Free Crimes of August: A Novel: 5 (Brazilian Literature in Translation Series) by Rubem Fonseca

want information about Senator Vitor Freitas. You think she’ll come across?”
    “She does for me.” Pause. “Look, I’ve never had anything with her.” Pause. “Or with any whore.”
    “But she’s a friend of yours.”
    “Friend, my ass. She’s my informant.”
    The São Borja had an ample entrance, a long corridor with several businesses, a tobacco shop, a café, a barbershop, and a record store—the Casa Carlos Wehrs. Mattos remembered then that in that store, some months earlier, he had bought the scores for La Traviata and La Bohème . If he were alone, he would use the opportunity to ask what the long-play of La Traviata cost.
    The cops walked down the corridor where the elevators were, three on each side. The São Borja was a mixed-occupancy building, residential and commercial. In a large glassed-in panel Mattos noted some names, followed by room numbers: Brazilian Workers Party, Radiobrás, Odeon Records, Rádio Copacabana. A Workers Party poster read: “Vote for the candidates of the Workers Party and participate in the gigantic struggle for the transformation of Brazil into a great nation. Social Justice. Economic Emancipation. Nationalistic Policy. Defense of Petroleum. Respect for the Minimum Wage. Democratic Enfranchisement. Union Freedom. Agrarian Reform. A Workers Party government is a government of the people.”
    “Those guys are a pack of demagogues,” said Pádua.
    There was another entrance, in the rear, near the elevators. It faced a courtyard where several automobiles were parked, opening onto Rua México.
    “That’s where the senators come in, so as not to be seen,” said Pádua.
    They returned to the lobby and waited for the elevator. On the tenth floor a single room had its door open. They heard the sound of a typewriter. A woman, sitting in front of an Underwood, didn’t notice the two cops as they passed by silently. LOTTUFO REPRESENTATION read a small plaque. Pádua turned to the right, in the hallway. The sound of the typewriter keys was no longer heard. All the doors were closed.
    “Here it is,” said Pádua, ringing a doorbell.
    A middle-aged woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door.
    “I’m here to speak with Dona Laura. I’m Inspector Pádua.”
    The woman made a gesture for them to come inside. Pádua paced from side to side in the small vestibule. From the movement of his arms, Mattos concluded that his colleague’s biceps and triceps must be flexing furiously.
    A thin man with a small mustache and slicked-down hair appeared.
    “Ah, Inspector Pádua . . . What a pleasure! How nice!”
    “I’m not here for small talk, Almeida. I want to speak to Dona Laura.”
    “She’s very busy at the moment. Can’t it be with me?”
    “No, it can’t be with you. Get in there and call Laura right now.”
    “I’m going to have them get you some nice whiskey.”
    “We don’t want any nice whiskey. Call the woman.”
    “She’s in the other apartment, on the sixteenth floor. We’ll go up by the stairs. Please follow me.”
    Laura was waiting for them in a large room full of overstuffed red velvet furniture. The curtains were also red. The room was illuminated by soft light coming from two lamps whose shades were mosaics of colored glass.
    Laura was dressed discreetly. Her hair, dyed red, gave her face a look of insolence. A gold pince-nez, held by a black silk ribbon, swayed on her chest.
    “You may go, Almeida dear,” she said. Her voice is as dark as the room, thought Mattos.
    “This is my colleague, Inspector Mattos.”
    “Would you like something to drink? Whiskey? Champagne?”
    “He has a stomach ulcer. Can’t drink.”
    “But you can.”
    “Not today.”
    Laura put on her pince-nez and looked at Mattos. “Are you a nervous man?”
    “More or less.”
    “What happened to your head?”
    “Banged it against a wall.”
    “Inspector Mattos wants information about a client of yours.”
    “We don’t give out information about our clients. You know