The meal goes smoothly enough, albeit with a lot of negotiating the rapids and under-currents of good manners and courtesy.

Beth’s pregnancy proves a safe topic of discussion, with none of the pitfalls and booby traps lying in wait if we talk about anything closer to home. Mitch is a star, repeatedly shifting the conversation back onto the imminent birth of Beth’s and Richard’s new son.

Later, in a quiet moment with Michael, “My apologies,” I say. “Tact isn’t one of Georgie’s virtues. It never was.”

His answering smile is wry. “Like father, like daughter.”

*****

Klempner

Two weeks and… nothing…

Not a whisper. Nothing I can find.

Sitting in the corner of Antonio’s, I’ve spent a pleasant afternoon, but frustration gnaws at me. Hickman reports that all is well, but…

Has Juliana given up?

?

Not fucking likely…

Antonio’s cafe has become somewhat of a routine. Misgivings nudge me, reminding me that I shouldn’t develop such habits…

… Making myself vulnerable…

But, with nothing to go on, what the hell else can I do?

On the other hand, there has to be some reason for the address to have been used in Finchby’s invoices.

Perhaps I just need to wait.

But what am I waiting for?

How long can I keep doing this?

Still, in the meantime, while I wait for my mystery to unravel, the old man is genuinely good company. And also, a mine of local information.

Finishing a cup of the excellent coffee, I consult a local guide, comparing my list of addresses to a local map, looking for some pattern, seeking inspiration…

Access to road…

Access to the ports…

Whereabouts of police stations…

to the poorer end of town… the red-light district…

Nothing hangs together.

at my elbow, nodding down to my empty coffee

“Sim. Thank you.”

“Senhor Hughes…” He stabs a finger at my page. “You not go this place. Is bad

remembering that I ‘can’t

bad men there. And

tipo de bad

years, this city….” He sweeps his arms out in circles all around… “…all bad place. Much…” He falters then holds out two fingers making a Bang Bang gesture… “And much…” Invisible knife gripped in his hand, he

I say.

vigorously. “Sim,

I smoke an imaginary cigarette and again he nods. Then I mime injecting myself… “Cocaína…?

womans para prostitutas.” He takes the book from me, closes it, then slaps it down on the

said bad woman

then up again, nodding. “Prostitutes, sim. But há sim

bad woman. What she

since ten year, Sao Paulo good city. People not die…” Fingers spread, he rocks his hand… “… Not so many. Bad men gone. Not like other cities. Since two years, bad men here again. And this woman

sounding deeply

Juliana…

woman, her name? What does she

stares at

woman…

upheld, he shrugs. “Ninguém sabe. Ela

mystery? What does

Again, that blank stare…

head… “Tall?” … Then lower…

“Bad place. Bad people. You not go there. I show you nice place for nice English turista man.

Hughes? We have many

at places where ‘Nice turista man is safe.’ But my

English editions. I can read Portuguese,

now, delving into the newspaper archives,

tap in an experimental search term… Sao Paulo

screen blinks: 139,000, 000 results, starting

Hmmm…

Narrow it down…

tap in another search. Names of criminal gangs sao

results, this time, but

gang is enticing recruits with

Evolution of the Most Lethal Criminal

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