Winning the Game and Other Stories by Rubem Fonseca

listened in silence, erect in his chair, his hands resting on his legs; at times it seemed to Anísio that the False Perpétuo ran the edge of his jacket through his fingers the way the true one did, but he must have been mistaken.
    Anísio began to regret the man’s gentleness; maybe he was nothing more than a bureaucratic functionary. God, Anísio thought, 200,000 down the drain; he’d have to sell the lunch counter in Caxias. Unexpectedly he thought about his young wife, her round, tepid body.
    â€œThe squad has to kill a young girl and a businessman this month for me to get out of the hole,” Anísio said.
    â€œAnd what does that have to do with me?” Smoothly.
    Anísio summoned up his courage. He had drunk a lot of beer; he was on the verge of ruin and felt awful, as if he couldn’t breathe properly. “I think you belong to the death squad.”
    The False Perpétuo remained inscrutable.
    â€œWhat’s the deal?”
    â€œTen thousand if you kill a young girl and a businessman. You or your colleagues, it’s all the same to me.”
    Anísio sighed unhappily. Now that he saw his plan close to realization, his body was overcome by a feeling of weakness.
    â€œYou got the money here? I can do the job right now.”
    â€œIt’s at home.”
    â€œWhere do I start?”
    â€œBoth at once.”
    â€œAnybody special?”
    â€œGonçalves, the owner of the grocery, and his daughter.”
    â€œThat Portuguese friend of yours?”
    â€œHe’s not my friend.” Another sigh.
    â€œHow old’s his daughter?”
    â€œTwelve.” The image of the girl having a soft drink in his bar flashed through his head, like a twinge of pain.
    â€œAll right,” said the False Perpétuo, “show me his house.” That was when Anísio noticed that above his waist he also wore a wide cartridge belt.
    They got into the False Perpétuo’s car and headed for Gonçalves’s house. At that hour the city was deserted. They stopped fifty yards from the house. The False Perpétuo took two pieces of paper from the glove compartment and drew two crude death’s-heads with the initials D.S. below.
    â€œIt’ll be quick,” the False Perpétuo said, getting out of the car.
    Anísio put his hands over his ears, closed his eyes, and curled up on the seat until his face touched the plastic seat cover, which gave off an unpleasant odor that reminded him of his childhood. There was a buzzing in his ears. A long time went by, until he heard three shots.
    The False Perpétuo returned and got into the car.
    â€œLet’s get my money. I took care of them both. I threw in the old woman for free.”
    They stopped at the door to Anísio’s house. He went in. His wife was in bed, her naked back facing the bedroom door. She usually slept on her side, and the view of her body seen from behind was prettier. Anísio got the money and left.
    â€œYou know, I don’t know your name,” Anísio said in the car, while the False Perpétuo counted the money.
    â€œIt’s better that way.”
    â€œI gave you a nickname.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe False Perpétuo.” Anísio tried to laugh, but his heart was heavy and sad.
    Could it have been an illusion? The other man’s expression had suddenly become alert and he was delicately fingering the edge of his jacket. The two looked at each other in the half shadow of the car. As he realized what was about to happen, Anísio felt a kind of relief.
    The False Perpétuo took an enormous weapon from his waist, pointed it at Anísio’s chest, and fired. Anísio heard the roar and then an immense silence. Forgive me, he tried to say, tasting the blood in his mouth and attempting to remember a prayer, while at his side the bony face of Christ, illuminated by the streetlight, faded rapidly.

the blotter
    1.
    Detective Miro brought the woman