Orlando Muniz was pouring what he'd planned to be his last whiskey of the evening when the telephone rang. He kept on pouring and let one of his bodyguards pick it up.
"It's Colonel Ferraz, senhor."
Muniz picked up his glass with one hand and the wireless telephone with the other.
"What can I do for you, Colonel?"
"It's about that priest, Brouwer." Ferraz sounded worried. Strange. The colonel hadn't struck him as someone who worried easily.
"What about him, Colonel? You, yourself, said he was harmless."
"More than ever. Somebody killed him."
Muniz took a sip of his drink and swished the whiskey around in his mouth.
"You hear what I just said?"
Muniz swallowed. "Yes, Colonel, I heard what you said. Brouwer is dead. I'm delighted to hear it. Good riddance." Muniz took another sip. The whiskey in his glass was almost gone. Maybe he'd have just one more before he went to bed.
"Good riddance, yeah. But there's a problem. Angelo thinks we had something to do with it."
"Angelo?"
"Father Angelo. The old guy who lived with Brouwer."
"Thinks we had something to do with it? We? As in you and me?"
"Yeah," the colonel said again.
"And you think we should be concerned about that? Really, Colonel, I'm surprised at you. That priest, if he's the one I'm thinking of, is a weak old man. He must be pushing ninety."
"It doesn't take any strength to pull a trigger. He's got a gun."
"He said that? He said he had a gun?"
"He did. And he said he was going to use it on both of us."
"I'd like to see him try. I really would. The old bastard is just blowing off steam, that's all."
"You think so, huh? Well, I hope to hell you're right."
There was a newfound insolence in the colonel's voice. Muniz didn't like it.
He decided he'd definitely drink one more whiskey.