Rubem Fonseca - Winning the Game and Other Stories

In the meantime I was arriving at my apartment with the high-toned blonde. She sat in the easy chair; that aura was building between us, two responsible people calmly exchanging significant glances.

“Roll the preview,” she said.

“Prepare yourself, princess, for something never before seen.”

At that instant Medeiros, the lawyer, called.

“My client, J.J. Santos, picked up a woman in the street, took her to a hotel, and when they got there he discovered it was a transvestite. The transvestite stole two thousand from my client. They had an argument, and the transvestite, armed with a razor blade, threatened to commit suicide unless he got ten thousand in cash. My client asked me for the money, which I have here with me now. We want to pay the money and put an end to the whole affair. You’re experienced in police matters, and we’d like you to take charge of the thing. No police; we’ll pay the money and want everything buried. The matter has to be covered up without a trace, understand?”

“I understand, but it’s going to cost a bundle,” I said, looking at the blonde princess beside me.

“I know, I know,” said Medeiros, “money’s no problem.”

J.J. and Viveca were inside the Mercedes, parked at the beach.

J.J. was at the wheel, as pale as a corpse. Beside him, Viveca was holding the razor blade next to her throat. She really did look like a young woman. I pulled my old wreck up beside the huge Mercedes.

“I work with Mr. Medeiros,” I said.

“Did you bring the money?” Viveca asked, brusquely.

“It was hard to arrange, today’s Saturday,” I alibied, humbly. “We’re going to get it now.”

I opened the door and pulled J.J. out.

I got in and tore off, with the door still open, leaving the dumbfounded J.J. on the sidewalk.

“Is it far? Where’s the money?” asked Viveca.

“It’s nearby,” I said, driving at high speed.

“I want my money right now, otherwise I’ll do something crazy!” Viveca screamed, cutting herself on the arm. The gesture was abrupt and violent, but the blade touched lightly on her skin, just enough to draw blood and scare the suckers.

“For God’s sake don’t do that!”

“I’ll do something crazy!” Viveca threatened.

He must not have known Rio very well, or else he didn’t know where the police stations were located. At the door of the Leblon precinct two cops were talking. I braked the car, almost on top of them, and jumped out, yelling, “Look out! The transvestite’s got a razor blade!”

Viveca leaped from the car. The situation was truly confusing for him. One of the cops approached and Viveca lashed out, cutting his hand. The cop retreated a step, pulled a .45 from his belt, and said, “Drop that piece of shit unless you wanna die right now.” Viveca hesitated. The other cop, who had approached him, gave Viveca a kick in the stomach. Viveca fell to the ground.

We all went into the precinct headquarters. There were four or five cops around us.

Viveca was crying.

“I beg the forgiveness of all the law enforcement officers here, especially the man that I injured and I’m very sorry about that. I am a man, yes, but since I was a child my mother dressed me as a girl and I always liked to play with dolls. I’m a man because my name is Jorge, but that’s the only reason. I have the soul of a woman, and I suffer because I’m not a woman and can’t have children like other women. I’m wretched. Then that man in the Mercedes picked me up at the beach and said, Come with me, boy; and I answered, I’m not a boy, I’m a woman; and he said, Woman my foot, get in, tonight I feel like something different. He said he’d pay me five hundred, and I have my mother and grandmother to support, and so I went. When we got there, besides doing all sorts of immoral things to me, he beat me and cut me with the razor blade. Then I grabbed the blade and said I’d kill myself if he didn’t give me five hundred. He said he didn’t have it and telephoned a friend of his and that man there showed up and brought me here and I lost my head, please forgive me. I’m a delicate person; I went crazy over the unfairness and the bad things they did to me.”

“What’s your client’s name?” said a suspicious cop.

“I’m not at liberty to say. He’s committed no crime. This guy’s lying,” I said.

In reality I wasn’t sure of a damned thing, but a client is a client.

“Lying! Me?!” Tears ran down Viveca’s makeup. “Just because I’m weak and poor and the other one’s rich and powerful, I’m going to be crucified?” Viveca screamed, between sobs.

“Rich people don’t run things here,” one of the cops said.

“What about that car?” said the injured cop, in the middle of the confusion. Luckily nobody else heard him.

“It’s mine, I bought it yesterday, I haven’t had time to transfer the title yet,” I said, as the cop took notes on a piece of paper.

“We’re going to wait for the commissioner,” the cop said.

“This guy stole two thousand from my client. It must be hidden somewhere on his person,” I said.

“You can frisk me. Go ahead, frisk me!” Viveca challenged, spreading his arms.

None of the policemen showed any interest in frisking Viveca. That’s when I had the flash. I grabbed Viveca’s hair and yanked it. The hair came off in my hand and four bills of five hundred flew into the air and fell to the floor.

“That’s the money he stole from my client,” I said, relieved.

“He gave it to me, he gave it to me, I swear it,” said Viveca, without much conviction.

Before they put Viveca in the lockup, they noticed he had a number of old marks on both arms. He must have used that trick several times before.

“You’ll have to wait for the commissioner,” the injured cop said.

I gave him my card. “I’ll stop by later, OK? One other thing, let’s pretend we didn’t find the money, all right? My client won’t mind.”

“We’ll need to talk with you, if not tonight, one of these days.” I looked at him and saw we’d just made a deal.

“No problem. Just give me a call,” I said.

I took off like a jet in the Mercedes. I got to the hotel and looked up the manager. I took two of the twenty notes of five hundred that I had in my pocket, gave them to him and said, “I want to see the registration card for a guest who was here a couple of hours ago.”

“I can’t do that,” he said.

I gave him two more bills. “The guy’s my client,” I said.

“I don’t want any trouble!”

“Give me the card, you sonofabitch, or you’ll have trouble you’ll never see the end of. It was a minor he had with him, and you’ll be royally screwed.”

The manager brought me the cards. There was J.J.’s full name. Profession: bank employee. Irony or lack of imagination? The other card read Viveca Lindfords, resident of Nova Iguaçu. Where the shit had he gotten that name? I put both cards in my pocket.

I rushed home. What a car that was. I’d have to transfer the title to my name backdated to Friday, for the protection of my client….I got home and went in shouting, “Princess! I’m back.” But the blonde had vanished. My pockets full of money, a Mercedes at the curb, and what? I was a sad and unlucky man. I’d never see the rich blonde again, I knew.

“YOUR BLADDER WILL HAVE TO BE removed entirely,” Roberto said. “And in these cases a place is prepared for the urine to be stored before it’s excreted. A part of your intestine will be converted into a small sac, connected to the ureters. The urine from that receptacle will be directed to a bag placed in an opening in your abdominal wall. I’m describing the procedure in layman’s terms so you can understand. The bag will be hidden by your clothes and will have to be emptied periodically. Have I been clear?”