Then I gestured for her. Arm outstretched, fingers curled around an imaginary barrel, index finger wavering to and fro as though pulling the trigger.
I aimed at her.
“Gun,” I said. “Where is it?”
Fátima suddenly halted. Obviously she understood what I meant. I knew I had carried the pistol on my hip all the way down to the very moment someone had tugged at my shoulder outside. So, her halt was not to consider whether she knew where the gun was, but whether it would be smart to hand it over to me.
And she decided against it.
There weren’t drug soldiers anymore, not that I could see, and that was a good sign. Fátima walked out the door and returned quickly after, along with a man. He came into the room, daylight seeping in through a crack on the ceiling, as we eyed each other.
He was a tall man with a white shirt and black trousers, a waiter in uniform ready to serve.
At that moment I figured that yet again Fátima had taken care of me. She had done all but find me on the street. The one who pulled at my shoulders had been that man. Yeah, now I remember him. But who had bathed me, dressed me, checked for wounds over my body and offered me bread? Fátima.
I should have been thankful for their hospitality. I should have paid my respects for their taking care of me. But after so many tragedies, I could not help but become self-absorbed.
“Where’s my gun?” I asked the man. I didn’t even bother asking his name.
“You’re free to go,” he responded with a rough accent, but with surprisingly accurate grammar. “But I cannot let you have the gun, Mrs. Emily Bennett.”
I pursed my lips. “I don’t expect you to understand me. I’m being tracked down by the police and drug factions. I’m an asset, a moving target, a bargaining chip, a—”
“Calm down, Mrs. Bennett,” said the man, stiffened. “You’re safe now.”
“I don’t want to be safe in this building. I must get out of here. And I need my gun for that.”
I hoisted myself up after a long struggle. My body was clad in a thin white gown that seemed to belong to an old woman dwelling in a mental health hospital.
Fátima and the other man talked to each other. Then he looked back at me.
“Mrs. Emily Bennett, you’ve threatened Camila with a handgun,” he said, staring at me as if I was a threat to everyone in the slum. Which also meant he would never give the pistol back to me. “Your face is stamped on the front page of every major newspaper. As I said, you are free to go. But you’re clearly weak, undernourished, and even going down Gloria Santa can stress your muscles.”
As he spoke, my head leaned sideways, as if most of my weight had shifted to the right half of my body. I held myself up against the wall.
“I have to get out of here,” I mumbled.
Fátima scurried in closer to me, offered her soft touch to help with my sitting back over the mattress. I accepted it only because I didn’t feel able to react otherwise.
“I’ve already phoned the police. They’re coming up Gloria Santa undercover. Yesterday’s uprising has calmed down, but a man in uniform will only stir up emotions around here.”
“Wait, you’ve called the police?” I said.
The man nodded.
“I knew I shouldn’t trust you. I shouldn’t trust Fátima either, nor Camila. You’re all . . .” I said out loud, but the words were only meant for myself.
Fátima looked at me with eyes gaped open, I could clearly see a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The man sighed.
“Try to get some sleep. Fátima will watch out for you. They’ll be here in half an hour,” he said. Then he turned his back, heading outside.
But he didn’t step out without hearing my words.
“Are you associated with Flávio Beirario’s faction?” I said.
“I’m sorry?” said the man, facing me again.
“I’m asking if you want to see Flávio Beirario released from jail,” I said, dryly.
He frowned.
“We’re working people around here, Mrs. Bennet. Most of us. I couldn’t care less about what drug lord is arrested or released from prison. I gotta go now.”
He seemed anxious to leave. His responses had been prompt and unwavering, although I sensed I could get the truth from him if I insisted.
It only required a minor slip on his part.
“Is it about money, then?”
“Do you mean my being late for work? Yes, it certainly is about money,” he responded.
“I mean your calling the police. The use of my life to barter the release of a drug dealer.”
He blinked excessively. Than he and Fátima exchanged new words. The woman now seemed nervous, shaking her hands, hitting the air, pointing upwards as though to the higher parts of the slum. Their masks were being taken off.
He returned his gaze to me.
“I don’t know what you’ve been told, Mrs. Bennett. But nobody is going to use your life for anything. Just remain calm. You will be rescued in less than an hour, everything will be okay.”
So he refused to go straight to the point.
“I know it,” I said. I lowered my eyes down to the cement floor. “Renato has told me everything. About his job. The murdering of his uncle. Flávio Beirario’s faction plan of kidnapping and using me as a bargaining chip. Renato even warned me about officers Paulo Pinto and Robert Rôla being on the take.” I raised my eyes toward the man next to Fátima, my
