“That kind of a bar, eh?”
“That kind of a bar.”
“Maybe the killer got the woman to lure him outside.”
“You don’t think Girotti is a dead end? Somebody else’s victim?”
“You saw the photos?”
“I saw the photos. Unlikely, huh?”
“Very. But it won’t be long before we know for sure. I should have the ballistics results on those bullets by tomorrow at the latest. Is Babyface back from Rio?”
“Should be by now.”
“Send him over to that bar.”
Chapter Ten
The Bardoelias was a shabby establishment with a sign in the front window offering beer for two reais.
Haraldo Goncalves wasn’t about to miss out on a deal like that. He bellied up to the bar and rapped his knuckles on the wood.
“A Cerpa,” he said.
“Beer’s only for folks old enough to drink.” The bartender grinned.
His attempt at humor failed miserably. “Take a good fucking look,” Goncalves said, flourishing his warrant card in the bartender’s face.
“Brahma or Antarctica?” the bartender said.
“I told you. Cerpa.”
“No Cerpa. We only got Brahma and Antarctica.”
“Antarctica, then.”
The bartender reached into a cooler, pulled out a cold bottle, and poured half of the contents into a glass. He set the glass and the bottle on the bar between them.
“You look too young to be a cop,” he said.
“No shit. Elias around?”
“Elias sold me this place back in 1997. I never got around to changing the name.”
“And yours is?”
“Renato Cymbalista, but nobody calls me that. They call me Gordo.” The word meant fatty, and it was appropriate.
“Gordo, huh?” Goncalves said, eying Cymbalista’s vast midriff. “I can’t imagine why.”
He was still miffed about the fat man’s attempt at humor.
“You in my place on business, or pleasure?” Gordo asked.
Goncalves looked around him with distaste and curled his lip. “What do you think?” he said. “Were you working the night Joao Girotti was murdered?”
“Yeah.”
“How well did you know him?”
“I didn’t know him at all. Why he chose my place to drink in, and the alley out in back to get killed in, I couldn’t say.”
“Did you talk with him?”
“Just to take his orders.”
“What was he drinking?”
“Beer with Dreher chasers.”
Goncalves wrinkled his nose. Conhaque Dreher, cachaca flavored with ginger, was just about the cheapest distilled spirit you could buy.
“Got pretty drunk, did he?”
“He got wasted.”
“Think back. Did he talk to anyone else?”
“I don’t have to think back, on account of I already told the story twice. By now, I got it memorized. First, I told it to the uniformed guys who showed up just after Graca found the body. Then I-”
“Who’s Graca?”
“One of the girls.”
“She works for you?”
“None of them work for me. We got an arrangement. They use the place to pick up customers, and the customers buy them drinks. Like that, see?”
“How did Graca find the body?”
“The women’s toilet is out there.” Gordo shot a thumb in the direction of the rear door. “She walked out to use it, and she stumbled over him.”
“This was how long after he left?”
“Ten minutes? Fifteen? Not long.”
“Back to my question: did he talk to anyone else?”
“Just the girl who was sitting at his table, the one he left with.”
“And that would be?”
Gordo shrugged. “Some blond,” he said. “I never saw her before. She shoulda come over and talked to me first, but she didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you talk to her?”
“The guy was buying anyway, and I was busy.”
“Seen her since?”
Gordo shook his head.
His eyes now accustomed to the dim light, Goncalves checked out his surroundings. Standing at the bar, just a few meters away, an old man with bleary eyes was staring straight ahead and nursing a drink.
The other male patrons, seven in number, were distributed between two tables, three at one, four at the other. All of them had given him the once-over when he came in.
Since then, they’d lost interest.
The women, on the other hand, were looking at him expectantly. It was still early in the day, and there were only three of them. One, a would-be blond, winked.
Goncalves turned back to the bartender. “This Graca, is she here?”
The bartender stretched his neck to look over Goncalves’s shoulder.
“No,” he said.
“Is there anyone else here now who was here then?”
“Leonardo was.” Gordo pointed along the bar. “He almost never leaves.”
The old man with the bleary eyes didn’t react, even though he was close enough to hear every word.
“But I wouldn’t waste your time with him if I was you,” Gordo said, not lowering his voice, speaking as if Leonardo wasn’t there. “He doesn’t recognize his own wife half the time.”
“You’re exaggerating, right?”
“I’m not. She comes in three or four times a week to drag him home, and he honest-to-God doesn’t recognize her. I don’t think it’s just the booze. Something is screwed up in his head.” He pointed at his temple and made a circular motion. Maybe it’s that… that…”
Goncalves helped him out. “Alzheimer’s?”
“Yeah, that. I figure there’s a bright side, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Think about it. Every time he takes her to bed, it’s like he’s fucking a different woman. You married?”
“No.”
“Then you have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“I think I do. There are happy marriages, you know.”
