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mother. Someone stole it.”
    The sergeant’s face reddened, but whether in embarrassment or irritation, Silva couldn’t tell.
    “Well, I sure as hell didn’t,” he said. “I found it,”
    “Found it? Where?”
    “On the street.”
    “Where on the street?”
    “I don’t remember?”
    “Try.”
    “I told you, I don’t remember.”
    “And you expect me to believe that?”
    “I don’t give a shit what you believe. Fuck you.”
    Silva saw red. He reached out his left hand and grabbed the sergeant by the front of his shirt. “Where did you really get that watch?”
    The sergeant was at least twenty kilograms lighter than Silva, and maybe ten centimeters shorter, but he didn’t back down.
    “You got any idea who you’re dealing with? You take me on and you’re going to have the whole damned force on your back. Let go of my shirt.”
    The sergeant was right. The municipal cops stuck together. It was the only way for them to keep on doing what they did.
    Silva released the sergeant, took a deep breath and a step backward. “The way I figure it is you lifted my mother’s watch off of some lowlife punk. And you know what? I really don’t care. All I care about is his name and where to find him.”
    “Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here and making accusations like that? Get the fuck out of my house.”
    “I need to know, Sergeant. Those filhos da puta killed my father and raped my mother.”
    The sergeant’s red face turned even redder. “Tough. My heart bleeds. But I had nothing to do with it. Now, get out of here before I call some friends.”
    AT 4:30 the following morning, Sergeant de Alencar, sleepy from a long night at work, was walking along the deserted street, and less than five meters from his house, when he felt cold steel on the back of his neck.
    “It’s a revolver, and it’s cocked,” a voice said. “Keep your hand away from your holster. Pass your front door and keep walking.”
    “I don’t know who you are, senhor, but you’re making a big mistake.”
    “Shut up. Now, cross the street, stop next to the green car, and put your hands on the roof.”
    The sergeant did as he was told. The man behind him relieved him of his revolver, patted him down, and pocketed a small Beretta 7.65 semi-automatic that de Alencar was carrying in an ankle holster. Then he used the cop’s own cuffs to shackle his hands behind his back and opened the rear door of the car.
    “Get in.”
    “What is this?”
    “Just do it.”
    The sergeant felt the revolver again, pressing into the back of his neck. He did as he was told. When the man slipped in beside him, de Alencar glanced at his face.
    “You!” he said.
    “Me. Tell me about the punk you got the watch from.”
    “There wasn’t any punk. I already told you—”
    Silva cut him short by smashing him in the face with the butt of his .38 Taurus. The sergeant began to bleed profusely from his nose and lip. Silva reached behind him and threw him a towel. He’d come prepared.
    “I know what you told me. Now listen to me very carefully. If you tell me what I want to know, and then keep your mouth shut about it, it stops here. If you don’t, I’m going to kill you, and then I’m going to go into your house and kill your wife, that baby of yours, and anybody else who’s in there. Your choice.”
    It was a bluff. He would never have done it, but the sergeant looked into Silva’s eyes, black as death, and believed him.
    THEY WERE just a couple of punks, the sergeant said, just like the hundreds of others he’d shaken down in his lifetime.
    He’d been on patrol with two rookies, teaching them the ropes, teaching them how to get along on the salário de merda that was supposed to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies and didn’t.
    It had been broad daylight, maybe 2:00 or 3:00 in the afternoon. They were cruising along Avenida Faria Lima, not far from that big shopping center, Iguatemi, when Flores, one of the rookies,