Confrontation Ch. 01: The Stakeout

"What's going on over there, Carlos?"

"Looks like some sort of meeting," I grin.

"I can just imagine, if it's anything like the last one."

"He must be a talent scout or something," I mug, briefly looking away from the high-resolution scope trained on the window across the street.

"Don't let me interrupt you," Elena replies haughtily. "I'm sure you admire that kind of talent."

"Matter of fact...."

"And you're getting paid to watch this stuff regularly. Your pals would be envious."

Every word drips with sarcasm.

"No harm intended. It's my job to watch over there."

"Carlos, sometimes you make me so mad! She's somebody's daughter. Don't forget that."

Ouch!

"It's a tough world and everybody's got to make a living...."

"And be used like the girls in that horrible place over there."

"Stop it, Elena. You're ruining this."

"Good! You shouldn't be watching it." And she stomps out into the little kitchenette in the run-down apartment.

I think about the daughter comment, and it burns in me. I had one, Verena, before she destroyed herself with drugs. After that, my marriage fell apart and I'm on my own now, a private investigator far from my Lima home base. I haven't been with a woman for a long time and feel the need badly. So I'm watching what I've been missing.

This damn stakeout is tedious hours of absolutely nothing but a sore ass from the wooden chair by the window. Watching the new talent being road tested by the management is about the only perk in this whole dull assignment. Almost two weeks now and nothing to show for it, except this steady progression of lurid over-the-desk fucking.

The boss across the street is burly, with a barrel chest. He's stripping his shirt off right now. Elaborate tattoos cover muscular arms from wrist to shoulder, and I know from previous surveillance that there is another across his strong upper back. This is not somebody to mess with.

The young woman off to one side looks frail by comparison. She's much smaller and seems to be staring down at the man's mid-section. I know the reason because I've seen the prodigious weapon at work on other occasions. She probably wonders how she'll be able to manage it.

He's a big, ugly brute, his face scarred across the cheek facing the window. His arm comes up and the woman cowers before he loops it behind her neck and abruptly pulls her forward. I can see now that she is almost naked, clad only in tiny panties. Her bare breasts are full and round, jiggling like ripe fruit ready for picking. That's exactly what Antonio DaSilva intends to do.

Our windows are cracked open because of the intense humidity in this tropical city. The heat of late afternoon is absolutely oppressive, causing sweat to pour down my forehead. With no air conditioners rattling, I can hear sharp orders in Portuguese, though there's no sound from her. Why protest against the inevitable?

He mashes against her body, mashing those beautiful soft tits tight to his firm chest. Then he pushes his mouth hard against hers, lewdly pressing between unwilling lips. Suddenly, I hear a crisp slap to her resisting cheek, a warning about consequences. She yelps, then yields, her eyes boring belligerently into his tough, empty face.

Then I see him reach down to rip away what little she still wears, the last barrier to what he demands from this upstairs meeting. This time there's no resistance. Instead, the young woman stands impassively while he gropes her. She knows that there's no stopping Antonio when he wants one of the girls.

After a minute, I look away from the camera to see if my partner is watching this live show, but she's nowhere to be seen. This clearly disgusts her, and I feel unclean now for watching so intently. Her comment stings again, reminding me of my own fragile daughter from the past.

I know what's coming next because I've seen it before with others. The brute will stretch her out across his big desk and hammer away. She'll probably cry out, maybe even pretend to orgasm just to hasten him along. But he'll last for a long time, until the sprawling woman is little more a limp doll at the end of his thrusting tool.

The next time, it'll be somebody else. He seems to have the pick of the litter, a different one every time he wants this. I admit to myself that what I see is quite disgusting. I've never treated a woman roughly like this big animal across the street.

"You ugly bastard!" I spit out, turning away from the camera. "I hope they fry you! I'll find out. I'll find out."

Then I close the lens and push the chair back from the window. Who am I kidding anyway? Nothing significant to the investigation is going to take place during the next half hour or more. Nothing I haven't already seen before. And I know that Elena is angry with me for watching. We might be working together for a long time at the rate this whole thing is inching along.

I need her on this assignment. Her institution hired me with the stipulation that we work together closely on this case. It requires my investigative skills and her extensive cultural knowledge. It will be almost impossible to bring the deception into the light of day without her. Better to curtail any unnecessary voyeurism than lose my partner. Besides, she's good company in this lonely work.

"Are you there, Elena?" I call toward the little kitchen, but there's no response. I take a few steps toward the tiny bedrooms and call out again.

No reply.

"Must have gone out while I was watching," I mumble to myself, embarrassed now for being so absorbed that I didn't even hear her leave.

She'll be a handful to deal with when she comes back, if I know Elena. She's one fiery Hispanic woman!

I'm sick and tired of Manaus and this shithole of an apartment in the most dangerous part of the city. And I'm surprised that Elena has gone out by herself. She's a brassy lady, but this is a tough area where she'll get no respect. The narrow streets are lined with hookers on their beat and every kind of lowlife thief and huckster. People here will do anything for money, even murder if the price is high enough.

I'm worried for her.

The city is in the heart of Brazil, midway along the Amazon. Here the roads and rivers from the interior converge to funnel people out to sea, either by land or water. This wide water highway allows large boats to navigate downstream right to Belem, near the mouth.

Both cities are hot and wet all the time. Located right at the equator, the sun is overhead every day, drawing up water into great clouds that empty out in late afternoon. High temperatures and too much rain- there's no relief from it! Water everywhere, in the streets and ditches, on flat rooftops, everywhere!

And to make it worse, there's not a breath of moving air. Just stifling heat and humidity, literally sucking the moisture out of my sticky, sweaty skin. Dammit, I hate Manaus!

This old Portuguese port boomed in the days when the tropical rain forest was hacked and burned to plant rubber trees. This was before the World War II discovery that synthetic rubber could be made from oil. In their heyday, these plantations created immense wealth for investors. But big money here has always lived alongside deep poverty and a desperate scramble to live.

That's what I've been watching today. Young women, some of them already haggard beyond their years, are plying their trade on the streets and in the bars, using their bodies to earn daily bread. Upstairs across from our stakeout, Antonio- owner, manager, I'm not sure yet- satisfies himself by banging the new girls to keep them in line. It's a mean and hard life where flesh is the currency.

Why Manaus? What the hell am I doing in this stinking place watching some thug routinely fuck women? And why am I accompanied by someone who knows absolutely nothing about investigative surveillance? I ask myself these questions, and they're tough to answer.

The whole thing goes back to a tip from an old friend nicknamed 'Jaguar'. When I met him, he operated a touring company out of Lima called Andean Experience. I was a travel agent then and used to funnel business to his three-week ancient culture bus tours across Peru and into Bolivia. The Inca, Machu Picchu, and Cuzco: tourists are all over that stuff. [Background: Andean Experience, Ch.01, Jaguar's Curse, in Non-Erotic.]

Eventually he tired of seemingly endless trips across the country in his Mercedes minibus. He'd fallen hard for an American tourist, Marina, and settled in Lima with her for good. Now he's Head of Acquisitions at the National Archeological Museum and uses his education and experience to add to the museum's huge collection.

Jag is a good friend, though a bit weird- he believes he can communicate with the ancient Peruvian gods! He has a reverence for the 'jaguar spirit', as he calls it, the source of his name. I guess everybody has their quirks.

Few people are as close to the Andean archeology scene as Jaguar. He's got the education and the contacts, so he knows what's going on. And he knows that some of Peru's ancient treasures are disappearing into private collections, particularly in Europe and the Middle East. What better hedge against inflation than ancient relics? They don't make them anymore.

Occasionally this material is stolen from museums where there isn't enough security. But most of it probably comes right from the source. A few local indigenous people sell items from little troves they've accidently found, things like ancient burial textiles and small fired images to gods from earlier cultures. Sometimes, commercial treasure hunters operate right under the noses of sleeping local officials, unearthing valuable golden items that the greedy conquistadores missed long ago.

Jaguar wants to stop this trade dead in its tracks. And he has a theory, one which Elena and I are tracking here in Manaus. He thinks that the flow doesn't pass through well-policed locations like international airports. Instead he looks at Peru's 'back door' routes, the roads and trails across the Andes into Brazil. That's why I'm sweltering in Manaus, where the land and water routes meet. In Brazil, most routes from the Andes lead to Manaus.

Peru is Spanish, but the language and culture in Brazil is Portuguese. This goes back to a Pope who brought peace between the two Americas-exploring countries by imposing a New World boundary between them. Only Brazil fell on the Portuguese side of the line; much of the rest of the continent is Spanish in history and language.

There are some similarities between the two languages, and because of the sheer size and population of Brazil, educated Peruvians often have learned the other one. Elena and I are reasonably good with it, essential for our work in Manaus. Out on the street, it's the only language people around here use, so we'd be lost without it.

Just now Elena has come back with groceries. She's still mad at me about watching the domineering sex unfold across the way, so angry that she's ignoring me. I'd better apologize if I expect any supper tonight. I know she's a good cook.

"Look, it was wrong for me to watch that stuff over there."

She continues unpacking two bags of groceries without any response, not even a glance my way.

I try again.

"Elena, I'm sorry that I did that. I know you don't like it."

Finally, a reply, but if looks could kill.

"Carlos, are you sorry for this time, or yesterday, or three other days last week?"

This isn't going to be easy.

"All of them. Really, every time."

"Sometimes I think you're a pervert, watching women being abused by that bastard. You who had a daughter!"

That one digs deep, but it's not the first time she's said it.

"It's just surveillance, Elena. What the museum is paying me to do."

"Oh, fuck off Carlos! That's the stupidest excuse I've ever heard!"

I'm hungry, so I need to get this sorted out.

"OK, Elena. From now on if he's going to be doing one of them, I'll shut off the scope."

"And walk away from the window?"

"Yes. I promise."

I know it's going to be hard to keep it because I haven't been with a woman since we left Lima three weeks ago. And being stuck in this dump with Elena is not easy because she's sexy, a curvy mestizo with long black hair and big dark eyes that look right into a man's soul. About forty, I think she's hot for it- tight blouses and a great ass. A few years ago, my friend Jaguar told me he'd had her a few times. I could use some of that myself.

"That's better. Supper will be ready in an hour or so. I didn't bring you any beer, so if you want some you'll have to go to the shop yourself."

"Any for you too?"

"Hell yes. It's so damn hot here!"

I'm on my way quickly, driven by the thought of a few cold beers. Elena is usually easy to get along with except for the stuff in the window. I like her except when she's mad at me.

I'm paired up with her because of Jaguar. Elena helped him land his plum job at the museum, so now they work together. She's Head of Special Collections and knows as much about ancient artifacts and cultures as he does, maybe more. The museum figured she would be the expert I need to identify anything culturally valuable being smuggled through Brazil.

Out of the street it's a meat market, and all of the loins are priced to sell. Tall ones, stacked ones, all right in my face for whatever I want. Shit! Its been far too long and I know that after a few beers tonight, I'll be ready to break down Elena's bedroom door. I wonder sometimes if she locks it at night. I wonder sometimes if she needs a man like I need her?

On the way back with a box of Sagres under my arm it's even worse. A sexy mature hooker falls in with me.

"You have beer. We party mister, then fuck?"

"No."

Then another comes alongside.

"With her too. You, me, my friend. We fuck."

"No!"

"What you like? We give."

Was there ever any doubt that my apartment is in the streets of a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah!

I run the gauntlet and reach the apartment before my resolve disappears. Then the girls cross the street and go into the bar we've been watching. Maybe I've already seen them laid out on the big guy's desk upstairs?

I smell dinner from out in the hall. Hot looking and one hell of a cook- I wonder what Elena is like in the sack? Then it occurs to me for about the hundredth time that before this job is through, it just might happen, unless I piss her off too much.

The food is delicious, hot and spicy, and the beer is cold. Our problem resolved now, we talk while we eat, all the while watching to see if any lights come on up in the office across the way.

"Carlos, remind me why we spend so much time here. I know you like the view, but how will this help the museum? I think you're wasting our time."

"You know why we focused on Manaus, right?"

"That part makes sense- a smuggling transfer point- but why here across from some cheap bar?"

"Somebody is moving the stuff across the mountains, down to bigger places where it can be taken out of Brazil."

"Sure, but what does that place across the street have to do with it?"

"Jag thinks the girls might be used to move the goods to the city. A lot of them come from upriver and they all have pimps who'll work them to make money any way they can."

"And you figure the artifacts might be passing through the club...."

"Right through the office upstairs."

"But why this one? There are sleazy bars all over the city."

"Ah, but that guy up in the office, he's done prison time for a lot of things, including smuggling. Drugs, trafficking, exotic cars, you name it."

"And Peru's cultural property."

"Yes, it's all just money to him.... And sex, of course. Jag got a tip from somebody to check out this place."

"So that's why we're in this crappy apartment, watching to see who comes and goes. I'm really hoping to see museum-quality goods come across that desk. But where does it go from his office? Any ideas, Carlos?"

That's the next link in this chain. It might be taken downriver on a freighter or even on a tourist ferry. Maybe by truck? If we get some proof that the trail leads across the street, we'll follow it to the coast from there."

"And then?"

"From Belem at the mouth of the Amazon. Maybe by air, possibly by ship, but definitely overseas to the collectors."

"So this club is just a little part of it all, some sort of syndicate working as one."

"Exactly, Elena. It could take a long time to figure it all out. Too bad. I'd hate to stay here long. Awful place!"

We're finished eating and into our second cold one by now. Elena is looking better to me by the minute. There's a damp sheen on her light coffee skin from the humidity and those lovely tits are ready to burst out of her tight shirt. She unfastens a button, then another as we talk, fanning herself with a hand.

"Damn hot in here! We need a fan or something," she complains.

"Or something cooler to wear. You got a loose dress, or anything like that?"

"Hmm, good idea. Be right back."

When she's in her bedroom, a light suddenly comes on upstairs across the street. This is unusual because the guy does all of his 'work' during the day. I haven't seen him there after dark many times before. So I scurry over to the window and turn on the scope to see what's going on.

A minute later, Elena comes up behind me.

"Much better. I feel cooler already!" she exclaims, but I keep staring intently through the magnifying lens

.

"Shhh! Something's happening over there. He's not usually in the office at night."

"Let me have a look, Carlos," and she leans across me from behind.

I feel her chest against my back- it's soft and warm. Mmm. I turn my head to see that she's changed into a cotton robe or shift of some kind, and she has pinned her hair up to keep it off her neck.

I stand up quickly so that she can take to my place on the chair. As she bends forward against the viewer, I admire her long curved neck, then lean forward deliberately from behind to trace it down into her deep cleavage. Her bare skin is soft and mounded, mocha ice cream ready to be licked up. I glimpse her dark nipples projecting out against the cool fabric she wears. Is she deliberately teasing me like this, sending my starved libido into overdrive?

"If you see anything that looks interesting, use the zoom, Elena. You press the left button for video, the other one for photos. Evidence, that's what we need."

"I suppose you practiced all that when he's with his girls, eh, Carlos? Admit it," she teases, good-natured about it now that she's had some beer.

"Maybe a little bit...."

"Oh, somebody's coming.... It's the big guy and one in uniform. A cop maybe. No, another outfit, like a driver or something."

"Get some clips of it. We can figure it out later. Are they carrying anything?"

"Don't see anything.... Wait a minute, Bastardo is going into his desk drawer for something. It's a big, fat envelope, one of those padded kind."

"Maybe the new guy is a courier picking up a parcel?" I suggest, then move to the side of Elena to look down into the street. There's a little white van along the curb, 'Allegro' scrolled along the side.

"He's opening it!" Elena exclaims.

"The video. Hit the video button!"

"Textile!... It's Paracas!... A burial shroud! Omigod!"

"Keep shooting! Hold the button down!"

"Look! Je-sus!... Jag was right. It's going right through here!"

"What's happening now?"

"Opening it up.... Damn! Yes, a small Paracas burial shroud! Probably two thousand years old. Likely for a child, judging by the size. Limited woven design, so not from the highest status family. But a very valuable piece!"

"Who would want something like that?"

"Disgusting! It'll probably be mounted in a trophy case or hang from a wall in somebody's mansion. It should be in our museum collection."