the washtub.
'What's it worth to you?' the kid asked.
'Five reais.'
'Go fuck yourself.'
'Ten.'
'Let's see the ten.'
Arnaldo fished out his wallet. Probably a mistake, he thought. The wallet was fat with the money he'd taken from the ATM. He held it low, so that the kids couldn't see into it, and took out a ten-real note.
The kid stuck out his hand.
'First the information,' Arnaldo said.
The kid snarled, then pointed up the street. 'You see the house with the blue plywood?'
Arnaldo squinted through the windshield. 'Yeah.'
'That's it. Give me the ten.'
Arnaldo did, and the kid turned his back on him. It was a sign for the rest of the school. They all turned their backs on him, too.
Without being told, the driver crept forward again, glancing nervously in the rearview mirror.
'Meninos da rua,' he said. Street kids. He sounded frightened.
He stopped at a shack that had a piece of blue plywood patching a hole to the right of the entrance. Entrance, not door. A piece of rotting canvas hung down to close the opening.
'Keys,' Arnaldo said.
'What?'
'Shut off the engine and give me your keys.'
'That's not necessary, senhor. I'll be right here, waiting for you when you come out.'
'Sure you will. And the Tooth Fairy exists. Keys.'
The driver sighed, turned off the engine, and handed them over.
A little too easily, Arnaldo thought. 'You have a set of spares?'
'No, senhor, no spares.'
'Okay, get out.'
'Why, senhor?'
'Don't argue, just do it.'
When he did, Arnaldo told him to go around to the back of the car, remove the distributor cap and take out the rotor.
The driver's eyes rounded in fear. He ran a hand over his bald pate.
So he did have another set of keys. 'I won't be long,' Arnaldo said, pocketing the rotor. 'Anybody gives you any trouble, just yell.'
'There are five of them, senhor. Five.'
'And I'm carrying a pistol with ten rounds in the magazine. Ten. If they come over here, tell them I'm a cop. It will save me the trouble, and I can start shooting right away.'
'Please, senhor, I don't want any trouble. I have a wife. Three children. You don't know those kids, they-'
'I know kids like them. And, yeah, I know that at least a couple of them are carrying.'
'Carrying, senhor?'
'Certainly knives. Maybe a gun or two.'
'Senhor, for the love of God-'
'Okay, okay, come with me. Stand in the doorway and keep an eye on your car. If they touch it, tell me.'
With a furtive glance at the kids, the driver nodded, and followed.
Arnaldo didn't know what the protocol was when it came to canvas curtains instead of doors. He tried clapping his hands.
It worked. A moment later, the canvas was swept aside, and he was looking into the mistrusting eyes of an old mulatto woman. She had what might have been a piece of firewood in one hand. Or it might have been a club. She stared at him without speaking.
'I'm looking for the mother of Edson Souza.'
'Not here.'
When she opened her mouth he could see she was toothless.
'Souza's mother doesn't live here?'
'Not here,' the woman repeated, smacking her gums. And then added, grudgingly, 'She's working.'
He'd come to the right place. 'Who are you?' he asked.
'Who are you?' the woman said.
He showed her his warrant card. She squinted at it.
'Can you read?'
'No,' she said.
He showed her his badge. 'Federal Police.'
She drew back slightly and took in a breath. 'Didn't do anything,' she said.
He was beginning to think she wasn't quite right in the head. 'I didn't say you did. Can I come in?'
She stepped out of the opening, pulling the canvas aside as she did so.
Inside, the shack smelled of lamp oil, sweat, and human excrement. Arnaldo remembered that places like these didn't have toilets. They dug holes in a corner and used that, covering the holes with boards, sometimes sprinkling lime if they could afford it. They'd fetch their water from a communal spigot. Electricity, if any, would come from an illegal tap.
There were no windows. In the dim light, he could make out that the interior was nothing more than one small room. Three children, the oldest about six or seven, and the youngest no more than two, lay entangled on the bed like a litter of cats. The bed was made of jute coffee bags, sewn together and stuffed with something. There was a single three-legged stool, and there were three wooden crates, but no other furniture. One of the crates supported a small blackand-white television set with a rabbit-ear antenna.
The television was tuned to a channel that was showing an old Tom and Jerry cartoon. The oldest kid, a girl, took her thumb out of her mouth and glanced at Arnaldo when he came through the door. The other two didn't take their eyes off the screen.
The stool and the two remaining crates looked incapable of bearing his weight. If Arnaldo wanted to sit, it would have to be on the bed next to the kids. He decided he'd remain standing.
'Yours?' he said to the old woman, inclining his head in the direction of the listless children.
'Marly Souza's,' she said. 'I take care of them when she's at work.'
'Siblings of Edson?'
'What?'
'Brothers or sisters of Edson?'
'Two sisters, one brother. Different fathers.'
'You a relation?'
'What?'
'Are you their aunt or their grandmother?'
The woman shook her head.
'She pays me.'
'What's your name?'
'Lia.'
'Okay, Lia. You know Edson?'
She nodded.
'Where is he?'
'Gone away.'
'Where?'
'Don't know.'
