wouldn't tell them a fucking thing. Sorry about the language, Father, but it's the God's honest truth. Not a fucking thing. You would have been proud of him. I sure as hell was.'
Father Angelo didn't comment. His hands were clenched in his lap. He was biting his lower lip.
Now that he was talking, Edson required little prompting. Ferraz, he said, supplied drugs to the street kids of Cascatas. To pay for them, the kids had to get money from somewhere. The ensuing crime wave caused a public revolt. Many townsfolk gave tacit support to what they thought was a death squad. In reality, it was Ferraz's gang of enforcers, killing the kids who didn't pay their drug debts.
No matter what anybody might have told them, Edson said, he didn't have a crack habit. And he'd never had a crack habit. He'd seen what the drug could do and it frightened him. But he was even more frightened of Ferraz, who demanded a regular purchase from every kid on the street. So he bought the stuff and pretended to use it. He didn't sell it to anyone. He just threw it away.
Then he lost one of his friends to an overdose and another to Ferraz's gang of killers. He wanted to do something, but he didn't know what. Finally he went to Father Brouwer and talked to him about it.
While Edson talked and talked, Father Angelo smoked and smoked, adding butt after butt to an already overflowing ashtray and filling the air with a thin haze. When Silva asked Edson why he'd called the bishop, the old priest raised his head and looked directly at the kid. This, it seemed, was something new.
Edson swallowed and looked down at the table. If his dark skin had been lighter they might have seen a blush.
'You called Dom Felipe?' Father Angelo said. 'You never told me that.'
'No, Father.'
The kid squirmed in his chair.
'Was it something else about Ferraz?'
'No, Father.'
'What then?'
Edson didn't answer.
'Immediately afterward,' Silva said, 'the bishop called Gaspar Farias. Gaspar says he can't remember what the bishop wanted to talk about.
'The fuck, he can't,' Edson exploded. 'He knows all right, the filho da puta.'
Father Angelo leaned back and opened his mouth in surprise. Edson didn't notice. He was still looking down at the surface of the table.
'So you know why the bishop called Gaspar,' Silva said.
'I don't want to talk about it.'
Father Angelo put a hand on the boy's shoulder.
Edson swallowed. 'Please,' he said, and looked at the priest. 'I don't want to talk about it. Not to you. Not to him.'
Silva leaned back and locked eyes with the old man. Father Angelo blinked, gave the slightest of nods, and took over the interrogation.
'But you spoke to Dom Felipe, didn't you?'
'That was different. I didn't know him. And, besides, it was by telephone.'
'What you told him, it's important, isn't it?'
The boy didn't look up. He swallowed again, nodded again.
'And you know that I love you and that Anton loved you and that nothing could ever change that, no matter what you've done?'
The boy searched the old priest's eyes.
'Yes,' he said. 'I know that.'
'Remember how proud you were of Anton? About how brave he was?'
Another nod.
'Don't you think he'd be proud of you if you were to be brave now?'
The answer was some time in coming. When it did, it was only a single, strangled word: 'Yes.'
'Well, then,' Father Angelo said, as if it was all settled, as if the boy had just agreed to speak.
And, after a good ten seconds of silence, he did.
Chapter Forty-one
It had rained that night, a persistent, steady downpour that cut visibility to no more than fifty meters and kept most of the kids off the street. But Edson was broke, and he had to work, so as soon as it slacked off a bit he grabbed an umbrella, went out to his usual corner, and started trolling for business.
The streetlights on Republic Square had been smashed since forever, so there was never much light even under the best of circumstances. That night, with the rain coming down, it was even darker than usual. But, light or no light, he wouldn't have been able to see much of the guy's face anyway because he was wearing a big rainhat, and he had it pulled down so that it almost covered his eyes.
Edson's customers normally didn't approach him on foot. On the rare occasions when they did, it generally meant that the John hadn't come out of the closet and didn't want to run the risk of having his wheels spotted.
'How much?' the man in the rain hat asked.
'A hundred and fifty,' Edson replied, expecting a counter-offer.
'Okay,' the guy said, surprising him, 'but there are conditions.'
'I don't take it in the ass,' Edson said, 'and I don't swallow. Find somebody else.'
'Your conditions are okay,' the man said, 'you want to hear mine?'
'I'm listening.'
'There are two of us, and my boyfriend's shy.'
'Which means?'
'He doesn't want you to see his face. You have to wear a hood until we get there.'
'And then?'
'And then you do us in the dark.'
'Let's see the money,' Edson said. The double act didn't bother him. He'd done that before.
'You see the money when we're in the car,' the man said. 'What do you call yourself?'
'Pipoca. How about you?'
'You don't have to know. Are you coming, or not?'
The car was a Passat, and not a new one. The inside stank of tobacco and of something else, too, something sweet and flowery. Once he was behind the wheel the guy lifted his ass to get at his wallet and counted out the hundred and fifty.
'You do a good job,' he said, 'and there's a tip at the end of it.'
Edson folded the money and put it in the pocket of his jeans. 'Remember the deal,' he said.
'I remember. You suck, but you don't swallow. You fuck, but you don't want to be fucked, right?'
'Right.'
Rainhat reached under his seat and came up with a plastic trash bag.
'What's that?' Edson said.
'You don't listen, do you? It's to put over your head.'
'A hood, you said.'
'What the fuck do you think we are? Seamstresses? Bite a hole with your mouth so you can breathe.'
The plastic was resilient, and Edson had to put it on and take it off a few times before he got it right. The man waited until he did before starting the engine.
They drove for almost twenty minutes. The first eight turns were all to the left. Edson could feel his body being pushed to the right by the inertia. He figured the guy had taken him a couple of times around the square. After that, it got confusing. He soon gave up trying to figure out where they might be going. He really didn't give a damn anyway. He already had the money.
'Sit tight,' the man said, coming to a sudden stop.
