The morning dragged on dully, spilling a grayish light through the bars of the office. Not even the sun dared to enter the police department in its entirety. The room was a portrait of weariness: full ashtrays, stained cups, reports piled up in disarray, like thoughts that had never quite come together.
Paiva remained standing. His eyes were sunken, his beard unshaven, his fingers pressing against his temples with the urgency of someone trying to chase away not pain, but doubt.
Before him, an open leather folder. Inside, the reports: cross-referenced statements, schedules of diverted routes, maps of clandestine warehouses, photographs of the seized barrels. Everything pointed to the same conclusion: Diane Rabbit. The mind behind the curtain of wine and sand. The plot of the Ogilvy auction finally unraveled. A triumph.
Or so it must have seemed.
The door creaked with its usual groan. The clerk appeared on the threshold, holding more paperwork as if he already knew he would bring bad news. His face seemed carved in stone: small eyes behind his glasses, his mouth eternally ready to correct someone.
- News about Rogé — he murmured, holding out the volume.
Paiva nodded, but without haste. He took the folder and leafed through it with trained eyes. He read as if he were suspicious of each sentence. A detail. A number. A name.
He stopped. A crease formed on his forehead. His throat dried up before he spoke:
- No wine barrels — he whispered, more to himself than to the other.
The clerk cleared his throat.
- And Sagú. He arrived to do the identification.
Paiva just nodded, but his eyes were already elsewhere.
The identification room was a tomb of white light. The floor was cold. The walls were silent. Ruy de Sagú, the man with the credit plate, watched through the one-way glass. His mustache trembled. Anger had given way to uncertainty.
On the other side of the partition, the man known as Rogé cowered under the spotlight. Smaller than Paiva remembered. More shy. And, perhaps, more innocent.
- No, Ruy said, his voice breaking. - It's not him. It's not the man from the credit plate.
Time froze for a second.
Paiva closed his eyes. He felt the world spin slightly, as if the foundations of certainty had shifted half a centimeter to the side.
Everything was falling apart.
The man they had arrested, interrogated, exposed was not the author of the coup. He used the name, yes. But only the name was his.
The city, he thought, was a maze of mirrors. Each reflection, a trap. Victory in the ballroom? Illusion.
Back in the office, the morning persisted. Gray, still, indifferent. Paiva looked out the window as if he expected to find an answer outside that the papers did not provide.
The cigarette smoke rose in lazy spirals. The clerk was still waiting at the door, his briefcase in his arms, like an exhausted messenger of destiny.
The boss wants to close the Sagú case. - He announced in a neutral voice. - Inconsistencies. Lack of evidence.
Paiva did not answer. He just took another drag. His eyes fixed on the street, where the city moved slowly and dirty, indifferent to justice or truth.
Monfre, the greedy baron, still at large, laughing under the cloak of the inspectorate.
Diane, defeated, but replaceable.
And the real con artist, the man with the credit plate, still outside, in some alley in Sant'Amaranthis, honing his next trick.
The cigarette came to an end. Paiva crushed it in the ashtray with a slow, almost ritualistic gesture. The sound was dry, definitive.
Sant'Amaranthis slept under veils of mist and smoke. And in the heart of a nameless alley, Bibi's Bar remained lit, like a beacon for the lost or a confessional for those who still pretended to have salvation.
The lights were warm, worn, reflected in mirrors stained with time. Jazz escaped from an old gramophone, hoarse, as if it too had too many stories to tell. The smell was of cheap alcohol, old wood and hushed secrets.
Paiva was there, as always. Sitting at the bar, his overcoat crumpled, his face half hidden under his hat. In front of him, a glass of gin melted silently like truths that cannot be sustained under the light.
Bibi cleaned the bar with the precision of someone who had seen the world fall apart a few times and had learned to survive by sweeping up the pieces. Colored, elegant, with the eyes of a mother who knew more than she was saying. Beside him, Safo was playing dice, but it was Paiva who watched fate crumble.
- Gin, Paiva? - Safo said, his voice full of quirks and irony. - Was the day more sour than usual?
Paiva didn't look up. The answer came like the breeze before the storm:
- Somewhere around there…
Bibi stopped scrubbing the counter. Her eyes swept the detective with a mix of tenderness and pragmatism.
- What happened, Alex? - She asked, already preparing another shot. - Did you discover another dirty scheme?
He answered without raising his voice, as if revealing something he didn't want to name:
- Worse. I didn't find out.
Safo's dice stopped rolling.
- I… - Paiva continued, his eyes fixed on the glass. - I did dismantle part of the network, yes. But what I really wanted… that escaped. It went up in smoke before it became a name. - Safo raised his eyebrows.
— Did they trip you up?
— They used a fake ID. I went after a Rogè and got another Rogé.
— Oh... — Safo whistled theatrically. — False positive.
Paiva let out a short laugh. Unamused.
— Parallel false positive. We took down the front men. But the brains of the thing? No smell. And the worst part: the guy even made it seem like I was the one who fell asleep on the job. - Paiva turned his head suspiciously.
— How do you know that term, Safo?
— I've been listening to your chats here for a long time. I've learned your vocabulary. Bar lawyer-ish.
Bibi slid the glass to Paiva, the gentle gesture hiding the pain of someone who saw a good man sink.
— Here. And now? Are you going to reopen the case?
Paiva took a while to answer. When he spoke, it was like lead:
— No. They filed it. Misappropriation of evidence, lack of proof. And now... now I'm responsible for negligence.
Silence fell like a wet towel. Safo almost dropped the data on the floor.
— What a joke... — he muttered. — A scoundrel with someone else's name, and you take the blame? - Safo said with such theatrical sincerity that Bibi could barely contain a smile on her face.
Paiva nodded, his gaze lost somewhere between the glass and the bottom of the abyss.
— That's right, Safo...
— Look... when a new bum shows up in the streets, Ganso, the gang and I try to tell you something. But this one... I don't even have a clue who this Rogè guy is.
It was only then that Paiva raised his head. His eyes were still heavy, but there was an ember in them. Weak, but alive. — My goal in life — he said, his voice dry — is to not end up in the Department, to be promoted to lieutenant and become the "Goose" for you boys.
Safo shrugged, with a crooked smile.
— It's already his nickname. And it stuck.
Bibi, trying to change the mood, served a charm:
— Since he's going to drown his sorrows... we have new wine.
Paiva frowned.
— That watered-down one with a different label?
— No, no... — Safo replied. — Now it comes with honey and herbs. To pretend it's sophisticated. Ten times the price.
The detective's eyes widened.
— Ten times!?
— Quality, Alex — Bibi replied, with calculated sweetness.
He smiled sideways. Tired. But still standing.
— Sometimes I think about arresting you two.
— We think about that too — Safo said, standing up. — But then you would lose the best bar in town. - Safo retorted, Bibi admiring him with a hint of hypocrisy.
— Screw you, Safo.
— I'm leaving. Good luck with the trial, detective. We're rooting for you... even though we know Sant'Amaranthis prefers to see people like you fall.
Safo left. Paiva stayed. The gin was half
empty. The world was collapsing.
...
The heat of Sa'Marhis was a kind of ancient fever. It rolled down from the rooftops in waves, carrying the smell of worn leather, sea air, and horse dung under the sun.
On the Zavaletas track, the day seemed to burn in slow motion. The dust was as fine as old sugar and hung in the air unhurriedly, golden, suspended between the distant clink of coins and the murmurs of bets that sounded like garbled prayers to indifferent gods.
Up above, above the sweaty shouting of the stands, there was silence.
But it was not peace.
In the private box, everything was too elegant to be honest: carefully polished wood, cushions wilted like family heirlooms, silver cups that tasted like other people's fingers. And in the center of it all, Safo, legs crossed on the railing carved with snakes swallowing horses, her pinstripe suit precisely aligned and the cheap cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth like an affront.
Her eyes half closed, pretending to look at the track below. But Safo did not see horses. She only saw dust.
Dust and debt.
—Fifteen ingots.
The ticket slipped from her fingers with the weariness of someone who has lost more expensive bets.
The attendant, too young, too clean, hesitated. His voice came out as if he needed permission:
—On the underdog?
Safo lit the cigarette with a match that burned lazily. Blowing out the smoke, she smiled with the irony of those who know the end has already begun.
—Always. I like bets with a sense of humor. And the Zavaletas,— she added, looking at the sky, —have always appreciated an expensive joke.
The attendant disappeared, like smoke on a dry day.
In his place, the other appeared.
Older. More starched. The kind of man who smells of vanilla and threatens at the same time. Embroidered jacket, high collar, hair so greasy it seemed to slip off his head. A man who only exists in two places: in operas and in extortion.
—Mr. Safo.
The voice was low, almost gentle. Like an executioner apologizing before the blow.
Safo did not move. He blew out the smoke slowly, like someone drawing maps in hot air.
—I bet your perfume costs more than my rent.
—And yet you do not come near your presence,— the man replied, with a smile that did not touch his eyes.
He sat down next to Safo with the familiarity of someone who has shared many bodies in the basement. And then, without haste, without ceremony:
—We got the fifteen. But there are five left.
Safo smiled only with her eyes. His mouth was a thin line, drawn with precision.
—The Zavaletas have already received. I bet on the worst horse. What they lose will yield more than any fee.
—The fee was twenty. The fifteen was... a gesture of goodwill.
—Goodwill is what I need to keep from spitting fire,— Safo said, her voice lower and deeper. —Are we closing with bail now?
The man turned his head, looking at the horses below. But what he saw, in truth, was something else.
—We received a part, yes. But Sa'Marhis demands everything. Without the Zavaletas, the gangs would turn the city into a hunting ground. The truce would shatter like badly washed glass.
Safo took a sip of mineral water, with the resigned contempt of someone who wanted wine, but knew it was still too early to lose his temper.
—Order? Is that what you call it? An addict with a disfigured face because of a bad paycheck? The woman scrubbing the blood off the porch? The children... maybe they could read. Maybe they could sleep in peace.
The silence between them was as thick as burnt oil.
The man smiled, lightly. It was a smile that had known many deaths.
—It is easy to spit in the plate you eat from. It is harder to cook. Negotiate with the Chimeras if you want another menu.
Safo looked at the sky. The heat made the world tremble. Everything seemed to melt slowly, like truths under pressure.
—So that is it. The fifteen is bail. And I still owe twenty.
—Exactly. And if luck holds... maybe we can discuss the interest later. A... kindness for a few. For someone useful.
Safo stood up. Not like someone who gets impatient, but like someone who accepts the chess game and chooses the next move.
—If I were not involved with you, my life would be better.
The other man inclined his head. Almost paternal.
—I would not be involved… if I was not useful. And you are, Safo. Even too much.
Safo was walking now, walking away unhurriedly.
—Give me six months. I will get you twenty. No interest.
Behind him, the man was adjusting his cufflinks with the precision of a jeweler.
The dust from the track rose like a dirty prayer. And in the background, someone was shouting for a horse that had already been lost.