Dying Gasp (10 page)

She’d received him with two thugs who apparently lived with her, both of whom she treated like servants, not lovers. “I understand you run a stable of girls,” she’d said.

“What’s that to you?”

“The European market. I have contacts.”

“You want me to get you whores?”

“Yes.”

The Goat drained the whiskey she’d offered him, put the glass on the table, and got to his feet.

“Forget it,” he said. “Why should I sell you any of mine? Go get your own.”

One of the two thugs, a guy with bags under his eyes, took a step forward, but the woman held up her hand.

“I want the ones you’re finished with,” she said.

“I already got people I sell them to,” The Goat said.

The guy with the bags under his eyes let out a low growl, like a watchdog, but The Goat ignored him.

“You don’t understand,” the woman said. “I want the ones you can’t sell.”

The Goat shook his head. “You don’t want them,” he said. “They’re too old.”

“Not for Europeans,” the woman said.

“Oh, yeah?” The Goat said. He sat down again and held up his empty glass.

T
HE
G
OAT’S next visit to the lodge was when he finally gave up on Marta. By that time, Carla had already purchased thirteen of his girls and had, he believed, shipped them all off to Europe.

She received him on the terrace overlooking her floating dock. The whiskey she offered him was brought by a
capanga
— tough guy—with bags under his eyes.

“Thanks,” The Goat said.

The capanga grunted like a pig and made himself scarce. While The Goat was making his proposition, the mayor’s yacht went by. The old buzzard was sitting there in the stern with one of The Goat’s girls. They were being served drinks by a guy in a white coat who The Goat knew for a fact was on the city payroll.

The Goat waved and the mayor waved back.

“How come you’re being so generous?” Carla said, when The Goat was finished with his sales pitch.

“What do you mean?” The Goat said innocently.

“Come off it,” she said. “I get your rejects. I know that. It’s fine. It suits my clientele. But now you come along and tell me you want to sell one of your young ones. What’s wrong with her?”

The Goat looked pained. “She’s trouble,” he admitted.

“Trouble?”

“I couldn’t break her. I tried everything, but I couldn’t break her.”

The tip of Carla’s tongue came out. She licked her upper lip.

“She’s still a virgin?” she said.

“Yeah, a virgin.”

“Why don’t you fuck her yourself? That should bring her around.”

“It won’t. She’s like a wildcat. She’d bite off my ear or something.”

“Tape her mouth shut. Tie her spread-eagled so she can’t move.”

The Goat sighed and shook his head. “You don’t have to teach me my business,” he said. “If I thought it would help, I’d do it. But it wouldn’t. I could never trust her with a customer.”

“So what you’re basically asking is if I’ll take her off your hands?”

The Goat took a pensive sip of his whiskey.

“Maybe in Europe she’d act differently, being so far away and all. Maybe she’d even like being over there. It’s a different life. I met a girl once, friend of my middle sister. She worked in Switzerland, later in Holland. Got enough money to come back here and buy a house. Except she didn’t come back here. She went to Bahia.”

“What kind of shape is she in?”

“Over the hill. She admits to being thirty-seven, but I think she’s at least—”

“Not your sister’s friend. The girl.”

“Split lip, chipped tooth, some bruises. Look at this.” He displayed his discolored hand. “I hit myself while I was taking a hose to her. It made me mad, and I kind of got carried away. Beat her like I never beat anybody, and when I was finished she spit in my face.”

“Messed her up, did you?”

The Goat shook his head.

“I know how to hit a girl. She’s not too bad. Give her a couple of weeks, and she’ll be as good as new—except for the tooth.”

“So I’d have to keep her until her looks improve?”

“Her looks aren’t that bad now. Anyway, we could do a deal. You pay me up front, and I’ll keep her for you.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred a week.”

“Don’t make me laugh. At those prices, I’d keep her myself.” “So you’re interested,” The Goat said.

She made him wait for an answer.

“Maybe I could use her,” she said.

The Goat started to smile.

“However,” she continued, “if I took a chance on somebody like that, there’s no way I’d pay you full price.”

The Goat’s smile became a scowl.

“You mean full price for a chick.”

In the parlance of the trade, a chick was a girl under eighteen. Hens, girls who looked older, were cheaper.

“No, not the full price for a chick,” she said. “And not even the full price for a hen. Tell you what: I’ll give you two thousand American dollars.”

“Two thousand? You’ve got to be kidding. She’s worth more than that.”

“To whom? You think you can get a better deal? Two thousand and that’s it. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” The Goat said.

Carla went inside to get the money. The Goat sat there, watching the river, remembering the day The Kiss had called him, remembering the dead paulistano’s flabby body, the way he looked when he’d seen him last, his organ still partially distended.

Unpleasant thoughts.

Like his conversation with Chief Pinto about the federal cop.

Carla came outside again with a glass of beer in one hand and a wad of banknotes in the other.

She sat down, put the beer on the table and started counting the money. When she finished he scooped it up, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

“When do you want to pick her up?” he said.

“Tomorrow. Around noon.”

She took a sip of her beer.

“Suits me,” The Goat said. “There’s something else I gotta talk to you about.”

She didn’t say anything, just sat waiting for him to tell her. “There’s a federal cop snooping around town,” he said.

She suddenly got very still. Her eyes locked on his.

“How do you know that?” she said.

“Chief Pinto. He tells me things.”

“And what did he tell you about this federal cop?”

“It’s like this: a while back a request came in from Brasilia, asking about Damião Rodrigues. Remember him?”

“Sure I remember him,” she said. “That pistoleiro. Friend of Chief Pinto’s.”

“‘Friend’ is a stretch. More like a business associate. By the way, have you seen him around lately?”

“No.”

“Me neither. Funny. He hardly ever missed a Friday night. Anyway, the federals had a picture of him. They asked the Manaus PD to match it with a name.”

“And?”

“And they did, and it was Damião. The clerk who handled it, some rookie, shot off a reply before checking with his boss. Asshole. Trying to show how efficient he was.”

“And then?”

“Chief Pinto heard about it. He knew Damião did me the occasional favor, knew I wouldn’t appreciate having the federal police mucking around.”

Carla sipped her beer. She feigned unconcern, but he didn’t buy it. She was definitely acting.

“Pinto called in the clerk and reamed him,” he said, “told him to make himself scarce. Then he trashed the file, told the feds it had gone missing and the clerk had quit.”

Carla put down her glass so violently that it was a wonder it didn’t break.

“It sounds to me,” she said, “like there are at least
two
assholes in the Manaus PD, and one of them is Chief Pinto. Didn’t it occur to him that acting like that would bring the feds down on him like a swarm of hornets?”

“Apparently not. Anyway, the swarm turned out to be just one guy. He started asking questions about the exploitation of minors and all that kind of crap. He had authorizations from the mayor and the governor, and he wanted personal access to the archives. The chief said he’d be happy to help. The Fed said no, he’d do it himself, and he didn’t want any company. One of the chief’s guys peeped through a crack in the door while the fed was working. The fed had a bunch of photos, and he was comparing them to rap sheets from the archive.”

Carla’s pupils seemed to dilate. Her eyes hadn’t left his. Her mouth was slightly open.

“This federal cop,” she said, “what’s his name?”

The Goat rubbed his forehead.

“Armando something . . . or maybe Arlando something.” “Not Costa,” she said. “Not Hector Costa.”

The Goat shook his head.

“The chief told me, but I really don’t—”

“Silva?” she said. “Mario Silva?”

“Silva?”

Now, she’d surprised him.

“Silva?” he repeated. “Hell, no. Not him. Him, I woulda remembered. What makes you think a big shot like Silva would be interested in people like us? Unless, maybe, there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Nonsense.”

“Is there?”

“What is this?” she said. “An inquisition?”

The Goat sat back in his chair and took another sip of whiskey.

“All right, Carla,” he said. “I don’t tell you my business, why should you tell me yours? But you’d better make goddamned sure that yours doesn’t interfere with mine. And if the feds pick you up, you’d better keep your mouth shut. You don’t say a word about me. Not a goddamned word, understand?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Are you threatening me?” she asked.

The Goat drained his glass and stood up.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

Chapter Sixteen

W
HEN
T
HE
G
OAT LEFT, she summoned Hans and Otto.

Hans Hauser and Otto Weil were descendants of Bavarian immigrants who’d settled in the southern state of Santa Catarina. Their ancestors’ reluctance to mix their blood with that of inferior races like the Portuguese, Spanish, and Italians who’d also populated the region resulted in inbreeding. Physically, the effect had been minimal. Both were splendid specimens of Teutonic manhood. Mentally, though, it was a different story. They were, moreover, as mean-spirited as they were stupid. They’d been the kind of children who’d beat up smaller kids on the playground, drowned stray cats, and pulled the wings off butterflies. Then they’d grown up and graduated to theft, rape, and murder.

Hans, being slightly more intelligent, was the leader of the pair. He had long blond hair and a moustache that made him look like a Viking. The hair and moustache turned heads on the street, even back home in Santa Catarina and especially in Manaus, where blond hair was rare.

Otto’s salient features (apart from the tattoos on his upper arms, one of which was a dagger dripping blood and the other a girl who’d wiggle her hips if he’d tighten his bicep in a certain way) were the bags under his eyes.

Claudia had never seen him without those dark circles. She wasn’t sure if they were there because Otto never got enough sleep, or whether they were simply part of his physiognomy. Distressed at having to stare into those dark pits every time she looked at him, she’d taken to buying him sunglasses. He kept losing them, one pair after the other.

They sat in front of her like a couple of Rottweilers expecting dinner while Claudia told them about the federal cop who was poking around in the police archives.

“I want you to follow him,” she said. “Make damned sure he doesn’t notice you.”

“He won’t,” Hans said. “We’re good at that.”

“What do you want us to do with him?” Otto said.

“I just told you.”

“I mean after we follow him,” he said.

“Take a camera,” she said. “Take photos. I want to know what that federal cop looks like.”

“You think he’s after us?” Hans said.

“Maybe.”

“Why maybe?”

She considered how much to tell them. After a long moment, she said, “Arie Schubski, my distributor in Amsterdam. The police got him.”

“Merda,” Hans said. “Somebody should go over there and shut that bastard up before he spills his guts.”

The implication was that the “somebody” should be Hans himself. Mostly, it was Otto who got to do the bag work, carrying tapes to the Netherlands and bringing the money back. Hans had been angling to be chosen for the next delivery, but a murder would do just as well. Claudia knew how his mind worked. He was already thinking about getting high in one of those coffeehouses and fucking a blond girl.

She shook her head.

“What Arie had to tell,” she said, “he’s already told. Besides, he didn’t know a hell of a lot. Not even my real name.”

“So what brought the federals to Manaus?”

“That’s what we’ve got to find out,” she said.

Apparently, it didn’t occur to Hans that she might be lying to him as well.

“I dunno,” Otto said. “Maybe we should just keep out of his way. Maybe lay low for a while.” Otto was the dumber one of the duo. He’d been caught more often. It had made him cautious.

“Let me do the thinking,” she said. “You just do what you’re told: follow the federal, make sure he doesn’t know he’s being followed, take photos.”

“You’re the boss,” Hans said.

“You’re goddamned right I am,” she said.

W
HEN
H
ANS and Otto left, she sat down and contemplated her next move.

Now that she’d struck a deal for the girl, she was anxious to get started. It had been too long between videos, and she was beginning to feel restless. Restless wasn’t perhaps the right word, but it had been the word her uncle Ugo always used when he came to her in the night.

“I’m feeling restless,” he’d say. Then he’d ruffle up her nightgown. He always cried afterwards. She was only eleven at the time, and often she’d cried with him. Then he’d wipe away his tears, and hers, and tell her that she mustn’t ever tell anyone what they’d been doing, “because then they wouldn’t let us do it anymore.”

As if she cared. She didn’t care about sex then; she didn’t care about it now. And she didn’t cry anymore either. About anything.

The Goat’s description of her latest acquisition had intrigued her. She rather liked the idea of a girl who was a virgin and would fight to stay that way. Her customers were accustomed to seeing girls willingly submit to the sex, sometimes even get actively involved in it, before being surprised by the sudden turn of events. Now, she’d be able to offer them something different: a girl who struggled from the very beginning, a girl who’d be beaten bloody before she was penetrated.

She began thinking about a protagonist, the man who’d do the raping and the killing. One thing Arie Schubski had taught her, and he’d taught her a great deal in that single meeting of theirs, was that anyone shown on camera couldn’t be left alive.

“It’s bad for me,” Arie had said, “and bad for you too. They get nabbed, sure as hell they’re going to squeal. They’re the only ones who don’t have deniability. What they’ve done is right there for all to see, and they’ll be looking for a deal with the prosecutors. You have to prevent that. You have to kill ’em all, or we don’t do business.”

He’d been right, of course. Just as he’d been right about covering the snuff in one continuous shot, without intercuts; right about the trick of opening up the aperture on the lens so the blood wouldn’t be underexposed and register as black, rather than a rich, full red; right about the value added of leaving the volume control on the microphone open to capture the victim’s dying gasp.

Arie was a man who knew his business, knew all the ins and outs, knew the technical side, knew what his clients liked. But she wouldn’t miss him. She could trust The Surinamer to come up with another distributor. The Surinamer could always get you anything you wanted, drugs, false papers, anything. He could have people killed, even Dutch cops. All you needed was the money to pay him. She could have used a man like The Surinamer right now, but he was far away, in Amsterdam. She’d have to make do with what she had.

She looked at her watch. It was still early enough to call Chief Pinto and invite him to lunch. Some good whiskey, a wad of banknotes handed across the table in a white envelope, and he’d get cracking, probably suggest someone suitable for testing within a day or two.

Her story to the chief was always the same: some friends of hers, friends in Europe, needed someone for a job, someone who could get tough, someone who could get very tough if the situation warranted it.

All the people the chief suggested wound up disappearing for good. He wasn’t stupid. He’d noted that. He’d even mentioned it once.

“Maybe they like it over there,” she’d said. “Maybe they finished the job and decided to stay.”

“All of them? Every last one of them?”

“You know how many illegal Brazilian immigrants there are in Europe?”

The chief had told her he had no idea and that he, frankly, didn’t give a shit.

“Good riddance,” he’d said. “They were all punks anyway.”

But since that conversation he’d never again fed her people whose services he might be able to use in future.

SÃO PAULO

Decades earlier

T
HE FUNERAL Claudia Andrade’s parents planned to attend was that of a great-aunt, but they never made it. On the way, their car was broadsided by a truck. Both were killed instantly. It drew newspaper headlines at the time due to the irony of their being on the way to a funeral and winding up at their own.

But Claudia’s parents, owners of six fast-food franchises, were really nothing more than glorified shopkeepers. Nothing other than wealth distinguished them. Their case was soon forgotten.

Claudia had been seven, her brother, Omar, two years younger. He’d been a momma’s boy, deemed too young to attend the double burial, so Claudia, the one who’d always avoided her mother’s embraces, was the one who got lifted up over the coffin.

“Kiss your mother good-bye,” her uncle Leonardo told her.

Claudia did as she was told, dutifully pressing her lips against the dead woman’s cheek. Her mother’s flesh was cold. Claudia reacted by making spitting noises and rubbing her mouth. Everybody knew Claudia was a strange little girl. They didn’t blame her for making a scene. They blamed Leonardo. He shouldn’t have done what he did. The Andrade family hated scenes. They remembered the incident, but Claudia promptly forgot all about it. She hadn’t been particularly fond of either one of her parents. She hadn’t been particularly fond of anyone.

It was another five years before it occurred to her that death was worth thinking about. Then, two weeks before her thirteenth birthday, she had an epiphany. She was living, then, with her Aunt Tamara, her mother’s spinster sister. School was over for the day. She and her brother were walking home. Omar was running on ahead, holding his books in one arm and squeezing his crotch with the other. He was desperate to get to a bathroom before he peed in his pants.

He crossed the street in front of the house, flung open the gate, and ran up the steps, ignoring the family dog, a miniature dachshund named Gretel. Claudia had never once scratched Gretel behind her ears, never once given her food, and yet the animal lavished her with unrequited affection. The dachshund dashed out through the open gate and started to run across the street.

Her happy barks were cut off with a loud
thump
and a wail of pain. The car, a black Ford LTD with tinted windows, never slowed down. Whether the driver was a man or a woman would remain a mystery. The cops weren’t about to waste their time trying to hunt down someone who’d done a hit-and-run on a dog.

Gretel rolled over and over and came to rest in the gutter at Claudia’s feet. She was still alive—barely—but she was bleeding from the mouth and panting for breath. Claudia put a hand on the soft, reddish-brown fur. She could feel Gretel’s heart, fluttering, fluttering. Then, suddenly, it stopped.

Claudia shuddered. Her head began to spin. She sensed a shortness of breath, a sharpening of her senses, a wetness between her thighs.

It was . . . wonderful.

They buried Gretel in a corner of the back yard. Omar cried at the funeral and planted a cross of two sticks bound together with kite string.

Claudia squeezed out a tear or two, but more to make Omar feel guilty than from any sense of loss. Head down, hands over her eyes, she found herself thinking . . . thinking.
Would they catch me if I killed the parakeet? How about our cat?
How would it be to be present at the death of a human being,
instead of a mere dog?

It was then and there, standing over that little mound of earth, that Claudia Andrade decided what she was going to do with her life.

She was going to preside over deaths.

Last moments, for thirteen-year-old Claudia Andrade, were profoundly exciting, more so than boys, toys, parties, pretty clothes, more so than anything.

She’d never, ever, be able to get enough of them.

MANAUS

Present Day

T
HE DOOR of the aircraft opened to suffocating heat, a strong smell of rotting vegetation, and a weaker one of decomposing fish.

Arnaldo was waiting in the shadow of the terminal building.

The three of them shook hands and started walking.

“It’s Hector’s first visit to Manaus,” Silva said.

“Lucky bastard,” Arnaldo said. “This is my fifth.”

Just ahead, facing them, was a tourist, snapping photographs. When the guy lowered the camera Silva caught a glimpse of deep bags under heavy-lidded eyes.

On the way to the hotel, Arnaldo reviewed his conversations with Father Vitorio. Then he handed them the original rap sheets of Carlos Queiroz and Nestor Porto, the ones he’d lifted from the archives of the Manaus PD.

The photographs were much more legible than on the faxes received in Brasilia. There was no mistake. They were the same men who’d been seen performing on two of the snuff videos.

Queiroz and Porto shared two common features: protuberant lower jaws and piglike eyes. They looked like members of some primitive tribe.

“You take Queiroz,” Silva said to Hector. “I’ll take Porto.” “How about me?” Arnaldo said.

“You hate those archives, don’t you?” Silva said. “The reception you got from Coimbra and his people, the dust, the heat?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“So stick with it. See what else you can come up with.”

Arnaldo let out a sigh. “This is penance for that Hotel Plaza business, isn’t it?” he said.

N
UMBER TWENTY-SEVEN Rua da Independencia, Queiroz’s last known address, was five stories of mildewed brick with a shop window on the ground floor. Beyond the glass, which looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in Hector’s lifetime, were religious articles: bibles of all sizes, hymnals, plastic statues of saints, icons of the Virgin Mary, rosaries, portraits of the Pope.