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?

?

Perón. How did

María Eva Duarte... The

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

highly made-up, bleached-blonde hair, designer clothes and jewels.

even

you have to look closely at

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

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

Juliana…

on, her men are

Food for thought.

retrieve my

cause mayhem.

Assassination suspected…

Hmmm…

circle

Another coffee?

Why not?

Brain food…

Antonio’s attention when the old man looks towards the

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

daylight, he

Thinks he’s something…

Fucking Wonder Boy…

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

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

to inject confidence into his voice, but it’s not nearly convincing. The stranger murmurs a

mother tongue. Still, while I can’t pick it all out, I get the gist, especially with Antonio

dinheiro não é devido até a próxima semana…” You’re early. The

reply is delivered with off-hand sarcasm. “Sola quer isso agora.” Sola wants it

Sola?

Who’s Sola? A gang-leader?

in

jot the name on a corner of

tê-lo para o Sr. Sola na próxima semana,

looms over Antonio. “Você tem o

man’s face. “Eu não tenho isso…” He prises open the lid

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