Dying Gasp by Leighton Gage

helplessness the chief had used just minutes before.
    “Well, then,” he said. “If my boss won’t tell the mayor and the governor, how can you expect me to tell you?”

    T HE ARCHIVES, LOCATED IN the basement of the delegacia, were a warren of ceiling-to-floor shelves, dusty, deprived of daylight, and lit only by fluorescent lamps. The stuffy atmosphere was entirely disagreeable and so was Arnaldo’s reception. Coimbra showed his displeasure at the invasion of his lair. He and the chief exchanged what they probably thought were surreptitious glances.
    “I want you and your people to extend Agente Nunes every consideration,” Chief Pinto said.
    “As ordens, Senhor . Every consideration.”
    The only things missing were a wink and a nudge.
    “What, exactly, are you looking for?” Coimbra said.
    “That’s confidential,” Arnaldo said. “Just show me your system.”
    “I don’t like people digging around in my files,” Coimbra said. “They get things out of order. All you have to do is tell me what you want, and I’ll fetch it for you.”
    “I’d rather do it myself,” Arnaldo said.
    “And I’d rather you didn’t,” Coimbra said.
    They glared at each other.
    “I’ve got an idea,” Chief Pinto said, as if it had just occurred to him. “Alberto here can help you. You can do it together.”
    Arnaldo shook his head.
    “I’m gonna do it alone,” he said.
    A RNALDO WAS a believer in the adage “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
    After an unsuccessful morning in the archives, and an equally unsuccessful attempt to get a decent lunch in the padaria across the street, he was ready for a break. He decided to use it to locate the man the chief had called “that fucking priest.” A Salesian, Pinto had said. By inquiring at the first church he came to, Arnaldo discovered there was only one Salesian in Manaus: Father Vitorio Barone, who ran a school in the São Lázaro district. The parish priest was even able to furnish him with an address: number fourteen Rua de Caxias.
    The Rua do Caxias turned out to be a narrow lane bisected by a filthy canal, more of an open drain than a waterway. A smell of raw sewage assailed Arnaldo’s nose. A mangy brown dog with visible ribs was tearing into a plastic sack of garbage in front of number twelve, a shack built of scrap lumber.
    The neighboring building, number fourteen, was a mansion by comparison. Anywhere else it would have been categorized as a dump. Two stories tall, and twice as wide as any other house on the street, it was a haphazard pile of gray cinder block. An ancient pickup truck, painted yellow, but flaking in places to reveal the original blue, was parked in front. Arnaldo could hear children’s voices, getting louder, as he approached.
    The door was open. He stood on the threshold, waiting for his eyes to adjust from sunlight to shade. A gang of kids became visible. They were seated on the cement floor, singing the alphabet. One of them caught sight of the figure in the doorway and whispered something to the child next to him. That one whispered to another and soon seventeen pairs of brown eyes and one pair of blue were turned in Arnaldo’s direction.
    The blue eyes belonged to a priest in a black cassock. The singing faltered. The priest frowned. One of the kids saw the frown and elbowed his neighbor. The singing swelled. The priest stopped frowning.
    They sang the alphabet through to the end. Then they sang it over again. When they finished for the second time, the priest clapped his hands.
    “Dismissed,” he said.
    The kids streamed out, walking past Arnaldo, giving him the once-over. The priest came forward.
    Something about him, perhaps his long legs, perhaps the way he kept his neck erect when he walked, reminded Arnaldo of a flamingo. A shock of unruly black hair capped his high forehead. The hair was cut as a man might cut it himself if he didn’t care how looked.
    “Father Barone?” Arnaldo asked.
    He got a curt nod, then a