Winning the Game and Other Stories by Rubem Fonseca

across the lawn, followed by the dog, and vanished from my field of vision.
    â€œI came to an understanding with that fellow. I won’t have any further need of your services. How much do I owe you?”
    â€œWho was it said that language exists to conceal thought?” I said, coming away from the window.
    â€œI don’t know and don’t care. How much do I owe you?”
    â€œNothing.”
    I turned my back on him. The butler was in the vestibule. He gave the impression of skulking behind doors eavesdropping on all the conversations.
    I got my car. There was no sign of Eve. The guard opened the gate for me. I asked him if the biker had stopped along the drive before going into the house.
    â€œHe stopped near the pond, to talk to Miss Eve.”
    The guard looked at something past the hood of the car. I looked also and saw a pale girl with dark hair standing about twenty yards away. It was the girl I had seen on the back of the motorcycle at Gordon’s. When she saw I was looking at her, she began walking slowly away.
    â€œWho’s that girl?” I asked.
    â€œThe boss’s niece,” the guard said. Her name was Lilly, and she lived at her uncle’s house.
    The telephone in the gatehouse rang. The guard went to answer it. When he returned, he opened the gate. I approached with the car.
    â€œHas that guy on the motorcycle ever been here before?”
    â€œI don’t know anything,” the guard said, turning away. He must have received orders not to talk to me.
    I got home, opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Faísca. There was a note on the table: You could have used Wurtzberg’s gambit. All you had to do was sacrifice the queen, but you never do that. I love you. Berta.
    I called Wexler, my partner.
    â€œI’m not coming in to the office today.”
    â€œI know,” Wexler said. “You’re going to play chess with a woman and drink wine. I work my butt off while you lay women.”
    â€œI’m working on a case Medeiros put me onto.” I told him the whole story.
    â€œNothing will come of it,” Wexler said.
    I called Raul. He had set up dinner at the Albamar with the detective handing the Marly case.
    â€œDowntown?” I complained.
    â€œThat’s where Homicide is. His name is Guedes.”
    Guedes was a young man, prematurely balding, thin, with brown eyes so light they looked yellow. He ordered a coke. Raul drank whiskey. They didn’t have Faísca, so I ordered Casa da Calçada. I prefer something with more age to it, but there are times when a well chilled young wine is just the ticket.
    â€œMarly was wearing a gold Rolex, a diamond ring, and had a hundred dollars in her purse,” Guedes said.
    â€œThat helps,” Raul said.
    â€œIt helps, but we’re still in the dark,” Guedes said.
    â€œThe newspapers say you have a suspect.”
    â€œThat’s to throw them off the scent.”
    â€œHave you come across the name of her boss at Cordovil & Meier, the head of marketing?” I asked.
    â€œArthur Rocha.” Guedes’s suspicious yellow eyes scrutinized my face.
    â€œI saw his name in the papers,” I said.
    â€œHis name wasn’t in the papers.” Guedes’s eyes burned into mine. There was no way I was going to bullshit this guy. He seemed like a decent enough cop.
    â€œI did a little job for the president of the firm, Senator Cavalcante Meier.”
    â€œI took down Arthur Rocha’s statement myself. He swore he didn’t know anything about the secretary’s private life,” Guedes said.
    â€œYou think he’s telling the truth?”
    â€œWe turned his life inside out. The girl was killed on a Friday, between eight and nine p.m. At eleven Rocha was in Petrópolis, at the home of friends. He’s not interested in women; his thing seems to be flaunting his wealth. He had a riding area built at his place in Petrópolis, and I hear he