Vitoria Pitanguy was sorting shoes. As he entered the bedroom, wiping dirt from his hands, Samuel Arns frowned at the open suitcase on the bed.
“We agreed you were going to buy new stuff.”
“That was your idea,” she said, “not mine. I’m fond of my shoes. Did you finish?”
“I finished.”
“Then let’s go finish her.”
She tossed a pair of patent-leather pumps into the suitcase, opened a drawer and took out a pistol.
“That’s the same gun,” he said.
“What makes you think so?”
“Pink grips.”
“It’s not the only Taurus with pink grips.”
“Is it the same gun, or isn’t it?”
“It’s the same.”
“Goddamn it, Vitoria! You promised to get rid of it.”
“And I will. Just as soon as I use it.”
“You’re always going on about how we have to be cautious, and then you go and do something like this. If the cops catch us with that pistol, it’ll be all over.”
“They’re not gonna catch us. And in less than five minutes it is going to be over. I’ll wipe it clean, throw it in the hole along with Juraci, and that will be the end of it. All you have to do is shovel in the dirt and plant the rose bushes. Get off my back. It’s a great day. Don’t ruin it.”
“I don’t like it when you lie to me.”
“Let’s not fight. Let’s just bury her and tidy up around here. Come on.”
“Wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Get your hood.”
“My hood?” She laughed. “Why bother? Dead people don’t talk.”