“Like your mother?”
The hands playing over Silva’s body stopped moving. They remained on his left leg, motionless, during a long silence-and only finished the act of frisking him when the black man started speaking again.
“You calling my mother a whore?” he said.
There was no change in the inflection of his voice. But, somehow, Silva knew he was furious.
“I thought we were talking about killing,” Arnaldo said, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his voice. Obviously, he’d sensed the same thing Silva had. “But, come to think of it, there used to be a black slut working the Rua Aurora who looked just like-”
“Can be really fucking dangerous telling jokes like that. Could be you need a tour of the collection.”
“Collection?”
The bodyguard inclined his head toward a glass-fronted cabinet butted up against one wall.
The thug who’d been doing the frisking stepped back and said, “Clean.”
Arnaldo strolled over to the cabinet. The black man came to stand beside him.
Beyond the glass, and distributed over three shelves, were several dozen instruments of torture.
“Some of this stuff is almost five hundred years old, was used during the Inquisition.” The black man pointed. “See those pincers? How they’re blackened at the tips? That’s because they used to heat them up red hot before they used them. That thing over there? It’s called a thumbscrew. Supposed to hurt like hell, but I wouldn’t know, would I? Me and Luis, we never use any of this stuff, do we Luis?”
Luis gave an appreciative chuckle. Their little joke.
“Some of the people I show this stuff to,” the black man said, “get really scared.”
“Which ones do you use on people who tell bad jokes?” Arnaldo said.
“Like you?”
“I never told a bad joke in my life,” Arnaldo said. “You must have a lousy sense of humor.”
“Wrong,” the black man said. “I got a great sense of humor. Sometime, maybe, I’ll get a chance to show you a few things I think are funny.”
The exchange of pleasantries was cut short by a voice emanating from a speaker in the ceiling.
“When you two comedians are finished with your act,” the voice said, “maybe the lot of you might like to step in here.”
There was a click, and the door to the inner sanctum opened. It turned out to be a square room, not particularly large, with no windows and only the single door.
Miranda got up to greet them. He was a handsome man in a pink short-sleeved shirt. “You guys want coffee?” he asked.
“No,” Silva said.
He despised people like Miranda. He didn’t want anything from the man except information. The bicheiro seemed to sense Silva’s hostility.
“Sit,” Miranda said, managing to make it sound like he was giving orders to a dog.
“How about if your two colleagues here go and stand where we can see them,” Silva said. “I don’t like them breathing down my neck.”
“Do it,” Miranda said. And they did, taking positions behind him, leaning against the wall.
Silva took his time sinking into one of the two chairs Miranda used for guests. Arnaldo waited a beat and followed suit.
Last of all, Miranda reassumed his seat.
“So what do you want?” he said.
“What can you tell us,” Silva said, “about the kidnapping of the Artist’s mother?”
Miranda’s voice took on an edge. “I can tell you that it was a fucking unpatriotic thing to do, and if the bastards who did it fall into my hands, I’ll have Gaspar here string them up by the balls.”
Arnaldo looked at Gaspar. The black man was smiling at him.
“That your name? Gaspar?”
“That’s my name,” he said. “And stringing people up by the balls is one of the things I think is funny. Hard to do, though, to people as fat as you are, on account of the fact that their scrotums rip right out.”
“You know what?” Arnaldo said. “If you were doing the ball-stringing to one of the guys who snatched the Artist’s mother, I’d stand by and let you do it. I wouldn’t even take out my handcuffs until you were finished.”
“First sensible thing you said since you came in here,” the black man said. “Now you know my name. What’s yours?”
“Arnaldo Nunes.”
“Huh,” Gaspar said, as if he was storing the name away for future reference.
“I hate to break up this little love fest,” Miranda said, “but I’m busy. Is that all you came for? Just to ask me that question?”
“Not just for that,” Silva said.
“What, then?”
“How about you put the word out that you’d be grateful for any information that helps us to find the lady?”
“You know what? I already have. But don’t count on me passing the information along to you.”
“All we want is to get that woman back,” Silva said.
“That’s all. I don’t give a damn what happens to whomever kidnapped her.”
“Well, that’s good,” Miranda said. “It’s good you don’t give a damn about what happens to whomever kidnapped her, because I do. And I don’t want any conflict between us on that score. I don’t need any more trouble with the law; I got enough already. Speaking of which, what brought you here so early in the investigation? Why did you think of me?”
Silva considered telling Miranda about Talafero’s accusation-and decided not to.
“You have a lot of contacts,” he said, “more than most people. I’m talking to everyone who might be able to help.”
“You know what, Cop? I don’t believe you. Somebody’s spreading rumors about me, and I got a good idea who it is.”
“Do you?”
“It was that canalha Talafero, wasn’t it?” Miranda was looking deeply into Silva’s eyes, hoping for a reaction. He didn’t get one.
“Football is just a business to him,” Miranda went on, “a way of making money. You know he’s selling the Artist to Real Madrid?”
“Everybody knows it,” Silva said. “What’s your point?”
“Talafero goes around saying things about me,” Miranda said, “so let me say this about him. I happen to know he placed a bet in London this morning, a bet for a hundred thousand English pounds against Brazil. What does that say to you?”
“It suggests he has a hundred thousand English pounds offshore. That would be illegal unless he declared it on his tax statements, which he probably hasn’t. How did you find out about it?”
Miranda waved the question aside.
“That’s none of your goddamned business,” he said. “You know what it says to me? It says he arranged to have the Artist’s mother snatched so he could place that bet with a good chance of winning it, that’s what.”
“Could be,” Silva said, “that he’s just betting against the likelihood of getting her back.”
“If I needed any further prompting to get involved in this,” Miranda said, “he gave it to me with that bet. I’d love to see him lose his hundred thousand fucking English pounds.”
“But you don’t want to see him selling the Artist to Real Madrid, because that would mean he’d have a lot of money to invest in this year’s carnival.”
“You figured that out all by yourself?”
“All by myself.”
“You’re lying. How about you get out of here and let me get back to business? Your welcome just dried up.”
Back at the office, Mara was waiting for them. “That Sa woman knew more than she let on.”
“Sa woman?” Arnaldo said.
