Crimes of August: A Novel: 5 (Brazilian Literature in Translation Series) by Rubem Fonseca Page B

Let’s hear it, Vitor, answer.”
    “Souza Dantas said the cruzeiro isn’t going to be devaluated. It’s going to be maintained at the official rate of 18.82.”
    “I don’t believe anything coming from those fuckers in the government. If you find out anything, you’ll let me know immediately?”
    “Of course I will, my angel. What a day! I think I deserve a rest.”
    “I know what you need,” said Clemente, with a devious smile.
    “Get me a good-looking boy this time.”
    “I’ll see what I can do. But don’t forget, I deserve a rest myself.”
    IT WAS ALREADY NIGHT when Salete arrived at the macumba site of Mother Ingrácia.
    She related everything that had happened. Mother Ingrácia, smoking a pipe, her head turned because she was a little deaf, listened attentively.
    “What was the blonde woman’s voice like? Did it sound hoarse?”
    “I didn’t hear her voice. But she must have a pretty voice. The wretched woman is beautiful.”
    “When the man’s undershorts don’t work, there’s just one thing that does,” said Mother Ingrácia after several puffs.
    “What’s that, Mother?”
    “The scab from an injury. You have to bring me a scab from an injury of his.”
    “A scab? How am I supposed to get a scab?”
    “Who doesn’t have a small injury of some kind? Everybody gets injured from time to time. And every injury creates a scab. Look here.”
    Mother Ingrácia showed her arm, where there was a lesion covered by a scab.
    “Can’t it be something else?”
    “No. It’s got to be a scab. One of those little brown ones.”
    Mother Ingrácia carefully removed the scab, placed it in the palm of her hand and showed it to Salete.

six
    ON FRIDAY, AROUND SEVEN A.M. , carrying an empty suitcase, Climerio returned to the home of the gunman Alcino.
    “The shit’s hit the fan,” said Climerio. “That fucker Nelson turned himself in to the police yesterday. Today they took him to the Military Police barracks, and the bastard spilled his guts. I shouldn’t have trusted the son of a bitch. You’d better go into hiding.”
    He handed Alcino the suitcase. “Put some clothes in it. It’s best for you to leave immediately.”
    “What about my money? You promised it by today.”
    Climerio took from his pocket a wad of money and handed it to Alcino. Ten thousand cruzeiro notes.
    Alcino threw into the suitcase a sweater, two pairs of undershorts, two shorts, a knit woolen cap, a rosary with a metal cross at its tip, and a pair of clogs.
    FIRST TO ARRIVE AT THE A MINHOTA , on São José, downtown, not very far from the Chamber of Deputies, was Lomagno. It was almost one o’clock. The restaurant, normally frequented by many senators and deputies, was empty.
    Lomagno sat down, uncommunicative. He asked the waiter for a whiskey on the rocks. After serving Lomagno, the waiter left on the table a bucket of ice and a half-full bottle of White Horse onto which was attached a vertical strip of paper marking the number of drinks consumed.
    A short time later, Claudio Aguiar arrived. They had spoken several times by telephone, but that was the first time they had seen each other since the death of Gomes Aguiar. Claudio gestured to the waiter, indicating Lomagno’s whiskey.
    “Claudio, you’re a son of a bitch. Magalhães told me you tried to transfer the Cemtex financing to Brasfesa.”
    Claudio stammered. “He . . . he said that?”
    “Why did you do it?”
    “Luciana is going to get control of Cemtex now. I don’t trust her. Luciana is going to cheat us.”
    At that moment, Vitor Freitas arrived, accompanied by his aide Clemente and Deputy Orestes Cravalheira, of the PSD . Claudio greeted the three dryly and left the table, heading for the bathroom. Lomagno followed him.
    “Take it easy,” Lomagno said inside the bathroom.
    “Did he have to bring his catamite?”
    “Easy, easy,” Lomagno repeated.
    “He can’t do this to me. I’m going to tell him I don’t want that fag at our table. The scoundrel!