The Darkest Heart (2 page)

‘Neither. I'm finished with this.' I was more than just a killer. I had other things now.

Costa raised his eyebrows and gave me a knowing look. He'd heard me say it before and sometimes I felt like I'd been saying it or thinking it most of my life. I was going to leave the shadow behind, find honest work; let the blood fade from my hands. But the shadow was always close, and people like Costa had a way of seeing how it followed me. He was willing to pay for the kind of work I could do and, no matter how much I wanted to get away, there was always something to entice me back. I could tell myself the people deserved it one way or another, that none of them was a good person and any one of them would do the same to me or to someone like my sister Sofia.

Sister Dolores Beckett, though; she was different.

‘What if we were talking about a man?' Costa asked. ‘Some cruel landowner who needs shifting from his land? The kind of work you've done before? What would you be saying to me now?'

‘That I'm finished with this.'

‘Zico.' Costa shook his head. ‘That's not true. You wouldn't think twice.'

I wondered if he was right; if he knew me better than I knew myself.

Costa looked away, tightening his thin lips. ‘I need to get the air conditioning fixed in this office. I keep telling that woman to get it sorted but she's damn useless. I don't know why I keep her on. It's hotter than hell in here.' He stood and went to the window, staring out at the street.

Sweat patches grew under his arms as the perspiration leached into the material of his shirt and darkened it. There was a fan in the corner of the room, its head rotating back and forth in a lazy arc, but it had no effect in the enclosed space.

‘You know I can't get anyone else to do this,' Costa said.

‘I don't want to hear it.'

‘Of course you do. That's why you're still in your seat. You want to know how much I need you; how much I can offer you.' Costa turned around, face glistening. He'd never got used to the heat.
All the time I'd known him, he'd been like that. He'd had his hair cut short, shaved off the moustache he wore when I first met him, and the way he smelled, you'd think he bathed in aftershave, but nothing worked.

‘You know I can't afford for some local
pistoleiro
to screw this up,' he said. Times are changing. People are watching now and they write things in the newspapers. Even about things that happen in shit-hole, middle-of-nowhere places like this. It's not so easy to get away with things any more.
That's
how much I need you.'

When I was growing up in Rio, the few years of real childhood I had, my sister Sofia and I used to blame the
saci pererê
for anything that went wrong. We used to believe he was right there in the dust devils that swirled on the street in the
favela
, a one-legged
mulatto
ready to cause all kinds of mischief. If the milk soured, it was the
saci pererê.
If the meat was bad, or the keys were missing or the sole came off your shoe, it was him. Later, when Sofia was gone, if the knife's edge was dull, or the cartridge misfired, the boys blamed the
saci pererê.

Right now, looking at Costa, feeling him draw me in, I saw something like the
saci pererê
trying to trick me with flattery and promises and clever games. Except there was something more cruel in Costa's heart. The
saci pererê
was a creature of mischief. Perhaps Costa was more like Anhangá.

The Indians said Anhangá was a shape-shifter who could look like a caiman as easily as he could look like a man. He was a protector of the forest but loved to torment humans, filling their heads with mistrust and misery and horrific visions of hell. When the Catholics came to evangelise the Indians, Anhangá was the name they chose for the Devil.

The old man, Raul, said he knew people who had seen it in the forest, and some of the fishermen swore they'd seen men who walked to the river's edge before transforming into a caiman and sliding into the murky waters. Some of them were afraid to take their children on their boats because they thought Anhangá would steal them in the night.

My sister Sofia would have liked the stories just as she did when
we were children and we sat on the steps to listen when the women talked about the
orixas
– the gods of the Candomblé religion. Once our father was dead, Sofia found comfort in Candomblé and its rituals, while I turned to more worldly things.

When I thought of those things now, though, I remembered the shadow in which I had walked since Sofia had gone. Perhaps she would have known a name for that shadow. And I couldn't help wondering what she would say about me now; about the temptation I was feeling.

‘You know I need you, Zico.' Costa said. ‘That's why you're still sitting there. Because men like Luis and Wilson lack your subtlety. They can be effective in their own way, but for something like this?' He shook his head. ‘Luis and Wilson are like a hammer but you are like a filleting knife. They can move a man from his land or ... deal with a difficult worker.' He let that idea hang in the air for a moment. ‘But they're too heavy-handed and loose-tongued.'

‘And they're on your payroll.'

Costa looked surprised that I'd even thought about that. ‘This can't come back to me,' he said. ‘That's one of the things you're so good at. You keep it to yourself. There's no proof you ever worked for me.' He shrugged. ‘If you get caught ...' He turned around again and opened the window. The sound of samba music eased in from the street below, where the café was serving up breakfast. He took a lung full of air and came back to the desk, drying his sweaty palms on his trousers and sitting down.

‘So who wants this nun dead?' I asked him. ‘The Branquinos?'

‘You know I can't tell you that.'

I was sure I was right, though. Costa was discreet, he never mentioned the Branquinos by name, but everyone knew they owned all the land round here. Some of the older people in Piratinga remembered when the Branquino brothers lived on their
fazenda
not far from Piratinga, but they had people to run their businesses now, they were too important to live in a place like this. Heat and sweat and the stink of cattle wasn't their style any more. Now they lived the good life in Brasilia or Manaus or some
other place that was far away, passing their orders down to men like Costa in towns all over this area.

‘And what's she done to upset them?' I asked. ‘She causing some kind of trouble?' I didn't know much about land ownership or Indian rights but I knew there were people trying to bring some balance – little people who could put a barb into the big man's fingers when he tried to grab more territory.

‘Does it matter?'

‘Not really. Like I already told you, I don't do this work any more.'

Costa smiled again. Always the same expression of knowing, as if he saw things I couldn't. ‘Maybe if you say it enough times, you'll believe it.'

‘What?'

Costa waved a hand, then eased back in his seat and fanned himself with a folder from the desktop. ‘You haven't done any work for me for six months at least. You must be hard up, needing the cash.'

‘I'm all right.'

‘Of course. Because now you do ... what? I heard you were working at Ernesto's one time, the soya place, odd jobs for that old boatman you spend so much time with, and now you're shovelling shit at Batista's pig farm, is that right?'

He dug a packet of cigarettes from the top drawer of his desk and took one out. Throwing the packet towards me, he reached for a lighter. ‘That's what happens when you meet a woman,' he said, thumbing the wheel a few times before sparking a flame. ‘That's what they do to you, Zico.' He breathed his smoke into the tepid air. ‘They take what you are and strip it away. Change you into what they want. Next thing you know, you're shovelling shit on some pig farm.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘I watch, Zico, I listen too, just like you do; only I listen better. I listen
deeper
. I know you're friends with the old boatman. You have a girl, too. The one who works in the store. She's very pretty.'

‘You're threatening me?'

Costa held up his hands. ‘I don't want it to come to that. I'm just saying they stop you from doing what you do best. Women, I mean.'

‘No one stopped me. I stopped myself. I don't want to do it any more. I have a different life.'

‘No money? No real job? No place to call your own? Not much of a life, Zico – which is why you're still sitting here, right? You need money. I could never persuade you to come and work full-time for me, but I could always call on you when you needed the money. For those special jobs.'

‘It's different now.'

‘Is it? I can see you need money, Zico. I can see it in your eyes. If you weren't considering it, you'd be out that door already.'

‘You don't know me as well as you think—'

‘I've been instructed to go to two thousand.'

For a moment the office was silent but for the swirl of the fan and the lilt of samba music from the street.

‘Dollars?'

Costa smiled. ‘It's a lot, Zico. More than ever before. Probably more than you ever saw in your whole life. Think about it. You could treat your girlfriend. Do something nice for her. Or how about that old boatman? Raul, isn't it? Just think, Zico, you could fix up his boat for him, give him a better life.' He sighed and rose from his seat again, leaving a trail of smoke as he went to the flask that stood on a table by the fan.

Costa pumped coffee into his cup and drained it, wiping the back of his hand across his lips before speaking again. ‘Two years ago a tenth of that money would've got me the bishop. And you would've organised it.' He pointed at me, the cigarette wedged between two fingers, both adorned with wide bands of gold.

‘That was two years ago.' I said. ‘Things are different now. And you're talking about killing a nun.
A foreign
nun. From what I've heard, she's practically a saint.'

‘She's a pain in the—'

‘Whatever she is, she's obviously worth more than a thousand.'

Costa smiled. ‘Ah, now we're getting to it.'

‘That's not what I meant.'

‘Of course it is, Zico. How much, then? How much is she worth?'

‘I don't do this any more.' I watched his lips moving, hating him and everything he stood for. I hated being in this impossible position. I hated having no choice but to do what Costa wanted. Most of all, though, I hated the part of me that didn't need to be threatened by this man. I could see a positive side to this and I wanted his money. I thought it would give me the life I hoped for with Daniella.

‘We both know you're going to do this,' Costa said. ‘So let's stop pretending you have a choice.' His forearms were on the desk, across some loose pieces of paper, the cigarette smouldering between two fingers. ‘The only reason I'm allowing this game to go on is because I want to find a price that will make it agreeable to everyone. That way we all get what we want.' He lowered his eyes for a moment, then looked back at me, his expression dark. ‘I can see you're struggling with this, Zico.'

‘I—'

‘You want the money but you don't want to admit it to yourself. You want to be noble, to do the
right thing.
You want to leave here and have nothing to do with me or Dolores Beckett. You think you want a different life where you're someone else. Maybe a happy farmer with his wife and kids or whatever the hell it is people like you dream about. So let me make this easy for you, Zico. I'll take the decision away. I'll make you an offer you can't refuse.'

He spoke slowly and clearly, the words carrying such weight that I could almost feel them.

‘If I were so inclined, Zico, I could make you do this for nothing. I couldn't have done that a year ago, but now? Now you have ties. This girl. The old man, Raul. You have something more important than money to think about. There are people who matter to you. People who—'

‘Don't threaten me, Costa.' I put my hands on the desk and leaned forward so our faces were close and the smoke from his cigarette drifted around us.

‘Or what? There's nothing you can do, Zico. You have too much to lose. If anything happens to me, there are people who will take action. And if I'm dead, who would protect the old man? Who would keep Daniella safe? You?
Alone?'

I leaned back, knowing he was in control.

‘So let's sort this out together,' Costa said. ‘You can save yourself a lot of pain and make something out of this. Make it swing in your favour. Just name your price and I'll see what I can do. I'll have it waiting for you in that safe.' He pointed to the corner of the room over my left shoulder, but I stayed as I was, staring into him, feeling the frustration build in me.

‘Come on, Zico. Name your price.'

I sighed and shook my head. ‘Something like this won't be easy. She'll have people round her—'

‘She doesn't have security, she's a nun, for Christ's sake. This'll be easy for you, Zico. Just another job. How much?'

‘Ten thousand.'

‘Ten thousand dollars?' He stubbed the cigarette into a full ashtray. ‘You're serious?'

‘Ten.' I kept my expression set, my eyes directly on his, daring him to smile again.

‘You really
are
trying to sway this in your favour.'

‘And I want a piece of land with my name on it. Nothing big. Just enough.'

‘Ten?' he repeated, his expression becoming serious. ‘And you want land?'

‘With my name on it. Signed over.'

‘Enough for you and the girl from the shop ... what's her name?'

‘None of your business.'

‘You drive a hard bargain, Zico, I like it. You've grown since you first worked for me.' Costa smiled a grin that showed me teeth straighter than any dentist in Piratinga could have made them. ‘I'll have to check with my employers,' he said. ‘See what they say.'