Hot Revenge Box Set 4

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.” Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

“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 not where 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 ‘Bem Vindo a Brasil’ from the local service provider. As I touch the screen, the message flicks off to be replaced 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 hand under my jacket where the Glock nestles in its holster, but the boy of perhaps fourteen who enters with the 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 have run 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 the door. “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 and sprays. She looks local, with the olive skin, dark hair and eyes of the Hispanic types, although slightly flattened features suggest some native blood mixed in. She’s a sultry-eyed beauty who would be walking 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 room needs much. I’ve barely occupied the place. But it’s better to behave normally. And if the suite’s been cleaned 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 the freeze and the damp of winter. The summer heat bakes through my bones, dispelling the grinding chill that’s plagued me ever since I set foot inside Jenny’s home. I’d prefer less humidity than Sao Paulo offers, 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 vacuum cleaner.

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 which seems 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 see anywhere new. The loose linen suit I’m wearing, appropriate to the temperature and humidity, is a roomy 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 hair into place about a foot from the floor, bridging the crack between door and frame. If the door opens while 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 good enough for me.

The nearest address on my shortlist is about a half hour’s walk away. Hands in pockets, I stroll through a 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 with coffee and beer…

… and without breaking my stride, I amble past the address… past the barber’s next door and the half dozen stores following… and then across the road to pause by a series of glass-fronted stores for upmarket 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 for over-priced clothes behind acres of plate glass, the reflection giving me a reasonable view even with my back turned.

At first sight, Antonio’s Bar is just the kind of place I enjoy hanging out in in a new environment: a small family-run establishment, off the main tourist tracks but still in a decent area; somewhere the locals will come 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 towel from his apron. Sweeping away crumbs, he pumps from a hand-spray then wipes over the top, taking a moment 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 and snacks 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 umbrella and 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.

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 anyone know 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 cold enough 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 second mouthful 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 narrow room, 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 chopped meat 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 more likely to be a banana leaf.

The young woman is behind the counter, smiling at me as I amble past. Waving hands over the displayed 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 takes me past a kitchen where, through the swing doors, the old woman, short and stout, thrusting out arms like wrinkled tree trunks, stirs something in a pot. She glances up… “Olá senhor,” … then returns to her cooking.

Continuing along the corridor, I throw a glance back over my shoulder, then stroll past the obvious bathroom door. The passage grows cooler all the while towards the rear of the building. At the end, I’m at 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 and concrete, but both vinyl-tiled steps and white-painted walls are immaculately clean, with none of the dust 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 carrying echoes, 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 the drawers: a child’s coloured pencils and scribbled paper, dice and a pack of cards, a leaking biro stains the cheap wood blue.

Moving quickly and quietly, I reverse out and make my way back down the stairs, meeting the old woman 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 the bathroom door.

The bathroom too is dilapidated but spotless… a couple of those green tablets in the urinal… a faucet that 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 has that 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 garçonete virá até você.”

Returning to my seat, waiting to be served. I take my bearings. I’m not sure what I expected to find as I followed 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 and drinking. Some tables occupied by groups of workmen drinking the proprietor’s beer but eating their own food, unrolling sandwiches from foil packs, biting into tough dried meat and sausage, slicing chunks 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 ease and 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 smiling eyes 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 I rephrase. “Comida regional. Algo local.”

Her face clears, but the old man materialises beside her, snatching away the menu then shooing the girl back towards the kitchens.

Seen up close, his face is imprinted with enough wrinkles and cracks to map out a sizeable city and his moustache, luxuriant but grey, is stained yellow at the tips. “Senhor… You want the food regional?” His accent 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, waggling bushy brows also stained yellow at the tips. “For this, you come to my house and not the houses of the touristas?”

“Exactly. What do you have?”

“If you wish, sir, minha família and me, we eat this?” He gestures across to the old woman, now carrying 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 kind of meat wallow in a sea of black beans. Other less identifiable items which could perhaps be parts of a pig’s trotter, surface briefly then sink again. The aromas of garlic, smoke and chilli well up and my stomach 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 of me: the chilli, a dish of bread rolls, which when I split one open, turn out to be stuffed with cheese, a green salad. Some of the small offerings I saw at the counter too, although the ‘squid rings’ turn out to be 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 my tongue.

Blowing incandescent air over my teeth, I snatch at the other half of the roll, squishing cheese around my mouth until the flames subside.