Crimes Of August Part 4

"There's no one with more authority to call a guy a limp-d.i.c.k than his own wife," said the inspector.

The accusation was written up and signed, and the woman sent for the corpus delicti examination. The husband paid a small bail as stipulated by law and was then released.

Mattos took an antacid from his pocket, stuck it in his mouth, chewed, mixed it with saliva, and swallowed. He had complied with the law. Had he made the world any better?

MEANWHILE, DOWNTOWN, Salete Rodrigues, wearing a wool two-piece jersey outfit that the magazine A Cigarra said had been launched by existentialists, took the elevator in a building on Avenida Treze de Maio and got out on the twelfth floor, the location of the Getlio Vargas Foundation.

"May I help you?" asked a receptionist behind a counter.

Salete said she wanted to enroll in the secretarial training program. She was informed that the courses were Portuguese, mathematics, and typing. There were night cla.s.ses and day cla.s.ses. To enroll, the candidate had to have a middle-school diploma.

Salete's face turned red when she heard this. She thanked the woman and left hurriedly.

She was nervous as she waited in the hall for the elevator. She felt sure the receptionist, seeing her flushed cheeks, had guessed everything, that she had only gone through elementary school and had no middle-school diploma to show. In July, she could have gotten a job in the Senate. She was with Magalhes at the Beguine nightclub, watching a show by the existentialist Serge Singer, when Magalhes had told her, "I'm going to get you a job in the Senate." Magalhes had lots of buddies among the senators, and it would be easy to arrange a job. "You don't even have to go there, just pick up your check at the end of the month." She had told Magalhes that she "had little education," and he had replied that the Senate was full of people who had "come in through the window" and boarded the happiness train, as it was called. She had become frightened and asked Magalhes not to do anything. Now, whenever she heard her favorite program on the radio, which was called The Happiness Train, she repented of not having accepted the offer. After all, she could have learned how to type; she had even gone to a typing school in a house on Rua da Carioca and seen a bunch of scrubby mulatto women banging away at keyboards. If those wretched women could learn to type, so could she.

When she got to the street, she felt great consolation in noting that men turned their heads to watch her go by. She killed some time in the downtown area in order to catch the two o'clock showing of The Robe, with Victor Mature, at the Palacio theater. She cried during the film.

It was still early to go to Mother Ingracia's spiritualist center, in the Rocha favela. In a pharmacy she bought a bottle of Vanadiol, which the radio claimed was good for the nerves. She walked down Goncalves Dias, Ouvidor, and Uruguaiana, looking at the shop windows. She entered the A Moda clothes store and asked to try on a dress she saw in the window.

"The store doesn't live up to its name," she told the saleslady. "It's very demode."

Since there was little movement in the store, Salete and the saleslady soon began trading confidences in hushed tones. The saleslady confessed she couldn't take working in that place anymore; the manager was a shrew. Salete said that neither was her life anything great. She loved one man and was living with another; what saved her was having money to buy clothes. When she felt really unhappy, she explained, she would buy a new dress, one of those models that made people look at her on the street. She liked to have people look at her when she was well dressed. That helped her feel a bit more, a bit more, uh, free.

"Elegant clothes have helped me get ahead in life."

Seeing that the woman was understanding, Salete spoke of her past, even knowing that it was mean to put ideas in the head of a woman with neither the face nor the body to advance in life.

If she weren't always elegant, she'd still be in Dona Floripes's house on Rua Mem de Sa, near the Red Cross hospital, f.u.c.king bank tellers and salesmen. She told how she'd had the strength to disdain bad advice and bad influences, like those of the madam Floripes, who told her to save her money for the lean years: "Wh.o.r.es have a short shelf life. The b.r.e.a.s.t.s can sag overnight. And then there's cellulite. Stop spending everything on clothes and accessories." If not for the clothes and accessories, she wouldn't have been noticed by the important men she came to socialize with, politicians, people from high society, big shots in government, and today she would be wearing toilet water instead of French perfume.

"But you have to have a nicely formed body for clothes to fit well."

Around 12:30 p.m. she went for lunch at the Colombo. Magalhes said the Colombo was no longer frequented by upper-cla.s.s people like in the past, but she loved to enter that large dining room with its high mirror-covered walls, was moved by the small orchestra playing Strauss waltzes. She had seen such lovely things only in Europe, when she traveled with Magalhes.

After the movie, she took a taxi to the spiritualist center. She handed Mother Ingracia the undershorts that she had taken from Mattos's apartment for the old woman to work her magic.

When she got to her apartment, she called Magalhes and said she'd like to go to a nightclub that evening. Salete wanted to go to the Beguine, but Magalhes said he needed to meet someone at the Night and Day.

The nightclub was housed in the mezzanine of the Hotel Serrador, in Cinelndia on the corner of Rua Senador Dantas, between two movie theaters: the Odeon, on the left, and the Palacio, on the right. From the gla.s.sed-in window of the nightclub could be seen the eastern side of the congressional building, the Monroe Palace, deserted at that hour. Further to the right, the dark stain of the gardens of the Pa.s.seio Pblico stood out amidst the lights of the movie theater facades.

"Can you arrange for me to go to the tea at the Vogue, on Sundays? Yesterday I tried and wasn't allowed in."

"What do you want in that the dansant?" Magalhes knew that only rich young men and women frequented Sunday afternoons at the Vogue. They would never let a wh.o.r.e in.

"I wanted to hear Fats Elpidio's band."

"There are a thousand other places where you can hear Fats Elpidio's band. It doesn't have to be in the middle of those s.h.i.tty bourgeois canape eaters."

Shortly before the beginning of the midnight show, the matre d' brought to Magalhes a man whose dark bookkeeper's suit clashed with the tussahs, linens, and white Panamas of the other men present.

"Sit down," Magalhes said.

The man sat down, after nodding in Salete's direction in a small gesture of courtesy.

"Did the j.a.panese send the parcel?"

"Mr. Matsubara asked me to give you this," said the man drily, taking an envelope from his pocket. Only then did Magalhes realize, in the dim light of the nightclub, that the recently arrived man was a Nisei.

"Did you come directly from Marilia?" asked Magalhes, putting the envelope in his pocket? "Did you have a good trip?" he added, trying to be amiable.

The Nisei didn't reply. He stood up. "Any message for Mr. Matsubara?"

"Tell him his contribution won't be forgotten."

The man turned his back, this time without acknowledging anyone, and left.

In the envelope was a check for five hundred thousand cruzeiros, a contribution to the campaign of Deputy Roberto Alves, private secretary of the president. Recently, Matsubara had obtained a loan of sixteen million from the Bank of Brazil.

Magalhes gestured to the matre d', who came over.

"Champagne," Magalhes said.

"Any preference? We have Veuve Cliquot, Taittinger, Rene Lamotte, Mot et Chandon, Krug, Pol Roger," recited the matre d' proudly.

GREGRIO FORTUNATO WAS SURPRISED that only a few politicians, like Gustavo Capanema, noticed the mood changes that were occurring lately in the president. He had heard Capanema, who had been Mr. Getlio's secretary of education during the time of the dictatorship and was now leader of the government party in the Chamber of Deputies, whisper at a gathering, "In the twenty years I've known Getlio, he's gone from a happy and outgoing man to sad and reserved." Everyone thought the cause was age, which made people unhappy, but the president wasn't old, he was Getlio Vargas, one of those men who are ageless. Gregrio knew the reasons for the president's unhappiness: the hurt caused by all the betrayals he had suffered, the heartbreak over the cowardice of his allies. Major Fitipaldi, one of his military advisers, said that the friends of the president, who had been the beneficiaries of honors and rewards, were nothing but hypocrites and traitors. If there was a man in the world who deserved to be happy, because of all he had done for the poor and humble, that man was Getlio.

Gregrio's thoughts were interrupted by a telephone call from his wife, Juracy. They had an unpleasant exchange. The head of the guard disliked hearing her complain that he was becoming a visitor in his own home and hung up the phone.

Immediately afterward, he received a call from Magalhes.

"I've got the j.a.panese money."

"Don't say anything to Roberto. Bring the check to me."

"Won't it bother him if he finds out?"

"I've known Roberto from the time he used to clean Mr. Getlio's latrine on his ranch in Itu, when we were in exile. Don't worry about it."

"Mr. Lodi wants a meeting with you."

"I was with the deputy here in my room in the palace, I know what he wants."

"About the Cemtex license-"

"The license has already been issued. It wasn't easy. Fifty million dollars is a lot of money."

"Good lord! Is there any way to change the license to another company? That's what I wanted to talk to you about yesterday. The name of the other company is-"

"You think the government is some d.a.m.n wh.o.r.ehouse? You think anything goes? Now you come to me with that? After all the problems I faced to get the license granted?"

"The president of Cemtex was murdered. That changes everything. You could say a few words to Souza Dantas-"

"It's too late."

"Please, lieutenant, for the love of G.o.d, the license has to be transferred to that other company, Brasfesa."

"It's too late."

"Your part is at stake."

"A cat doesn't eat a man's food. Tell your friends that."

After he hung up, Gregrio jotted down on a piece of paper his conversation with Magalhes. In his home he kept a file with confidential information that he deemed important to record; in a folder he would put what he had said to Magalhes about Cemtex and Brasfesa. He needed to arrange a safe place for that folder; his relationship with Juracy was getting worse by the day, because of the woman's idiotic jealousy. "One of these days I'm going to do something crazy," she had said, in the middle of an argument. A jealous woman was capable of anything.

three.

IT WAS SIX IN THE MORNING when Mattos's telephone rang.

"It's me."

Silence.

"Remember me?" Alice.

Only three years had gone by.

"I know you like to get up early, that's why I called at this hour . . ."

It was as if he were at the edge of an abyss, ready to fall. Three years earlier he had called Alice's home, her mother had come to the phone and said that Alice didn't want to talk to him and for him not to call again.

Alice had traveled abroad, spent six months in Europe. Upon her return she had married some society type whose name he didn't remember. Three years.

On the edge of the abyss.

"I'd like to see you. Have tea. How about at the Cave? They haven't closed the Cave, have they?"

"No. I pa.s.sed by there the other day."

"Can you? Today? At five?"

"All right."

After he hung up, the inspector remembered he had an appointment with Mr. Emilio, the maestro, at 5:30 p.m. Since he had the time, as it was still early, he decided to honor Mr. Emilio by listening to La Traviata. The recording he owned, made at La Scala in Milan in 1935, wasn't complete, running only 111 minutes, lacking the aria "No, non udrai rimproveri," the Germont cabaletta at the end of Act 2, Scene 1. There were thirteen 78-rpm disks, which couldn't be stacked on the record player. Every eight minutes the inspector had to change the record. Sometimes that irritated him. So, even before hearing all the disks, still in the second act, Mattos turned off the phonograph, put the disks back in the alb.u.m, and left.

Mattos had asked Rosalvo to investigate the backgrounds of Paulo Gomes Aguiar, Claudio Aguiar, and Vitor Freitas. He hadn't mentioned Luiz Magalhes.

"Paulo Machado Gomes Aguiar," said Rosalvo, consulting a notepad in his hand, "Brazilian, white, born here in the Federal District on January 12, 1924. Father a doctor, mother a housewife, both deceased. Studied at the So Joaquim secondary school and the National Law School, where he graduated in 1947. Never practiced law. In 1950 he married Luciana Borges, a banker's daughter. Seems he married for money. In 1951 he founded the Cemtex import-export firm, which quickly became one of the largest in the country. He has contacts with high-placed government officials. Appears to be the figurehead for foreign groups. I read in the Tribuna-"

"Leave the political intrigues till the end. First the facts."

"Cemtex's shady deals are a fact. For example, the firm obtained an import license from Cexim worth fifty million dollars. The Bank of Brazil never gave that much money to anyone; it's plain as day that it's one more underhanded trick by some bigwig at the top. Gomes Aguiar was a friend of senator Vitor Freitas, who's probably one of those clearing the path for him."

"Continue."

"Gomes Aguiar had a very active social life. I went through a collection of old newspapers and saw photos of him with Vitor Freitas in the society columns. And also with his cousin and other upper-crust types, especially Pedro Lomagno, son of the late Lomagno, the coffee king."

"Continue."

"Claudio, the cousin, also studied at the So Joaquim. Then he left the country and stayed away for a long time; his father was a diplomat or some such thing. He studied economics in London. As for Senator Freitas, it's possible that he frequents the 'Senate Annex.' Those playboy senators, when they get tired of making speeches, are in the habit of crossing the street for a relaxing lay. They say the girls at the annex are marvelous."

"Where is that annex?"

"You don't know?" Rosalvo was surprised, but he pretended to be very surprised. "It's in the So Borja Building, 227 Avenida Rio Branco, right across from the Senate. Very handy. I feel like going there, but they say the madam is a tough old bird, and she's not going to rat out guys with clout just like that. It'd be good for us to meet one of the wh.o.r.es the senator is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g."

"The senator's s.e.x life doesn't interest me."

"I don't like to nose around in anybody's s.e.x life either. But the senator must be the type of john who gets off on bragging to girls in bed while drinking champagne. Lots of times we get useful information."

"You don't have the slightest notion of ethics, Rosalvo."

"Sorry, sir."

"What I'm interested in is finding out whether Gomes Aguiar had enemies, problems with partners, that sort of thing. I'm not interested in gossip, much less your ironies."

"I don't argue with you. You're my boss, and I have the greatest respect for you."

Actually, Rosalvo was afraid of the inspector. He was sure that Mattos wasn't right in the head, the faces he made, that crazy strike he'd tried to promote, that business of going unarmed to investigations, and especially his habit of not taking numbers dough-s.h.i.t, the guy rode the bus, didn't even own a car, and yet he turned up his nose at the boodle from the bankrollers. You had to be careful with a man like that.

"You're new in the police-not that I'm trying to give you lessons, who am I to do that? It's just that I'm older, almost an old man of fifty-five, thirty of them in the police. The only thing I've learned in all those years is that in a homicide there are just two motives. s.e.x and power. That's the crux. People kill only over money and p.u.s.s.y, excuse my French, or both of them together. That's the way of the world." Pause. "I have some business to take care of. Do you need me?"

"That case of the workshop? Did the boy's father show up?"

"No, sir. The boy said the old man doesn't have anybody to take care of the orange grove."

In a small automotive repair shop, in a fight, the mechanic Cosme, using a lug wrench, had hit in the head a guy who had left his car for work, killing him. The mechanic, a skinny guy, twenty-two years old, had a huge hematoma over his left eye. The shop belonged to him and his father, a Portuguese who was absent at the time of the fight, at the orange grove the family owned in Nova Iguacu. A woman, called as a witness, had complicated matters by saying she had seen a guy in a gray shirt hit the victim in the head with something. Cosme, when arrested, was wearing a red shirt.

"Is the woman back from her trip?"

"No. I went to her apartment on Friday, and no one knows when she'll return. She must have that thing you said about seeing everything in gray."

"For us to be certain whether the woman is colorblind, it's necessary to have her vision checked."

"Sir, the boy confessed. The woman's disappeared. The inquest period is ending."