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…

of town… the

Nothing hangs together.

down to my empty coffee cup. “Mais

“Sim. Thank you.”

He stabs a finger at my page. “You not go this place. Is bad place for

‘can’t speak the language’… “What’s the

place very bad. Many bad men

Que tipo de bad

by me. His voice lowers and he leans in close. “One time, since many years, this city….” He sweeps his arms out in circles all

violence,” I say. “Much

nods vigorously. “Sim, muita

and again he nods. Then I mime

closes it, then slaps it down on the table. “Bad place, Senhor. And bad men.” He wags a

woman

nodding. “Prostitutes, sim. But há sim one bad woman

woman. What she

“… Not so many. Bad men gone. Not like other cities. Since two years, bad men here again. And this woman is

sounding

Juliana…

name? What does she

stares at me

woman… A mulher má… Her name?

“Ninguém sabe.

does

Again, that blank stare…

my head… “Tall?” … Then

shrug. But he waves a forefinger at me, then at my city guide, repeating, “Bad place. Bad people. You not go

“You like o museu de arte, Senhor Hughes? We have many artista famoso there. And we

ramble on, nodding as he jabs fingers at places where ‘Nice turista man is safe.’ But my mind’s on

obvious trick: ten minutes later I’ve signed up for subscriptions on a variety of Brazilian newspapers, or at least, their English editions. I can read Portuguese, but it doesn’t come so naturally as reading in English. I spend more of my time interpreting

delving into the newspaper archives,

an experimental search term… Sao Paulo organised crime…

screen blinks: 139,000, 000 results, starting

Hmmm…

Narrow it down…

tap in another search. Names

this time, but some more useful

Brazil’s largest gang is enticing recruits with

Evolution of the Most

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