The room smelled of sweat and testosterone. Little motes of dust had been kicked up by all the lunging and plunging on the mattress, and they danced in the glare of the lights. The candidate, a certain Delfin Figueiredo, gave a final thrust and groan and collapsed on top of the whore. The whore, looking over his shoulder, had a bored expression on her face. She rolled her eyes at Claudia as if to say, What are you waiting for? He’s finished, but Claudia gave Figueiredo another ten seconds or so before she switched off the lights.
Figueiredo had performed more than adequately, and the girl had done her job. Otto was tasked with taking her back to The Goat’s. She slipped into a dress, no underwear, put her feet into a pair of plastic sandals, and was out the door sixty seconds after Delfin rolled off of her.
Hans, playing the European, signified he was satisfied. He hadn’t said a word during the entire process, and he didn’t now. He simply handed over the wad Claudia had given him and left. Hans’s silence had been an absolute necessity. He was no actor, and Figueiredo would have pegged him for a Brazilian the minute he’d opened his mouth.
Claudia promptly counted off the agreed-upon sum from the wad and handed it to Figueiredo. He counted it again, folded it, and reached for his underpants.
“You got any more work like this,” he said, putting the underwear on, “I’m your man. Easiest money I ever made.”
“What you earned today is a trifle,” she said. “You could be earning a lot more if you’ve got the balls to go for it.”
Claudia had questioned Delfin’s manhood. Delfin reacted like she knew he would.
“What the fuck you mean ‘If I got the balls’?”
“Just what I said.”
“I got the balls for anything,” he said. “Anything,” he repeated.
“Then I’ve got a proposition for you,” she said.
Thought lines creased what was normally a smooth brow. Delfin gave her a suspicious look, stuffed the money into a pocket of his jeans, and lifted one foot in order to pull them on.
“What have you got in mind?” he said, his foot still in the air. “I hear you kill people.”
He put his foot back on the floor.
“Who the fuck told you that?”
“Just something I heard,” she said.
He lifted his right foot again, slid it into the jeans, and did the same with the left. Then he pulled the pants up to his hips, closed the top button and zipped the fly.
“Someone’s got a big mouth,” he said. “And why should you care?”
“Because,” she said, “I’ve got a proposal that a man with your background won’t be able to refuse, as long as he’s got balls, that is.”
Behind the door, Hans, who hadn’t left, was listening to every word.
Carla was at the point where she was telling the dumb bastard there was only one thing her “European” liked better than watching people fuck.
Hans waited for a reaction. There wasn’t any, at least none he could hear.
Carla went on for a minute or two more, then stopped.
There was a moment of silence.
“How much?” Figueiredo’s voice.
Hans smiled, put his Glock back into the holster on his belt, and strolled into the kitchen to get a beer.
When Marta heard the rattle of keys, she sat bolt upright and set her back against the wall behind her.
But when the door opened, it wasn’t The Goat. It was a woman, and she was carrying a tray.
Marta hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. Even her pitcher of water was long since empty. She smelled coffee, and milk, and, yes, pao de queijo, the little round cheese breads she’d always loved, especially when they were dripping with butter.
“Hungry?” the woman said.
Marta nodded, her throat too dry to speak.
The woman knelt, put the tray on the floor, and slid it forward with her foot.
“Well, then,” she said, “eat.”
Marta stretched out a hand, watching the woman all the while, and felt around until her fingers touched one of the little yellow balls. It was still warm from the oven. She grabbed it, stuffed it in her mouth, and almost choked. Her throat was that dry.
“Take your time,” the woman said. “Drink some coffee.”
Marta dropped her eyes long enough to make sure she got a good grip on the mug, expecting it to be hot.
It wasn’t. It was lukewarm. She meant to take only a sip or two, but the cafe com leite had been sweetened, and once she got going she couldn’t stop. She drained more than half in one go.
“I’m Carla Antunes,” the woman said.
Marta didn’t care what the woman’s name was, but she very much cared about the remaining cheese breads. She took another one, savoring the chewy consistency, wishing the woman had brought butter.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” Carla Antunes said.
Marta stopped chewing.
“Let me see your face,” Carla said. Then, leaning in closer, “Oh, my. You poor thing.”
That did it. A memory struck Marta with the force of a blow. She and Andrea had been on the beach together, Marta had stepped on a shard of glass from a broken bottle, and Andrea, as she was examining the wound, had used exactly those words: Oh, my. You poor thing.
Marta started to cry.
Carla was ready with a paper handkerchief, then another and another. When the sobs subsided, she let Marta finish her meal, not hurrying her at all, even telling her to slow down so she wouldn’t make herself sick.
“Who are you?” Marta asked her when she’d eaten the last of the bread and drained the last drop from the mug.
“I told you. I’m Carla Antunes.”
“But why are you-”
“All in good time, Marta. Shall we go?”
The woman took her by the arm, gently, and they stepped through the doorway into the corridor.
They walked through the boate and approached the main entrance, a double door that Marta had only seen when it was chained and padlocked. But now the padlock was gone, the chain was hanging in a loop, and the doors were ajar. Daylight was streaming through the crack. She hadn’t seen that much daylight in over two months.
She turned her head to look behind her. Topaz stuck her head around the doorjamb that led to the bedrooms and quickly withdrew it, but she saw no one else, not The Goat, not Roselia. Outside, the sun was near its zenith. She blinked in the dazzling light. A man was waiting there, a big man with long blond hair and a moustache that made him look like a Viking.
Momentarily, it occurred to Marta to run. But she rejected the idea almost as quickly as she thought of it. The man looked to be in good shape, and his legs were much longer than hers. She wouldn’t have gotten very far.
The Viking led them to a car and ushered them into the back seat. Then he climbed behind the wheel and started the engine, all without saying a word. They took her to a house with a tiled roof and whitewashed walls. Beyond it, a cabin cruiser, not unlike the one her grandfather kept in Brasilia, was floating at a dock on the river.
As they got out of the car, Carla took her arm again. The big man with the mustache moved in front, took out a key, and unlocked the front door.
The house looked old on the outside, but inside it was modern. The floors and window frames were light-colored wood, varnished to a high gloss; the light fixtures were brushed aluminum; the walls were painted in pastels. Through a doorway, she caught a glimpse of a large room with tripods, cables, and what looked like photographer’s lights. A king-sized bed occupied the center of the space.
On the opposite side, ten steps further down the corridor, was a bedroom.
“Here’s where you’ll sleep,” Carla said.
The space was a considerable improvement on her accommodations at The Goat’s. There was a coverlet on the bed, an air-conditioner hummed away in the wall, and a bedside table supported a lamp. There was a bookshelf, piled high with paperbacks and magazines, all well thumbed. There was an armchair, a wardrobe cupboard, even a window. The window looked over a green lawn to a distant stand of trees. But there were bars set into the masonry.