CENTAURUS WAS ONE of the most storied brothels in the world.
Male celebrities of all nations have been caught exiting the bordello over the years, including, most recently, Justin Bieber, who tried to hide by running out with a sheet over his head. The paparazzi got the picture anyway.
“It’s run by women and only women,” Tavia said as we sat in the car. She gestured down the block to a nondescript building. Above the door there was a bas-relief of a centaur wearing a towel around its neck.
“The only men will be bartenders, the cashier, and those bouncers,” Tavia went on, pointing to two bruisers in tuxedos. “You’re a gringo, so everyone will try to hustle you. Even the bouncers. The whole place is designed to relieve you of whatever money you bring in there. Remember that. Everybody’s got an angle.”
“Scams?”
“A million. They’ll try to bump you to upgrade a room, and then not give you a better room. They’ll charge you double on the entry just because you’re a gringo. They’ll inflate the price on every item on the menu. That kind of stuff.”
“But this place is legal, right?”
“As long as the proper bribes are maintained, businesses like Centaurus remain perfectly legal in Rio. The women, who are known as garotas, are all licensed and checked two to three times a week by a doctor.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.
“Because I can’t go inside. It’s men only.”
“Sexist lot, you Brazilians.”
“When it comes to brothels, that’s correct.”
“How do you know all this if it’s men only?”
Tavia hardened again. “A Centaurus girl got murdered a few years back when I was still with the national police. I had to interview most of the women who worked in there at the time. They told me how it works.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be in touch when I find Estella.”
“If anyone asks, tell them you’re an old friend of the centaur. And keep your robe on,” she said.
“No strutting about naked?”
She laughed. “No strutting about even with your robe on.”
“I’ve got my marching orders, then,” I said. I kissed her and climbed out of the car.
Chapter 66
I DON’T KNOW what it is about me and bouncers. Anyone in a position of power outside a door sees me coming and reacts to some threatening vibe I must give off.
Sure enough, one look at me crossing the road in a jog, and the big boys closed ranks in front of the door, crossed their arms, and puffed out their chests.
The one on the right was built like a welterweight boxer, and tall. The one on the left was brick-shaped and no-necked. He gave me the hard eye as I walked up to them. They didn’t say a thing, just stared at me sullenly.
“Is Centaurus not open?” I asked.
“Your first time?” the Brick asked.
I did as Tavia instructed, laughed, said, “The centaur is an old friend.”
“Fifty reais entry fee,” said the Boxer.
“C’mon, guys,” I said wearily. “I’ve been coming for years. I pay my entry at the booth at the top of the ramp and tip you leaving.”
“I don’t recognize you,” the Brick said. “And I’ve got a memory for faces.”
“Funny, I don’t recognize you either,” I said, and then I gestured to his partner. “This guy I remember. In fact, I think I tipped you big last time.”
The welterweight studied me, and then nodded. “I remember that.”
“There you go,” I said to the Brick, who scowled and stood aside.
There was a similar attempt to fleece me at the cashier’s window.
“First time?” the cashier asked hoarsely. He had a goiter or something on his neck and weird, buggy eyes that suggested a thyroid problem.
I told Bug-Eyes what I’d told the bouncers out front, and he still tried to tack forty on top of the actual one-hundred-real entry fee. I called him on it and handed him a hundred note.
He looked at me as if I were a lower form of life than he was, something I could not imagine. Unhappy, Bugs gave me a wristband and a locker key and motioned me through the glass door.
I went down the hall and took a left into a locker room, where several men were dressing. An older woman was keeping the place clean. Per Tavia’s advice, I gave her a tip immediately. She smiled, showed me to my locker.
I was undressing when fingernails trailed across my back. I looked over my shoulder and found a dead ringer for the singer Nicole Scherzinger wearing a black cocktail dress and smiling brilliantly at me.
“Where are you from?” she asked in decent English.
“The States.”
“Mmm,” she said. “I love this place, the U. S. of A. What’s your name?”
“Jack.”
She looked me up and down. “You have the classic build, Jack.”
I looked her up and down and said, “You too.”
She laughed, said, “I am Vitoria. You like me? We go to room?”