Installment 1
Once the well-hidden doors of the underworld opened up for my American dollars, the story became a living, breathing thing that moved along at an incredible pace. True, there were those who offered help and information for no money, but those samaritans were few and far between. I’d been using money freely to buy my way into the scene. I now had evidence to incriminate some highly placed government officials as well as the ringleaders who kidnapped the children and smuggled them out of Brazil to points unknown.
My story was already finished. I had faxed off three thousand words to my editor early that morning and was packing my things to fly back to Los Angeles when one of my informants, one whom had provided the most useful information, knocked on my hotel room door.
Fernando, as he was called, was painfully thin and pockmarked on his face, hands and neck with craters from some childhood disease. His smile revealed black, rotted teeth from which an awful smell exuded. He itched his emaciated arms continually, no doubt ravaged by the fleas that were the common scourge in the favelas (slums) of Rio. Awful as he was to look upon, he had done well by me and I trusted him as much as I trusted anyone in this foreign place.
Fernando scratched even more feverishly as he told of an American child being offered to the highest bidder. He explained that the child, a girl, was, “muito desejável, não ainda uma mulher” or, in English, very desirable and not yet a woman. No older than ten years of age. I immediately grabbed my wallet and thumbed it open, exposing a hundred-dollar bill. American. He shifted from foot to foot, eyeing the money as he poured forth his information.
He explained that Chen Lu Chang, a blackmarketeer who (according to local legend) had been transplanted from Tokoyo to Rio some years past, had come across a beautiful white child wandering alone and unsupervised in the slums some days earlier.
Chang had taken great pains to be sure no American tourists were searching for their missing child- he was a cautious character and did not wish to be imprisoned for life because of one white child. In fact, Chang was amazed that no one had picked her up earlier, as she’d obviously been wandering unmolested and unchecked for days.
Fernando skittered nervously as I barked at him, demanding him to take me to Chang right away. I was in a rush, as news of a white child would spread rapidly and the price, no matter what named, would be paid very quickly.
Fernando guided me through a maze of street, back, back, back from the main thoroughfare and it’s relative safety. I was not nervous; I was fairly sure that if my white skin and American accent could not buy me safety, surely my fat wallet could. I’d had no problems yet during my forays into the back streets and slums of Rio.
My guide stopped abruptly before a tiny, windowless shop and coughed discreetly. I paid him with the hundred-dollar bill and bade him wait for me around the corner. I thumbed a twenty his way to be sure he’d be there when I needed him.
I entered the shop cautiously, eyeing the surroundings. Stacks upon stacks of worthless junk lined each of the walls of the shop- including the one I had entered through. Except the back wall. It was covered with thick Turkish carpets which that formed a crude door. An elderly Asian man, complete with gray Fu Manchu mustache and trailing, braided goatee approached me, a long slender Opium pipe clamped in his teeth. He spoke Portuguese well, with no accent I could detect, asking if he could assist me in a purchase.
“Eu gostaria de comprar o que você não vende.” I replied, telling him I wished to buy what he did not sell. This was the common phrase used in Rio to indicate interest in black market goods.
Chang, for I assumed it was he, smiled graciously and bowed slightly at the hips. He removed the pipe and studied me with a look of amusement on his face. He spoke in English.
“I see you’re a fellow American.” He laughed softly as I took a step back.
I was shocked and I knew it showed on my face. I was not surprised he knew English; so many people, even in the back alleys of Rio, knew the world’s language. What surprised me was that his accent was pure South Bronx.
“You’re an American?” I asked.
