Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

Three shots rang out. The agreed-upon signal that the hunt was over. It was eight a.m.

At eleven, Climerio was disembarking in handcuffs from a helicopter at the military base at Galeão, to the sound of cheers and jubilation. His wife, Elvira de Almeida, had been arrested that morning.

Brigadier Eduardo Gomes, the opposition military leader, was immediately informed of the fugitive’s capture. No thought was given to informing the secretary of the air force, Nero Moura, with the same rapidity. In any case, he was to be replaced that same day by a new secretary, Brigadier Epaminondas. But neither of them was respected by air force officialdom. The de facto secretary was Eduardo Gomes.

IN HIS FORTRESS IN BANGU, Eusébio de Andrade met with his fellow bankers Aniceto Moscoso and Ilídio.

“Did you get the summons yet?”

“Not yet. But the clerk told me it’s coming.”

“That inspector is going to give us trouble yet,” said Aniceto.

“He’s already giving us trouble,” said Ilídio.

“I’m not talking about this. This is something you created,” said Aniceto.

“I already spoke to my lawyer,” said Ilídio.

“You need to change lawyers. That peg leg can’t get it up.” Aniceto and Moscoso laughed; Ilídio’s attorney actually did have a mechanical leg.

“He fell off the streetcar when he was a student,” Ilídio said.

“We can’t have lawyers who fall off the streetcar,” said Eusébio. “Go into a sanatorium this very day, one of those that specialize in rest cures. There’s a very good one at Alto da Gávea. Spend a week there. When the summons arrives, send the peg leg with a medical certificate to say you’re sick. In the meantime, we’re going to act on another front, aren’t we, Aniceto?”

“We’ll find a way. It’ll cost money, your money, Ilídio, but we’ll get out of this jam.”

“Is it going to be a lot?”

“Whatever it takes. That’ll teach you to go off half-cocked.”

“I’VE GOT TO GIVE Senator Freitas some information. He’s pressuring me.”

Rosalvo remained silent, meditating.

“You told me the inspector is investigating a homicide in which the senator may be involved. Just what crime are we talking about?”

Teodoro, the Senate security officer, and Rosalvo, aide to Inspector Mattos, were conversing in a restaurant on General Osório Square, in Ipanema.

“Remember that rich guy who turned up dead in the Deauville Building?”

“Is that the case?”

“The high roller was involved in under-the-table business with the senator, import licenses obtained fraudulently from the Cexim, along with other backroom deals. He knew too much, and he got killed.”

“And the inspector thinks it was the senator who killed the guy?”

“His conclusion is that the senator ordered the killing, to hide his role in the larceny.”

“Does the inspector have proof or is it all supposition, a hunch?”

“I don’t know.”

The waiter brought pork loin with manioc flour.

“There’s a rumor that the senator’s a fruit,” said Rosalvo.

“How can you say that! Some people have the habit of calling any fellow who’s not married a pansy. The senator’s a man.”

“Could be a bull dyke.”

“Impossible. If he were, I’d know.”

“Don’t go telling the senator what I said.”

“No way! The senator will get rid of me if I say something like that to him.”

“Inspector Mattos is crazy. Real crazy, the kind who talks to himself and tears up money. Tell the senator that. He has to be careful with him.”

TEODORO LOST NO TIME telling Clemente what Rosalvo had said. The part referring to the senator’s possible homosexuality was omitted.

“I’ll talk to the senator about this. .”

Clemente stared at Teodoro for a long time, until he detected nervousness in his expression. “Can we trust you?”

“But of course, sir.”

“Can the senator trust you? Blindly?”

Teodoro paled.

“The senator will know how to reward that trust,” continued Clemente.

“Whatever the senator asks, not asks, orders, I’ll do.”

Ordering the killing of political adversaries, Clemente said, was common in the interior of Brazil, even more so in Pernambuco, the senator’s home state, but in Rio de Janeiro, capital of the Republic, it was rarer, for one simple reason: it was difficult to find a killer “of faith.” A killer so reliable that if caught he would never reveal who hired him. After this long buildup, Clemente stared at Teodoro and said:

“The senator wants to get rid of that inspector. Could you do it?”

“Me?!”

“The senator has confidence in you.”

“Mr. Clemente, I know someone better than me.”

“Our man can’t be some asshole like that Alcino of the Rua Tonelero business. Who’s the man?”

“My brother.”

“Your brother? I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“He’s the black sheep of the family. He’s been in and out of trouble since he was a boy. He can do what the senator wants. He’s a tough guy from Pernambuco. If he gets caught, he won’t open his mouth; he’ll kill himself first. But that won’t happen. My brother has already killed over twenty people, and they’ve never laid a finger on him. You know who killed the mayor of Caruaru? The chief of police in Maceió? It was him. He’s killed politicians, soldiers, priests. He’s very good.”

“What’s his name?”

“Genésio.”

“Does he live in Rio?”

“Recife. But just call him and he comes, does the job, and takes it on the lam the same day.”

“Then tell him to come right away. By plane. The senator’s in a hurry. As soon as — Genésio, isn’t it? — gets here, let me know. If everything goes well, that appointment for your wife will go through right away. You have a nineteen-year-old son, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The senator can arrange something for him, too.”

Meanwhile, in his office, Senator Freitas was receiving his main electoral supporter, a plantation owner known as “Colonel” Linhares. The “colonel” informed him that he was buying false voting papers for the October election for five cruzeiros apiece.

“Here in the State of Rio the same papers can be bought for two, three cruzeiros at most,” protested Freitas. “You think I have a printing press to manufacture money like Oswaldo Aranha?”

“I brought you a bottle of your cherry liqueur,” said Linhares.

“Don’t change the subject. You’ve got to get the voting papers for less. I doubt if my opponents are paying all that.”

“I’ll see what I can do, senator. Now try the liqueur. Try it, it’s really very good.”

THE INSPECTOR BEGAN THE DAY by going to have an x-ray done of his stomach.

The doctor’s office was in Copacabana, on Rua Barata Ribeiro. The inspector saw in the street many women carrying on their heads and in their hands cans, buckets, pots, and teakettles filled with water.

“I don’t even have water to wash my hands,” was the first thing the radiologist told him. “My wife went out this morning with the maid. It’s absurd. She didn’t even make breakfast. Yesterday it was the same thing. My children’s school closed for lack of water, and there haven’t been any classes for three days. I’m washing my hands with bottled water. Meanwhile, the politicians make speeches, everybody makes speeches, but nobody solves the problem of lack of water.”

With dramatic gestures, as if to demonstrate the gravity of the situation, the doctor opened a bottle of São Lourenço water and used it to wash his hands in the small sink in the consultation room.

“How are your stools? Very dark?”