He made a beeline for the luxury villa at the end of the road, the biggest and grandest of the pile. The entry gate was painted gold and had a miniature video screen fixed above the comms panel. Someone had left it ajar. A gift.
Weiss parked out front and strode across the grounds, past a water feature big enough for a grand hotel and a column of palm trees green as the Amazon. Two men stood guard on the front steps. Armed with Uzi 9mm sub-machine-guns, weapon of choice for gangsters who watched too many Hollywood action movies, they were sharing a joint. Weiss walked unnoticed until he was thirty metres from them. He was a big guy, but light on his toes. One of the guys looked up, eyeballed Weiss and tossed the joint to the ground.
‘Holy shit! Motherfucking Weiss!’
He couldn’t run inside fast enough.
The second guy stuck to the spot, as if he had roots for feet.
‘I need to speak to Big Teeth.’
‘He’s inside.’
Weiss yanked open the heavy teak door and let himself in.
The villa was lavish. It also stank of piss. A Rottweiler licked at a ring of its own faeces. On the walls, between antique mirrors, there were posters of
Scarface
and
The Godfather
, and bullet holes pocked the high ceiling. He had to watch his step to avoid the used condoms and crack pipes littering the marble-tiled floor. It was true what they said. No matter which way you dressed it up, or how rich it got, shit was always shit.
Weiss entered the lounge. It was like walking into a shadow. He squinted, saw a girl of sixteen or seventeen, spread-eagled on a red leather sofa. She could have been asleep, but her wide-open eyes had rolled back into her head.
Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2
played on a widescreen TV. The air was redolent with the smell of marijuana and fear. Weiss counted twelve goons in total around the dark room, and he didn’t need to look twice to realize that every one of them was busting a tool.
He relaxed. No goon dared point their weapon at him. Not unless they had a death wish.
Luis ‘Big Teeth’ Oliveira was sitting at a sofa in front of the TV. There was a coffee table in front of him with half of Colombia cut up on it, but it wasn’t the coke making him jumpy. It was Weiss. Big Teeth furiously chained on a cigarette.
‘Nestor,’ he said, opening his arms, like he was preparing to hug a bear. ‘What brings you down to Rio? Can’t get enough of
Carioca
pussy, eh? You know what they say – once a man’s tasted wine, he can’t go back to water.’
‘Your jokes bore me almost as much as your country,’ replied Weiss, running a hand along the mantelpiece above a baroque fireplace. Dust coated his fingers.
Big Teeth shifted in his seat. ‘Then… you’re here because of the Carlitos thing?’ His voice accelerated. ‘I promise, we didn’t have shit, not a shit, to do with Gonzales ripping him off. That boy is mad, amigo.’
‘Calm down,’ Weiss said, smiling, enjoying Big Teeth’s fear. ‘I’m not going to kill you. And this isn’t about Gonzales.’
Big Teeth laughed nervously. His goofy, golden front teeth jutted out, like some kind of grotesque bunny. All that money, Weiss wondered, so why didn’t the guy get his teeth fixed?
‘I’m looking for someone.’
‘We’re all looking for someone special, eh?’
‘
Enough
of your jokes, Luis.’ Big Teeth looked at his feet, the TV, the comatose girl. Anywhere but Weiss. ‘This man – he’s a foreigner working with BOPE. A unit you keep a close eye on, I’m sure.’
‘Forget it,’ Big Teeth said, stubbing out his cigarette in a Jesus ashtray. ‘We don’t live in Barbosa no more, as you can see. Nowadays we’re out of the drugs game. We’re trying to go legit, man. Recording rap music and shit.’ He blew out a last gust of smoke. ‘I can’t help you.’
Weiss angled his head, trying to lock his eyes on Big Teeth’s.
‘Luis, my friend, what’s the problem? You seem very nervous. Is it me?’
Big Teeth held in his
Weiss parked out front and strode across the grounds, past a water feature big enough for a grand hotel and a column of palm trees green as the Amazon. Two men stood guard on the front steps. Armed with Uzi 9mm sub-machine-guns, weapon of choice for gangsters who watched too many Hollywood action movies, they were sharing a joint. Weiss walked unnoticed until he was thirty metres from them. He was a big guy, but light on his toes. One of the guys looked up, eyeballed Weiss and tossed the joint to the ground.
‘Holy shit! Motherfucking Weiss!’
He couldn’t run inside fast enough.
The second guy stuck to the spot, as if he had roots for feet.
‘I need to speak to Big Teeth.’
‘He’s inside.’
Weiss yanked open the heavy teak door and let himself in.
The villa was lavish. It also stank of piss. A Rottweiler licked at a ring of its own faeces. On the walls, between antique mirrors, there were posters of
Scarface
and
The Godfather
, and bullet holes pocked the high ceiling. He had to watch his step to avoid the used condoms and crack pipes littering the marble-tiled floor. It was true what they said. No matter which way you dressed it up, or how rich it got, shit was always shit.
Weiss entered the lounge. It was like walking into a shadow. He squinted, saw a girl of sixteen or seventeen, spread-eagled on a red leather sofa. She could have been asleep, but her wide-open eyes had rolled back into her head.
Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2
played on a widescreen TV. The air was redolent with the smell of marijuana and fear. Weiss counted twelve goons in total around the dark room, and he didn’t need to look twice to realize that every one of them was busting a tool.
He relaxed. No goon dared point their weapon at him. Not unless they had a death wish.
Luis ‘Big Teeth’ Oliveira was sitting at a sofa in front of the TV. There was a coffee table in front of him with half of Colombia cut up on it, but it wasn’t the coke making him jumpy. It was Weiss. Big Teeth furiously chained on a cigarette.
‘Nestor,’ he said, opening his arms, like he was preparing to hug a bear. ‘What brings you down to Rio? Can’t get enough of
Carioca
pussy, eh? You know what they say – once a man’s tasted wine, he can’t go back to water.’
‘Your jokes bore me almost as much as your country,’ replied Weiss, running a hand along the mantelpiece above a baroque fireplace. Dust coated his fingers.
Big Teeth shifted in his seat. ‘Then… you’re here because of the Carlitos thing?’ His voice accelerated. ‘I promise, we didn’t have shit, not a shit, to do with Gonzales ripping him off. That boy is mad, amigo.’
‘Calm down,’ Weiss said, smiling, enjoying Big Teeth’s fear. ‘I’m not going to kill you. And this isn’t about Gonzales.’
Big Teeth laughed nervously. His goofy, golden front teeth jutted out, like some kind of grotesque bunny. All that money, Weiss wondered, so why didn’t the guy get his teeth fixed?
‘I’m looking for someone.’
‘We’re all looking for someone special, eh?’
‘
Enough
of your jokes, Luis.’ Big Teeth looked at his feet, the TV, the comatose girl. Anywhere but Weiss. ‘This man – he’s a foreigner working with BOPE. A unit you keep a close eye on, I’m sure.’
‘Forget it,’ Big Teeth said, stubbing out his cigarette in a Jesus ashtray. ‘We don’t live in Barbosa no more, as you can see. Nowadays we’re out of the drugs game. We’re trying to go legit, man. Recording rap music and shit.’ He blew out a last gust of smoke. ‘I can’t help you.’
Weiss angled his head, trying to lock his eyes on Big Teeth’s.
‘Luis, my friend, what’s the problem? You seem very nervous. Is it me?’
Big Teeth held in his
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