Hot Revenge Box Set 4

Klempner
The hottest part of the day... hot enough to have driven me indoors... In a coolish corner at Antonio’s, my back to the wall, I can
sit behind my newspaper but see everything around me.
Scouring the daily papers for starting points and clues, then following through with my phone and tablet, my researches are
yielding a clear picture of rival gangs, the growing power of organised crime in Sao Paulo and, threaded through it all, hints of
where I might find my target.
Photos, references, events, are all building a picture.
A woman, clawing her way to the top, leaving a trail of male corpses behind her. The details vary: sometimes a shootout
between rival gangs. Sometimes an ‘accident’, brake-failure. An overdose of cocaine crops up twice. One has died of some kind
of poisoning, although there’s no details on what kind. Outright assassination, a bullet in the forehead seems almost too obvious
for her methods.
Inconveniently, the newspapers fail to publish her home address.
I’ll find you...
Why aren’t the police on to you?
Or does she have the police in her pocket too? Some authority figure at least?
What isn’t clear to me yet is whether my target is Juliana herself or the entire criminal gang she’s currently tied up with.
I sip coffee, hoping for caffeine-powered inspiration.
She can’t be at the head of the gang. Any gang. It wouldn’t work like that. Not here. This is Latin America. Men don't answer to
women down here. Too much of the macho culture. Women don’t get to the top.
Even Eva Perón worked through her man...
... Men...
Eva Perón...

There’s a pattern that fits perfectly with everything I know of Juliana.
The power behind the throne...
Find the man who can give you what you want. Get his attention. Pull his strings. Milk him
Then when you see a better option, move on.
How would a woman do that?
?
Eva Perón. How did she do it?
Once, María Eva Duarte... The slum girl who made good...
Five minutes later I’m looking at photos of the one-time First Lady of Argentina: a girl who climbed the ladder, using men in
power as rungs, until she reached the top.
I consider a hard-edged female face: dark-eyed, highly made-up, bleached-blonde hair, designer clothes and jewels. The smile is
all blades and edges.
She wasn’t even that beautiful...
But you have to look closely at the photos to realise that.
My Mitch is genuinely beautiful. You could shear her hair, smear her face, dress her in a rag, and she would still be beautiful.
Jenny’s the same, at least if you catch her without that wolf-eyed look she wears.
Eva Perón wasn’t. Strip away the money and the finery, the cosmetics and the careful grooming, and I’m looking at the face of a
rather ordinary girl who took the devil’s drive out of the gutters all the way to the top. And yet, she dazzled man after man, took
him for what she wanted, then left them scattered in her wake as she moved on.
Juliana...
When she moves on, her men are dead.
Food for thought.

I retrieve my paper, scanning headlines.
Gang rivalries cause mayhem. Leader dies...
Assassination suspected...
Hmmm...
I biro a circle around the piece.
Another coffee?
Why not?
Brain food...
Dropping my paper a couple of inches, I’m about to raise my hand for Antonio’s attention when the old man looks towards the
door, his smile dissolving. Jaw set, scowling, he jerks his chin at the waitress, sending her scuttling back towards the kitchen.
A figure stands in the doorway, radiating the kind of causal menace that, in my experience, goes with too large an ego and too
small a brain. He's a smooth-looking bastard, in an expensive suit, his hair slicked back and with the kind of sunglasses where
someone’s paid for the designer name without noticing any improvement to the eyesight. The shoes, highly polished and glossy,
match the slim attaché case, in his hand.
Standing silhouetted against the daylight, he strikes a pose...
Thinks he’s something...
Fucking Wonder Boy...
Lowering my newspaper a little further, I’m about to rise, but Antonio, eyes wide with alarm, waggles fingers at me, nodding me
to stay in my seat, then raises a finger to his lips.
The stranger takes off his shades, popping them in a lapel pocket. His gaze sweeps the room, passes to me, pauses, then
moves on. A young couple sitting at a quiet corner table gather their things together and exit, sliding around him as though he
were wearing a leper’s bell.

Antonio speaks rapidly and quietly, his voice quavering. The old man is trying to inject confidence into his voice, but it’s not
nearly convincing. The stranger murmurs a reply, lips curled.
I understand Portuguese well enough for tourist or business purposes, but the pair are talking at the breakneck speed of those
speaking in their mother tongue. Still, while I can’t pick it all out, I get the gist, especially with Antonio madly gesturing toward the
tin box under his counter that passes for a till.
“Senhor Monteiro, você chegou cedo. O dinheiro não é devido até a próxima semana...” You’re early. The money isn’t due until
next week.
The reply is delivered with off-hand sarcasm. “Sola quer isso agora.” Sola wants it now.
Sola?
Who’s Sola? A gang-leader?
Not read that one in any of my researches...
I jot the name on a corner of my newspaper.
“Vou tê-lo para o Sr. Sola na próxima semana, como combinamos.”
... Monteiro looms over Antonio. “Você tem o dinheiro?”
Panic marches over the old man’s face. “Eu não tenho isso...” He prises open the lid of the tin, holding it out for inspection.
“Veja...É tudo o que tenho.”
For all his height, the thug’s flabby. Under the expensive suit, his muscles are soft. His jacket falls away a touch from his gut, fat
has stolen the definition from jaw and cheekbone. And his bulk speaks more of fine eating than fine training.
Good enough to menace an old man and a girl.
Should I interfere?
I could take the bastard easily enough...
... Scare the shit out of him...

What’s to lose?
I rise, or begin to, but Antonio casts a frantic glance my way and I settle again.
Not here, then...
Somewhere private...
Wonder Boy snatches the cash box, scooping out the notes, then tipping small change into his hand and stuffing the lot in a
pocket.
Touching his hat to Antonio... “Obrigado...” ... he turns on his heel and exits.
Antonio is close to tears, his face screwing up as he totters to my table. “Senhor Hughes, me desculpe... I not want you see
that.”
Quickly folding my newspaper, I slap it down on the table, drop a fifty Real note onto the table and make for the door.
Antonio’s grabs my arm. “No, Senhor Hughes. Bad man. Very bad. You not go.”
I drop him a wink, hold up vee’d fingers. “Two bad men, Antonio. Dois homens maus.”
His eyes widen. “Policial?”
“No, not a policeman.” And I dash for the door.
Fucking protection racketeer...
Enforcer?
Or just a runner?
Doesn’t matter.
Organised crime gang...
And they'll have their fingers in all the other pies too.
I have my link...

*****