We pass by the men lurking in the shadows, and I do my best not to tense up. I play along instead, and trail a hand down the front of Daniel’s shirt. “Oh, I can be really good to you, baby.” Strangely enough, the urge to vomit at his touch is gone. I guess I got it all out of my system earlier.
“Damn,” Daniel says hoarsely, and I want to laugh at his expression. He looks as if the pretending’s getting a little too real for him. But I keep rubbing my hand on his chest, looking like a devoted, slutty girlfriend who can’t wait to get him home.
We pass by the men without incident, and Daniel’s arm loosens around my waist a few minutes later—a sign that the danger has passed, but our charade needs to continue. We walk a few blocks in the slums, which Daniel tells me are called favelas. They’re concrete cinderblock and rickety wooden houses all held together by garbage and spray-painted graffiti, and they pile on top of one another like cockroaches. I’m sure the rest of Brazil is pretty, but so far, all I’ve seen are slums.
“So,” I ask him as we walk, “you never did tell me the three problems?”
“Hmm?” He brushes a hand over mine absently, then pulls away as if remembering that I don’t like to be touched. Again, I’m surprised Daniel’s not setting off my puke trigger. Maybe our ugly little interlude this morning was cathartic, like a boil that needed to be lanced. It’s a gross mental image, but those are all I’ve got lately. “Oh, yeah. Three problems. One is that your sweet little ass has no papers. Two is that we can’t go to the embassy to get those papers for obvious reasons. And three is that pissant Gomes keeps pulling more guys out of the woodwork to go after you. Mr. Freeze wants you back, and bad.”
“I don’t know why. I’m no one special.”
“Baby love, you are all kinds of special.”
“You are the worst at coming up with pet names.”
“It’s a talent of mine.” He grins at me and then gestures down the street. “There we go.”
“There we go, what?” I stare at the building and try not to panic. It honestly reminds me of the brothel. It’s a narrow, three-story redbrick building. The windows have strings of laundry hanging out of them, and a nest of wires overhead shows the building has electricity. “Not in there, surely?”
“’Fraid so,” Daniel says casually. “We’re going to hide under their noses for a few days. I’m going to pull a few connections, see what I can find out, and a partner is heading this way.”
He doesn’t look afraid of the shitty building, so I swallow my fear and let him lead me onward. I have a gun tucked into my pants, and I’m going to use every bullet before I let anyone drag me back into the brothel again.
We approach the building, and there’s music blasting from a nearby apartment. The door is wide open, and people are lounging inside the grimy hallway. I’m pretty sure someone is shooting up in the corner. It smells like piss, shit, and, of all things, wet dog. Daniel walks in with a smile and heads for the nearest man. “Pereya,” he asks, and from the tone of his voice, it’s a demand to see someone, not a question.
The man studies Daniel, his clean-cut looks, and glances at me. I sidle closer to Daniel, in case. Then he holds his hand out.
Daniel says something friendly in Portuguese, but he brushes his jacket back as he does so, revealing his gun. “Get me Pereya,” he says again. “Now.”
The man nods and disappears into the building.
A few moments later, another man comes out, all smiles. He’s wearing a Manchester United jersey, despite the fact that it’s a British team, and a baseball cap. He has a scraggly goatee that’s so long it’s been braided, and he grins at Daniel and throws a hand up. “My man.”
“Pereya. How’s it going?” They exchange an intricate handshake as if they were bosom buddies.
“Can’t complain, can’t complain. Got your stuff inside.” Pereya looks me up and down. “Sweet little honey.”
“She’s mine,” Daniel says casually, as if I’m not my own person. I want to protest, but Daniel’s arrogance brings safety, so I’ll let him take the lead. He’s leaned closer to Pereya, asking, “The doc, too?”
Pereya nods, touches the side of his nose with his thumb, and glances around.
“Yep,” Daniel says to the unspoken question.
“Come on, then.” He gestures to a couple of the men loitering in the doorway, and they shuffle outside. Bodyguards, perhaps. Pereya looks at Daniel and nods his head, acknowledging a back room.
Daniel grabs my hand and begins to head back, but Pereya shakes his head. “Just you, Hays. No chickies.”