Platinum Doll

By Álvaro Cardoso Gomes and Milton M. Azevedo

When assigned to investigate yet another of the many crimes that occur daily in the city of São Paulo, Detective Medeiros — a cynical, hard-as-nails, incorruptible cop — was not surprised to find a corpse with its beaten-up face stuck in the mud, wearing a platinum wig and with a rose tattooed on its rear end. All of this contributed to underscore the victim's profession, and Medeiros was prepared for the routine work of interrogating ruffians, prostitutes, and transvestites in a tireless search for clues. What he did not expect, however, was to meet an attractive young woman who would have a deep impact on his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ed. Vercial
• Release date: Dec 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215188255

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Translator’s Note

Set in the city of São Paulo in Brazil, Platinum Doll combines features of the noir and thriller genres, adapted to a society in which ambivalence toward homegrown detective fiction reflects distrust of law enforcement and justice in general. These factors converge to shape a contradictory character, Police Detective Douglas Medeiros, who, because of his personal integrity, finds himself at odds with both criminals and some members of the institution for which he works.

A couple of comments on language. The term dona, which appears several times, is a courtesy title used in Portuguese before an adult woman’s first name: Dona Alice, Dona Laura. A close though not exact equivalent would be Miss in Southern U.S. English: Miss Alice, Miss Laura. Additionally, some place names such as Guarapiranga, Tietê, Jaceguava, or Morumbi originate from indigenous languages.  About these and others such as Campo Grande, Parelheiros, Osasco, Santo Amaro, Santos, and of course São Paulo, plenty of information is available in Wikipedia.

The author, Álvaro Cardoso Gomes, has commented on this text, and I thank Karen C. Sherwood Sotelino (Ph.D., University of California, Santa Cruz), professional translator and translation studies scholar, for her pertinent observations on an early version of this translation. Any remaining imperfections are my own responsibility.

1

Freeze, fucker!

His head in a puddle of blood, the man’s body was lying face up, eyes wide open, among scattered plastic bottles, boxes, and cans. The burn signs around the entry hole in his forehead left no doubt that he had been shot at close range. Kneeling down next to the cash register, a dumbo-eared skinhead was clutching a disheveled middle-aged woman by the neck with his left arm and holding a chromed revolver in his right hand. He aimed the gun at me and yelled again, I mean it, fucker! Freeze!

It looked like a .22, hardly an impressive weapon, but deadly enough, as you could tell from the corpse. The punk’s hand was shaking, which is always a bad sign. There was something startling about the way he kept moving his wrist, aiming at the woman’s head and then at me.

Don’t come no closer, motherfucker, or I’ll blow her head off! Or yours!

One false move and someone might get killed. Maybe the woman, maybe me, assuming his aim was any good. You can never tell. I must have budged slightly, because he yelled louder, Don’t fuck with me, man! I’ll shoot ya! I’ll shoot ya! Something in his eyes showed he meant business. A desperate two-bit hoodlum toughing it out from one robbery to the next, not a fucking penny to his name, ready to plug a hole into you for small change, the kind of guy that didn’t give a rat’s ass whether you — or he — lived or died. Standing on the threshold of that grocery store I wondered how I’d gotten myself into that mess, just when I was on my way to start enjoying a much-needed vacation.

About an hour or so earlier I’d left the city of São Paulo behind and was driving my aging Vectra leisurely down Anchieta Highway headed for the coast. I was looking forward to spending a couple of days on the beach, something I hadn’t done in one hell of a long time. It was a glorious morning and I needed some rest — badly. I’m a detective in the São Paulo State Civil Police, assigned to the 113th precinct in Campo Grande, one of the toughest districts in the capital. Every day we deal with muggings, burglaries, robberies, rapes, kidnappings, murders, you name it. Chronically understaffed, we often have to work double shifts with hardly any leaves or vacation, and so I’m constantly on the move. No wonder I was feeling exhausted, having trouble sleeping and no appetite — in short, totally bummed out. But as soon as I glimpsed the coastline way down at the bottom of that gigantic escarpment known as Serra do Mar I began to feel a lot better. I pictured myself sitting under an umbrella on the beach, washing fried shrimp and boiled crab down with ice-cold beer while checking out the babes in skimpy bikinis.

"Ma che, partner, it really looks like you need a vacation. Capisci?"

That tip from my pal, Bellocchio, sounded a lot smarter than the advice I’d gotten from my former wife. I’d made the mistake of telling Alice I wasn’t feeling too good lately and right away she said I ought to see a doctor.

What the hell do I want a vacation for?

"Ma che cazzo, partner, to get some rest, what else? To relax, go to the beach, eat fresh seafood, get yourself a gorgeous babe, whatever. Just to relax and have a good time, capisci? When you get back you’ll be like new. And chi lo sa, maybe you’ll even manage to lose some weight!"

It sounded comical to hear Bellocchio talk about my weight, considering he’s about a foot shorter and at least twenty pounds heavier than me. But then he’s quite a character, always wearing that beaten-up leather jacket, dropping Italian expressions inherited from his immigrant grandparents, and calling me partner like in those American cop movies he’s crazy about. But he’s also as sharp as a tack, and so after thinking it over I ended up buying his idea. I also accepted his offer to let me stay in his small beach apartment in the coastal city of Santos. Somehow I wrangled a couple of days’ leave from our precinct chief, who happened to be in a good mood because he’d just won at the races. So early the next day I slipped my .38 in my belt, stuffed a duffle bag with a few clothes, a pair of sandals, and a beach towel, together with a half-empty or maybe half-full bottle of Ballantine’s and a copy of Raymond Chandler’s The Long Goodbye I’d just started rereading, and took off for what I hoped would be a most deserved rest.

I reached the coastal plain and exited onto an avenue leading to the beach. I drove slowly with all windows rolled down to take in the sea breeze. A couple of blocks from the beach I saw a small crowd in front of a grocery store. I meant to drive on but when I stopped for a red light I spotted two uniformed cops trying to keep people away from the door. It occurred to me to go and take a look but then I thought, screw them, I’m on vacation. But as the light turned green I had a funny feeling and made up my mind to go and check it out. I parked right there on the corner, rolled up the windows, and walked fast to the grocery store.

Police! Let me through, folks, I said, wading through a crowd of rubbernecks with my right hand on the handle of my gun. I flashed my badge at one of the cops, thin and haggard like a scarecrow, and asked what was the matter.

There’s a punk in there with a gun, Scarecrow replied in a gravelly voice. Wasted the store owner and is holding a woman hostage.

Is he alone, or has he got a partner? I asked.

He’s alone.

Have you guys tried to get in?

The other cop, a short kid with pimples all over his nose, scratched his head.

The son of a bitch said he’d shoot the woman if we tried.

I wondered if that was really the case or if they just got cold feet. I asked, Do you know what kind of a gun he’s got?

"Dunno. Looks like a .32, Scarecrow said.

Or maybe a .22," Shorty said.

Can I take a peek?

Sure, but he says he’ll only talk to a judge, Scarecrow said. He seemed the smarter of the two. We’ve already radioed the precinct. It looks like they’re looking for a judge.

Okay. How about one of you going up to the door and telling that punk the judge’s here?

Is he? Where? Shorty said. I sighed.

You just go up to the door and let him know the judge’s arrived. Come on, just tell him.

Shorty scratched his head again.

He looks real dangerous.

Obviously they were both new on the job. Probably just out of Police School and scared shitless, and with good reason. I handed Scarecrow my .38 and said, That’s all right. Just hold this for me, and I’ll talk to him.

And that’s how I came to walk into that grocery store and find myself standing next to that corpse, staring at that sweaty dumbo-eared son of a bitch clutching a nearly-fainted woman by the neck. Her eyes were closed and her body hung limp like a rag doll’s, apparently oblivious to the gun touching her temple.

I am a judge, my friend, I said, trying to sound the part. May I come in?

He kept on staring at me. He was clearly spooked. Then he yelled again, Stay where you are, motherfucker, or I’ll blow her head out!

Take it easy, my friend. I’m here to talk to you.

I moved very slowly into the store, keeping my eyes on him and my arms raised so he could see I wasn’t carrying a gun. He was panting and sweating all over. He yelled again, Freeze, man! I stopped. He was shaking visibly.

Look, my friend, you’re probably thirsty. And that lady too.

Screw you, man! Don’t fuck with me! I’ll only talk to a judge!

I’ve told you, I am a judge. My name is Judge Pamplona.

You a judge? Where’s yer jacket? And yer tie?

I was off duty when they called me.

Keeping eye contact, I stretched an arm very slowly, opened a refrigerator and reached for two soda cans.

How about a drink of soda before we talk? It’s really hot in here, I said, holding the cans clearly in sight.

Fuck yer soda!

Take it easy, my friend. Please be reasonable. I’m just trying to help. Look, I’m going to roll this can over for the lady, okay? Then I’ll roll the other one over for you. And then we’ll talk, okay?

The punk seemed to tighten his grip on the woman’s neck. Her arms hung lifelessly, and her eyes were closed. I wondered if she had crapped in her panties and fainted. I crouched slowly, holding a can firmly in my right hand, and with my left I pushed the other can over, aiming toward his right side. He stared at the can as it rolled toward him. He hesitated, dropped the woman like a bundle, switched the revolver to his left hand and, without losing sight of me, stretched his right arm to pick up the can. As he leaned forward and sideways he got slightly off balance. It’s now or never, I thought, and flung the other can straight at his face.

Bingo! The can split his forehead, blood spurted, and he lost his balance completely. I flew out upon him, hitting his body with all my weight as I twisted his left wrist. He fell backwards groaning, tried to straighten up and almost threw me over. I butted my head on his nose, feeling his bones crushing and his blood squirting on my face and into my mouth. It tasted sweet and mucky. I spat it out and twisted his arm harder, making him drop the gun and turn around. He tried to resist but I kept him down under my two hundred twenty pounds and growled, Easy, motherfucker, or I’ll break your arm!

The pain likely made him stop thrashing and that was a good thing because I was running out of breath. As the cops burst into the store, guns at the ready, it flashed through my mind some guys back at the precinct might enjoy hearing I’d been shot dead by friendly fire.

That’s all right, I yelled, raising my body but keeping my knee firmly planted on the small of the punk’s back. He’s under control.

I stood up and the cops took over. Shorty handcuffed the punk while Scarecrow very gently helped the woman to stand up. The punk’s face was one hell of a bloody mess. He was young, scarcely older than a teenager, and yet I’d had one hell of a tough time overcoming him. No shit, was I out of shape! At another time — it felt like ages ago — overpowering a guy twice his size would have been a piece of cake. But now I was drenched in sweat, gasping for air, barely managing to stand on my feet. I gulped down half a bottle of ice-cold water and poured the other half slowly over my head. Scarecrow gave me back my gun and shook my hand.

Good for you, man! You coming along to the precinct to fill out a report?

I patted him lightly on the shoulder and said, still panting, I’m on leave, my friend. You guys just tell your precinct chief how well you handled the job.

Scarecrow grinned, obviously looking forward to a departmental citation. He seemed about to say something, maybe to thank me, but I just turned round and walked away, again wading through the crowd. Somehow I checked the urge to punch a couple of those gawking vultures’ mugs. The sun was scorching. I shuffled my way to the street corner feeling dizzy and sluggish, and crawled into my car. It felt like an oven. I started the motor and took five with the air-conditioning at full blast.

Then it hit me that being on leave at the beach or on duty at the precinct was all the same crap. I was like a god-damned lightning rod, attracting trouble no matter where the hell I was. To make things worse, I was at the end of my rope. It had taken just a puny scared hoodlum to wipe me out. I started rolling, turned into the avenue and took the first exit for the highway headed back to São Paulo. No shit, I’d better take Alice’s advice and see a doctor before I had a stroke. Or worse.

2

When I went back to the doctor’s office with the results of the tests he had ordered, I was surprised to see a new receptionist. The witch that had snarled at me on my first visit had been replaced by a real knockout of a brunette. She wasn’t very tall, wore her black hair short, had a slightly upturned nose and full red lips, and was wearing a tight blouse that showed a good chunk of her boobs. She sized me up brazenly and gave me a warm smile.

Doctor Fontoura isn’t in yet.

As she got up to take my file to the consulting room I got a load of a nice pair of thighs and a well-rounded ass encased in a snug white skirt that outlined her lace panties.

Do you know if he’s supposed to be here soon? I asked, pretending to be in a hurry.

She smiled again, showing two dimples.

I don’t know. Doctor Fontoura isn’t in the habit of telling me when he’ll arrive.

Is he always late like this?

He had an emergency operation, she said, sitting down again.

What kind of an operation?

Heart, she said, turning to a box of files.

I opened a magazine on a boring article on heart issues, far less appealing than the receptionist. I was about to say something when the doctor arrived in a hurry, greeted me briefly and went into his consulting room. Then the intercom buzzed and she told me to go in.

The doctor motioned me to a seat and glanced at the test results. I didn’t quite like his looks. Too young, rimless glasses, hair stiff with gel. A tacky honeymoon photograph on his desk — he and a washed-out blonde in a snow landscape, probably Bariloche — didn’t improve things. I began to describe my symptoms — fatigue, insomnia, shortness of breath, lack of appetite — while he drummed his fingers lightly on his desk. He started scribbling on a notepad. I was annoyed for having to come for a second visit. I had hoped to walk out of my first visit with a prescription that would have solved my problem. This second visit lasted less than five minutes.

Having glanced at the forms he said, This doesn’t look good at all.

How so?

Your cholesterol is too high.

Meaning?

He gazed at me as if I were a moron.

Meaning that if you don’t lower your cholesterol rate, you may be headed for a heart attack.

I shrugged.

You’ll have to go on a diet. He wrote fast and handed me two pages covered with barely legible scribbling.

Follow these instructions, repeat the same tests in a month, and come back to see me.

I checked my watch: five minutes exactly. A real pro. I went out and, putting on a serious face, said to the receptionist, Well, the doctor says I’m gonna have a heart attack.

She seemed startled. Don’t joke like that.

Yeah. This may be the last time you see me.

He couldn’t be so sure.

But he gave me one heck of a diet.

Well then, in that case you’d better follow that diet if you want to avoid the, er, heart attack, right? She pouted, as if feeling sorry for me. I liked that.

Maybe you could lend me a hand with the diet?

How so?

Well, with your experience, maybe you could let me know what I can or cannot eat.

The charming smile flashed again.

Didn’t the doctor tell you anything about that?

He did, but he won’t be sitting next to me at meals. And then I might be tempted to gorge on, say, cracklings, you know. Seeing her puzzled look, I added, Maybe you could do that for me. How about lunch one of these days?

She sized me up again and pursed her lips.

Maybe...

I’ll call you up, okay? What’s your name?

Suzanna. And your name is... She glanced at the index card. Mr. Medeiros?

Just call me Douglas.

She smiled. Well, Douglas, like I was saying, you’ll have to take care of your health.

I’ll be easier if I have my guardian angel next to me. How about your phone number?

The dimples showed again as she handed me a slip of paper with a number.

Call me up one of these days, okay?

I decided to skip the elevator and walk down thirteen flights of stairs just to prove I was in top form. I trotted fast at first, eased up a bit by the tenth floor, slowed down to a crawl by the fifth, and reached the ground floor literally choking. I plopped myself down on the steps to catch my breath, my heart pounding like a jackhammer. I rested a while, somehow managed to drag myself to my car and drove home. I walked into my apartment in a daze, took a swig from a bottle of whisky, and passed out on the couch.

When I woke up it was almost midnight. I was starved. I remembered the doctor’s prescription. The list of things I wasn’t supposed to eat included red meat, anything fried, feijoada, that delicious black bean stew — in short, everything that makes a man happy. The much shorter list of what I was allowed to eat included grilled chicken or fish, fruit, vegetables, and salads. The kind of blah stuff you just can’t eat while enjoying a good beer. Needless to say, alcohol was out too. I chucked the crumpled list, splashed water on my face, and walked across the street to Old Portugal, a plain little restaurant where I like to eat.

I sat at the counter and ordered a draft. Felicio, the owner, set the glass and a bowl of cracklings in front of me. "Tomorrow’s feijoada is just about ready, Mr. Medeiros, he announced in his thick Portuguese accent. Wanna taste it?"

Why the hell not? Soon I was facing a bowl of black bean stew with choice pork parts and sausage chunks, accompanied by rice, toasted manioc flour, finely chopped sautéed collard greens, and orange slices. All, of course, with lots of red pepper and preceded by a double shot of cachaça, that gut-warming cane brandy, before a beer chaser.

As I savored that scrumptious meal I glanced sideways at the cracked mirror on the wall. I saw my blond hair greying in places and my belly bulging over the belt. It occurred to me that if I wasn’t six feet tall I’d look like a barrel, just like Bellocchio. I sure missed the body I used to have when I lifted weights regularly. Too bad exercising had gotten to be so tiring. Now the result showed in a sagging paunch, shortness of breath, fatigue. Oh well, what the heck.

I finished my second helping of feijoada, followed by a double portion of guava paste with fresh Minas Gerais cheese for dessert. I was enjoying a glass of cognac with my coffee when Felicio’s anguished voice startled me.

Hey, they’re robbing that guy!

I ran to the door. No kidding, right across the street, a thug was standing next to a car, threatening the driver with a gun. I aimed my revolver and yelled, Police! Freeze! Drop that gun!

The thug fired a shot at me and ran away. I heard the bullet hit the wall over my head. I fired, missed, and ran after him. He turned into an alley that ended in a stone stairway leading up to an avenue. I kept climbing after him as he raced up the steps by twos and by threes, but half way up a sharp pain in my chest made me double over, my breathing stopped, and everything turned black.

3

I woke up with an oxygen mask strapped to my face, a couple of tubes stuck into my right arm, and a dull ache in the left. A middle-aged nurse had just finished giving me an injection. So that was it: my heart had just handed me a bill. Like in a vision, Alice’s face flashed through my mind. We split last year but she’s still meddling in my life. Like in a bad dream, her shrill voice came back, When did you last have a checkup?

Search me. Couple years, maybe.

"You’re hopeless, Douglas! You ought to see a doctor. Urgently!

All because I’d made the mistake of telling her I sometimes felt a kind of pounding in my chest.

You just don’t take care of yourself. You only eat junk food and you drink like there was no tomorrow.

Who told you that?

Beth did. She said your place is stacked full with empty bottles and beer cans.

Beth is the cleaning woman Alice hired to spy on me. She goes through my pockets, my wallet, closets, and drawers. If I happen to have company, you can bet your condoms Alice finds out right away.

Going out with those tramps, you risk catching Aids! Did you know that?

I feel like telling Beth and Alice to go to hell, but I don’t, because I need someone to clean my hovel and I still have the hots for Alice. On those rare occasions we see each other I feel like dragging her to bed and fucking her. But I check myself because I know she’d yell I’m a no-good cad. She says if we ever got together again, I’d have to toe the line. I’ve got the hots for her because she’s one hell of a good lay. I have yet to see another broad as exciting and sexy. Which didn’t prevent our marriage from going to pot. I’d never have thought that knockout of a woman — slim, stunning, with a deep sensual voice — who had turned me on instantly when we first met in a bar, could have changed into such a bore after we got married.

No woman has ever turned me on like Alice. She used to drive me crazy, biting my ear and begging me to lay her again and again. Every night we screwed nonstop, me kicking like a horse and she screaming like a cow. But that only lasted a few months. Then she started making excuses.

Not tonight, honey. I have a headache.

C’mon, take an aspirin, I’d say, trying to check my hard-on.

It was as if I was dealing with two Alices. The past one, who was like a whore in bed, and the present one, finicky, straitlaced, a real ballbuster. After a while, on top of rejecting my advances, she started giving me a hard time about other things. Like about the way I smelled.

For Heaven’s sakes, Douglas! Why don’t you take a shower?

Now, if there’s one thing I’m careful about is my personal hygiene. And there she was saying I stank. Then she started bashing me on account of my clothes.

How tacky, going around with that ugly shirt hanging out of your pants. And look at that cheap suit. You look like a bum. I want you to dress well!

Meaning I should wear the ritzy duds she picked out for me, which cost an arm and a leg. As if that wasn’t enough, I wasn’t supposed to lie down on the couch, nor put my feet up on the coffee table, nor leave dirty glasses in the sink. If I left my shoes or my jacket in the living room, there was hell to pay. But the