was all a mystery to him. And it was one of the things wrong with Brazil that more than a few of its citizens were so exasperated by the high crime rate and the lack of opportunity that they were willing to pay dearly to get out of their country.
Time to go. Arnaldo stood up. He’d left his gun at home and traded his jacket and tie for a faded, blue shirt. He put enough money to cover the bill under his beer glass, and moved toward the door. The space he’d occupied was imme-diately filled by patrons to his left and right.
He crossed the narrow street (closed to vehicular traffic during business hours), pushed through the glass door, and climbed stairs that ended in a little alcove. The alcove termi-nated in a counter strewn with airline brochures. Beyond the counter, a girl was perched on a high stool reading a
She looked up, moved her chewing gum to one side of her mouth, and said, “Help you?”
“Yeah,” Arnaldo said. “I’m interested in a trip to the United States.”
“Sure,” she said. “Where to? New York? Miami?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” he said.
“Oh.” She winked. “You better talk to Juan. Hey, Juan.”
The only other person in the office, a man in his midthir-ties with his hair parted in the middle, looked up from a desk by the window.
“Somebody for you,” the girl said, and glanced at her watch. “Hey. Quitting time. See you tomorrow.”
She retrieved a cheap, plastic purse, ducked under the counter, and clattered off down the stairwell. The guy with his hair parted in the middle strolled over, an insincere smile plastered below his sparse mustache. He extended a hand. Arnaldo took it.
“Name’s Juan,” he said in a singsong accent that couldn’t be anything else but Argentinian.
“Arnaldo,” Arnaldo said, trying not to screw up his nose at the guy’s choice of cologne.
“What’s your pleasure?”
“I want to go to the States,” Arnaldo said.
“And?” Juan raised an eyebrow.
“And I can’t get a visa. Got turned down.”
“Why?”
“I worked there for years, overstayed my welcome, came home for my mother’s funeral. They stamped my passport on the way out, and now they won’t let me back in.”
“Sad,” the Argentinian said, but he didn’t sound as if he meant it. “So what makes you think we can help you?”
“I heard you guys organize trips. Through Mexico.”
“And where did you hear a thing like that?”
“Some guy I met.”
“Who?”
“I don’t remember his name. Just some guy.”
“Where?”
“In Pompano.”
Illegal Brazilian immigrants live all over the United States, but there are particularly large communities in Astoria, New York, near Boston, Massachusetts, and Pompano Beach, Florida. The locals drop Beach. They call it Pompano.
“Pompano, huh?”
The Argentinian looked Arnaldo up and down. Arnaldo did his best to look guileless.
“You’re a pretty old guy for that sort of thing, aren’t you? Sneaking across borders, I mean.”
Arnaldo hated references to his age. It took a conscious effort for him not to tell the
“Not that it’s any of your business,” he said, “but I got fam-ily there. A wife and two kids.”
“Guy’s got a family, he should be more careful. Maybe you shoulda stayed where you were.”
This time, Arnaldo almost lost it.
“I didn’t ask for your fucking opinion, I just want to know if you can help.”
“Hey, no need to get touchy. Travel is our business. We just got to be careful, you understand. You aren’t breaking any Brazilian laws by trying to get into the States, but if we help you, we are.”
“You want my business or not?”
The Argentinian seemed to come to a sudden decision.
“Cost you five thousand dollars American,” he said.
“And what do I get for my five?”
“Here’s how it works: you give me the five in cash, dollars, not reais. We put you up for a couple of days, room and board included, until we get a group of ten.”
“Put me up where?”
“A place we got. We don’t tell anyone where it is, and you don’t contact anyone while you’re there. No telephone, no letters, no nothing. Once we get a group together, we send everybody to Mexico. These days, the Mexicans are asking for visas from Brazilians. The Americans pressured them into that, but we have contacts. A little money changes hands and the visas get issued like that.” The Argentinian snapped his fingers.
“The visa’s extra?”
The Argentinian shook his head. “Included. Everything’s included. When you get to Mexico City, our group leader puts you in touch with one of our associates. The associate brings you and the others across the border. Once he does, you’re on your own. No guarantees.”
“What do you mean, no guarantees?”
“We provide board and lodging along the way, the ticket to Mexico, the visa, and the services of reliable guides, peo-ple who’ve done this kind of thing hundreds of times. Every now and then, one of them gets caught, which could mean
“What kind of a deal is that?”
“It’s the deal we offer. It’s the deal everybody offers. You can try it on your own, of course. Some people do. Most of them don’t get very far. Aside from the fact that you probably haven’t got contacts at the Mexican consulate, your chances of getting across the border without help are pretty low. That’s what we charge for. Not the plane fare. Take it or leave it.”
Arnaldo nodded. “I’ll take it.”
“Good. When do you want to leave?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Then say your good-byes tonight. Come here tomorrow morning at eleven. Bring your luggage, one carry-on only, and my five thousand in cash. We’ll have you on your way to the land of margaritas and mariachis in a few days. You’ll be in the States within a week. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s closing time.”
Less than a minute later, Arnaldo was back on the street.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Sylvie Charmet blew into the restaurant like a squall off the South Atlantic, bussed Gilda once on each cheek, and slipped into the chair the waiter had hastened to pull out. Gilda waited until she had Sylvie’s full attention before pointedly looking at her watch. Then she lifted her eyes and stared at her friend.
“Once, just once, Sylvie, it would be nice if you’d show up for lunch on time.”
Sylvie made a dismissive gesture. She was big on dismis-sive gestures. “I’ve got a new shrink,” she said.
Sylvie was a cardiovascular surgeon, a lithe brunette in her early thirties and, like Gilda, still unmarried. When it came to her work, Sylvie was meticulous, but the rest of her life was a mess. Only the attentions of a full-time
