Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

“I got a wife and five kids to support,” said Alcino.

They were at Climerio’s house, 32 Rua Sicupira, in Cachambi, where Alcino had gone to settle on the details of his undertaking. Climerio picked up a leather briefcase, and they left.

They walked down the dusty unpaved street. In the middle of the street a group of urchins were playing marbles. Climerio was fat; Alcino, short and skinny.

“When I was a kid, I was real good at that,” said Climerio, looking at the boys. “How about you? Were you good at marbles, too?”

“I used to like building carts with ball bearings for wheels. Ever since I was a kid, I liked doing carpentry stuff. I don’t know why I liked that profession,” Alcino lamented.

“Your life as unemployed carpenter is over,” said Climerio, clapping Alcino on the back.

Climerio’s words failed to assuage Alcino. The obligation he had taken on of killing that journalist had become endless agony for him. But it had been the way he had found of satisfying his lifelong dream, to have a house of his own, for he was constantly late in paying his monthly rent of five hundred and fifty cruzeiros for the house where he lived. Since May Climerio had been advancing him the rent money. As well as money for groceries. His wife Abigail, on one occasion, had gone to Climerio’s house to receive a thousand cruzeiros; other times she had received two hundred.

They took a bus to Méier. In Méier they took a taxi.

“Rua Barão de Mesquita,” Climerio told the driver. Their final destination was the São José school, where the journalist Lacerda was to make a speech.

They got off at a bus stop on Barão de Mesquita.

“Wait here,” said Climerio.

Climerio went into a bar and asked to use the phone. He dialed.

“Is Nelson there?”

He wasn’t. Climerio made several phone calls trying to locate Nelson Raimundo de Souza, the driver of the taxi in which they planned to flee after Alcino killed Lacerda. He finally left a message for Nelson to come find him on Barão de Mesquita, at the bar whose address he left with the person taking the message.

Climerio went to the bus stop to look for Alcino. The pair, now back at the bar, drank beer as they waited for the cab driver to arrive.

“Is this Nelson guy reliable?” asked Alcino.

“I’ve known him a long time. He stations his cab on Silveira Martins, that street beside the palace. I see him practically every day.”

Night fell.

“The Crow is gonna leave, and that son of a bitch Nelson doesn’t show up,” said Climerio. If he failed again, Gregório would skin him alive.

Nelson arrived shortly before ten that evening.

“Goddammit! Where the hell have you been?”

“I got your message an hour ago,” said the cabbie.

The three got into Nelson’s Studebaker taxi. First, Alcino noted the license plate, 5-60-21. “Tomorrow I’m gonna play those numbers.”

They stopped on a cross-street with Barão de Mesquita, near the São José school. Climerio opened the leather briefcase and took out a.45 revolver. The weapon, a Smith & Wesson, had been stolen in 1949 from the Second Infantry Regiment in the military compound, by the sergeant who was head of the regimental arsenal. That sergeant had sold it to another sergeant. It had been bought and sold several times, until it was acquired by José Antonio Soares.

Alcino’s hands trembled when he held the gun. He’d never had a.45 in his hands. The steel was cold, and the weapon seemed to possess enormous weight.

“All you have to do is pull the trigger, and this cannon will do the job for you.”

Climerio gave Alcino six more bullets, which Alcino put in his pocket after sticking the revolver in his belt.

They got out of the car. Alcino remained close to the entrance to the school. Climerio posted himself at the door. The plan was to kill Lacerda as soon as he appeared. The pair would take advantage of the confusion to flee.

INSPECTOR PÁDUA TOOK OFF HIS COAT; his short-sleeve shirt displayed his white, muscular arms. In a holster under his arm, a snub-nosed revolver with a two-inch barrel. He had just made the entries for his shift in the blotter. Mattos, who would relieve him, sat down beside him.

“You planning to release the bums I caught on my shift?”

“If I think I should release them, I’ll release them.”

Pádua had the tic of repeatedly contracting his voluminous arm muscles when nervous. His muscles began to shudder and jump. Pádua had thought about killing this idiot Mattos the first time he had released the criminals he had caught, but he had checked himself upon learning that the guy wasn’t on the take from anyone, something rare in the department, a perfect white-hat.

“Let’s imagine a situation, Mattos. You’re walking down a street here in our jurisdiction at two in the morning and see a suspicious-looking guy standing on a corner.”

“What’s suspicious-looking?”

“Shit, Mattos, a guy standing on a corner in the middle of the night is always suspicious.”

“Especially if he’s black.”

“Shit, damn right. You’re walking down a street in our district at two in the morning and see a black guy standing on a corner. What can a black guy be doing at that hour? Or even some shitheel white? I’ll tell you what he’s doing: waiting for somebody to mug or looking for a house to rob. I’m gonna arrest the son of a bitch. A cautionary measure pure and simple. Then I’ll send for his record. If he’s clean, I’ll cut the fucker loose.”

This topic had been debated between the two of them before. Whenever Mattos relieved Pádua, they had a similar discussion. Pádua believed he would one day convince Mattos that his point of view was correct in every aspect.

“That stuff of St. Thomas Aquinas that it’s preferable to acquit a hundred guilty men rather than convict one innocent man is bullshit. Pure fairy tale. It’s not by that kind of thinking that we’re gonna protect decent people. What is it you’re afraid of? The shitty, corrupt, illiterate press? That cocksucker of a con man who’s our superintendent? The city’s been handed over to the criminals, and cowardly philosophies like that are nothing but the excuses of self-serving cops who wanna run away from their responsibilities.”

In earlier days, Mattos would get irritated with Pádua, and the two would argue heatedly. Now, he was just bored.

“Changing the subject, did you meet the madam at the Senate Annex?”

“Why?”

“I need to know if a certain guy frequented her trysting place.”

“A senator?”

“Yes.”

“Some of the guys I hauled in yesterday have a record, I guarantee you,” said Pádua craftily.

“I’m very sorry, if you want to help me, I’m grateful, but I’m not going to bargain with you. Anyone brought in just for questioning I send home. Shit, Pádua, the lockup is full of poor devils, and you want to throw more wretches in there.”

“Wretches? Fucking hell, you’re one stubborn guy.”

“So are you.”

Pádua’s muscles twitched convulsively, as if an electric current had coursed through them. He put on his coat.

“Shit. Holy fuck, Mattos, you’re gonna drive me crazy. I’m gonna end up as batty as you.” Pause. “We’re going to the Senate Annex this afternoon.”

THE PORTUGUESE ADELINO, father of Cosme, a short, stocky man with gray hair, arrived at the precinct around three in the afternoon. He was taken to Mattos.

They were alone in the inspector’s office.

“Have a seat.”

Adelino sat on the edge of the chair. He avoided making eye contact with the inspector, who stood beside him.

“Your son is in a bad situation. . He was caught in the act. . When the police got there, the guy was dying. . You were there, weren’t you, in the workshop?”