Female Novel
Chapter 3
My first day in a new city: Sao Paulo.
I tap into the internal phone. “Room service? A pot of coffee, please. Strong, with cream. Orange juice.Toast, fruit salad and yoghurt. Room 313.”
“Sim senhor. Dez minutos.”
“And a newspaper, please. You have the New York Times?”
“Sim senhor. Sem problemas.”
My hotel suite is spacious and comfortable. Not the top of the range. Not the bottom. Upper-middle,where it’s luxurious enough to be comfortable for, what I’m expecting to be, an extended stay, but notwhere I’ll be watched all the time.
Anything from Hickman?
I check my mobile. It’s brand new, as supplied by Dakho and currently displaying the message ‘BemVindo a Brasil’ from the local service provider. As I touch the screen, the message flicks off to bereplaced by Your system needs a restart to install updates. Restart now?
The phone has a great spec, the best, but I'll be happier when it's settled down a bit. Irritably, I tap, Yes,then put it to one side to let it run through its interminable updates.
In rather less than the ten minutes promised, my breakfast arrives. From sheer habit, I keep my handunder my jacket where the Glock nestles in its holster, but the boy of perhaps fourteen who enters withthe tray doesn’t look like any kind of threat. “Onde, senhor?”
“On the table by the balcony, please.”
I tip the boy and he backs out of the room beaming. “You want things, senhor, you call Rodrigo. Yes,senhor?”
“Thank you, Rodrigo. I will.”
The juice is fresh, the fruit freshly chopped and the coffee strong as requested. I think they must haverun an iron over the newspaper.
Excellent…
I settle with my tray, balcony doors open and the relative coolth of the morning wafting in on the breeze.Shaking open the paper, I savour the excellent coffee.
From beyond the door: the low hum of a vacuum cleaner, gradually drawing nearer. Then, a tap on thedoor. “Senhor? I am the cleaner of the room, please?”
One hand nested under my jacket again, “Entrar.”
A young woman enters, green-overalled, her hair in a scarf, pushing a cart loaded with cloths andsprays. She looks local, with the olive skin, dark hair and eyes of the Hispanic types, although slightlyflattened features suggest some native blood mixed in. She’s a sultry-eyed beauty who would bewalking a catwalk somewhere if she lived in the First World, or at least anywhere with less inequality.Her options here are more limited.
“I can clean, yes? You want I come back?”
I wave a hand across the room. “No. It’s fine. Do it now.” I’d prefer she did it later. It’s not as if the roomneeds much. I’ve barely occupied the place. But it’s better to behave normally. And if the suite’s beencleaned already, no-one will have reason to disturb me again.
Setting my newspaper on the tray with the coffee pot, I take the lot out onto the balcony.
The sun and the heat are wonderful. Jumping from one hemisphere to the other, I’ve left behind thefreeze and the damp of winter. The summer heat bakes through my bones, dispelling the grinding chillthat’s plagued me ever since I set foot inside Jenny’s home. I’d prefer less humidity than Sao Paulooffers, but you can’t have everything, and it beats the penetrating cold of the northern winter hands-down.
Sighing, I stretch out, tipping my face back to bathe in the morning sunshine, revelling in the heat.Inside, the maid hums some crap-pop jingle before being drowned out by the sound of the vacuumcleaner.
Take an hour to relax, then down to work…
*****
Downloading Finchby’s database of invoices, I scour through for the most likely follow-ups for Baxter.After a couple of hours, armed with a shortlist of a dozen likely addresses and my new mobile whichseems finally to have run through its downloads, I’m ready to go.
Take a taxi?
No.
Don’t leave a trail…
It’s a long walk, but the upside is that I get to explore Sao Paulo on foot, always the best way to seeanywhere new. The loose linen suit I’m wearing, appropriate to the temperature and humidity, is aroomy fit, so there’s plenty of space for my gun holster and other equipment.
Check the Glock into its holster…
… Knife…
… Hat on…
… Sunglasses…
A quick check in the mirror…
English…
… Tourist…
… Harmless…
Time to move…
The hotel door closes behind me with a click. Plucking a hair, I lick my thumb, then spit-plaster the hairinto place about a foot from the floor, bridging the crack between door and frame. If the door openswhile I’m out, I’ll know.
I suck in a smile. It’s the oldest trick in the book, but if it’s good enough for Sean Connery, it’s goodenough for me.
The nearest address on my shortlist is about a half hour’s walk away. Hands in pockets, I stroll througha pleasant neighbourhood: not wealthy, but clean and green, shady with trees.
Sauntering along, I consult my mapping app occasionally, then stop by a tourist information board,making a show of tracing my finger over the map to museums, parks and the theatre.
Visiting Tourist…
My phone mutters at me: the mapping app. Your destination is on the right…
… but I keep walking…
A bar-restaurant: Bar do Antonio… A scatter of outdoor tables and seating… Customers seated withcoffee and beer…
… and without breaking my stride, I amble past the address… past the barber’s next door and the halfdozen stores following… and then across the road to pause by a series of glass-fronted stores forupmarket clothes, sandals and shoes, swimwear and accessories.
From there, with a view of the bar, I hang around on the corner, making a show of window-shopping forover-priced clothes behind acres of plate glass, the reflection giving me a reasonable view even withmy back turned.
At first sight, Antonio’s Bar is just the kind of place I enjoy hanging out in in a new environment: a smallfamily-run establishment, off the main tourist tracks but still in a decent area; somewhere the locals willcome to eat. The signs and paintwork are shabby but clean. The seating and tables also look well-used. But as I watch, a customer rises and leaves. An old man moves smartly in, snatching a towelfrom his apron. Sweeping away crumbs, he pumps from a hand-spray then wipes over the top, taking amoment extra to work on some more difficult stain before giving the whole thing a final polish.
From my lurking point at the corner, I watch for several minutes as the old man serves drinks andsnacks at the outdoor seating, waving arms and barking orders at a young woman in a black apron.
One of the customers says something, pointing at the sun, and the old man pulls across an umbrellaand stand, taking the time to position it carefully to shade the client. After a few minutes, a woman,looking much the same age as he is, comes outside carrying a tray of steaming pots.
None of these people looks a likely candidate for leader of a trafficking ring.novelbin
I check my notes, then my mapping app.
Yes, I’m in the right place.
In the back, perhaps?
Or upstairs?
Tucking away my mobile, I stroll across and take a seat, using my hat as a fan to waft air over my face.
The old man trots over, beaming. “Olá senhor. Está muito quente. Sim? O que você gostaria?”
I open my mouth to reply… Cerveja, por favor. … Then bite down on my words: no need to let anyoneknow that I understand a good deal of what is being said around me. “A beer, please.”
“Sim, senhor.” Ducking his head, he trots off to return in a minute or so with a glass of beer coldenough to drip dew on the table, then gestures at the sunshade. “Você quer um sol, senhor?”
I nod vigorously. “Please, yes.”
The first mouthful of beer slides down my throat without protest. I’m on my guard, but the secondmouthful doesn’t put up much of a fight either. It's tempting to simply enjoy the weather and the drink…
Work to do…
I wave the old man down. “Excuse me, where is the bathroom?”
He waves me indoors with a nod and a smile, and I follow his pointing finger, through a deep narrowroom, dim against the brilliant daylight outside, lined either side with Formica-topped tables.
At the end, in the coolest part of the space, a glass display counter is stacked with plates of choppedmeat and veg mixed with black beans, some crispy-looking brown circles which I take to be squid rings.A plate of ‘somethings’ looks like vine-leaf-wrapped snacks, although I know that around here it’s morelikely to be a banana leaf.
The young woman is behind the counter, smiling at me as I amble past. Waving hands over thedisplayed dishes, she raises brows… Want Something?
I return the smile, winding my finger in a circle. When I come back.
She nods happily, extending a finger to aim me towards a corridor from the back of the room. It takesme past a kitchen where, through the swing doors, the old woman, short and stout, thrusting out armslike wrinkled tree trunks, stirs something in a pot. She glances up… “Olá senhor,” … then returns to hercooking.
Continuing along the corridor, I throw a glance back over my shoulder, then stroll past the obviousbathroom door. The passage grows cooler all the while towards the rear of the building. At the end, I’mat the base of a stairway, dimly lit but, as I look up, open and brighter at the top.
It’s unglamorous, in the way that the back areas of stores and restaurants always are, plain brick andconcrete, but both vinyl-tiled steps and white-painted walls are immaculately clean, with none of thedust or stale food smell I half-expected.
I flash another look back to be sure no-one’s watching, then, placing my feet gently against the carryingechoes, one hand resting on the holster inside my jacket, I make my way to the top…
A single room, taking up the entire floor…
… Sunbeams streaming between slatted shutters, dust motes glittering mid-air…
… The normal furnishings of everyday life: two fat settees, much used, the fabric fraying on the arms.Ancient linoleum flooring, the edges curling upwards by the walls. A table and wooden chairs…
… A tiny antiquated TV in one corner... A chest of drawers in some dark wood, old and scratched.
This is looking less and less like what I expected to find, but on the off-chance, I check a couple of thedrawers: a child’s coloured pencils and scribbled paper, dice and a pack of cards, a leaking biro stainsthe cheap wood blue.
Moving quickly and quietly, I reverse out and make my way back down the stairs, meeting the oldwoman at the bottom.
I give her my best inane smile. “Sorry, my mistake.”
She taps my arm and chuckles... “Nenhum problema, senhor. Está aqui.” … waving me to thebathroom door.
The bathroom too is dilapidated but spotless… a couple of those green tablets in the urinal… a faucetthat works, if only for cold water… a tattered towel smelling faintly of freshly laundered.
Returning past the counter, the woman hovers, wearing a hopeful expression and my stomach growls.Alright, the restaurant isn’t going to win any stars, but the woman’s hair is freshly washed, her face hasthat scrubbed look and her fingernails show the white crescent moons of fresh cleaning.
The food too looks interesting.
Why not?
A man’s got to eat…
“I will, yes.”
She beams, displaying fewer teeth than I might have expected. “Sim, senhor. A gar?onete virá atévocê.”
Returning to my seat, waiting to be served. I take my bearings. I’m not sure what I expected to find as Ifollowed up on Finchby’s invoices, but this isn’t it.
On the face of it, Antonio’s Bar is just what it appears to be: a small, family-friendly business: busy,humming with trade without being packed out: couples, some with children, some without, eating anddrinking. Some tables occupied by groups of workmen drinking the proprietor’s beer but eating theirown food, unrolling sandwiches from foil packs, biting into tough dried meat and sausage, slicingchunks from hard cheese with a penknife.
I feel completely at home.
And the beer’s not half bad. What’s left of the first glass swills down my throat with the greatest of easeand I’m about to call for a refill when the smiling waitress stops by my table pointing at my empty glass.
“Outro cerveja, senhor?”
I slide the glass across the table to her. “Yes, thank you.”
The second beer arrives in less than a couple of minutes and the waitress, turning great dark smilingeyes on me, offers me a menu. “Você quer comer, senhor?”
I push the menu back to her. “Yes. Something local. No hamburgers.” Her brows furrow, and Irephrase. “Comida regional. Algo local.”
Her face clears, but the old man materialises beside her, snatching away the menu then shooing thegirl back towards the kitchens.
Seen up close, his face is imprinted with enough wrinkles and cracks to map out a sizeable city and hismoustache, luxuriant but grey, is stained yellow at the tips. “Senhor… You want the food regional?” Hisaccent is a little thick, but his English easily understood.
“Thank you, yes. Local food. Something typical of the area.”
He displays gappy, brown-stained teeth. “Sim senhor. Sem problemas…” He taps his nose, wagglingbushy brows also stained yellow at the tips. “For this, you come to my house and not the houses of thetouristas?”
“Exactly. What do you have?”
“If you wish, sir, minha família and me, we eat this?” He gestures across to the old woman, nowcarrying a lidded casserole pot to a table. “Maria, vem cá.”
She stomps over, then lifts the lid to waft fragrant steam at me. Chunks of red sausage and some kindof meat wallow in a sea of black beans. Other less identifiable items which could perhaps be parts of apig’s trotter, surface briefly then sink again. The aromas of garlic, smoke and chilli well up and mystomach growls approval.
The old man clasps his hands, shifting on his feet. “You like? Yes, no? Food for nice foreign man?”
“Perfect.”
Enough food to satisfy James’ table - though perhaps without Jenny sitting there - is piled in front ofme: the chilli, a dish of bread rolls, which when I split one open, turn out to be stuffed with cheese, agreen salad. Some of the small offerings I saw at the counter too, although the ‘squid rings’ turn out tobe a sort of puffed-up, savoury cookie. The dishes keep arriving.
A bowl of tomato salsa looks innocent enough and I scoop up a generous portion with half a bread roll,then gasp as the result sears the inside of my mouth, branding the silhouette of a tomato slice onto mytongue.
Blowing incandescent air over my teeth, I snatch at the other half of the roll, squishing cheese aroundmy mouth until the flames subside.