The Games (Private #11)(56)

I waited, then heard Tavia’s iPhone ding, alerting her to the file.

We opened it and saw a fuzzy image of Wise; it was like we were looking at him through snow. His voice crackling, he said, “Give them nothing.”

The big guy in black wore a new samba mask as he stepped into view from Wise’s left side, punched the billionaire in the face, and then gagged him.

Tavia nodded angrily. “I’ll bet that was Urso.”

“So who’s Rayssa? Estella?”

Pointing at the steep hills of the favelas ahead and above us, she said, “I think the answer to that question is up there.”





Chapter 64

Thursday, August 4, 2016

5:10 p.m.

Twenty-Five Hours and Fifty Minutes Before the Olympic Games Open



THE WINTER SUN hung low over the western mountains, casting the Spirit favela in a slanted light that shadowed the walkways of the slum. The smells, sounds, and visuals were as vibrant and depressing as ever.

Like a buzzing hive, the favela teemed with a stinging energy all its own. But it was an existence lived so close to the margin and in such close quarters that it made me think that Favela Justice had a point.

What would have happened if the billions spent on World Cup and Olympic venues had instead been spent in places like this? New schools. Better homes. Sanitation and clean water, at the very least.

That was basic, wasn’t it? Didn’t we have an obligation to lift the lowest to an acceptable standard of living? Or was an existence in a shack with raw sewage running by the front stoop acceptable?

In my book it wasn’t, and I said so to Tavia.

“You’ve got no argument from me,” she said. “But what if Wise was right? What if this whole Favela Justice thing is a cover, a diversion for extreme extortion?”

“Then why go to the trouble of having this sham vote on Twitter? What’s the point?”

“Maybe they want a two-for-one deal. Shame Wise and get his billion.”

“Possible,” I said. “But as bright a guy as Urso is, I can’t see him orchestrating something like this. On such a grand scale. Or am I underestimating him?”

“I would never underestimate the Bear,” Tavia said. “But I agree that it seems a stretch for a slum gangster to take down a billionaire.”

“The Wise girls said Rayssa was in charge.”

“Hold that thought,” Tavia said and stopped to talk to a woman in a doorway. I caught every fifth word and the name Estella. At the mention of Estella, the woman got a sour look on her face but waved vaguely uphill and to the right.

“I’ve got a solid idea where she lives now,” Tavia said. She led us up through the maze of the slum, passing two side alleys that ran along the contour of the steep hillside.

We took a right into the third contour passage up the hill. It was barely three feet across. We had to stand sideways when other people came our way. The smells of each shack simmered with those of every other off the alleyway, making an aerosol soup that was alluring one moment, putrid the next.

At a dark blue door with stars painted on it, Tavia stopped and knocked. A television played inside. The drape in the window fluttered.

“Who’s there?” said a girl with a thin, reedy voice.

“My name is Tavia. I’m a friend of Urso.”

“You don’t look like a friend of Urso.”

Tavia laughed, said, “He worked for me just last week, and I wanted to give him another job.”

“Urso’s not here. Try his house.”

“We looked for him there already. Where’s Estella?”

There was silence. Then: “Estella’s not here. How do you know her?”

“Through Urso,” Tavia said pleasantly. “Could you open the door? I promise I won’t bite. I just want to talk.”

After several moments, we heard a chain slide. The door opened a crack, revealing a beautiful girl who looked about eight years old. She stared at us suspiciously.

“What’s your name?” Tavia asked, crouching down.

“Milena,” she said.

“Milena. That’s a beautiful name. I’m Tavia and this is Jack.”

She looked at me with interest, said, “Americano?”

I nodded and smiled. “California.”

She grinned, gave me the thumbs-up, said, “Estella loves California.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” I said.

“Is Estella your mommy?” Tavia asked.

Milena nodded.

“Where is she?”

“Work, I guess. She was gone when I got home from school.”

“Where does Estella work?” I asked.

She shrugged, said, “I don’t know, some place in Copacabana.”

“What does she do there?”

“I told you,” Milena said, annoyed. “Work.”

Tavia said, “Do you remember the name of the place she works?”

“Sena-torn…or something.”

“Sena-torn?”

“You know, like half man, half horse?”

Before I could respond, Tavia said, “Centaurus?”

Milena nodded. “That place.”

Tavia dug in her pocket, held out fifty reais, said, “That’s for you to buy yourself whatever you want, okay?”