Mansur gritted his teeth. There was enough ice for three drinks, maybe four. Three drinks was nothing, just enough to get a taste. One more mistake like that, just one more, and he’d fling Rosa out on her ass. That would mean he’d have to hire his third secretary since August, but so what? Secretaries were expendable.
He harvested what ice there was, twisting the plastic trays, letting it clink into the little crystal bucket with the silver top. Then he fished out a handful, put it in a glass, and wiped the wetness from his hand on the seat of his pants. The tongs were for visitors.
Mansur kept his whiskey under lock and key; had to, otherwise the cleaners would get at it. One time, he’d found the deep amber of his Black Label watered down to the pale straw of his J amp;B. Right after that, he’d put the lock on the cupboard. He took out a bottle and checked the tiny mark he’d made on the label. The level hadn’t lowered since last time. Thing was, Rosa had a key to that cabinet too-and he really didn’t trust anyone when it came to his whiskey. Or much else, for that matter.
The whiskey came from Scotland via Paraguay, all smuggled in, all delivered directly to the office. That not only provided him with cheaper alcohol, it also concealed the extent of his consumption from Magda. He knew damned well she wouldn’t give a shit if he drank himself into an early grave, but the money it cost was something else. She’d bitch about that.
And bitching, when it came right down to it, was about the only thing he did get from Magda. Bitching about where he spent his evenings, bitching about the occasional perfume she smelled on his clothes. Bitch, bitch, bitch-and no sex.
Magda didn’t drink, either; but Magda could go fuck herself, because he could always find someone to drink with. He could also find women to have sex with, so her attitude on that score didn’t bother him either. The glue that held their marriage together was his hard-earned money. Magda would strip him to his underwear if he gave her half a chance.
He uncorked the bottle and poured himself a generous dose. Swirling the ice with a forefinger, watching it dissolve, he leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk.
The door to his office was open and the whiskey bottle in plain sight. The odds were someone would show up before long.
But no one did. And today, of all days, he had a great story to tell. As he sipped, he tried to put names to the faces on that airplane.
The uppity stewardess was the first one who came to mind. And as he was thinking about her, he remembered Juan Rivas too. With a name like that, it had to be the arrogant little prick with the dark skin, earring, and moustache. He’d kept the stewardess busy, practically monopolized her. Every time he’d wanted a refill, the little fairy seemed to sense it and get his finger on the call button first. One of the enduring impressions Mansur had of the flight was lots of sucking on ice in otherwise empty glasses.
And then there was Motta. Motta of the birthmark. Motta, the dumb fuck. Mansur had good reason to remember him. How could he talk to Silva about Motta without getting his ass in a sling? Short answer: he couldn’t. But it really didn’t matter. It wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t contribute to solving the cop’s case. Motta, that little weasel, didn’t have it in him to kill anybody. No, if anybody on that flight was a murderer, it was the guy who was posing as a priest. A hard case, that one, steely gray eyes, black hair, nose in his book all the time, none of that “love thy neighbor” stuff you’d expect from a clergyman.
Mansur got up, dropped more ice into his glass-not much left now-and poured another drink. While he was on his feet, he decided to take a stroll around the floor, find some company.
Emerson Cunha wasn’t at his desk. Cassio Zannoto was, but he didn’t have time for a drink: he was meeting somebody for dinner. That’s the way he said it. Somebody. Not his wife. Not a friend. Not a client. Somebody.
Which meant he was being discreet. Which meant it was probably somebody who worked in the office. Maybe that new receptionist, the blond. Sneaky bastard, Zannoto. Nice piece of ass, the blond.
He went back to his office, picked up the phone, and tried calling Gilmar Pedroso down on the second floor.
No answer.
His glass was empty again and he refilled it. He drank quickly, cracked the last vestiges of ice between his teeth, locked away the whiskey, and dumped the empty trays on Rosa’s desk along with a nasty note.
It was almost a quarter to eight, and he was still alone.
He went down to the garage, nosed his black Corolla up the ramp, and plunged into the rush-hour traffic. It took him fifteen minutes to go three blocks. If he’d known it was going to be that bad, he would have drunk a couple of whiskies neat, given the traffic time to die down. But it was too late now. He was in the gridlock, committed to moving forward.
Running on alcohol, his thoughts took flight: It’s Magda’s fault. If she’d gone along with buying an apartment in town, I’d be living within walking distance of work. But no. Goddamned Magda had to have a house out in Alphaville with a garden, and a swimming pool, and two maids to sit around and drink coffee with. That’s when she wasn’t at the hairdresser’s, or playing cards, or-
He screeched to a halt, narrowly avoiding a white BMW that jumped the light. He hit the horn. The driver of the BMW, pulling away, opened his window and stuck out an arm to make an obscene gesture.
His sudden stop had put him on the crosswalk. Pedestrians were moving all around him. He crept forward for another three blocks. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard.
Eight sixteen now. Getting dark.
The traffic showed no sign of thinning. Half an hour out of the office, and he hadn’t moved eight blocks.
The Jockey Club! No races tonight, but the bar is open. Just a small detour.
He turned left at the next corner, got onto Avenida Europa, made it by fits and starts over the bridge, and turned right. On nights when the nags weren’t running, it was dark under the trees, and the long street was lined with girls. Black girls, white girls, mulattas. Blond girls (they usually got the color from a bottle), red-haired girls (ditto), black- and brown-haired girls. Girls with short-shorts and no panties, girls with dresses cut down to their navels. Girls with hemlines that rose above their thighs. Girls who wore only short bathrobes, or sarongs.
There were a few cars pulled over to the curb, men on their own, leaning toward open passenger windows, doing some negotiating. Mansur felt a stirring in his groin. Instead of leaving his car with the valet, he took a left at the corner and circled the block.
When he appeared again, and the girls saw him for a second time, they started strutting their stuff in earnest, pouting their lips, lifting their skirts to crotch level, plunging their hips forward, flashing what they had (or didn’t have) under their short bathrobes and sarongs.
Mansur swelled to full erection, painful in the confinement of his trousers.
By the time he’d reached the end of the line, he’d made his choice, but she was back at the beginning of the queue, so he had to circle the block a second time before he could stop. Her voice was deep, deeper than that of most women. If he’d been more sober, he might have paused, thought twice.
He and his Chosen One cut a deal. She hopped aboard and directed him toward one of the high-rotation motels that lined the Raposo Tavares.
Sometimes the girls worked scams with the motel’s owners. When the happy couple got to their room, the john would find a man or two waiting for him. Instead of getting laid, he’d be relieved of his watch and wallet. If he was a married man, and wanted to keep it that way, who could he complain to? The cops? Creating a risk that his wife would get her hands on the statement? Leaving her in a position to be able to prove, with a legal document, that he was picking up whores? And then have her divorce him and take all his goddamned money? No way!