He thought she would be flattered by his pass. Many hovel-women were, knowing nothing better. It would be impossible to turn him off gently.
She kicked backward, spiking his shin, then turned to catch his black hair under the hat. She hauled his head down to meet her rising knee with a hard crack. Then she shoved him back against the shack and walked on as if nothing had happened, her bag of money undisturbed. He would not follow her soon.
She'd better find her address quickly, or she'd be mobbed. Nothing like this could remain secret very long in the favela. She approached a little boy who was chewing on a stick as though to extract some nourishment from it.
"Please, do you know where is the house of Maria Carolina?" That was the code name for the contact, to protect her from the authorities. Not that they were likely to be fooled long. The boy merely stared.
Dulce took out a banana from her bag and proffered it. "It is at the bottom of the hill, near the well, painted red," she said, dangling the fruit before him. "Surely you know?"
The boy snatched the fruit and pointed. Dulce thanked him and proceeded. She hoped she had enough fruit to get her there. Sometimes food was more precious than money.
She did manage to find it, thanks to the color. Maria Carolina was a Santauro, a female witch doctor, and her house was bright red in honor of Santa Barbara.
Dulce hailed the occupant. "Yes?" a resigned woman's voice answered. Dulce stepped through the filthy door curtain.
It was a typical slum residence: a one-room shack with a packed dirt floor and a tiny wood-burning stove in the center. Light spilled through the cracks in walls and roof. Flattened tin cans were tacked over the worst of the gaps, but this was inadequate protection from the weather. A naked child lay sleeping on a roach-infested mattress in the corner, while two others stared at the intruder. There were open sores on their legs. A bag in one corner probably contained the woman's voodoo materials. It bothered Dulce to think that money desperately needed for food for these children was going to voodoo artifacts instead, but she was not here to criticize her contacts.
"Yes?" the standing brown-skinned woman repeated. She was dressed in rags, her feet bare. She was about 60, her hair gray, steely-eyed. She had seen hard times.
Dulce could not speak at once. She had known it was bad in the slums, but this was worse than she had thought. She was reminded strongly of a remarkable literary event a decade or two before: an uneducated Negress with three children to support had made notes concerning her life. By day she rummaged in garbage for food, and cruised the streets for wastepaper to sell, while carrying her youngest child strapped on her back. By night she had compiled her manuscript of horror, using the light of a candle. Then, miraculously, her account was published, and became Brazil's best seller. It was translated into English, too, and had more effect on the favelas than an atomic bomb-burst. Suddenly concerned citizens eliminated the pest-hole and retrained the people. But the woman herself, unschooled in the use of her windfall income, in due course was back in the street as before.
Then, with a start, Dulce realized: of course! That was the origin of the code name: Maria Carolina, the authoress. No, it would be pointless to give this woman, so like the illfated namesake, this bag of money. Money was illusion, not the real answer to this grinding poverty. Only a complete restructuring of the society... But first she had to save Jason.
"I came for MR-26," Dulce said.
"If you are from the government, you are dead," a man said behind her.
For a moment Dulce thought it was the Malandro who had accosted her on the way in. But it was another man. "I am from, but not of the government," she said. "I left two men of the Death Squad lying in their own blood. No one followed me here. And I brought—this." She reached into the bag and brought out a pack of bills.
The man looked at them. "Counterfeit!" he snarled.
Dulce shrugged, knowing they would soon verify the legitimacy of the money. "And I have information: a cache of weapons. But first you must help me."
The children were looking into the bag now, more fascinated by fruit than the money. They were starving, literally: pipestem arms and legs, bloated bellies.
"What do you want?" the woman asked grimly.
"A jailbreak. My friend—"
The woman laughed harshly. "You dream, voluptuous foreigner! My son is in jail."
Dulce realized that this was actually an asset. If this justifiably bitter woman's son happened to be incarcerated in the same institution as Jason—for Jason had to be there, or she would never locate him. "Are many of your number there? Then we can free them all. With C-3 plastic explosive, machine guns, we can fill an ambulance, drive it in near the wall—"
"Where are these weapons from?" the man asked, still suspicious, but with growing interest.
"They are safe. They were captured in Cuba from CIA agents; they can be traced only back to America. Grenades, pistols, rifles—but we must act soon. Tonight." Before they torture Jason, she added mentally.
"We will alert our men, and the other groups," the man said, obviously hungry for the weapons. "But it cannot be tonight; there is no time to organize."
Dulce nodded. He was right; they dared not go into this raid unprepared, or the guards and soldiers would tear them up. "Then tomorrow—"
"No. Two days from now, when the festival is on."
She smiled, seeing his logic. They were in business.
Chapter 4
Mirabal's Entertainments
I came to in a dungeon. That was the best description of it. It was a huge cell lined with brick walls, and the ceiling was high. My first impression was of a multitude of people, white, black, and in between, most wearing shorts or cut-off pants and nothing else. It was hot, and the ventilation was poor, and the stink of sweat and grime and urine was intense.
There was a long line of three-decker bunks. The top beds were close to the bright light bulbs, so that the men on them had to shield their heads by spreading their shorts over them.
I sat up. The lingering effects of the drug made my head swim. I was not in top condition anyway. I had taken a bad tumble down the stairs. My automatic forward roll had alleviated the effect, but there is no soft landing down a flight of steps! There were numerous abrasions on my back, and bruises on my arms.
I stood, and cracked my head on the metal structure of the bunk above mine. In my disorientation, I had not noticed it. I sat down heavily. I felt about as bad as a man can feel who isn't sick or badly injured. Probably the wine I had taken combined with the drug to give me a real hangover. Alcohol: never again! I always regretted it when I broke training.
Especially the morning after. Especially when I woke in jail.
A high-pitched torrent of Portuguese, or what I assumed was that language, emerged from the upper bunk. Two thin brown legs, barefooted and scarred, appeared over the edge. They dropped down, followed by a lean, dirty body. It was a boy, perhaps fourteen years old. It was hard to tell, as I knew many children went hungry in Brazil; he could be older with retarded growth. His sharp, wary eyes hinted as much.
The gist of his message needed no translation. I was an incompetent fool who should watch where he put his stupid head, lest he disturb the repose of his betters.
I made a gesture of conciliation. "Sorry. I don't speak Portuguese." I didn't expect him to respond intelligently, but he did. His barrage cut off. "You—'Merican?"
Well, well! "Yes, American."
"You have dollar?"
So that was it. He begged money from tourists, so had picked up a smattering of the language—probably of many languages. I patted my pockets, finding them empty, of course. My abductors had cleaned me out. "No dollar."
"You smuggler?"
"You pickpocket?" I retorted.
He laughed. "Me thief. Hungry."
That I could believe. "Me fight. Death Squad."
His eyes went round. "Big trouble!"
I rubbed my head. "Right!" I decided to treat him as an
equal, and thrust out my hand. "I'm Jason Striker, victim of circumstance."
He took it. "Filho, of the favela."
"Favela?"
"My home," he said simply.
Oh. No doubt one of the residential sections of Rio. A bell rang somewhere. The prisoners piled off their bunks and began moving. "C'mon," Filho said. "Food."
Food. I wasn't hungry, but didn't know how regular meals would be around here. "Thanks."
The boy led me out of the cell and into a central courtyard. Apparently the cells were normally locked, so this represented an extension of freedom I'd better appreciate.
We came to the end of the chow line. It was along one, as there turned out to be a number of huge cells similar to ours, each with over a hundred prisoners.
The food, when we finally got it, was bean soup, over which a thick whitish powder had been sprinkled to give it the consistency of thick gruel, ladled from a huge vat into dirty bowls. There were also a couple of pieces of some kind of white hard tuber, and a cup of thick black sugarless coffee. I tasted some and had to spit it out; Brazil might be the land of coffee, but this was too strong for me. Not a very tasty meal, and not enough; if I were to be here long, I'd better eat it all, for I'd soon be hungry.
The bathroom, it turned out, was a brick-lined trench at the far end of the courtyard. The men stood or squatted over it as necessary. The stench was horrible. A single tap in the corner provided water for drinking; the prisoners took turns at it. "I get," Filho said to me. He had already gulped down his meal. He went to stand in the water line while I finished my tuber. But in a moment he was back. "You keep eye on me?" he inquired. "Some men, they—" He made a face.
I didn't know what that face signified, but could appreciate that life could be rough for a lad like this in a place like this. "I'll keep an eye on you," I agreed, and he went back.
How was I going to get out of here? I had no notion of the charges against me, assuming the Death Squad had bothered with any. I had merely been entertaining my girl friend in my room, surely no crime. No doubt in due course there would be an inquiry, since I was an American, but I doubted much would come of that soon. Bureaucracy moved slowly the world over. I was on my own for the time being, but probably not in any serious trouble. Maybe I was lucky they hadn't killed me.
The water Filho brought was dirty, and I was not that thirsty; instead I used it for washing. The other prisoners stared at me curiously, and I could fathom their thoughts: see the mad Americano taking his daily bath! None of them bothered, obviously.
In due course we were herded back into our cells for the evening. The men did not settle down right away, but milled about, conversing in Portuguese. Since I had no way to share this dialogue, I lay down on my bunk. After a time, in the night, the food I had eaten had its natural effect, and I went to the smaller hole that served as the cell's private bathroom to relieve myself. Again the men stared from their bunks; did they expect my refuse to be white, like my skin?
There was a commotion as I pulled up my pants. I looked up and saw that Filho was in trouble. Two men had grabbed him; one held his arms while the other hauled down his ragged shorts. What were they doing? The boy was struggling and yelling in Portuguese, but the men did not seem to be actually hurting him. They were hauling him to another bunk. Then Filho's eye caught mine. "Rape!" he screamed.
Then, shocked, I understood. They were yelling in Portuguese and wrestling Filho face-down on the bunk. One of the men had bared his member and was moving in on the boy's posterior. Here in the tropics I had heard homosexuality was more common than in the colder climes, and to some men a young boy was a more tempting target than a beautiful woman. I don't claim to understand it, and am not certain it is true; I just happened to read about it once in Burton's Arabian Nights.
The other prisoners, amazingly, were taking no notice. Like the residents of an American city, they preferred to ignore crime—so long as it was not being practiced on them. To avoid involvement.
Well, I wasn't going to ignore it! This was blatant homosexual rape, in public yet. I charged across the cell, swung around the tier of bunks, and barreled into the trio.
First I took out the would-be rapist. I grabbed him by the shirt, forced him off-balance, blocked his right knee with the sole of my left foot, and threw him past me with a beautiful (if I do say so myself ) Hiza-guruma knee-wheel throw. I knew he would not get up in a hurry. Especially since he slid across the damp floor to sprawl halfway in the privy-pit, his outflung hand involuntarily grasping a handful of that brown slush.
Then I turned on the other. He had thrown the boy aside the moment I attacked, and now faced me. He was a huge coal-black Negro with shaved head, six and a half feet tall, and weighing something like 240 pounds. No starving chronic inmate, this!
And he was ready to fight. I would have eased off once Filho was safe, but it was obvious that this man would not let me go. I was hardly in top condition, but as a fifth degree black belt in judo with additional expertise in karate and kung fu I was well able to take care of myself. So I waited for his attack, while the other prisoners forsook their sleep to form a huge spectators' circle around us. They hadn't wanted to get involved when a boy was being attacked, but now they were happy to watch the fight.
Suddenly he moved. His right foot swept up and around in hard kick. I shifted my weight to absorb it harmlessly on my left thigh; kicks are fairly easy to counter if you anticipate them. Their relative slowness is offset by their power when they score. Still, his kick was fast and sure; he was a trained fighter.
Then I became aware of pain: not the ordinary bruise of a kick, but the sharper sensation of a cut. I glanced at my hip—and saw blood flowing. The kick must have opened a sore.
Sore? Immediately I realized it was more than that. I was wearing my trousers, and the cloth had been ripped open.
Sensation and realization occurred quickly, for thought and action are almost simultaneous during combat. They have to be, if one wishes to survive.
My opponent skipped to the side and kicked again. This time I jumped back. I caught a glimpse of the sole of his foot: small shards of broken glass were taped there.
No wonder I was hurting! He had obviously come prepared—and he was out for my blood. Literally. Any of these kicks would have wounded me grievously, had they scored cleanly. He kicked yet again, very fast. This time I managed to hook a hand under his foot, catching him off-balance. With my free hand I grabbed his calloused toes, lifted, and shoved him back hard. The problem with kicking is that it restricts mobility at critical times, especially when the opponent knows what he is doing. He had to fall.
Thank God for the hours I had put in practicing the new Kodokan self-defense kata! The katas are like little judo plays, emulating street-fight situations. Now when I needed it, I had done it without thinking.
I did not let go of that dangerous foot. This was no amateur! And how had he arranged this trick—in prison? Surely he did not walk on broken glass all the time. This thing smelled of a set-up. So I bore down hard while I had the advantage. I twisted him onto his stomach by using the leverage of the captive leg. Then I hooked my own leg over his knee and tilted forward, putting pressure on his leg and knee with my chest, using a forbidden (in contest judo) Kawaishi submission hold, Hiza-hishigi. "Had enough?" I inquired as I leaned into it.
But he was tough. He tried to escape. I increased the pressure, knowing the agony would have to make him capitulate. I wasn't doing this from sadism; I wanted to know why he had girded himself for such combat and made a scene that would surely draw me in. If he were an agent of the Death Squad sent to kill me, why hadn't he simply done the job while I was still unconscious? It seemed to make no sense to do it this way.
Unless the Death Squad wanted its hands to appear clean...
Now there was a commotion. Prison guards, conspicuously absent until I gained the advantage, charged in. Not eager to be caught fighting, for surely there were rules, against it, I started to eas
e up. But a guard slammed into me, hurling me forward. That impetus translated into pressure on the black man's knee, and it snapped as I fell.
Then the guards laid hands on me, and I knew better than to resist. The black man was writhing in agony; screams of pure anguish wrenching out of him. There is no worse pain than that of a broken knee. It would be long before he fought again.
I was surely in for it now! How could I convince the guards I had stepped in only to rescue a youthful friend from rape? Especially when I didn't speak the language?
The boy! "Filho!" I called. "Tell them—"
Filho appeared. He spouted a fluid stream of Portuguese. Thank God I had a witness!
The guard-captain turned on me. "So you try to rape this poor child, and beat up his friends who help him!"
What? "No, no! I tried to help him!"
But then I saw the boy's expression. His accusing finger pointed directly at me. He was part of this ugly little trap. He was the shill.
I looked desperately around at the other prisoners. They had all been witnesses. But they had somehow returned to their bunks and were sound asleep; obviously none of them wasted any love on the Gringo, and they would not speak on my behalf.
I had been had. No doubt of it. But why?
Too late I saw the rifle butt coming at my head. I tried to duck out of the way, but there was solid contact. The lights went out.
This time my awakening was less gentle than before. A bucket of icewater drenched my head, making me choke. I was sitting in a chair with my hands tied behind me and my ankles hobbled with a short length of rope. I could tell by the feel that I was expertly restrained; no use straining against the bonds.