Daniel Galera - Blood-drenched Beard

Hmm.

What?

Who told you to go there?

I have a business meeting with someone. He was the one who gave me the address.

Well, if he told you to go there… but be careful.

Why?

Mafia. The sort you don’t mess with. And the girls there are quick. Real quick. They make off with your money, and you don’t even know what happened. My dad used to say we should steer clear of three things in life: fast women, slow horses, and engineers. I’m giving you the same advice. Just the other day two guests came back early in the morning in a car with the bouncer of the place. With a gun to their heads. They’d spent eighteen hundred reais and didn’t have enough cash on them. They’d thought they were going to spend five hundred each, and the numbskulls weren’t carrying credit cards. They had to drive around with a gun in their ear until six in the morning to withdraw the rest at an ATM.

What a mess.

They’ll kill you if they have to. Mafia. Have a good think if you really want to go there.

I just need to talk to the guy. I don’t intend to hang around there.

The receptionist makes a face as if to say “I warned you,” holds up the palms of his hands, and returns the paper with the address on it. The taxi pulls up at the entrance to the hotel. Inside it smells of wool, and the windows are fogged up. The elderly man in a beret behind the steering wheel reacts as if he already knew his passenger’s destination.

It’s one of the best places around. I can pick you up if you need me to. Here’s my card. But be warned. Don’t spend what you haven’t got.

• • •

T he blinking neon of Deliryu’s Nightclub is a few miles out of town, on high ground just off the highway, along a gravel driveway. The square, windowless building is surrounded by a pine plantation. The bouncer, a friendly, hulking bald guy in a black suit, weighing some four hundred pounds, bows ceremoniously and informs him that the cover charge is forty reais . He is given a pay card with his name at the top, and he enters. The place looks much bigger on the inside than it did from the outside and is almost empty. At the back are the bathrooms and a small stage with a metal post. The floor is swept by colorful circles from a spinning spotlight in the middle of the ceiling and green light beams coming from another mechanism above the stage, which picks out the silhouettes of the hookers, who are in two small groups at the back of the club, leaning on the wall, or lounging on sofas, almost hidden in the dim light. Another bouncer, of average stature, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, greets him inside. His gray hair is slicked back with some kind of shiny gel or grease. There are two hookers leaning against the bar, and he can see these ones well: a thin, grumpy-looking blonde, who tries to smile when she sees him, and a tall brunette with very white skin and a slightly gothic look, who is talking to a young waiter with a goatee. She is wearing black knee-high boots with metal buckles and is standing on one leg, with the other perched on the round stool. To his right, in an area that has half a dozen booths with tables and sofas, is the only other client in the place, an older man accompanied by a young woman. It can only be Zenão Bonato.

He walks over and introduces himself. Zenão, a mulatto who appears to be about sixty, although he is older than that, motions for him to sit on the adjacent sofa. He looks like a former athlete, someone who has had to maintain a considerable amount of muscle mass his whole life, like a boxer or rower. He is wearing dress pants, good shoes, and a wool blazer. A cigarillo is burning between his fingers, and the smoke from his last few puffs forms a dome that spreads lazily around the three of them.

The young woman’s legs are draped over her client’s. Her black tube dress barely passes her waist, and he can see her red panties. Her long, straight hair looks discolored and seems to give off a white light. In fact, her whole head emanates a slightly ghostly light. He strains to see her better. She is albino.

Guess what her name is? asks Zenão, noting his interest. Ivory! A guttural laugh escapes the old man’s throat in long bursts that end in a smoker’s wheeze and start up again with full force. It takes some time. While he tries to stop laughing, he pours himself another generous shot from the bottle of Natu Nobilis on the table. Ivory mixes a little of the same whiskey with an energy drink in her tall glass, sips it with her colorless lips, and then analyzes it with a pair of gray eyes almost camouflaged in her un-made-up face.

Why did you want to meet me here?

I’m among friends here.

I figured that.

Because I don’t know you, and I’m not really sure why you wanted to come and see me in person. You didn’t strike me as dangerous, but at my age, in my line of work… a guy calls you wanting to know about an old case… you know how it is.

I can imagine. Don’t worry.

And I might as well take the opportunity and have some fun, right? These folks owe me so many favors that I can hide the hedgehog for free until I die.

While Zenão has another long fit of laughter, he notices one of the hookers at the back of the club heading toward their table. She sits next to him without touching him. She is a brunette with large thighs, wet hair, and lips cracked with cold. She is drenched in perfume and appears to have stepped out of the shower moments earlier.

Can I keep you company?

I’m just here to have a quick chat with my friend here.

But what fun is that if you’re alone? What’s your name?

It takes him a few minutes to get rid of her.

Pick one, says Zenão.

What?

Pick one, and call her over to sit here. They’re going to keep coming one by one, and when they’ve all tried, they’re going to start again. The house is empty.

The waiter sees him signal and comes over to the table.

Ask the girl in boots over at the bar to come here. And I’d like a can of beer.

I’m on it.

The forró song that is playing gives way to a Roxette song that he recognizes from his tender youth. He has to raise his voice to be heard, and he and Zenão lean in toward each other, sandwiching the albino girl between them. She nibbles on Zenão’s ear and then pulls her white hair over her shoulder and occupies herself inspecting it for split ends. Zenão confirms that he was the police chief in Laguna in 1969.

Do you remember a case where a man was stabbed to death in Garopaba at the end of that year? A man who was known as Gaudério?

A female voice sings “Listen to your heaaart” in his ear, and the weight of a body shakes the seat cushion on the sofa. The smell of cinnamon chewing gum reaches his nostrils.

I was hoping you’d call me.

I like your boots. What’s your name?

Honey.

Your real name.

That’s something you don’t ask, handsome.

He stares into her eyes. Blue irises, heavy mascara. Bloodred lipstick. A small mole on her left cheekbone. It is all he can make out in the half-light.

It’s Andreia.

Have a seat, Andreia. I’ll talk to you properly in a minute. I just need to finish talking to my friend here.

Can I order a drink?

What would you like?

Wine.

Go ahead and order one.

Zenão gives him a little slap on the knee.

Doesn’t she look a bit like a young Anjelica Huston?

Who?

Your girl there.

She looks like who?

Anjelica Huston. The actress. You know?

He doesn’t but he looks at Andreia and pretends to be considering it.

I think she does a bit. But anyway. At the end of ’sixty-nine.

I remember that story about the guy who was killed in Garopaba. It was one of the weirdest cases I’d ever come across, which is probably why the investigations didn’t get very far.