Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

A tall, dark-complexioned man with a mustache curling around the corners of his mouth followed the inspector to the bus stop. When Mattos caught the bus, the man did the same and sat two rows behind.

Mattos was followed to the door of his home, without noticing the tall man tailing him. In reality, spying on a policeman wasn’t a demanding task. In the days when he tried to organize the strike against overcrowding in the jails, members of the reserve from headquarters had shadowed him for weeks without his being aware of it.

When he entered his apartment, the phone was ringing.

A man with a hoarse voice, perhaps disguised behind a handkerchief, said slowly:

“Listen, sir, this isn’t a joke. There’s a guy trying to kill you. Keep your eyes open. He’s tall, dark, and has a mustache. A dangerous hired gun.”

Mattos heard the sound of the connection being cut. Immediately afterward, the doorbell rang.

The inspector unlocked the small peephole in the door. The face of a man, dark-complexioned, with a mustache, appeared.

“Sir, I’m here to report a crime.”

“Look for me at the precinct.”

“It’s about crimes committed by policemen in your precinct. I’m afraid to go there. I phoned you yesterday.”

The inspector closed the peephole. He opened the door.

“What’s all this, sir? You’re confusing me,” said the man when he saw the revolver in Mattos’s hand.

“Enter,” said Mattos.

“There must be some mistake.”

Mattos closed the door with his foot.

“I don’t understand,” said the visitor. “My name is Ibrahim Assad. I’m a commercial representative.”

“Turkish?”

“Lebanese. Second generation. I was born in Minas. Want to see my ID?” The man gestured with his left hand toward his inside coat pocket.

“Not just yet.”

There was a pair of handcuffs in the bookcase. Without taking his eyes off Assad, he got them. Mattos had never used the handcuffs and had lost his key. But that was a problem that could wait.

“Sit, on the floor.”

Assad sat.

“Take these cuffs.” Mattos threw the handcuffs to Assad, who caught them in the air using his left hand.

“Put one of them on your left wrist.”

“You can’t do this to me. I’m not a criminal,” protested Assad.

“If this is an arbitrary act on my part, I apologize in advance. Put on the handcuff the way I ordered. Close it. Now put the other ring around the ankle of your right leg. I said the right leg. Close it. Cross your legs and you’ll be more comfortable.”

Assad crossed his legs.

Mattos placed the revolver on the table. He took an antacid from his pocket and as he chewed it, observed the man sitting on the floor. The guy was calm and alert; he was also observing the inspector.

Mattos searched Assad. He took his ID card. The green wallet bore a silver design of the Brazilian coat of arms and the words, also silver: United States of Brazil. Federal District Police. Félix Pacheco Institute. Identification Card.

Mattos opened the small wallet. On one side: Register 749468. This wallet belongs to Ibrahim Assad Filho, born in Minas Gerais on August 12, 1912, the son of Ibrahim Assad and Farida Assad, Brazilian nationality, Rio de Janeiro, December 21, 1943. Over two stamps, a green one for three hundred réis and a red one for two hundred réis , was the signature José M. Carvalho, Director . On the other side of the card, a photo of Ibrahim Assad, next to the words Photograph invalid without Institute stamp ; an impression of his right thumbprint, and the fingerprint file number: Series V.4333, Section V.2222; and Assad’s signature.

The FN pistol of shining black metal was under Assad’s right arm, in a white leather holster. Mattos examined the weapon. He ejected the bullet that was in the chamber.

“Did you come here to kill me?”

“No, sir. That’s absurd.”

“Then why did you invade my house?”

“Invade your house? Sir, you pointed a gun in my face and ordered me inside. I came to register a complaint.”

“What was the complaint?”

“Now I’m afraid to say anything. After the way you received me.”

“Your pistol had a bullet in the chamber.”

“A pistol always has to be like that, doesn’t it, sir?”

“That’s true.” Another antacid.

“Why do you go around armed? Since when does a commercial representative need to carry a weapon?”

“There’s a lot of outlaws running around the city. And I travel a lot. It’s a beauty, don’t you agree?”

“Who gave the order to kill me?”

“That’s absurd. I’m not here to kill you.”

“Who told you to come here. . to visit me?”

“No one. The idea just came into my head, sir. I wanted to lodge a complaint against the corrupt cops in your precinct who take numbers money.”

“In general, people have nothing against the numbers game. Why’d you come here to make that accusation?”

“You misunderstood, sir. I’m not against the numbers game. I’m against corrupt policemen. Since they told me you’re an honest man, I decided to lodge my accusation with you.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“The judge will.”

Mattos’s stomach began to ache. He put the gun against Old Turk’s head.

“I can put a bullet in your head right now and toss your carcass in the Sapucaia landfill.”

“You’re not the kind of man who does such an awful thing.”

Mattos sat down in the chair in the living room.

“Could you get me a glass of water, please?”

Mattos called the precinct and asked for a patrol car.

He filled a glass with water from the filter and gave it to the handcuffed man.

ROSALVO HAD SET UP THE MEETING with his former colleague from Robbery and Theft at the Avenida dance hall, downtown.

Rosalvo, who liked dancing with the taxi-girls, arrived early. He bought a punch-card for the dances, sat down, ordered a gin and tonic, and watched the girls sitting along a row of chairs on one side of the room. He was especially interested in a mulatto woman, slim but not overly so, the protuberance of her rear end showed that she was well padded with flesh in the right place. Rosalvo liked mulatto women and justified that preference by claiming he was the “grandson of a Portuguese.”

He took the girl to dance a bolero.

“I’d like to take you home later,” said Rosalvo. He was a practical man and didn’t like to waste time on small talk.

“We’ll see about that later,” said Cleyde, the dancer. She was practical as well and sensed that she had latched onto an old sucker good for several punches on her card that night. The more punches, the more she earned.

When Teodoro arrived, Cleyde’s card had been punched six times, three boleros, two sambas, one fox trot. “I’ll be right back,” Rosalvo told the dancer at the end of the dance.

Rosalvo and Teodoro sat down at a special table chosen by the former. Teodoro apologized for being late.

His eye on Cleyde, who was now dancing with a fat bald man who had a diamond ring on his finger, Rosalvo said, “Let’s get right to it.”

“What’s that Inspector Mattos like?”

“A crazy troublemaker. Intelligent but naïve. A straight arrow, you know the type.”

“What’s your relationship with him?”

“He eats out of my hand.”

“Explain that.”

“He doesn’t trust anybody at the precinct but me.”

“What’s his interest in Senator Freitas?”

“What’s in it for me if I spill the beans?”

“A transfer to Vice.”

“He’s investigating the senator’s backroom deals.”

“The senator doesn’t make backroom deals.”