Intelligent people, if they could afford to do so, moved out of Manaus. They didn’t move in. Not unless they had a compelling reason to do so. Carla Antunes was obviously intelligent, so she must have had one. Selva, one of the nosier women in the city, was anxious to find out what it was.
“You have relatives here?”
“I want a place on the river,” Carla said.
“Ah. The river. We have quite a few people who come for the river. Scientists mostly. Are you a scientist?”
“Preferably with four bedrooms,” Carla said, “and preferably with a dock at the back.”
Except for the fact that there were five bedrooms instead of four, Carla could have been describing the paulistano’s place. Selva lost interest in the woman’s background and concentrated on the sale. In the end, she managed to dump the place for a little less than half of what it had cost the paulistano to build it, which was pretty good considering the fact that there had been no previous offer.
The widow wasn’t overjoyed with the deal, but her husband had been worth millions, and the fishing lodge was only a minor issue in the brewing legal battle between her and the paulistano’s kids from his former marriage.
The Goat’s second post-heart-attack visit to the house was when the new owner invited him to discuss what she’d called “a business deal.”
She’d received him with two thugs who apparently lived with her, both of whom she treated like servants, not lovers. “I understand you run a stable of girls,” she’d said.
“What’s that to you?”
“The European market. I have contacts.”
“You want me to get you whores?”
“Yes.”
The Goat drained the whiskey she’d offered him, put the glass on the table, and got to his feet.
“Forget it,” he said. “Why should I sell you any of mine? Go get your own.”
One of the two thugs, a guy with bags under his eyes, took a step forward, but the woman held up her hand.
“I want the ones you’re finished with,” she said.
“I already got people I sell them to,” The Goat said.
The guy with the bags under his eyes let out a low growl, like a watchdog, but The Goat ignored him.
“You don’t understand,” the woman said. “I want the ones you can’t sell.”
The Goat shook his head. “You don’t want them,” he said. “They’re too old.”
“Not for Europeans,” the woman said.
“Oh, yeah?” The Goat said. He sat down again and held up his empty glass.
T HE G OAT’S next visit to the lodge was when he finally gave up on Marta. By that time, Carla had already purchased thirteen of his girls and had, he believed, shipped them all off to Europe.
She received him on the terrace overlooking her floating dock. The whiskey she offered him was brought by a capanga – tough guy-with bags under his eyes.
“Thanks,” The Goat said.
The capanga grunted like a pig and made himself scarce. While The Goat was making his proposition, the mayor’s yacht went by. The old buzzard was sitting there in the stern with one of The Goat’s girls. They were being served drinks by a guy in a white coat who The Goat knew for a fact was on the city payroll.
The Goat waved and the mayor waved back.
“How come you’re being so generous?” Carla said, when The Goat was finished with his sales pitch.
“What do you mean?” The Goat said innocently.
“Come off it,” she said. “I get your rejects. I know that. It’s fine. It suits my clientele. But now you come along and tell me you want to sell one of your young ones. What’s wrong with her?”
The Goat looked pained. “She’s trouble,” he admitted.
“Trouble?”
“I couldn’t break her. I tried everything, but I couldn’t break her.”
The tip of Carla’s tongue came out. She licked her upper lip.
“She’s still a virgin?” she said.
“Yeah, a virgin.”
“Why don’t you fuck her yourself? That should bring her around.”
“It won’t. She’s like a wildcat. She’d bite off my ear or something.”
“Tape her mouth shut. Tie her spread-eagled so she can’t move.”
The Goat sighed and shook his head. “You don’t have to teach me my business,” he said. “If I thought it would help, I’d do it. But it wouldn’t. I could never trust her with a customer.”
“So what you’re basically asking is if I’ll take her off your hands?”
The Goat took a pensive sip of his whiskey.
“Maybe in Europe she’d act differently, being so far away and all. Maybe she’d even like being over there. It’s a different life. I met a girl once, friend of my middle sister. She worked in Switzerland, later in Holland. Got enough money to come back here and buy a house. Except she didn’t come back here. She went to Bahia.”
“What kind of shape is she in?”
“Over the hill. She admits to being thirty-seven, but I think she’s at least-”
“Not your sister’s friend. The girl.”
“Split lip, chipped tooth, some bruises. Look at this.” He displayed his discolored hand. “I hit myself while I was taking a hose to her. It made me mad, and I kind of got carried away. Beat her like I never beat anybody, and when I was finished she spit in my face.”
“Messed her up, did you?”
The Goat shook his head.
“I know how to hit a girl. She’s not too bad. Give her a couple of weeks, and she’ll be as good as new-except for the tooth.”
“So I’d have to keep her until her looks improve?”
“Her looks aren’t that bad now. Anyway, we could do a deal. You pay me up front, and I’ll keep her for you.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred a week.”
“Don’t make me laugh. At those prices, I’d keep her myself.” “So you’re interested,” The Goat said.
She made him wait for an answer.
“Maybe I could use her,” she said.
The Goat started to smile.
“However,” she continued, “if I took a chance on somebody like that, there’s no way I’d pay you full price.”
The Goat’s smile became a scowl.
“You mean full price for a chick.”
In the parlance of the trade, a chick was a girl under eighteen. Hens, girls who looked older, were cheaper.
“No, not the full price for a chick,” she said. “And not even the full price for a hen. Tell you what: I’ll give you two thousand American dollars.”
“Two thousand? You’ve got to be kidding. She’s worth more than that.”
“To whom? You think you can get a better deal? Two thousand and that’s it. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it,” The Goat said.
Carla went inside to get the money. The Goat sat there, watching the river, remembering the day The Kiss had called him, remembering the dead paulistano’s flabby body, the way he looked when he’d seen him last, his organ still partially distended.
Unpleasant thoughts.
Like his conversation with Chief Pinto about the federal cop.
Carla came outside again with a glass of beer in one hand and a wad of banknotes in the other.
She sat down, put the beer on the table and started counting the money. When she finished he scooped it up, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
“When do you want to pick her up?” he said.
“Tomorrow. Around noon.”
She took a sip of her beer.
“Suits me,” The Goat said. “There’s something else I gotta talk to you about.”
She didn’t say anything, just sat waiting for him to tell her. “There’s a federal cop snooping around town,” he said.
She suddenly got very still. Her eyes locked on his.
“How do you know that?” she said.
“Chief Pinto. He tells me things.”
“And what did he tell you about this federal cop?”
“It’s like this: a while back a request came in from Brasilia, asking about Damiao Rodrigues. Remember him?”
“Sure I remember him,” she said. “That pistoleiro. Friend of Chief Pinto’s.”