A Vine in the Blood (16 page)

“His bookings started to dry up?”

“Indeed they did, and he was without a single prospect of a role in television or cinema, so he started casting about for another career.”

“And that’s when Cintia and Mello started a relationship?”

Marques nodded.

“That’s not a fact, mind you,” he said, “only an assumption. All I can tell you with certainty is that Cintia came to me and asked me to take him on as an assistant. I said I didn’t need an assistant. What I
didn’t
tell her was that, even if I
had
needed an assistant, I would never have considered Mello. To be a good agent you have to have a modicum of sensitivity, and you have to be intelligent. Mello has no sensitivity at all, and he’s astoundingly stupid.”

“Cintia took it badly? Your refusal to hire Mello?”

“She got nasty, as she always does whenever she doesn’t get her way. But I stood firm. I thought, and I continue to think, that Mello would do me more harm if I accepted him than if I rejected him, even if Cintia did get her nose out of joint.”

“Even if you lost her as a client?”

“That aspect of it didn’t enter into my deliberations. I thought the storm would blow over.”

“Had you known then what you know now, would you have acted differently?”

“I would have acted in exactly the same way. My days have been less lucrative since Cintia left, but they’ve been far more peaceful. At this stage in my life, peace is of more value than money.”

“From everything I’ve heard of the woman, I can understand why you’re happy to be rid of her. But I detect a certain inconsistency.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re telling me she switched her business for emotional reasons. That doesn’t sound like the Cintia Tadesco I’m learning about. From everything I’ve heard, she’s nothing if not calculating. She doesn’t let emotion get in the way of her goals.”

Marques leaned back in his chair. “We humans are complex creatures, Agent Gonçalves. We’re hardly ever one hundred percent this or that. Cintia Tadesco may be largely a calculating bitch, but she’s still capable of an emotional act. In this case,” he said, “I think she’s committed two of them. I think she did what she did to favor Mello—but also to spite me.”

“To spite you? Simply because you wouldn’t give her what she wanted?”

Mello nodded, and a lock of mane tumbled in front his eye. He lifted a hand and brushed it aside. “When Cintia Tadesco doesn’t get what she wants, she reacts like the spoiled child she is. She’s extraordinarily impulsive. I’ve seen her turn on people in a heartbeat. One moment she loves you, and the next she’s ready to destroy you. It happened to me. In time, it will happen to Mello.”

“Convinced of that, are you?”

“I am. And for Mello it will be worse than it was for me. She brought him
all
of his clients. When she takes them away, it will destroy him.”

“Could she do that?”

“Of course she could.”

“Doesn’t he have them under contract?”

“Big clients, Agent Gonçalves, the ones that really matter, resent signing contracts. It makes them feel constricted. They want to be free, at the drop of a hat, to distribute their largesse to whomever they wish.”

“Do you continue to manage Marco Franco, Cintia’s former boyfriend?”

“I do. Not that it’s doing either one of us any good. He’s quite unemployable at the moment.”

“Took it hard, did he?”

“Terribly hard. And with good reason. She hurt the poor bastard in just about every way she
could
hurt him. He not only gave her his heart, he also gave her a BMW, one of the big ones, and a house. She kept the car and the house, stabbed him in the heart and went on to torpedo his reputation.”

“I think I know the answer to this, but let me ask you anyway.”

“Yes?”

“Why is Cintia Tadesco hanging around with the Artist? Do you think she loves him?”

“Certainly not. She’s with him for what he can do for her, and for what she can take from him.”

“Do you think she might be involved in this kidnapping business?”

“I think not.”

“Why?”

“Why would she be? She can get everything she wants from the Artist without involving herself in a crime.”

“Just bear with me for a minute. Suppose Juraci had the goods on her. Suppose she could prove that Cintia was betraying Tico, and she was planning to go to him with the information.”

“Then you’d have to assume that Cintia knew ahead of time that Juraci was going to do it.”

“Okay, assume that as well.”

Marques reflected for a moment. “Perhaps. But …”

“But what?”

“But I hope, for the Artist’s sake, that Cintia Tadesco had nothing to do with the disappearance of his mother.”

“You
hope
? Why?”

“Because, if Cintia
is
involved, I’d virtually assure you that we’re not going to see Senhora Santos again in this life. And that’s the truth.”

Chapter Nineteen

“I
’M GONNA NEED YOUR
guns,” Captain Miranda’s chief bodyguard said. “Nobody who’s carrying gets in to see the boss.”

Silva and Arnaldo were in an anteroom accessible only through two steel doors. One led to the elevator, the other to Miranda’s inner office. The bodyguard was a tall black man wearing a single gold earring and a blue pinstripe suit of impeccable cut. His number two was a thug with a low forehead, nowhere near as well dressed, and missing an ear.

Arnaldo and Silva surrendered their pistols.

“And now,” the black man said, “my partner here is going to frisk you.”

“We’re federal cops, for Christ’s sake,” Arnaldo said. “You saw our goddamned IDs.”

“If you are who you say you are, then you know how easy it is to fake IDs. The rule is I gotta frisk you. You don’t want to submit to it, that’s okay. But then you leave without seeing the boss.”

Arnaldo turned to Silva. “I think he’s outsmarted us. This calls for a change in plan.”

“What plan is that?” the black man said.

“We were gonna walk in here, shoot your boss and go to lunch.”

The black man smiled. “Never gonna happen,” he said. “Not on my watch. Put your hands on the wall and assume the position.”

“Been with him long?” Silva asked as the guy without an ear frisked him.

“Eleven years,” the black man said.

“Good job?”

“Boring. The boss hardly ever sends me out to kill people any more.”

“I can understand how you’d miss it,” Arnaldo said. “Why not do it in your spare time? Kind of like a hobby?”

“I only do it for money.”

“Like your mother?”

The hands playing over Silva’s body stopped moving. They remained on his left leg, motionless, during a long silence—and only finished the act of frisking him when the black man started speaking again.

“You calling my mother a whore?” he said.

There was no change in the inflection of his voice. But, somehow, Silva knew he was furious.

“I thought we were talking about killing,” Arnaldo said, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his voice. Obviously, he’d sensed the same thing Silva had. “But, come to think of it, there used to be a black slut working the Rua Aurora who looked just like—”

“Can be really fucking dangerous telling jokes like that. Could be you need a tour of the collection.”

“Collection?”

The bodyguard inclined his head toward a glass-fronted cabinet butted up against one wall.

The thug who’d been doing the frisking stepped back and said, “Clean.”

Arnaldo strolled over to the cabinet. The black man came to stand beside him.

Beyond the glass, and distributed over three shelves, were several dozen instruments of torture.

“Some of this stuff is almost five hundred years old, was used during the Inquisition.” The black man pointed. “See those pincers? How they’re blackened at the tips? That’s because they used to heat them up red hot before they used them. That thing over there? It’s called a thumbscrew. Supposed to hurt like hell, but I wouldn’t know, would I? Me and Luis, we never use any of this stuff, do we Luis?”

Luis gave an appreciative chuckle. Their little joke.

“Some of the people I show this stuff to,” the black man said, “get really scared.”

“Which ones do you use on people who tell bad jokes?” Arnaldo said.

“Like you?”

“I never told a bad joke in my life,” Arnaldo said. “You must have a lousy sense of humor.”

“Wrong,” the black man said. “I got a great sense of humor. Sometime, maybe, I’ll get a chance to show you a few things I think are funny.”

The exchange of pleasantries was cut short by a voice emanating from a speaker in the ceiling.

“When you two comedians are finished with your act,” the voice said, “maybe the lot of you might like to step in here.”

There was a
click
, and the door to the inner sanctum opened. It turned out to be a square room, not particularly large, with no windows and only the single door.

Miranda got up to greet them. He was a handsome man in a pink short-sleeved shirt. “You guys want coffee?” he asked.

“No,” Silva said.

He despised people like Miranda. He didn’t want anything from the man except information. The bicheiro seemed to sense Silva’s hostility.

“Sit,” Miranda said, managing to make it sound like he was giving orders to a dog.

“How about if your two colleagues here go and stand where we can see them,” Silva said. “I don’t like them breathing down my neck.”

“Do it,” Miranda said. And they did, taking positions behind him, leaning against the wall.

Silva took his time sinking into one of the two chairs Miranda used for guests. Arnaldo waited a beat and followed suit.

Last of all, Miranda reassumed his seat.

“So what do you want?” he said.

“What can you tell us,” Silva said, “about the kidnapping of the Artist’s mother?”

Miranda’s voice took on an edge. “I can tell you that it was a fucking unpatriotic thing to do, and if the bastards who did it fall into my hands, I’ll have Gaspar here string them up by the balls.”

Arnaldo looked at Gaspar. The black man was smiling at him.

“That your name? Gaspar?”

“That’s my name,” he said. “And stringing people up by the balls is one of the things I think is funny. Hard to do, though, to people as fat as you are, on account of the fact that their scrotums rip right out.”

“You know what?” Arnaldo said. “If you were doing the ball-stringing to one of the guys who snatched the Artist’s mother, I’d stand by and let you do it. I wouldn’t even take out my handcuffs until you were finished.”

“First sensible thing you said since you came in here,” the black man said. “Now you know my name. What’s yours?”

“Arnaldo Nunes.”

“Huh,” Gaspar said, as if he was storing the name away for future reference.

“I hate to break up this little love fest,” Miranda said, “but I’m busy. Is that all you came for? Just to ask me that question?”

“Not just for that,” Silva said.

“What, then?”

“How about you put the word out that you’d be grateful for any information that helps us to find the lady?”

“You know what? I already have. But don’t count on me passing the information along to you.”

“All we want is to get that woman back,” Silva said.

“That’s all. I don’t give a damn what happens to whomever kidnapped her.”

“Well, that’s good,” Miranda said. “It’s good you don’t give a damn about what happens to whomever kidnapped her, because
I
do. And I don’t want any conflict between us on that score. I don’t need any more trouble with the law; I got enough already. Speaking of which, what brought you here so early in the investigation? Why did you think of me?”

Silva considered telling Miranda about Talafero’s accusation—and decided not to.

“You have a lot of contacts,” he said, “more than most people. I’m talking to everyone who might be able to help.”

“You know what, Cop? I don’t believe you. Somebody’s spreading rumors about me, and I got a good idea who it is.”

“Do you?”

“It was that
canalha
Talafero, wasn’t it?” Miranda was looking deeply into Silva’s eyes, hoping for a reaction. He didn’t get one.

“Football is just a business to him,” Miranda went on, “a way of making money. You know he’s selling the Artist to Real Madrid?”

“Everybody knows it,” Silva said. “What’s your point?”

“Talafero goes around saying things about me,” Miranda said, “so let me say this about him. I happen to know he placed a bet in London this morning, a bet for a hundred thousand English pounds
against
Brazil. What does that say to you?”

“It suggests he has a hundred thousand English pounds offshore. That would be illegal unless he declared it on his tax statements, which he probably hasn’t. How did you find out about it?”

Miranda waved the question aside.

“That’s none of your goddamned business,” he said. “You know what it says to me? It says he arranged to have the Artist’s mother snatched so he could place that bet with a good chance of winning it, that’s what.”

“Could be,” Silva said, “that he’s just betting against the likelihood of getting her back.”

“If I needed any further prompting to get involved in this,” Miranda said, “he gave it to me with that bet. I’d love to see him lose his hundred thousand fucking English pounds.”

“But you don’t want to see him selling the Artist to Real Madrid, because that would mean he’d have a lot of money to invest in this year’s carnival.”

“You figured that out all by yourself?”

“All by myself.”

“You’re lying. How about you get out of here and let me get back to business? Your welcome just dried up.”