Winning the Game and Other Stories

Xania

153 xania i phoned the dispatcher. “You sent a girl to do the job? You sent a virgin to face off against an old whore?” “I was counting on your weakness for women.” “It didn’t work.” “She’s very pretty.” “Was. I had to sacrifice the girl, you sonofabitch.” “I made a mistake. It happens. Zé, Zé, don’t take it the wrong way, but you’ve become a problem.” “Shit, what kind of problem?” “You can’t give up the business, you know too much.” “You clown, they knocked my teeth out in the Glock case, but did I do thejob?Theytorturedme,I’mcrippledinonehand,butdidIdothejob?” “They got the wrong hand. They didn’t know you’re a lefty. But look, Zé, we gotta do what we gotta do. Rules of the game. You know who gives the orders.” “I don’t fucking know about anybody ordering anything.” “You said it yourself, not too long ago, that by knowing the victim you know who ordered it. Remember?” 154 | Rubem Fonseca I did say that. Fuck. I hung up the phone. This was my situation: The Dispatcher had put out a contract on me and thought that a pretty girl could get to me, but he screwed up and now he was sending The Man after me. I’d always thought I was The Man, and I’m sure I’m right, but there must be others. The problem was that I didn’t know where to find the Dispatcher; he was the one who set up the meetings. He’d call and say, “We’re going to meet at such-and-such restaurant,” a different one each time, and he paid in cash. Every week he got a new prepaid cell phone and threw the old one away. I rented a place at another apartment hotel using fake id and passport. They knew my real name. I was thinking of the Dispatcher and the ones who were after me as they, a sign my paranoia was increasing. Fuck. Istartedwearingloose-fittingshirtsandcarryingtwopistols,oneunder my right armpit and the other in my belt. I let my beard grow and dyed the hairs that were gray a light brown. In my family we go gray early. I bought a pair of glasses with clear lenses from a street vendor. I inspected myself in the mirror. It didn’t look like a disguise; my face is so common that it goes with everything. I went on paying for the old apartment hotel and left my car in the garage. I wanted them to think I still lived there. Under my false name, ManoeldeOliveira,Irentedanapartmentonthesamefloor.Thedoormen didn’t recognize me with my brown hair, beard, glasses, and Portuguese accent. Besides that, my apartment hotel was constantly changing its personnel. And doormen at apartment hotels by the water only look at the women, preferably at their asses in bathing suits as they head for the beach. I was in luck. The peephole in my new apartment allowed me to see the door of the old one where I used to live and which to all intents and purposes was still my address. Ispentalldaylookingthroughthepeephole.Myneckached,butIknew that one day someone would show up, and this time it wouldn’t be some beginner of a girl. The woman was wearing the uniform of the restaurant on the ground floorandhadatrayinherhand.Sherangthedoorbellofmyoldapartment. 155 | Xania TheDispatchermust’vethought,ZéwillneversuspectI’vesentanother woman. I came out from where I was, calmly. The woman with the tray gave me a perfunctory glance—she must know me only from an old photograph —and rang the bell again. I went up to her, stuck the pistol in her ribs, and put the key to the apartment in her free hand. “Open the door,” I said. She opened the door and we went inside. “Put the tray on the table,” I said, “and lie down on the floor with your hands behind you.” She lay down and I handcuffed her. I removed the napkin covering the tray; on it was a cheese sandwich, a Coca-Cola, and a Luger Parabellum, 9mm, with silencer. I like cheese sandwiches. While I ate the sandwich I asked, “Where’d you get this piece? It’s a collector’s item. I’m honored you chose such a tool to do me.” “Are you Zé?” she asked. “I am. What’s your arrangement with the Dispatcher?” “A shot in the...