the full story. He'd wait for Rodrigo to ask him certain questions in order to furnish him with the required information. Rodrigo knew the game from back when he'd been Mauricio's subordinate. He'd never had the patience to play the role of model student even then. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to act the part of Mauricio's inquisitor as he knew the mise-en scne would be more entertaining than the armchair in the corridor or the So Paulo traffic. He got up from his stool to go over to the window, annoying Mauricio by seeming like he wasn't paying attention: And what's so special about this kidnapping? Rodrigo knocked into the chair supporting Mauricio's fat body as he squeezed his way to the window. The handle was stuck and so he began to study its mechanism. Mauricio grew tired of his lack of respect: Fucking hell, kid, have I taught you nothing in all these years? How many kidnappings of businessmen do you think the police investigate these days? It was a good point. Rodrigo realised he hadn't heard about any big kidnappings for a long time. He yanked hard at the window's iron clasp, hard enough to snap the contraption and see the handle come off in his hands. At least he'd managed to open the window. He was just about to promise to fix the breakage when he realised Mauricio wasn't angry about the accident but was about to lose his rag at Rodrigo's lack of focus the conversation,. Slightly ashamed, Rodrigo quickly said: Who's the guy? Some Japanese... President of the biggest popcorn company in Brazil. Popcorn? Okay, I'm being unkind. The guy's company covers the full range of food stuffs. The remains of the handle still in his hands, the hairs on his arm suddenly stood on end. Rodrigo remembered Barbara saying one of her best clients was a rich oriental businessman who owned his own company. It could easily have been a different person, or a brother or an acquaintance. It could even have been something the call girl had made up... but whatever it was, the coincidence was intriguing.
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When did he disappear? Sunday. But look at this: the MFH only came in today. And it was his family who reported it. His wife maintains it's not a kidnapping. What does she say it is? She thinks he went off with a call girl, his lover... If the guy's hooker-lover really was Barbara, it would have been the first time Rodrigo had ever had any relevant information to give his former boss. But he decided not to tell Mauricio he thought the wife's version of events was probably impossible, as he'd been in bed with the businessman's alibi only a few hours ago. The wife's lying, Maurico. Well that much is obvious, man. Not least because of this... Mauricio took a disc out of his denim jacket pocket, the one Rodrigo had seen him get from the notary. He stuck it in the laptop and they waited until some images appeared. The screen showed a video recording of a stretch of a street that could have been any street in So Paulo. Day time, noisy. In the confusion of the traffic, a big dark car was followed by the camera, filmed from another car. Mauricio dragged the cursor along the video's timeline, making the image move forward comically fast. He knew exactly which bit he was aiming for and wanted to avoid having to watch anything unnecessary. Night fell dark and quiet, secretly recorded. The camera was still inside a car, but now it was stationary, zoomed in as far as it would go. Even with the graining of the image, it was possible to make out a tall man with oriental features getting out of another car, which was also big, but silver. He greeted the parking valet, laughed, asked him something... Wait until you see the call girl, Rodrigo. A real beauty... Mauricio let the sequence run and soon they saw her getting out of the car. He moved the footage back and forward, trying to decide which moment her face was most visible on screen. Even accounting for how far away the camera was and the low resolution, Rodrigo was left in no doubt. It was Barbara. After the restaurant, they went to a hotel. They only emerged at four in the morning. The next day, the same debauched story. Out in the street, they exchange kisses, cuddles and all that crap... The Japanese was making the most of the fact that his wife was away and spent two full days with the call girl, as if she were his regular woman. Look at her, Rodrigo. What a fine ass... Imagine that
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jiggling about on your dick, nice and slow... Who filmed all this? That's where the shit starts. According to the wife, it was a private detective she hired when she got suspicious her husband was cheating on her. When the husband disappeared, she showed the images to his family. Rodrigo was too tense to follow Mauricio's line of thinking. He was trying to work out how Barbara could have gotten herself mixed up in such a thing, and where the old guy was going with it. In order to justify her version of events, that he'd gone off with his lover... Rodrigo didn't believe his own words. Exactly, my kid. Which is fine, except for the Jap's fucking convoy. Look. He pointed with the end of a chewed up pen to a dark car - possibly a Pajero, Hilux or Tucson - that always drove right behind the businessman's car. The driver was careful, as if not wanting to be noticed, and it looked like, once or twice, the businessman made eye contact him. The police are mixed up in this mess... No, Rodrigo, the police aren't mixed up in this mess. The Military Police are mixed up in it. Both the convoy and the private detective are squaddies. This was heavy stuff, but Rodrigo knew he had to ignore Mauricio's prejudices and distance himself from his colleague's preconceptions. The chief wants to know who the whore is, Rodrigo. I doubt the girl knows anything. If the wife's story is made up, it's a simple matter of putting the pressure on her. Rodrigo, Mauricio said, measuring his words with the precision of someone who already knows what he's looking for, the Chief came to me. It's been years since the brass came to see me in this pigsty. He must think I'll be able to find out who the whore is... The Chief is a fucking idiot. Just hack into the wife's phone and trace the calls to the MP who did the filming... and the convoy too if that turns out to be true - she'll be able to identify them both... Mauricio waited a few seconds before turning back to the computer and opening a few files. Barbara's image popped up, selling herself on the MClass website. Mauricio had once told Rodrigo that of all his regular routines, the one that gave him most pleasure was his daily monitoring of call girl websites. He'd compiled a huge database of So Paulo prostitutes, useful for many an
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investigation and frequently accessed by colleagues looking for reliable companions. When one of them left a website, either because she'd stopped being a whore or because she'd been adopted by somebody, Mauricio kept a copy of her webpage in a folder he charmingly called 'married'. He enjoyed following the girls' careers on the internet and got sad when one of them went offline, as was the case here. Barbara's page was saved as a PDF in the archives folder because it was no longer live on the website, as Rodrigo knew full well. What he didn't know was how Mauricio knew about his relationship with the girl, though it would be pointless to ask. Rodrigo eventually put the broken window handle down on the desk. Mauricio's inquisitive silence filled him with foreboding: What should I do, Rodrigo? Tell the Chief the girl's your pasture? I've got nothing to do with any of this, Mauricio. I don't doubt it, kid. But I always was convinced you'd come to a sticky end due to some piece of pussy. Come on. Let's sort this out before it's sorted out for us... You lost your mind, old man? I'm not getting involved in this fucking mess. You want to see your friend get arrested? The look of alarm on Rodrigo's face didn't suit him. It had never occurred to him that anyone close to him might ever be charged with anything and he began to understand his feelings for Barbara for the first time. Something between tenderness and affection that was hard to define, a sense of caring that frightened him. The Chief thinks her ass belongs to the Military Police and the private detective. They arranged to record the video together, showed it to the Japanese guy to blackmail him and then it ended in a shitty mess. The little tart can go fuck herself. It's got nothing to do with me... if only Rodrigo had the courage of his convictions. The girl will tell the Chief she knows you... Forget it, you senile old bastard! I'm not getting involved... if Mauricio would only let Rodrigo get a word in edgeways. Or worse: even if she doesn't mention you, they'll find out as soon as they hack into her phone. Your number will be right there - on the same list as the Japanese guy and the two MPs...
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Why are you doing this, Gramps? For the first time, Rodrigo saw a spontaneous smile spread across Mauricio's limp mouth. I know I'm a turd, Rodrigo, and that you don't give a fuck about me. But you were like a son to Eduardo, the only guy in this dump that ever made police work worth doing. I've never trusted anyone in this shit hole other than him... and he always said good things about you and your character, things I've never heard contradicted by anybody. Before the poor bastard's gullet was eaten away by cancer, back when he could still talk, he asked me to keep an eye on you... Now you know my word isn't worth a damn, but I'd like to... at least this once... be able to honour that promise. If you don't care for my help, fine, but remember I'm doing it for Eduardo, not for you. Eduardo's death had hit Rodrigo harder than the death of his own mother, and he missed him as much as Mauricio did. But Rodrigo wasn't convinced by Mauricio's argument. He didn't want to just leave the room, but he had to talk to Barbara about what had happened. Boy, you've nothing else in your life but the police. Sure, Edu left you a tidy sum, as he did me... but if anything were to happen to you, do you really think you'd be able to live out there, unarmed and unprotected? Don't be scared. I'm not saying anything bad's going to happen to you... I just want to make sure it doesn't. Trust me. I've killed, I've snorted, I've thieved... I've managed to get out of scrapes even I can't believe really could have happened, that they're not an old man's memory playing tricks on him... Let me help you... It's the least I can do for Edu. Let's go talk to your girl before the Chief tracks her down... and we'll come up with a story for her for when she's called in to give testimony... Rodrigo searched the depths of his memory for some conversation that might suggest any criminal intent on Barbara's part... He remembered the few times she'd mentioned the Japanese client. They'd gone away together to Marlia for a few days, she passing herself off as a peanut seller (or buyer?)... The tramp...
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4. BIANCUDA Rodrigo hadn't seen Mauricio move with such urgency since May 2006, when the PCC staged a bloody uprising: the city's main criminal gang at war with the Military Police. A new chance to snare an MP trooper had given his tired body extra drive, like the hopeful last breath of a drowning man. He triple locked the door. Everything he valued in life was kept in that room... Listen, Rodrigo. Rubens is the Chief in charge. He likes you and he likes me. You started out in the force together, right? Weren't you in the same precinct? Yeah. He was my duty officer down in the 27th district. But then Eduardo managed to get him transferred to the secretariat and he became assistant to the minister... Edu? Mauricio looked off into the distance. He was remembering his old pal, his old partner in crime, and a time in the not so distant past when no MP would dare look a Civil Police chief in the eye. Shots fired at dawn on the Ferno Dias highway, one going in through the chest and out the other side... Mauricio couldn't help but look down at Rodrigo's shin bone, where he knew the son of a bitch kept the gun that had struck him down that day... Loyalty still counts for something in this hell hole... So, you tell Rubens you knew the identity of the lover but that I convinced you to go with me to the Japanese guy's house and talk to the wife, but that she wouldn't open her beak. Your girl will be okay. She's bound to be called in to give testimony at the inquest... so it's better she's brought in by us... Sooner or later they'll discover her identity. All I've done is help you anticipate the discovery. As they made their way down the long corridor, a detective with a large moustache, a cop familiar to everyone, saw the strange couple walking along together and asked Mauricio, in a sarcastic tone, to introduce them all to his new girlfriend. You know him, Sergio. He's the one who split your mother's ass in two. Rodrigo felt himself go red, as much at the detective's comment as Mauricio's response. He wanted to get out of this business right now, before his reputation was forever tarnished by being linked to the decrepit old Gramps. The cop with the moustache (who Rodrigo now knew was called Sergio)
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was the office joker, but he'd never targeted Rodrigo with his teasing before, which was as sure a sign as any that Rodrigo needed to ditch Mauricio pronto. While they waited for the lift, they broke off their conversation as a young woman approached. There was something familiar about the refined shape of her nose. Rodrigo was sure he'd seen her curvaceous thighs and blond hair somewhere before. Bianca! Biancuda! Gramps! You going out to get some sun? The woman approached Mauricio and gave him a warm embrace. They let you out of the store cupboard? That's right. I'm going to go and throw some crumbs to the pigeons in the square. Have you met Rodrigo, my youngest son? She gave Rodrigo a strong handshake, one that didn't seem to belong to such soft skin. Their nod of heads signalled that they knew each by sight, having crossed paths in some corridor at some time. How you finding life on the street? A stroll. By the way, I never had a chance to thank you for your help. I really appreciate it, Gramps. I couldn't have stood doing any more HR desk work. My gun was going rusty in its belt... She lifted up the hem of her red shirt, flaunting the low cut of her jeans in front of Rodrigo. The smooth outline of her hip bone made him think of the panties that must be hiding down there somewhere, between her groin and the circumference of her waist. A thin black lace tattoo ran down her back and around the avenue of her flat tummy, speckled at certain points with fine blond hairs. The ink then headed unhurriedly towards her tiny little navel, before fluidly turning into a Japanese dragon ideograph, which pointed south, finally interrupted by the buckle. What does it say there? 'Courage'. Did you even notice my gun? she said, exposing the false politeness in Rodrigo's question. I thought I was going to be handling investigations, Gramps. But they've got me doing slaves' work... Relax. Your time will come... Damn it. The Chief seems to think my role is to decorate the team. If he's looking for a Barbie doll, he's got the wrong woman... Patience, my dear... Bianca's cheeks blushed. She blinked her blue eyes so furiously that Rodrigo had to take a deep breath so as not to lose himself in the immensity of
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them. The tip of her tongue smeared her lips in saliva, as she tried to calm herself. She was evidently about to apologise for being so ungrateful and thank the old guy again for for his help in getting her the transfer. But then the lift came, with room for one... We'll talk about this later, Bianca. If you need anything before then, just call. But don't do anything silly, okay? Go on: we'll take the stairs. When the lifts were busy, it was common practice to walk down a few flights to the tenth floor, where all the lifts stopped, a privilege for the General Chief of Police, whose floor it was. Rodrigo didn't like the way the girl bid them farewell, squeezing into the last space in the lift and smiling as the metal doors closed, as if in a stage show. For all he knew she was a good cop, but she'd never be able to arrest anyone with that princess act... That's all I need. I worked damn hard to get that girl a transfer, and now she's making me look bad in front of the Chief... They started down the stairs with Rodrigo out front. It wasn't long before Mauricio got out of breath and they had to slow down. Let me talk to Barbara, Mauricio. It's the least I can do so as not to come across as a total dick. Why don't you settle down with a nice girl, Rodrigo? There must be plenty of them out there. Give up this nonsense with the call girl... You want to end up like Edu? Notice that son of a bitch may well have been a millionaire but he died alone... Have you no one else in the world? No family? It's nothing to do with you. I get it: you feel lonely. Are you doing her up the bum? That's how I got started... They walked on a few more steps. Up your own ass more like, Gramps, you old faggot. Rodrigo knew his words wouldn't be considered offensive. They were both used to conversations that ended in casual insults or sudden silences, as if there were nothing else left to say. The job involved long and tiring hours in another person's company, and with time you learned that a quiet presence beside you didn't mean your partner was being awkward or unhelpful... it just meant he was tired. That's all it was. Tiredness. Lack of noise was just your partner taking a rest from the eternal wait for the moment to act. You need to get out of this bullshit, Rodrigo. You should take up ballroom
19
dancing. At Eldorado they run a special night... you sign up for the dancing crap and then away you go, thirtysomethings desperate to get hitched, fortysomethings who've recently separated, all going out of their mind to meet someone like you, single, handsome, armed... Just be wary of any girls who are daughters of divorcees. They spend their whole lives wanting daddy back, and they end up driving their husbands away... And if daddy does come back, sheeet... their love for him comes back and kicks you right in the ass. If she's the daughter of a divorcee, make sure you see her father's death certificate first. You're sick Gramps. No wonder no woman ever wanted you. You only knew me once I was old. You think I was never your age? For that matter, that's why I know exactly how you'll end up... He stopped to lean on the banisters again, exhausted, as if he was on his way up rather than down. His fat body propped itself up on one leg, as if preparing to sit down. Let me ask you something, kid. Have you still got the little bulldog Edu gave you? Damn it, you're like a broken record. Why don't you just take it for yourself once and for all? Mauricio held the thirty eight short barrel revolver with his customary care. He brought it closer to his eyes, smelled the barrel...spun the chamber to hear the sound of the turnstile... You're not getting mixed up in this mess just to help me out, Mauricio. Rodrigo's words echoed in the staircase and mixed with the sound of Mauricio's heavy breathing. The old fat guy took out a greasy handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his sweaty brow. You're damned right. Do you know how many times in my career I've had the chance to really fuck the MP over? I'd be getting involved even if I didn't have a leg to stand on, God forgive me, he said crossing himself, then gave the revolver back, holding it by the barrel, as you hand a gun back to a friend. The police are fucked, Rodrigo, and it's because of the MP. They go over our heads in the Civil Police, acting as if they have the right to investigate. I couldn't give a fuck about your girlfriend, the Chief, the missing Japanese guy... I just want to nail an MP, you understand? I can't retire without first having the pleasure of handcuffing a soldier, preferably an official. But speaking of your girlfriend, doesn't she have any nice friends? Nice and expensive. You can forget it. You couldn't afford a fuck like that. Shit... the bastard mayor shut down all the cheap whore houses I used to go to and now I'm left with these fucking websites, when you're never sure who
20
you'll end up screwing... He tried to put the hankie back in his pocket, but it proved beyond him. And despite the public prosecutor's best efforts to protect morality out on the streets, not a single gay sauna has been shut down, he said in conclusion, a smile breaking out across his face.
21
5. CAVALCADE It was one of the most expensive buildings in Vila Mariana, but it hardly stood out to the neighbours as the whole area was one of the most expensive in the city. The sun shone brightly, unusual for May in So Paulo, when the hearts of the city's inhabitants were more typically moist from prolonged spells of cold cloud and drizzle. Collared dogs walked along pavements followed by their owners, who carried bottles of water in case the pooch got thirsty during the walk and little plastic bags in case they did a poo. Nobody noticed the old black Santana with tinted windows looking for a parking space. The car came to a stop a few blocks away, and two police officers got out, Rodrigo and Mauricio. They were inconspicuous except for the Taurus 38, six inches of chrome steel, that the eldest of them carried in his belt, glittering in the brightness of the day. Hey Gramps, said Rodrigo, put that thing away. You look like an MP... An MP? Exactly, man. Going about showing your blunderbuss off in public. It looks bad... that's an MP thing, straight out of Special Ops... Fuck the MP! Mauricio tucked the gun under his shirt and tried to cover up its bulk. Mauricio's scruffy appearance made Rodrigo think of the stereotypical detective you got in skin flicks: shirt unbuttoned at the top, gold chain hanging down amongst an abundance of grey chest hair. Rodrigo tried to ignore the embarrassment of being seen by the old guy's side, telling himself it wouldn't be for long. Rua Tutoia and Mauricio were old acquaintances. The street had once been home to Oban, the Army's command centre for the units it set up to combat left wing guerilla groups during the dictatorship. Mauricio was going to tell Rodrigo about his first mission, but he decided Rodrigo wasn't the type to appreciate tales of underhand police work. So he ventured only to say: I used to work for the 36th district. Rodrigo would have known the 36th had shared a building with Oban, but he acted like he hadn't heard. 'Your loss,' thought Mauricio, 'you'll never get to hear about the three
22
hundred foot tunnel running from Oban to Second Army Command.' Mauricio could never understand why So Paulo was so proud of its past wars, but ashamed of its more recent ones. Then down there is Avenida Vinte e Trs de Maio, named after the date of the separatist movement's ridiculous coup, so ridiculous it could only have been dreamt up by MPs. As far as I'm concerned, the street should be called Avenida Oban, so that we all remember what we, the So Paulo people, are capable of... Rodrigo took his mobile out of his jacket pocket. You stay here, Gramps. I'll go up first, okay? You worried she might be busy working? I mean, that she might be in a meeting? Rodrigo didn't dignify him with a response, choosing to avoid a slanging match in the street. He turned his back on Mauricio and let the phone ring, three, four, five times. Barbara, I need to talk to you. It's urgent. Hi, honey. What's the matter? Are you with anyone? No, but... I'm coming up. Not now, honey. I'm expecting someone... Mauricio amused himself making up witty insults to add to the unusual dialogue he was overhearing. He could tell the kid really believed in his relationship with the whore; he didn't care about his career or any risk to his life: he was only getting involved in order to protect the girl, as if she were the last one he'd ever get to fuck. Advice was pointless: Rodrigo was besotted like a fifteen year old schoolboy. A slave to pussy. Mauricio was pleased with the description and imagined Rodrigo's reaction if he shared it with him. He would have liked to have given his theories about besotted boys the further consideration they deserved, but he spotted a man sitting laid back in a dark Pajero parked outside the building, sun glasses, baseball cap and cigarette in mouth. He tried to catch Rodrigo's eye to warn him, but gave up when he saw how focused his colleague was on trying to talk Barbara round. Mauricio left Rodrigo to his attempts to juggle mutual respect and the need to come up right now and discuss something.
23
For his part, Rodrigo was so absorbed in his phone conversation that he didn't notice Mauricio moving discretely away. Mauricio walked with his eyes glued to the shop fronts, trying to work out from the reflection in the glass how far away the black car was on the other side of the street. It would have been the perfect moment to light a casual cigarette and blend in with the passers-by, and he cursed the day he'd decided to quit smoking. He also cursed having left his glasses on the bedside table or by the kitchen sink. But although everything was a little bit blurred, he didn't need his glasses to make out the strange man rushing to get into the car. The speed with which the man moved left Mauricio in no doubt: this was some kind of escape. Mauricio didn't flinch from doing what he liked doing best: he pulled out his shotgun, getting a tremendous sense of pleasure from sliding the metal out of its leather case. Stop right there! Police! He hadn't given the order for longer than he cared to remember and he didn't hold back now, shouting so loud even the dogs stopped in their tracks. Rodrigo, even with his phone pressed to his ear, recognised the voice and feared the worse. He turned back looking for Mauricio, the partner he'd never wanted. He couldn't see him - Damn it! - and so he set off walking in the direction the scream had come from. He soon caught sight of Mauricio standing in the middle of the road, oblivious to the traffic that was weaving its web around him, right hand clutching his chrome thirty eight, left hand palm spread up in the air. Honey, let's talk later. What can be so awful it can't wait until tomorrow? Today I'm... Rodrigo hung up. Without knowing what was going on, he ran out into the middle of the road and over towards the fat man, who was bawling at someone to stop. Rodrigo found it impossible to comprehend Mauricio's aggressive attitude with the limited information he'd been given. Why was Gramps so agitated? Why was he pointing his gun at that parked car? Rodrigo increased his pace, swerving around cars that had stopped in the road, either out of fear or because the light at the corner had turned red. I said stop. Keep nice and still! Mauricio managed to raise his voice even more, making Rodrigo fear how loud it could go. The light turned green, giving the cars the all clear to get going, but nobody dared move.
24
When Rodrigo arrived by his side, Mauricio's focus lapsed for a millisecond and he lost his visual hold on the suspect. The man made the most of the opportunity and set off running, banging into stationary people on the pavement, the prerequisite spectators of any dangerous spectacle. Stop! Stop! Go get him, Rodrigo. Mauricio motioned to a cut-through between two walls, pointing at it with the barrel of his gun in a sweeping motion that sent everyone into a mad panic. Rodrigo was reluctant to head down an unknown blind alley, but he did so anyway and suddenly emerged into a human cavalcade, with a man in a grey overcoat racing towards him. It had to be the suspect. Rodrigo put his hand to his belt and took out his pistol, but he didn't take aim. Instead he kept the gun pointed to the ground and held at a distance from his body. He identified himself as a police officer and ordered the man to stop... The brute, who was growing in size with each step, ignored him. Only now did Rodrigo bring him into his line of fire. But it was too late. The detective's hesitation had given the man confidence and he used his momentum to leap off the ground, as if hurdling a fence, kicking Rodrigo square in the chest. As Rodrigo's gun went flying, the man landed like a thoroughbred and galloped away. Rodrigo hit the ground hard. The world went quiet and the air disappeared. His hands gripped his diaphragm, fighting hard to get his breath. The awful smell of blood and guts warming under a hot sun came to him, his mouth moistened and his throat filled with the disgusting taste of rusty metal. He stuck his tongue out ready to retch, and found it bitten and bleeding. He tried to sit up. A sharp pain made itself felt under the left armpit. Time seemed to stand still, but suddenly Mauricio was there hoisting him up by the arm. Rodrigo let out a shriek of pain as if a needle was being driven into his back. Get up, damn it! Go get the guy... The pain seemed to get worse with every breath and his vision was blurred. He tried to set off, but Mauricio pulled him by the shirt to give him his gun back. A heavy pulse reverberated down his throat and neck, hampering any attempts to run. But the man wasn't far enough away and Rodrigo knew he could catch him, even with the head start. He took a deep breath and bit hard into his lip, thinking it the only way to block out the rest of the pain. It worked, and he managed to transfer power to his legs.
25
Cars had started to flee the area and the traffic prevented either of them crossing the road, which was good news for Rodrigo as the pavement would run out when it got to the wall at Army Command Centre. But suddenly the fugitive threw himself into the fast moving traffic, provoking a screeching of brakes followed by the sound of crashing, voices swearing and screams of shock. Rodrigo followed in the man's footsteps, across the road and on to the pavement on the other side, taking great care not to bang into people, less out of consideration as for fear of the pain any such impact would cause in his chest. The man ran on, opening a path up before him with pumping arms and shoulders, knocking into old ladies, kicking out at dogs... and with every collision the distance between him and Rodrigo diminished. When about three strides separated them, Rodrigo finally took out his gun. Another obstacle and Rodrigo would get him. And this time there'd be no messing about: if the guy ignored his orders again, he'd shoot him right between the eyes. He'd shoot the son of a bitch down, come what may. But it was the son of a bitch's lucky day. Rodrigo knocked him to the ground and the guy realised he had a gun pointed at him. He raised his hands in the air without turning towards Rodrigo, hearing the sound of the bolt click violently against the pistol's chassis. The bulldog was loaded. Hands on your head and down on your knees, thief! The cry came from the middle of the street, catching Rodrigo by surprise. Only then, right when he was about to nick the guy, did Rodrigo realise he too was being pursued, and that he was about to be nicked by two MPs on motorbikes, guns in fists. You deaf? Get down on your knees, otherwise I'll put you down for good, ass hole. With the loaded gun still in his hand, Rodrigo saw the suspect turn the corner and disappear, while the two Military Police lowered their bikes' kickstands. The pain returned, increasing by the moment, bringing to mind the foul smell of the mortuary. Sheltered behind the cars that had stopped in the confusion, the MPs repeated their order: Put the gun down! Rodrigo didn't put it down, but nor did he point it at anyone... The fact that he showed no sign of yielding made the MPs all the more nervous, and anyone witnessing the scene would have felt sure the armed man would have been shot dead if the stand off had gone on a moment longer. Fortunately for Rodrigo, Mauricio appeared, tired out and panting, as if pulling a wagon by his teeth:
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Are you guys mad? He's a cop! We're all on the same side, man... Now the military police had two targets. On seeing his colleague, Rodrigo put his own gun back in its holster. Put the gun down. You lost your marbles, old man? You lost yours, soldier? Put yours down first and show me your badge. You guys even got them? The scene descended into farce, with verbals volleyed back and forth: Mauricio screamed at the MPs to lay their guns on the ground, and got the same order back in return. His decrepit and senile appearance, even when waving a gun about, red with fury, indignation and breathlessness, was probably the only thing that stopped him getting shot. He finally shut up when he felt Rodrigo tug at his gun-toting arms and saw that his colleague was holding up his badge rather than his pistol. The MPs watched in silence. We're from Homicide. Let's everybody calm down...
27

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