Installment 3 Continued
We entered a residential street. No, not merely residential. Palatial. The neighborhood was obviously one of exclusive upper class. I registered it enough to be amazed. I knew Rio could turn from slum to city in a few short blacks, but this was beyond that. The street itself was clean and recently paved. There were large leafy trees on either side of the street, providing cooling shade. Sprawling stucco mansions were set back a fair distance, their cultured flower gardens providing a beautiful array of color that blurred as we rushed ahead. I briefly considered approaching one of the iron gates and pressing the small black intercom box to ask for help. Then I realized I smelled of rank vomit, attired in clothing that was stained with blood and stomach fluids, dragging along a filthy bloodied child and a pock marked street hoodlum.
“Fernando, we need to get to the hotel as quickly as possible.” I never slowed, and never even looked at the child who was following along as meekly as an innocent lamb. I could faintly hear her bare feet slapping on the sun-heated pavement but not for one moment did I feel pity for her small soft feet. “This isn’t good. We’re in the open and out of place. Some one is bound to call the police.”
Even as the words left my mouth, the gates of an estate rolled open to allow a sleek black Mercedes sedan entrance to the street. The car braked quickly as the driver spied the three of us not twenty feet away. From behind the glare of the windshield I could just make out the face of an older gentleman, his ruled forehead crinkled in obvious disgust. I saw him reach for a cell phone as he quickly dialed a number.
The thin fabric of my patience fell to shreds and I rushed the car on the driver’s side. Fernando stood solidly in front of the car, preventing all hope the occupant had of forward progress. The gates clicked shut to bar any retreat. I motioned with my numb hard, still bandaged in bloody cotton strips, for him to roll his window down. The window smoothly descended a half an inch and the man immediately began to shout belligerently. The word “polícias” fell from his lips several times in a matter of seconds nestled quite securely between threats and curses of a very colorful nature.
My foot lashed out. The door panel crumpled, bearing the imprint of my thick-soled boot. I had the man’s full attention as he fell silent and the disgust turned to fear. I pressed my face close to the opening of the window and spoke softly but very clearly. I was impressed myself at how easily the story was invented.
“I am in need of help. My daughter and I were attacked after being separated from out tour party. This young gentleman behind me bravely came to our rescue and was injured in the process. We, all three, are in need medical attention. I need to go to the Hotel Grande de Brasil and I need to do this now. Are you willing to help or do you need a bit more convincing as I kick the ever living shit out of this mighty fine car you’re in.” In my earnestness I had forgotten to speak Portuguese.
The window came down another half an inch. The man spoke in perfect English, with an Eaton accent: “I’ve already called my security personnel. They will be here momentarily. Now kindly tell your would-be rescuer to put down that bolder and step away from my car.”
“Jesus Christ, does everyone here speak English?” I muttered as I ignored the crisp, clipped British tones to instead glance at Fernando.
Again, I was greeted with an image comforting to me. Fernando had risen to the occasion. While I had launched into my tirade threatening to kick the car into oblivion, he’d been busy with a large paving stone, torn loose from the granite landscaping wall. He held the chunk of rock high above his head, ready to launch it into the windshield in a moment’s notice. Two thoughts crossed my mind: I was beginning to become very enamored of this clever young street thug and, damn, he was strong. My trust in him was now nearly complete.
“Fernando, por favor. Ponha a pedra para baixo, este homem ajudar-nos-á.” No sooner had I asked that he put the stone down did the gates begin to roll open and I glimpsed a Land Rover barreling down the drive towards us.
The paving stone thunked heavily in the grass beside the car. Fernando eyed the approaching vehicle with extreme displeasure but he backed off a few feet nevertheless. For the first time since her feet had hit the ground, I felt resistance from the child. She watched with wide eyes as the vehicle got closer and closer, and she began to tug and strain at my hand, urging me silently to lead her away from here.
“Knock it off.” I said coldly, still not willing to give her an inch so she could take a mile. Tears leaked down her face but she ceased her tugging. I gave her an awful look without stopping to wonder why I was being such a mean bastard.
I returned my attentions to the distinguished man in the Mercedes. Even though he had an accent that had undoubtedly taken a small fortune to cultivate in English prepatory schools, I felt sure he was a native of Brazil and probably Rio as well. His skin was the color of light caramel matched with dark hair and thick dark brows. His hair was thick and full, jet black but graying around the temples and crown. The scowl on his face was quite a respectable one. The face itself was lined in all the appropriate places leading me to believe he was in his late fifties. What I could see of his suit told me it was very expensive and probably ordered from Seville Row in merry old England. A classy guy, to be sure. I’m not sure why, but I took particular exception to the black attaché case that lay solidly on the passenger seat.
He caught my eye and smiled wickedly at me. I caught the gleam of his pearly white teeth and thought absurdly that he must have had them bleached recently. And that he reminded me of the human incarnation of The Devil.
Then the Land Rover arrived and all hell broke loose.
