Chapter 4
Wilson, dressed in old clothes in preparation for his trip to Goiás in the taxi—but still no more noticeable to the average observer for the change from his bland gray suits, standard shirts, and colorless neckties—glanced at his wristwatch for the tenth time in the past hour and then frowned morosely from his window, studying the traffic hurrying past in the avenue below, searching for some sign of the familiar cab. Normally the scene from his top-floor apartment along the east shore of the Lagôa was one he always enjoyed, with the huge ring of mountains in the near distance rising sharply to culminate in the sheer walls of Corcovado, topped by its gleaming statue of Christ, all sharply reflected in the mirror-like surface of the placid lagoon. It was a scene that had sold him on the apartment in the first place, despite its exorbitant rental, and one which he still appreciated, even though his salary forced him to evaluate it anew each time he penned a check to the building agency.
At the moment he was more concerned with his friend’s arrival, or lack of arrival. Damn! He should have reported in to work today and arranged to start his vacation tomorrow! One day lost because Da Silva had to check out that damned taxi, and it was dead certain that all the taxi would do was get them into trouble! It always had and it always would. Da Silva had said half an hour—which in itself meant little, since few Brazilians have any clue as to time, and Da Silva least of all—but even so!
Normally it took less than twenty minutes from Catete to the Lagôa, either by way of Voluntários da Pátria or the Rua São Clemente, and neither route at that hour should have been clogged by traffic. And if, for any reason, he came by way of Copacabana, add five minutes—no more. And Wilson was also aware that ten minutes was more than enough to fill a car with gas and oil, even the monster. No; Zé should have been there long before, and Wilson was beginning to get irked.
With a grimace of distaste at the delay, he marched back to the small bamboo bar that blocked off one corner of the large, airy room and dragged a stool back from the rail with a jerk. He seated himself on it and poured himself a brandy, far from the first since his vigil had begun. And, he thought blackly, if we end up taking only three bottles of Remy Martin with us instead of four, my late friend José Da Silva will have nobody to blame but himself. And will I blame him? If we run out of cognac? Yes!
He tossed the drink down, feeling it, and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply to calm himself, trying to read the tiny print on the back of the bottle in lieu of anything better to do. It suddenly occurred to him that nobody ever read the tiny print on any bottle of liquor, front or back. Maybe instead of listing alcohol percentages, or bottling plant addresses, he suddenly thought, the minuscule letters actually declaimed any responsibility for poisoning. Was it possible? Of course it was possible! He squinted his eyes a bit to check out his newly found theory, when he heard a sputter of static, followed by some indistinct sounds that might well have been voices.
Wilson frowned, feeling the accumulation of alcohol he had consumed during his wait. The noise couldn’t be from the neighbor upstairs because he didn’t have a neighbor upstairs. And it couldn’t be from the neighbor downstairs, because (a) she was normally quiet, and (b) she was away for a week’s holiday. Wilson suddenly disliked her. Why should she rate a vacation when he couldn’t? He realized the unfairness of his critique, especially since she was a good-looking girl, single, and one who gave him long looks in the elevator. Besides, she—he paused, listening. The noise was coming from the shelf across from the bar, where he had his shortwave radio set. He hiccuped gently and considered the problem.
Was it possible that Da Silva had switched on his car set again? Of course it was possible. With Da Silva, anything was possible. But for what purpose? Wilson frowned, concentrating. Obviously, to tell him where he was, or at least why he was late. Well, if Da Silva was more than a block away with that poor imitation of Marconi’s original oatmeal box, it was all a waste of time. The mystery would remain a mystery for all time. On the other hand, Wilson suddenly thought, if God decided for His own reasons to keep the reception clear, maybe he could receive Da Silva’s weak alibi for his tardiness.
Wilson shook his head, partially in disgust and partially to clear it. Excuses, excuses! he thought, and walked around the bar a bit unsteadily, leaning over the set, flipping a switch. He bent over the microphone that sat atop the oblong box.
“Yes? Zé? Is that you? And where the hell are you?” He suddenly remembered the revered formula and applied it. “Sorry about that. I meant—come in, please.”
He flipped the switch to receiving and fiddled a bit with the knobs, more for luck than through any hope of success. His only response was more of the same static. Either Zé was too busy with something else at the moment, or his Brazilian friend had forgotten how to work the damn radio himself, or the miserable bucket of frazzled wiring had finally given up the ghost. Or maybe all three at once. Wilson decided to turn the set off in sheer disgust when he suddenly heard his friend’s voice, both recognizable and understandable.
“… senhora … manda.…”
Wilson leaned back, frowning at the instrument, and then glaring as the only possible interpretation came to him. So that was the reason for the delay, was it? A woman? Three hundred and sixty-five days in the year, and Da Silva had to select the one day they were supposed to be off on a vacation hunting trip to pick up some girl? Wonderful! He bent closer to the set, determined to collect sufficient evidence to justify the dressing down he intended to give his errant friend, when his brain began to function at last. He shook his head violently, trying to fling off the effects of the brandy. His glare disappeared, replaced by sudden concern. One thing was certain: Da Silva would never have switched on his set just to advise the world that his delay was occasioned by a woman. Quite the contrary, in fact. Wilson calculated these facts and then nodded, pleased with his cerebrations, and also pleased that—bit by bit—he felt himself sobering up. Da Silva’s reason for resorting to the tired shortwave set obviously had to be something far more urgent.
His receiver was making squealing noises again. Wilson strained to separate them from the word sounds on the edge of his understanding, cursing the inadequacy of the car radio sender. He eased the serrated knob over to the right gently, cautiously, trying by excessive indulgence to get a semblance of cooperation from the set. Da Silva’s voice suddenly boomed through the room, loud and clear.
“… Morro dos Cabritos … Catatumbá.…”
Wilson’s frown deepened as he stared at the shortwave set. Catatumbá? That was the favela, the slum, just down the Epitácio Pessôa from his apartment building, the one the landowners on his side of the lagoon had been trying for years to get rid of, he thought. Without success, he added to himself. First, because the inhabitants had no place else to go, and second, because they numbered approximately thirty thousand, which was quite a bit more than the entire police force of Rio. Catatumbá was also, of course, the toughest favela in town. Maybe climbing half a mile to bring five gallons of water home in a converted oil tin had a tendency to toughen a person.
Wilson considered Da Silva’s words carefully. If the statement by his friend was supposed to be a message, it had escaped him. He concentrated on the set again, bending closer to the cloth-covered speaker, but all he could get now was unintelligible noise. Damn! Suddenly the static cleared, allowing another voice to be heard. It was quite faint, indicating the speaker was not near the horn ring; undoubtedly in the rear seat. It was a woman’s voice.
“… money?”
There seemed to be an interminable wait until he could get any of the replying words that were understandable. The disembodied voice sounded tough, it was undoubtedly Da Silva speaking.
“… always like … money.…”
Ah! So it wasn’t somebody asking Da Silva for money; they were offering it to him! And the captain seemed about to accept. If any message was supposed to be contained in this enigmatic and commercial exchange, Wilson frankly admitted it had missed him. Damn that cheap car radio anyway! Da Silva was undoubtedly giving him hint after hint, and all he could make out of it was a bouillabaisse of static! He tried increasing the volume of his receiver and, for his troubles, got a screeching yowl that almost deafened him. He hastily twisted the knob to the left and then brought it back up, slowly. The strategy seemed to work; Da Silva’s voice came back on again, clear for a change.
“… want the police.…”
Ha! Static immediately took over again, but now it wasn’t important; the message had finally come through! Da Silva was in trouble and wanted the police! How he had managed to get into trouble in the short time since they had spoken on the telephone was immaterial. If they ever have an Olympic event for getting into trouble, Wilson thought, the Brazilian team with Zé Da Silva at the helm is a definite gold medal possibility. In record time, too. He moved from the bar to the small stand holding the telephone, raising the receiver, dialing a familiar number. It rang once and was instantly answered.
“Captain Da Silva’s office.” It was Zé’s elderly and too efficient secretary. Wilson began to grin and then wiped the grin away.
“Dona Dolores? Is Lieutenant Perreira back from lunch yet?”
“Mr. Wilson?”
Despite himself, Wilson’s smile returned. So much for six years in Brazil and about two trillion Portuguese lessons, he thought ruefully. They’ll always recognize my voice on the telephone; I’ll never lose that Ohio accent. He shrugged. At least it’s nice that Washington isn’t aware of my language difficulty, he thought; I’d undoubtedly be third vice-consul at Newcastle-on-Tyne right now.
“Sim, senhora. Is Lieutenant Perreira back from lunch yet?”
“Lieutenant Perreira?” Dona Dolores sniffed, deservedly aggrieved. “He didn’t go out to lunch. He had a sandwich at his desk. From the cart.” Her tone specifically denied any responsibility for the health of those who bought sandwiches from the cart.
“May I speak with him, please?”
But Dona Dolores was far from through. Forced to transfer her motherly instincts to a substitute for a period of two weeks with little notice, she had managed to do remarkably well.
“He also had a soda from the machine. Orange, Mr. Wilson! Full of gas, not to mention sugar!”
“Dona Dolores! It’s rather urgent!”
Dona Dolores was not impressed. What was more urgent than health? “All right, Mr. Wilson.” Her tone advised him to see his doctor. “I’ll call him.…”
There was a click of another receiver being lifted, and a familiar voice came on the line. As always, Perreira sounded alert and sharp, mainly because he was. People who weren’t alert and sharp didn’t last long with Captain Da Silva, and Perreira had lasted with him for five years. The lieutenant’s voice was friendly, but curious.
“Mr. Wilson? How are you? I thought by now you and Captain Da Silva would be halfway up the serra on your way to Bananal. What’s the problem?”
“He never showed up at my place, but I picked him up on shortwave. From the taxi.…” Wilson reported what he had heard, not permitting himself to dwell on the inadequacies of the car radio. In a report of this nature, Wilson was infallible, superb. His memory never faltered, and his extensive training allowed him to place events into proper sequence with a remarkable ability to estimate time intervals between them. When he finished, Perreira frowned.
“You say he didn’t sound particularly perturbed?”
“Oddly enough, he didn’t. There still isn’t any doubt he was asking me to get in touch with the police. Of course, the reception from his car radio is awful, so I might be wrong, but I don’t think so.” He frowned at the telephone a minute, sobering up second by second, thinking. “Can you get somebody to locate him and help him? Do you know the number license plates he’s using? I think they’re from Guanabara.”
“They’re from Guanabara,” Perreira said with conviction, “but every rádio patrulha is familiar with Captain Da Silva’s taxi by sight. I’ll get the word out as soon as I hang up. What section of the city do you think he was in?”
“Well, you can check with the Catete garage as to the exact time he left there, can’t you? He was on his way to my place, so that should give you the route, although he said he was going to stop for radio tubes. But I’m sure he didn’t intend to go back downtown for them. My guess would be he was somewhere between Copacabana and here. That’s based on the fact he was heading this way, but the reception indicated he wasn’t close. And that’s the best I can offer.”
“Thanks. I’ll get right on it.” The receiver dropped. Perreira didn’t believe in wasting time.
Wilson replaced the receiver and turned back to the radio set, but it now responded to no persuasion, remaining mute. Either Da Silva had disconnected, or—a far more sobering thought—somebody had discovered the set and disconnected it for him. Well, there was nothing to be done about it. Now he simply had to wait for the radio patrol cars to spot Da Silva’s taxi and come to his aid.
He returned to the bar, pulling the stool out again, frowning at the bottle of cognac. He shrugged in resignation. It appeared his vacation was going to be delayed, which simply meant that they wouldn’t be requiring four bottles of Remy Martin in any event. Three, therefore, should obviously be plenty.…
Satisfied with this impeccable logic, Wilson seated himself on the stool, poured himself another drink, and relaxed, awaiting news.