The upper-middle-class condominium calledJardim Jericoara was less than ten kilometers from the favela of Consolacao, but in socioeconomic terms it was in another galaxy. Access to the property was by way of two entry lanes, one of them labeled RESIDENTES and the other VISITANTES. A metal gate blocked each lane, and each gate was controlled from a guardhouse with what looked to Arnaldo like bulletproof glass on the windows.
When the taxi stopped, the four rent-a-cops in the guardhouse gave it a thorough once-over through the glass, and then three of them went back to watching a daytime soap opera on their little television set. The fourth, a husky fellow with a revolver on his hip, carrying a clipboard, came out of the door and approached the taxi. He ignored the driver and spoke directly to Arnaldo.
"Senhor?"
The form of address was polite. The man's tone of voice wasn't. Arnaldo's taxi was a Volkswagen Beetle, not even a taxi especial. A resident (or a friend of a resident) of Jardim Jericoara wouldn't have been caught dead in one. The conclusion was obvious: Despite his suit and tie, Arnaldo had to be either a household servant or some other kind of service provider. In either case, he didn't merit first-class treatment.
"I'm here to see…"-Arnaldo consulted the paper the old woman had given him-"Dona Marcia on the Rua das Bromelias."
The guard narrowed his eyes at the soap wrapper and made an annotation on his clipboard. "About?"
Arnaldo flashed his badge. "Police business."
The guard's attitude changed completely. He stood up a little straighter, the sneer on his face vanished, and a tone of respect crept into his voice.
"You want me to call?"
"That's what you're supposed to do, right?"
The guard nodded. "That's the procedure," he confirmed, "for any visitor."
"Then you'd better do it."
"Can I hold on to some ID? Sorry. But that's the procedure, too."
Arnaldo took out his national identity card and handed it over.
The guard walked into the shack, said a few words to his companions and picked up a telephone. Three pairs of eyes turned toward the taxi and stared at Arnaldo. Arnaldo stared back. They redirected their attention to the TV screen.
The guard returned in less than a minute. "Okay, she's expecting you." Then, for the first time, he addressed Arnaldo's driver. "Bromelias is the first right off the second left."
The driver nodded. Arnaldo sank back in his seat. The barrier lifted and the taxi started to roll.
The condominium was no housing project. Every house was unique, and every house was set well back on a tailored lawn. It was a little island of luxury in a sea of poverty. After the first turn, Arnaldo could no longer see the high walls that surrounded the place.
A group of teenagers was hanging around on one of the street corners. They were similar in age to the kids Arnaldo had seen in the favela of Consolacao but there the similarity ended. These were wearing clean T-shirts with slogans in English and French. One of them, not older than twelve, was sitting on a motor-driven scooter, gunning the engine. There wasn't a dark skin among them.
The driver had no problem finding Dona Marcia's house. She was standing at the curb, and she started waving to them when they turned into her street. It wasn't a friendly wave. She was only doing it to get their attention.
Dona Marcia was a slender woman, closer to forty than thirty. Above her designer jeans she, too, was wearing a Tshirt with something written on it in English. This one said: FIVE REASONS WHY A BANANA IS BETTER THAN A HUSBAND, and went on to enumerate them. None of the first four were complimentary to males. Arnaldo, whose English wasn't that good anyway, couldn't read the fifth. It was tucked in under her belt.
The taxi driver offered his keys when Arnaldo got out of the cab.
"Keep them," Arnaldo said, and then to the woman, "Dona Marcia?"
"Sim."
She didn't ask him what he wanted, didn't ask him anything at all, just stood there frowning at him.
"You have a woman working for you? A woman by the name of Souza?"
"What's she done?"
"Nothing. She hasn't done anything. I just want to ask her some questions. Is she here?"
"Could I see your badge, or something?"
Arnaldo had his police ID ready.
She took a moment to study it, compared the photo with his face. "You're not from around here?"
"No, Senhora, Federal Police, based in the capital."
By which they both understood him to mean Sao Paulo, the capital of the state, and not Brasilia, the nation's capital, which everybody always refers to by name.
"Look, Agente, I've got a couple of young kids in this house, and my husband travels a lot. If Marly's been involved in anything illegal, I'll fire her so fast her head will spin. And I want you to tell me, right now, if she has."
She was a woman used to getting her way and not in the least fazed by being in the presence of a cop. She knew what cops were for. Cops were to protect people like her.
"She hasn't. I told you, I just have some questions to put to her."
Dona Marcia hooked a thumb under her jaw and tapped perfectly manicured fingers on her cheek. It wasn't a wholly unconscious gesture. She was wearing a gold ring with a large diamond-three carats, at least. After he'd had a good look at it she said, "I suppose you'd better come in."
He followed her through the front door. She led him through a sunken living room with white leather furniture and onto a wooden deck overlooking a swimming pool.
"Sit there," she said, indicating a plastic chair. "I'll get Marly. I think she's doing the bathrooms."
The woman she brought back looked to be a good deal older than her employer but probably wasn't. Marly Souza's best feature were her eyes, which were large and brown, and at the moment, fearful. She'd done nothing to conceal the streaks of gray in her black, kinky hair. Her lips were generous and still showed the signs of some carmine lipstick. Arnaldo thought she might have been quite pretty, once.
"I'll leave you to it," Dona Marcia said, and went away without so much as offering Arnaldo a cup of coffee.
"Bitch," he said softly to her retreating back.
One corner of Marly Souza's mouth twitched. A smile or a nervous tic? He wasn't sure. She brushed a strand of hair from her right eye with a hand that showed faint traces of crimson nail enamel.
"She'll fire me for sure," she said.
"Why? You haven't done anything, have you?"
Marly looked down at her ragged sneakers, once white. She was wearing them without socks. Bits of the dark skin of her feet showed through the holes.
"Have you?" Arnaldo insisted.
She looked up. "You don't get it, do you? I brought a cop to her home. That'll be reason enough." She sounded angry, and maybe she was, but the fear was still there. She still hadn't asked Arnaldo what he wanted. And she didn't. Instead, she looked around to make sure they were alone and said, "Not yet."
"Not yet?"
"I swear."
Arnaldo caught on. "I don't work with Colonel Ferraz," he said.
Her mouth opened in surprise.
"I'm from the Federal Police. Help me. We'll protect him."
She started picking at one of her broken nails.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
"Yeah, you do. We're talking about Edson. We're talking about your son. If Ferraz gets to him first, he'll kill him."
With a brusque movement she ripped off part of the nail. Her finger started to bleed. She stared at it, as if she'd had no part in causing the injury. The expression on her face didn't change.
"Help me," Arnaldo said. "Help him."
"I'll do what I promised," she said. "You go back and tell the colonel that. Tell him I'll come and tell him where Edson is. I'll tell him just as soon as I know."
"I doubt it," Arnaldo said. "I'll bet you're worried about all of your children, not just the little ones."
He'd struck a nerve. Impulsively, she reached out a hand and clutched him by the wrist. "No," she said. "A bargain's a bargain. I'll keep up my side. Please. Tell him that. Tell him to leave my babies alone."
"Marly?"
It was Dona Marcia.
Both of them looked up. The woman came forward and held out some banknotes.
"For today," she said, "and for last Friday. I won't be needing you anymore."
"Does this have anything to do with me?" Arnaldo said.
"No, Agente, it has to do with Marly, and frankly it's none of your business. Now, if the two of you are quite finished…"
"We're not," he said bluntly.
"Then you can continue your conversation elsewhere. I want you both out of my home."
Arnaldo waited while Marly fetched her things, a purse and a shopping bag, and watched while Dona Marcia made a minute inspection of the contents of both to make sure that Marly hadn't helped herself to any of the family silver.
The taxi driver was where Arnaldo had left him, listening to a cassette tape of musica sertaneja and tapping his fingers on the dashboard. He didn't seem surprised to have acquired another passenger.
"Where to now?" he said cheerfully, shifting the meter from the waiting position to the basic rate for daytime travel.
His broad smile disappeared when Arnaldo told him to go back to the favela.