Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

“I may be stupid, but I don’t sleep on a cheap sofa bed.”

Realizing she had irritated the inspector, Salete said he needed to buy a decent bed. “They don’t cost that much. Know something? I’m going to give you a bed.”

“Did your sugar daddy stand you up today? Is that why you came here?”

“He’s not my sugar daddy.”

“Then what is he?”

“I don’t like that word.”

“Then what is he?”

“A person who helps me.”

“Room, food, clothes, money to spend at the hairdresser’s, in stores, in nightclubs.”

“If you want me to, I’ll dump him and come live here.”

“What about the evenings at the Night and Day, the Beguine, the Le Gourmet, the Vogue, at Ciro’s? You’re going to want to live with an honest cop instead of a rich crook?”

“Magalhães isn’t a crook.”

“Not a crook? Where does a government employee get all that money? He gave you an apartment by the beach and an automobile, took you to Europe, found an expensive dentist to fix your teeth.”

“It’s not my fault that your teeth are so bad they’re beyond repair.”

“The guy’s a rat.”

“I don’t like hearing you talk about him like that. Luiz is a good person.”

“Then leave. You’re here because you want to be.”

Salete got out of bed. She stood up, nude, beside the bed, not knowing what to say. She was in the habit of saying that she didn’t have on her hips the “two extra inches that cost Marta Rocha the Miss Universe title.” The beauty of Salete’s nude body made even more painful the displeasure that Alberto Mattos saw in her face.

The inspector closed his eyes. He heard Salete say “I’m leaving”; heard her getting dressed; heard her say “Why do you do this to me?”; heard the door slam.

He opened his eyes.

There was a dark stain on the ceiling of the bedroom, probably infiltration from the floor above. It had been there for a long time, but this was the first time he had noticed it.

He got out of the sofa bed. He looked for the notebook with telephone numbers that he had picked up at Gomes Aguiar’s apartment. He recognized some of the names. Under the letter G, Gregório Fortunato. The letter V, Vitor Freitas, followed by the word senator in parentheses. Mattos had heard of the influential senator of the PSD party. But what interested him most was under L, Luiz Magalhães. The name of the man who kept Salete.

He took out the gold ring he’d found in the dead man’s bathroom at the Deauville. He examined it carefully, for the first time. Inside was engraved the letter F.

THE FRONT PAGES OF THE NEWSPAPERS carried headlines about the death of the industrialist Gomes Aguiar. The police, according to Commissioner Ramos, had a clue to the “robbery” that couldn’t be revealed in order not to hinder the investigation. Several photos of Gomes Aguiar and one of Alberto Mattos, with the caption “Inspector leads the investigation.”

THE INSPECTOR ARRIVED at the precinct at 8:30 a.m. He wanted to get there early to be able to go by the lockup before the deposition by Luciana Gomes Aguiar, but he had been delayed by helping a guy push a black Citroën stalled in the street. He told the guy to get behind the wheel and by himself pushed the Citroën down a long stretch of road, in the middle of traffic, but the engine wouldn’t catch. The car was pushed to the curb and Mattos, along with the driver, tinkered with the motor, but all he succeeded in doing was to get grease on his hands and his shirt collar.

Inspector Maia, who was scheduled to relieve Mattos, had no problem with Mattos going to the lockup on days when he was on duty. Maia detested going to the cells. “I don’t like the smell,” he would say.

The prisoners’ breakfast had also been delayed, and the jailer was beginning to distribute the first aluminum mugs of coffee, along with bread. The prisoners were chatting loudly; some were laughing. People get used to everything, Mattos thought.

“Sir, sir, what about my injection?” said a swindler known as Fuinha, trying to stick his face between the bars.

“Didn’t I give you one yesterday?”

“Yes, sir, but I didn’t get well. Wanna see? If I squeeze it, a little drop comes out.” Fuinha started to unbutton the fly of his pants.

“I don’t need to see anything,” Mattos said. The inspector told the guard to bring the metal box with the syringe and needles, the bottle of alcohol, the two small containers of penicillin, one in powdered form, one in liquid, that he normally brought to his shift. Whenever he called a doctor to give an injection to a prisoner with gonorrhea, no one would show up. The guard brought the materials, placing them on a small table in the corridor. Mattos took the metal holder from the box, filled it with water until it covered the syringe and the needles, rested the box against the holder placed on the lid, poured alcohol into the lid, lit the alcohol, and waited for the water to boil. He stuck the needle into the rubber stopper of the liquid-filled vial, drew up the liquid, removed the needle, stuck it into the other vial, forced the liquid out of the syringe, picked up the syringe, leaving the needle stuck in the stopper, shook the small vial to mix the powder and liquid, inserted the needle into the glass end of the syringe, and aspirated the liquid. From the lockup, Fuinha watched these deliberate preparations. He stuck a naked arm outside, closing his eyes when the needle punctured his skin.

“Anyone else sick in there?” Mattos asked.

“Me, sir.” A prisoner approached the bars.

“That guy don’t have nothing, sir. He’s a con artist,” said Odorico, the boss of the lockup, a husky man with a crimson heart tattoo on his forearm that read “Mother,” sentenced to over three hundred years for robbery and murder.

“Let me decide that,” said the inspector.

Odorico shut up. Obeying an order from Mattos was not a humiliation.

The confidence man was a fat guy, a repeat offender, sentenced to five years for fraud.

“What are you feeling?”

“A pain in the chest. It’s very stuffy in here.” He coughed twice.

“It really is unbearable,” said Mattos. “You shouldn’t be here, none of you should be here. But there’s nothing I can do.” The world didn’t want to know about those outlaws, they could go fuck themselves one on top of the other like filthy worms. The police existed to hide that rottenness from the delicate eyes and noses of decent people.

“Wouldn’t it be good for a doctor to examine me?” Shrewd, the swindler. Maybe the doctor could be fooled. The police infirmary was much more comfortable than the lockup.

“Don’t try and bullshit the inspector,” threatened Odorico.

The prisoner looked at the boss. “To tell the truth, I’m feeling better already,” he said.

“Go have your breakfast,” said Mattos.

Rosalvo appeared, with a magazine, O Cruzeiro , and the Tribuna da Imprensa . “Just look, sir, want to see the latest infamy of Lutero Vargas, the parasite of the oligarchy?”

“No.”

“What about the whole story of the eleven thousand dollars stolen from Lutero Vargas in Venice?”

“No.”

“Here’s what it says: Armando Falcão denounces smuggling by Jereissati in Ceará. The president of the Workers Party in Ceará is part of the gang of thieves that has taken over the government. Do you know what’s the biggest contraband item? Irish linen. Those Northeasterners love to wear Irish linen.”

“I’m not interested.”

“There’s more: At the suggestion of Brandão Filho, head of Political and Social Order, appointed by Jango Goulart, General Ancora, chief of the DPS, has decided to put snitches on the payroll. Just look at the mess. Time was, the authorities used to feel repugnance about dealing with informants. Nowadays not even repugnance is left.” Pause. “Lacerda’s not easy.”