kills with anonymous bullets coming in from out of frame. They wanted to savor the act. They wanted to see life slowly being forced out of a woman by a man who’d just had sex with her, not a quick execution carried out by an anonymous perpetrator.
So Claudia had been out the cost of the girl, a set of satin sheets and the time and effort that it took to clean things up. From then on, she preselected people who’d already proven their contempt for human life. That’s where Chief Pinto came in. For a price, he helped her with recruitment. Sometimes the people he proposed were freelance pistoleiros like Carlos Queiroz and Nestor Porto. Other times, the chief might suggest a full-time employee of one of the great landowners. Every large ranch had a few such men. Their job was to keep the other employees in line, making sure they didn’t start bitching about the pittance they earned, making sure they didn’t run off and, when they did, making sure they came back, alive if possible, dead when it became necessary to set an example.
The man Hans shot had been one of those, a fellow who’d probably killed a dozen people in his lifetime, but who’d inexplicably shied away from strangling a used-up whore. His action demonstrated to Claudia that she could never be absolutely certain how a man might comport himself at the critical moment, so she made every attempt to make the pre-selection as rigid as possible.
First, a candidate had to demonstrate that he was capable of getting an erection while in the presence of a bank of lights, a woman with a camera, and two other men. The way Claudia did it was to tell their prospective recruit that she had a paying customer, a European in Manaus on holiday, who liked to watch the recording of live sex, and who was willing to pay for the privilege.
If the recruit was interested, his next question was usually, “How much?”
Claudia made sure her answer always exceeded his expectations.
The deal struck, the prospect would soon find himself on a bed with one of The Goat’s girls, surrounded by Hans playing the European, Otto playing Claudia’s assistant, and Claudia herself operating the camera. The lights would be switched on and the couple would be told to begin.
Claudia hardly ever bothered to roll the camera during her so-called screen tests. She wasn’t in the business of making simple pornos. And she never did the test and the shoot on the same day because she could never be sure of the man’s ability to turn in a repeat performance.
Test or shoot, it didn’t matter, she always had the whore service Hans and Otto first, so they’d be sated and keep their minds on business. That, however, required a willing female. It wasn’t going to work with a fifteen-year- old recalcitrant virgin. And there was another good reason for not carrying out the screen test with Marta herself: when the protagonist discovered he was in for a fight he might refuse to get near her the second time around.
She resolved both problems by arranging to rent a whore from The Goat. The whore would service Hans and Otto, then apply herself to the “talent.” On the day of the shoot, she’d rent another whore, or maybe the same one all over again. She’d be for Hans’s and Otto’s use, to be returned prior to rolling the camera. Marta would be kept for the killer. The rentals would add to expenses, but not by much. The Goat’s girls were among the most expensive in the city, but Manaus was Manaus. She could get two of them for the price of a decent bottle of wine.
Chief Pinto came through, as he always did. Forty-eight hours later, Claudia was conducting the test.
The room smelled of sweat and testosterone. Little motes of dust had been kicked up by all the lunging and plunging on the mattress, and they danced in the glare of the lights. The candidate, a certain Delfin Figueiredo, gave a final thrust and groan and collapsed on top of the whore. The whore, looking over his shoulder, had a bored expression on her face. She rolled her eyes at Claudia as if to say, What are you waiting for? He’s finished, but Claudia gave Figueiredo another ten seconds or so before she switched off the lights.
Figueiredo had performed more than adequately, and the girl had done her job. Otto was tasked with taking her back to The Goat’s. She slipped into a dress, no underwear, put her feet into a pair of plastic sandals, and was out the door sixty seconds after Delfin rolled off of her.
Hans, playing the European, signified he was satisfied. He hadn’t said a word during the entire process, and he didn’t now. He simply handed over the wad Claudia had given him and left. Hans’s silence had been an absolute necessity. He was no actor, and Figueiredo would have pegged him for a Brazilian the minute he’d opened his mouth.
Claudia promptly counted off the agreed-upon sum from the wad and handed it to Figueiredo. He counted it again, folded it, and reached for his underpants.
“You got any more work like this,” he said, putting the underwear on, “I’m your man. Easiest money I ever made.”
“What you earned today is a trifle,” she said. “You could be earning a lot more if you’ve got the balls to go for it.”
Claudia had questioned Delfin’s manhood. Delfin reacted like she knew he would.
“What the fuck you mean ‘If I got the balls’?”
“Just what I said.”
“I got the balls for anything,” he said. “Anything,” he repeated.
“Then I’ve got a proposition for you,” she said.
Thought lines creased what was normally a smooth brow. Delfin gave her a suspicious look, stuffed the money into a pocket of his jeans, and lifted one foot in order to pull them on.
“What have you got in mind?” he said, his foot still in the air. “I hear you kill people.”
He put his foot back on the floor.
“Who the fuck told you that?”
“Just something I heard,” she said.
He lifted his right foot again, slid it into the jeans, and did the same with the left. Then he pulled the pants up to his hips, closed the top button and zipped the fly.
“Someone’s got a big mouth,” he said. “And why should you care?”
“Because,” she said, “I’ve got a proposal that a man with your background won’t be able to refuse, as long as he’s got balls, that is.”
Behind the door, Hans, who hadn’t left, was listening to every word.
Carla was at the point where she was telling the dumb bastard there was only one thing her “European” liked better than watching people fuck.
Hans waited for a reaction. There wasn’t any, at least none he could hear.
Carla went on for a minute or two more, then stopped.
There was a moment of silence.
“How much?” Figueiredo’s voice.
Hans smiled, put his Glock back into the holster on his belt, and strolled into the kitchen to get a beer.
When Marta heard the rattle of keys, she sat bolt upright and set her back against the wall behind her.
But when the door opened, it wasn’t The Goat. It was a woman, and she was carrying a tray.
Marta hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. Even her pitcher of water was long since empty. She smelled coffee, and milk, and, yes, pao de queijo, the little round cheese breads she’d always loved, especially when they were dripping with butter.
“Hungry?” the woman said.
Marta nodded, her throat too dry to speak.
The woman knelt, put the tray on the floor, and slid it forward with her foot.
“Well, then,” she said, “eat.”
Marta stretched out a hand, watching the woman all the while, and felt around until her fingers touched one of the little yellow balls. It was still warm from the oven. She grabbed it, stuffed it in her mouth, and almost choked. Her throat was that dry.
“Take your time,” the woman said. “Drink some coffee.”
Marta dropped her eyes long enough to make sure she got a good grip on the mug, expecting it to be hot.
It wasn’t. It was lukewarm. She meant to take only a sip or two, but the cafe com leite had been sweetened, and once she got going she couldn’t stop. She drained more than half in one go.
“I’m Carla Antunes,” the woman said.
Marta didn’t care what the woman’s name was, but she very much cared about the remaining cheese breads. She took another one, savoring the chewy consistency, wishing the woman had brought butter.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” Carla Antunes said.