“Any Brazilians?”
“A few.”
“Addresses?”
“Mostly post office boxes and E-mail addresses so they can be advised about new releases.”
“Send them to me. I’ll have Arnaldo lean on the Internet service providers, get us names and addresses for the account holders.”
“The Dutch don’t have a law that makes it illegal to buy the stuff, only to sell it. They can’t prosecute the customers in their own country. It’s got them hopping mad.”
“I’m not sure we can prosecute either. I’ll have to check. How about the killers? More than one?”
“Different in every DVD.”
“You get frame blowups?”
“Being made as we speak. But there’s something more. There’s a Brazilian woman whose phone call was taped. She seems to have been a supplier.”
“The woman. Is her voice in the background on any of the DVDs?”
“The last one. She spoke English with Smit, and Portuguese on the DVD, but they did a voiceprint analysis. Same person.”
“What did she say?”
“It sounded to me like she was operating the camera and directing the action at the same time. She tells the murderer to hold the victim still, because there’s too much movement to zoom in and get a tight close-up of her eyes. Later, she tells him to get out the ax and do what she told him to do.”
“And he did it? Just like that?”
“No. Not just like that. He looks at the camera and shakes his head. He tells her it isn’t worth the trouble, that the woman is already dead.”
Hector paused. His uncle could hear him swallow as he remembered.
“And?” he prompted.
“She told him he was a cretin and to do it anyway.”
Chapter Nine
MANAUS
With consciousness came fear.
Marta turned her head and looked at the door.
Ajar.
She toyed with the idea of not playing Roselia’s game, but the alternative, another day of being alone, caused her throat to constrict and made it hard for her to breathe.
She inhaled deeply, kept on inhaling until her heartbeat settled down. Then she stuck her head into the corridor.
Empty.
She crossed the threshold and turned left. The sound of high-pitched voices got louder, the smell of frying onions and garlic stronger, as she approached the green door at the end of the corridor.
She turned the knob and pushed.
A head turned in her direction, then another. Conversation stopped dead. Marta found herself in a bar filled with girls. Several wore T-shirts, others nightgowns. The youngest, a brunette with big eyes, looked to be no more than twelve. A mulata, taller than the others by half a head, and with dirty blond hair the texture of steel wool, opened her mouth to say something.
But then she froze like a nocturnal animal caught in a searchlight.
Marta spun around. The Goat, a menacing figure almost six-foot-two in height and an obese two hundred and sixty pounds, was less than a foot behind her. She flinched.
He smiled at her reaction, brushed her aside and headed for a raised platform in the center of the room. Like dogs with their master, the girls’ eyes followed him every step of the way.
Light on his feet for such a big man, he mounted the platform. Muscular biceps stretched the sleeves of his T-shirt. His blue eyes were set close together and seemed out of place in a face as dark as any Indian’s.
“Good morning, my children,” he said.
One and all, except for Marta, they murmured a response. “You girls over by the bar,” he said, “come closer. This is important.”
He waited until they’d rearranged themselves, until he could see the entire group. Then he pointed a stubby finger. “This,” he said, “is Marta. She’s eating my food, she’s sleeping in one of my beds and she hasn’t done a damned thing to work off her debt. What do you think about that? You, Topaz?”
Topaz, the girl with the steel wool hair flinched. “ Senhor? ” “You think that’s fair, Topaz? You think it’s fair she’s eating my food and sleeping under my roof, and she isn’t doing a damned thing to earn her keep?”
The mulata looked down at her bare feet.
The Goat cupped a hand behind an ear. “I can’t hear you.” “No, Senhor,” the mulata said, almost inaudibly.
“You’re goddamned right it’s not.” The Goat’s voice was a whip, but when he spoke again his tone was almost gentle. “I’m a reasonable man. You know that, don’t you girls? You know I’m a reasonable man?”
No one said a word.
“I’ll take silence as agreement,” he said. “So, as a reasonable man, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to leave her here all afternoon. You girls are going to reason with her and get her to change her attitude.”
Marta shook her head. “I’m not-”
“Shut up,” The Goat snapped. “I’m not talking to you; I’m talking to them.”
Marta glared at him.
He ignored her and let his gaze sweep over the other girls. “If you’re not successful,” he said, “I’m gonna be unhappy, and all of you know what happens when I’m unhappy.”
He walked back through the green door and slammed it behind him.
Topaz was still shaken. She’d risen to her feet when addressed, but now she sank back into her chair and put her head in her hands. The other girls turned, as one, to stare at Marta.
Marta braved it out. She swallowed and said, “I came here with another girl. Her name is Andrea. Has anyone seen her? Anyone heard anything about a girl named Andrea?”
No one had.
They had lunch right there in the boate: rice, beans, and fried fish, cooked and served by an old woman the girls called Dona Ana. No one invited Marta to share a table, so she ate standing at the bar, keeping to herself, knowing they’d be at her before long. Under the circumstances, it was no use to try to make friends. She wasn’t about to give in, and they’d hate her for that. Not only because they feared The Goat, but also because they were all putas and she wasn’t about to become one. They’d take that to mean she thought she was better than they were. And they’d be right.
She was still eating when the door opened again, and a man with a broken nose stuck his head into the room. He beckoned to the little brunette with the big eyes. She went to him, still chewing a mouthful of rice and beans. There was a rustle of relief from the other girls as soon as the door had closed behind them.
Lunch over, the girls turned their backs on Marta, drew their chairs into a circle and started talking in hushed tones. Every now and then one would turn her head to make sure Marta was keeping her distance. While they were at it, Marta took one of the vacated chairs on the far side of the room.
The talking was still going on when the big-eyed girl came back, a cigarette dangling from her lower lip. She looked longingly at the group. A few girls saw her, but no one invited her to join. She took another puff on her cigarette and sat down across from Marta.
“This girl you mentioned,” she said.
“Andrea?”
“Yes, Andrea. How old is she?”
“How old are you?”
The little girl took another drag on her cigarette.
“Ten,” she said, exhaling smoke.
Marta didn’t know how to respond. After a moment, she said, “Andrea is eighteen.”
“Oh,” the little girl said. “Well, then, it’s plain.”
“What do you mean by ‘plain’?”
“The Goat doesn’t keep anybody as old as that unless they look younger, or they have lots of regular customers. Your friend, Andrea, does she look younger?”
Marta thought before answering. “No,” she said.
“See? That’s why we never met her. When they’re old like that, and haven’t been brought up in his house, The Goat gets rid of them. Sometimes he lets them work the street, but then they have to give him money until they pay back what they owe.”
“Owe? What do you mean, owe?”
“Well, he brought you here, didn’t he?”