Hot Revenge Box Set 4

My first day in a new city: Sao Paulo.

I tap into the internal phone. “Room service? A pot of coffee, please. Strong, with cream. Orange juice. Toast, fruit salad and yoghurt. Room 313.”

“Sim senhor. Dez minutos.”

“And a newspaper, please. You have the New York Times?”

“Sim senhor. Sem problemas.”

My hotel suite is spacious and comfortable. Not the top of the range. Not the bottom. Upper-middle, where it’s luxurious enough to be comfortable for, what I’m expecting to be, an extended stay, but not where I’ll be watched all the time.

Anything from Hickman?

I check my mobile. It’s brand new, as supplied by Dakho and currently displaying the message ‘Bem Vindo a Brasil’ from the local service provider. As I touch the screen, the message flicks off to be replaced by Your system needs a restart to install updates. Restart now?

The phone has a great spec, the best, but I'll be happier when it's settled down a bit. Irritably, I tap, Yes, then put it to one side to let it run through its interminable updates.

In rather less than the ten minutes promised, my breakfast arrives. From sheer habit, I keep my hand under my jacket where the Glock nestles in its holster, but the boy of perhaps fourteen who enters with the tray doesn’t look like any kind of threat. “Onde, senhor?”

“On the table by the balcony, please.”

I tip the boy and he backs out of the room beaming. “You want things, senhor, you call Rodrigo. Yes, senhor?”

“Thank you, Rodrigo. I will.”

The juice is fresh, the fruit freshly chopped and the coffee strong as requested. I think they must have run an iron over the newspaper.

Excellent…

I settle with my tray, balcony doors open and the relative coolth of the morning wafting in on the breeze. Shaking open the paper, I savour the excellent coffee.

From beyond the door: the low hum of a vacuum cleaner, gradually drawing nearer. Then, a tap on the door. “Senhor? I am the cleaner of the room, please?”

One hand nested under my jacket again, “Entrar.”

A young woman enters, green-overalled, her hair in a scarf, pushing a cart loaded with cloths and sprays. She looks local, with the olive skin, dark hair and eyes of the Hispanic types, although slightly flattened features suggest some native blood mixed in. She’s a sultry-eyed beauty who would be walking a catwalk somewhere if she lived in the First World, or at least anywhere with less inequality. Her options here are more limited.

“I can clean, yes? You want I come back?”

I wave a hand across the room. “No. It’s fine. Do it now.” I’d prefer she did it later. It’s not as if the room needs much. I’ve barely occupied the place. But it’s better to behave normally. And if the suite’s been cleaned already, no-one will have reason to disturb me again.

Setting my newspaper on the tray with the coffee pot, I take the lot out onto the balcony.

The sun and the heat are wonderful. Jumping from one hemisphere to the other, I’ve left behind the freeze and the damp of winter. The summer heat bakes through my bones, dispelling the grinding chill that’s plagued me ever since I set foot inside Jenny’s home. I’d prefer less humidity than Sao Paulo offers, but you can’t have everything, and it beats the penetrating cold of the northern winter hands-down.

Sighing, I stretch out, tipping my face back to bathe in the morning sunshine, revelling in the heat. Inside, the maid hums some crap-pop jingle before being drowned out by the sound of the vacuum cleaner.

Take an hour to relax, then down to work…

*****

Downloading Finchby’s database of invoices, I scour through for the most likely follow-ups for Baxter. After a couple of hours, armed with a shortlist of a dozen likely addresses and my new mobile which seems finally to have run through its downloads, I’m ready to go.

Take a taxi?

No.

Don’t leave a trail…

but the upside is that I get to explore Sao Paulo on foot, always the best way to see anywhere new. The loose linen suit I’m wearing, appropriate

Glock into its

… Knife…

… Hat on…

… Sunglasses…

check

English…

… Tourist…

… Harmless…

Time to move…

my thumb, then spit-plaster the hair into place about a foot from the floor, bridging the crack between door and frame. If the door opens while I’m

suck in a smile. It’s the oldest trick in the book, but if it’s good enough for

a half hour’s walk away. Hands in pockets, I stroll through

by a tourist information board, making a show

Visiting Tourist…

mapping

but I

do Antonio… A scatter of outdoor tables and seating…

past the address… past the barber’s next door and the half dozen stores following… and then across the road to pause

of the bar, I hang around on the corner, making a show of window-shopping for over-priced clothes behind acres of plate glass, the reflection

still in a decent area; somewhere the locals will come to eat. The signs and paintwork are shabby but clean. The seating and tables also look well-used. But as I watch, a customer rises and leaves. An old man moves smartly in, snatching a towel from his apron. Sweeping

and snacks at

old man pulls across an umbrella and stand, taking the time to position it carefully to shade the client.

a likely candidate for

my notes, then my

in the

In the back, perhaps?

Or upstairs?

seat, using

senhor. Está muito quente.

Cerveja, por favor. … Then bite down on my words: no need to let anyone know that I understand a good deal of what is

so with a glass of beer cold enough to drip dew on the table, then gestures at the sunshade. “Você quer

nod vigorously. “Please,

first mouthful of beer slides down my throat without protest. I’m on my guard, but the second mouthful doesn’t put up much of

Work to do…

old man down. “Excuse me, where is the

indoors with a nod and a smile, and I follow his pointing finger, through a deep narrow room, dim against the brilliant daylight outside, lined either side with Formica-topped

some crispy-looking brown circles which I take to be squid rings. A plate of ‘somethings’ looks like vine-leaf-wrapped snacks, although I know that around here it’s more likely

as I amble past. Waving hands over the displayed dishes,

the smile, winding my finger in a circle.

where, through the swing doors, the old woman, short and stout, thrusting out arms like wrinkled tree trunks, stirs something in a pot. She

throw a glance back over my shoulder, then stroll past the obvious bathroom door. The passage grows cooler all the while towards the rear of the building. At the end, I’m at the base of a stairway, dimly lit but, as

and restaurants always are, plain brick and concrete, but both vinyl-tiled steps and white-painted walls are immaculately clean, with none of

the carrying echoes, one hand resting on the holster inside my

taking up

slatted shutters, dust motes

settees, much used, the fabric fraying on the arms. Ancient linoleum flooring,