Winning the Game and Other Stories (19 page)

That talk didn't appeal to me anymore. It used to get me excited, now it kind of disgusted me. She lay down on her stomach, arching her ass. In the world, the entire world, there wasn't a prettier ass than hers, and she knew it. I approached Belle, took the Walther out of my pocket and shot her in the head, right in the back of the neck, for her to die instantaneously and painlessly. Then I covered her body with a sheet and left, closing the door to the street. How could anyone want to kill their father or mother?

Now the Walther was really hot. I drove to the lake and sat down, thinking, without the heart to throw that jewel in the water. Day was starting to break, and I could feel something happening to me. I felt like crying, but crying is for fags, and I didn't cry. I took the Walther and threw it as far as I could. It hit the water without making much noise. The sun was so white it hurt my eyes.

I PHONED THE DISPATCHER.

“You sent a girl to do the job? You sent a virgin to face off against an old whore?”

“I was counting on your weakness for women.”

“It didn't work.”

“She's very pretty.”

“Was. I had to sacrifice the girl, you sonofabitch.”

“I made a mistake. It happens. Zé, Zé, don't take it the wrong way, but you've become a problem.”

“Shit, what kind of problem?”

“You can't give up the business, you know too much.”

“You clown, they knocked my teeth out in the Glock case, but did I do the job? They tortured me, I'm crippled in one hand, but did I do the job?”

“They got the wrong hand. They didn't know you're a lefty. But look, Zé, we gotta do what we gotta do. Rules of the game. You know who gives the orders.”

“I don't fucking know about anybody ordering anything.”

“You said it yourself, not too long ago, that by knowing the victim you know who ordered it. Remember?”

I did say that. Fuck.

I hung up the phone.

This was my situation: The Dispatcher had put out a contract on me and thought that a pretty girl could get to me, but he screwed up and now he was sending The Man after me. I'd always thought I was The Man, and I'm sure I'm right, but there must be others. The problem was that I didn't know where to find the Dispatcher; he was the one who set up the meetings. He'd call and say, “We're going to meet at such-and-such restaurant,” a different one each time, and he paid in cash. Every week he got a new prepaid cell phone and threw the old one away.

I rented a place at another apartment hotel using fake
ID
and passport. They knew my real name. I was thinking of the Dispatcher and the ones who were after me as
they,
a sign my paranoia was increasing. Fuck.

I started wearing loose-fitting shirts and carrying two pistols, one under my right armpit and the other in my belt. I let my beard grow and dyed the hairs that were gray a light brown. In my family we go gray early. I bought a pair of glasses with clear lenses from a street vendor. I inspected myself in the mirror. It didn't look like a disguise; my face is so common that it goes with everything.

I went on paying for the old apartment hotel and left my car in the garage. I wanted them to think I still lived there. Under my false name, Manoel de Oliveira, I rented an apartment on the same floor. The doormen didn't recognize me with my brown hair, beard, glasses, and Portuguese accent. Besides that, my apartment hotel was constantly changing its personnel. And doormen at apartment hotels by the water only look at the women, preferably at their asses in bathing suits as they head for the beach.

I was in luck. The peephole in my new apartment allowed me to see the door of the old one where I used to live and which to all intents and purposes was still my address.

I spent all day looking through the peephole. My neck ached, but I knew that one day someone would show up, and this time it wouldn't be some beginner of a girl.

The woman was wearing the uniform of the restaurant on the ground floor and had a tray in her hand. She rang the doorbell of my old apartment.

The Dispatcher must've thought, Zé will never suspect I've sent another woman.

I came out from where I was, calmly. The woman with the tray gave me a perfunctory glance—she must know me only from an old photograph—and rang the bell again. I went up to her, stuck the pistol in her ribs, and put the key to the apartment in her free hand.

“Open the door,” I said.

She opened the door and we went inside.

“Put the tray on the table,” I said, “and lie down on the floor with your hands behind you.”

She lay down and I handcuffed her. I removed the napkin covering the tray; on it was a cheese sandwich, a Coca-Cola, and a Luger Parabellum, 9mm, with silencer.

I like cheese sandwiches. While I ate the sandwich I asked, “Where'd you get this piece? It's a collector's item. I'm honored you chose such a tool to do me.”

“Are you Zé?” she asked.

“I am. What's your arrangement with the Dispatcher?”

“A shot in the head.”

“Nine millimeter … Gray matter all over the wall. What's your name?”

“Xania.”

“Xania? You're The Man? A woman?”

The Man is what the Dispatcher's best operator was called.

“If you're asking if I'm the best, if I handled the most complicated cases, yeah, I'm The Man.”

“Xania.”

“You think my name is odd? There's a
TV
character named Xania, but my parents chose the name of a city on the island of Crete. I think in Portuguese it's spelled with
Ch
, but they thought it was more interesting with X.”

“Xania, I have a proposition for you. Here it is. By the rules, I ought to eliminate you. But I want the Dispatcher, understand? I want peace and quiet, to go somewhere and raise chickens. The Dispatcher won't let me.”

“You want to raise chickens?”

“It's a metaphor. I'm tired of this work. I kill you, and the Dispatcher will send somebody else, I think he'll send a man next time, and I'll go on killing people, something I don't want to do anymore, especially when it doesn't pay me a cent. I want you to tell me where I can find the Dispatcher, the address where he lives.”

“I don't know. I meet him in a restaurant, never the same one twice, every time he sets it up in a different one.”

“Did he already pay you for the job? How much?”

“He gave me half.”

Xania mentioned the amount.

“You make more than I do.”

“I'm The Man,” she said, laughing.

“What about the other half?”

“He's going to give it to me when I—I mean, was going to give it to me—”

“Let's agree on something. You call him and say the job's done. Ask him to set a time and place to pay you the rest.”

“I'm running the risk of death if he learns I'm ratting him out.”

“You're already at risk of death, immediate death right here. Besides which, I'm going to eliminate the sonofabitch, don't worry about that. Go on, Xania, make the call.”

I stuck the pistol against the back of her neck.

“I'll count to three. One, two—”

“Wait, wait,” said Xania, taking the cell phone from her purse.

It took a while, at least that was my impression, for the Dispatcher to answer. With my pistol in Xania's neck I leaned my body so close to hers that I could feel her ass against my groin.

“The job's done,” Xania said.

I heard the Dispatcher's voice asking if I'd given her a hard time.

“Not at all. He thought I was the waitress. What now?”

“Put another bullet in his head,” I heard the Dispatcher say.

I took the Parabellum from the tray and fired. I gestured for Xania to continue the conversation.

“Done. There's brains splattered all over the floor.”

“In an hour, come to Niraki, the Japanese restaurant,” I heard the Dispatcher say. “Know where it is?”

Goddamn, the Japanese restaurant where Olive Oyl tried to teach me how to use chopsticks. What was the Japanese name for them? For chopsticks?

Xania and I got a taxi.

“You go in first. Sit down with the Dispatcher if he's already there. If not, wait for him. I'm only going to shoot the sonofabitch after he pays you the other half.”

The restaurant was surrounded by glass, and from the street I could see what was going on inside. It was six p.m. and beginning to get dark. The Niraki was empty. The Dispatcher hadn't arrived yet. Xania sat down at a table.

It crossed my mind that the Dispatcher might not show up. After I'd waited for fifteen minutes that seemed like fifteen hours, he finally showed up. He arrived in a large chauffeur-driven car and went into the Niraki.

The Dispatcher sat down at Xania's table, and after they exchanged a few words he handed her an envelope. I entered quickly and shot him twice in the head. I've already said that I always shoot for the head. The fucker had his back to me and never even saw me.

I looked at Xania, who looked back at me and saw what was going to happen. I felt bad and hesitated a little, but I did what had to be done. The two collapsed on top of each other.

The Dispatcher had made me kill two women, and I hate killing women. I pressed the pistol against his face and opened a large hole where his nose had been. The fucker would need to have a closed-coffin funeral.

The waiters looked at me in horror.

I left, went to the Dispatcher's car, and knocked on the window. The driver opened the glass, and I put two bullets in him, in the head like always.

Afterward, I went to the apartment I'd just rented, shaved off my beard, threw the glasses into the trash. The Portuguese tenant was no more.

I put on a beret and went back to my old place. The Luger and the tray were still on the table. I needed to make plans for a trip, but I was tired and it could wait till the next day. I lay down and slept badly.

It was a relief when day began to dawn.

IF THERE'S ONE THING I CAN'T STOMACH,
it's a blackmailer. If it weren't for that, I wouldn't have left home that Saturday for all the money in the world.

Medeiros, the lawyer, called me and said, “It's blackmail and my client will pay.” His client was J.J. Santos, the banker.

“Mandrake,” Medeiros continued, “the matter has to be settled without leaving a trace, understand?”

“I understand, but it's going to cost a bundle,” I said, looking at the blonde princess who was with me.

“I know, I know,” Medeiros said. And he did know; he'd been a politician, he'd been in the government, he was a retired cabinet minister, he was on top of things.

I got off to a bad start that Saturday. I woke up out of sorts, with a headache, hung over from a night of drinking. I walked around the house, listened to some Nelson Gonçalves, opened the fridge, and had a piece of cheese.

I got my car and headed for Itanhangá, where the upper crust play polo. I like to see rich people sweat. That's where I met the blonde. She looked like a dew-covered flower, her skin healthy and clean, her eyes shining with health.

“Polo players are going to hell,” I said.

“What?” she asked.

“On the Day of Judgment the rich will get screwed,” I answered.

“A romantic socialist!” she laughed disdainfully.

That was the blonde who was in my apartment when Medeiros, the lawyer, called.

J.J. Santos, the banker from Minas Gerais, was arguing with his wife that same Saturday about whether they should go to the wedding of the daughter of one of his partners.

“I'm not going,” J.J. Santos's wife said. “You go.” She preferred to stay home and watch television and eat cookies. Married for ten years, they were at that point where you either resign yourself and die imprisoned or send your wife packing and live free.

J.J. Santos put on a dark suit, white shirt, silver tie.

I grabbed the blonde princess and said, “Come with me.” It was Valentine's Day.

“Did you ever read a book of poetry?” she asked me.

“Look,” I replied, “I've never read any kind of book, except law books.”

She laughed.

“Do you have all your teeth?” I asked.

She did have all her teeth. She opened her mouth, and I saw the two rows, upper and lower. That's the rich for you.

We got to my apartment. I said, “What's going to happen here, between the two of us, will be different from anything that ever happened to you before, princess.”

“Roll the preview,” she said.

When I was born they called me Paulo, my father's name, but I became Mandrake, a person who doesn't pray and speaks little but makes the necessary gestures. “Prepare yourself, princess, for something never before seen.”

Then the phone rang. It was Medeiros, the lawyer.

The altar was covered with flowers. The bride, escorted by her father, came slowly down the aisle of the church, to the sound of choir voices singing in harmony. The groom, as always, wore a foolish expression as he waited for the bride at the altar.

At eight o'clock J.J. Santos left the church, got into his Mercedes, and went to the home of the bride's parents in Ipanema. The apartment was packed. J.J. Santos exchanged greetings with people, joked with the bride and groom, and left unnoticed half an hour later. He didn't know for sure what he wanted to do. He certainly had no desire to go home and watch old dubbed movies on the color
TV.
He got his car and drove along Ipanema beach, in the direction of the Barra da Tijuca. He had only been living in Rio for half a year and found the city fascinating. About five hundred yards ahead, J.J. Santos saw the girl, standing on the sidewalk. Stereo music poured from his car's speakers, and J.J. Santos was emotionally predisposed. He had never seen such a pretty girl. He had the impression that she had looked at him, but he must be mistaken; she wasn't the type for a street hooker, like those who pick up customers in passing cars. He was to the end of Leblon when he decided to go back. Maybe the girl was still there; he wanted to see her again. The girl was there, leaning over the door of a Volkswagen—haggling over price? J.J. Santos stopped some twenty yards behind, blinking his high beams. The girl looked, saw the big Mercedes, and left the guy in the Volks talking to himself. She approached slowly, with perfect balance, knowing how to put one foot on the ground and distribute her weight along the muscles of her body as she moved.

She stuck her head in the door and said, “Hello.” Her face was very young, but there was greater maturity in her voice.

“Hello,” J.J. Santos replied, looking around in fear someone had seen him stopping there. “Get in.”

The girl got in and J.J. Santos put the car in motion.

“How old are you?” asked J.J. Santos.

“Sixteen,” replied the girl.

“Sixteen!” said J.J. Santos.

“What of it, you fool? If I don't go with you, I'll go with somebody else.”

“What's your name?” asked J.J. Santos, his conscience relieved.

“Viveca.”

In another part of the city, where I was:

“My name is Maria Amelia. Don't call me princess. How ridiculous!” the blonde complained.

“Bullshit,” I answered.

“You're vulgar, gross, and ignorant.”

“Right. Want out?”

“What does that mean?”

“You want to beat it? Beat it.”

“Can't you even talk?”

“Right again.”

“You're an idiot!” the blonde laughed noisily, amused, all her teeth shining.

I laughed too. We were both interested in each other. I go crazy over rich women.

“Just what is your name anyway? Paulo, Mandrake, Picasso?”

“That's not the question,” I replied. “You have to ask me, just who are you anyway?”

“Just who are you anyway?”

“I don't know,” I answered.

“Paranoia has filtered down to Class C,” the blonde said.

J.J. Santos knew the Barra was full of hotels. He had never been to any of them but had heard the stories. He headed for the most famous one.

He chose the Presidential Suite.

The Presidential Suite had its own pool, color television, radio, and dining room, and the bedroom abounded with chandeliers and was lined with mirrors.

J.J. Santos was excited.

“Do you want anything?” he asked the girl.

“A soft drink,” she answered modestly.

The waiter brought a soft drink and Chivas Regal.

J.J. Santos took a sip, removed his coat, and said, “I'm going to the bathroom, make yourself comfortable.”

When he came out of the bathroom, the girl was naked, lying on the bed, on her stomach. J.J. Santos took off his clothes and lay down beside her, caressing her as he watched himself in the mirrors. Then the girl rolled over on her back, a smile on her lips.

It wasn't a girl. It was a man, his penis reflected, menacingly rigid, in the countless mirrors.

J.J. Santos leaped from the bed.

Viveca returned to her prone position. Turning her head, she stared at J.J. and asked sweetly, “Don't you want me?”

“You goddam pe—pervert,” said J.J. He grabbed his clothes and ran to the bathroom, where he quickly dressed.

“You don't want me?” said Viveca, still in the same position, when J.J. Santos returned to the room. Distressed, J.J. Santos put on his coat and took out his wallet. He always carried a lot of money in his wallet. That day he had two thousand in bills of five hundred. People from Minas are like that. His papers were in the wallet. The money was gone.

“On top of everything else you stole my money!”

“What? What? Are you calling me a thief? I'm no thief!” Viveca screamed, getting up from the bed. Suddenly a razor blade appeared in her hand. “Calling me a thief!” With a rapid gesture Viveca made the first cut in her arm and a thread of blood welled on her skin.

J.J., dismayed, made a gesture of disgust and fear.

“Yes, I'm a faggot, I'm a
FAAAAG-GOT!”
Viveca's scream seemed capable of shattering every chandelier and mirror.

“Don't do that,” J.J. begged, terrified.

“You knew what I was, you brought me here knowing everything, and now you scorn me as if I were trash,” Viveca sobbed, as she gave her arm another cut with the razor.

“I didn't know anything; you look like a girl, with that makeup and wearing that wig.”

“This isn't a wig, it's my own hair. See how you treat me?” Another slash on the arm, by now covered with blood.

“Stop that!” J.J. requested.

“I won't stop! I won't stop! I won't stop! You called me a thief, thief, thief! I may be poor but I'm honest. You have money and think everybody else is trash! I always wanted to die and destroy a big shot, like in the film
Black Widow.
Did you see
Black Widow
?” Viveca asked, resting the razor blade against her throat, over the carotid, which was standing out from the force of her screams.

“Forgive me,” J.J. asked.

“It's too late now,” said Viveca.

In the meantime I was arriving at my apartment with the high-toned blonde. She sat in the easy chair; that aura was building between us, two responsible people calmly exchanging significant glances.

“Roll the preview,” she said.

“Prepare yourself, princess, for something never before seen.”

At that instant Medeiros, the lawyer, called.

“My client, J.J. Santos, picked up a woman in the street, took her to a hotel, and when they got there he discovered it was a transvestite. The transvestite stole two thousand from my client. They had an argument, and the transvestite, armed with a razor blade, threatened to commit suicide unless he got ten thousand in cash. My client asked me for the money, which I have here with me now. We want to pay the money and put an end to the whole affair. You're experienced in police matters, and we'd like you to take charge of the thing. No police; we'll pay the money and want everything buried. The matter has to be covered up without a trace, understand?”

“I understand, but it's going to cost a bundle,” I said, looking at the blonde princess beside me.

“I know, I know,” said Medeiros, “money's no problem.”

J.J. and Viveca were inside the Mercedes, parked at the beach.

J.J. was at the wheel, as pale as a corpse. Beside him, Viveca was holding the razor blade next to her throat. She really did look like a young woman. I pulled my old wreck up beside the huge Mercedes.

“I work with Mr. Medeiros,” I said.

“Did you bring the money?” Viveca asked, brusquely.

“It was hard to arrange, today's Saturday,” I alibied, humbly. “We're going to get it now.”

I opened the door and pulled J.J. out.

I got in and tore off, with the door still open, leaving the dumbfounded J.J. on the sidewalk.

“Is it far? Where's the money?” asked Viveca.

“It's nearby,” I said, driving at high speed.

“I want my money right now, otherwise I'll do something crazy!” Viveca screamed, cutting herself on the arm. The gesture was abrupt and violent, but the blade touched lightly on her skin, just enough to draw blood and scare the suckers.

“For God's sake don't do that!”

“I'll do something crazy!” Viveca threatened.

He must not have known Rio very well, or else he didn't know where the police stations were located. At the door of the Leblon precinct two cops were talking. I braked the car, almost on top of them, and jumped out, yelling, “Look out! The transvestite's got a razor blade!”

Viveca leaped from the car. The situation was truly confusing for him. One of the cops approached and Viveca lashed out, cutting his hand. The cop retreated a step, pulled a .45 from his belt, and said, “Drop that piece of shit unless you wanna die right now.” Viveca hesitated. The other cop, who had approached him, gave Viveca a kick in the stomach. Viveca fell to the ground.

We all went into the precinct headquarters. There were four or five cops around us.

Viveca was crying.

“I beg the forgiveness of all the law enforcement officers here, especially the man that I injured and I'm very sorry about that. I am a man, yes, but since I was a child my mother dressed me as a girl and I always liked to play with dolls. I'm a man because my name is Jorge, but that's the only reason. I have the soul of a woman, and I suffer because I'm not a woman and can't have children like other women. I'm wretched. Then that man in the Mercedes picked me up at the beach and said, Come with me, boy; and I answered, I'm not a boy, I'm a woman; and he said, Woman my foot, get in, tonight I feel like something different. He said he'd pay me five hundred, and I have my mother and grandmother to support, and so I went. When we got there, besides doing all sorts of immoral things to me, he beat me and cut me with the razor blade. Then I grabbed the blade and said I'd kill myself if he didn't give me five hundred. He said he didn't have it and telephoned a friend of his and that man there showed up and brought me here and I lost my head, please forgive me. I'm a delicate person; I went crazy over the unfairness and the bad things they did to me.”

“What's your client's name?” said a suspicious cop.

“I'm not at liberty to say. He's committed no crime. This guy's lying,” I said.

In reality I wasn't sure of a damned thing, but a client is a client.

“Lying! Me?!” Tears ran down Viveca's makeup. “Just because I'm weak and poor and the other one's rich and powerful, I'm going to be crucified?” Viveca screamed, between sobs.

“Rich people don't run things here,” one of the cops said.

“What about that car?” said the injured cop, in the middle of the confusion. Luckily nobody else heard him.

“It's mine, I bought it yesterday, I haven't had time to transfer the title yet,” I said, as the cop took notes on a piece of paper.