Chapter 01 of this series, "The Stakeout", appeared in Novels and Novellas very recently. There aren't many readers over there, so I've shifted to Exhibitionist and Voyageur for the remaining chapters. This is a gritty crime story with plenty of sex and a budding romance. There are a dozen episodes which will appear every few days.
My story centres on watching and being watched, as lead characters Carlos and Elena conduct surveillance on a neighbouring whorehouse. He hasn't had sex in a month and Elena is a hot woman he'd like to bed. They're sweating it out in tropical Brazil, trying to track down an international smuggling syndicate.
This episode opens with Carlos crossing the street to take a closer look inside the club. Will he further the investigation there? Maybe he'll get laid? Read on.
****
It's dark inside for noon. Even though the place has just opened for the day, the fetid air reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke, and... the smell of sex. This is a den of iniquity if there ever was one, the grotty club across the street from our shabby stakeout apartment in steamy Manaus, Brazil.
I haven't been in here before because there had been no reason for it yet. I decided from the first to stay away, so I would be a stranger when it came the right time to investigate more closely. This is it. With the transaction last night in the upstairs office- a priceless ancient Peruvian artifact exchanged for a thick wad of money- I'm eager to get closer to the scene of the crime.
My eyes gradually adjust to the dim light. A narrow room stretches out in front of me, a long bar along one side and a row of small tables, each with four chairs along the other. A few customers loiter at the bar, a couple with scantily-clad hostesses hanging close to them, priming them with drinks. Farther into the room, there's a little stage with a small booth off to one side, likely for dancers and a DJ.
I make my way deeper inside, and it doesn't take long before I'm met by a pretty girl with shiny black hair. She looks familiar.
"Drink, Mister? I sit with you?" she says in Portuguese, but I recognize a Spanish accent.
"Just a beer for now. Over there," and I point to a corner table with a good view of the whole place because I want to see the entire setup.
"I bring beer. We talk too? You call me, OK."
This woman is definitely Spanish, a mestizo like Elena, but about half her age.
As my eyes grow more accustomed to the dim light, I see details that I missed when I first came in. There's a staircase near the stage, probably leading to the rooms upstairs including the office we've been watching. A shining chrome pole reaches up to the ceiling on one side of the stage and several tables with two or three chairs are crowded close by. Strippers at this club, no question- straight from the stage to rooms upstairs for paid sex.
There are some signs on the wall in Portuguese too: "Don't touch the girls." "Rooms upstairs." "Hot and ready." The messaging isn't very subtle in this meat market.
My beer comes and I see that the server has opened her blouse a few buttons to give me a better look. She's going to work me hard for conversation and a drink because there aren't many customers at this time of day. I'm still trying to remember why she looks familiar and suspect that at some point I've seen her sprawled across the boss's big desk upstairs.
"Your beer. We talk, yes?"
"In a few minutes. Anything to eat here?"
"Mandioca fritas. You like?"
"Sure. Bring me some. And a drink for yourself when you come back."
She brightens with the invitation and flashes a big smile. That face- now I know. The same one I watched a few nights ago when my partner Elena accused me of being a pervert. I watched her beautiful body in motion as the boss fucked her mercilessly upstairs. I even have some private video from the surveillance camera that I don't want Elena to see.
She returns with a plate of thick cut casava fries and a colourful, syrupy concoction for herself, probably the most expensive drink sold here. There's likely no alcohol in her drink so she can stay sober while pushing more on me. There are two goals: run up my bar tab on beer and expensive drinks for her; and, pester me to go upstairs for sex.
"What your name?" she asks.
"Marcos," I lie. "And yours, chica?"
"Marianna," she probably lies too.
She slides her chair close so that her body is almost touching mine. Cheap perfume wafts under my nose and I feel a tightening in my groin as this hot Hispanic starts to work her magic. Her eyes fix on mine while we talk, and a sexy smile invites me to enjoy her company. Sometimes her fingers brush my bare arm; at other times she leans against me, tilting her head up so I can see down her blouse. It's a seductive performance carried out many times before.
"Marcos, you like Manaus?"
"No, just the women here."
"You bad man!" she laughs, snuggling closer.
"You're not from here, are you, Marianna?"
"No. Home far away."
"Spanish, I think."
"How you know?"
"Your accent. I speak it too."
After that we talk in Spanish and the common bond has her relaxing in a more personal way. She leaves briefly to get us another round, giving me time to think strategically. If I can stay sober enough, I'd like to get upstairs for a closer look around. I know that Marianna will be my willing ticket, but I'll have to pay to go to her room. Otherwise, the bartender- a big, menacing guy- will block the way.
I wonder if speaking to me in our common language also gives her more freedom to talk? Does the bartender know only Portuguese? I slip over there to buy cigarettes and ask him for matches in Spanish. He looks at me blankly and defers to Marianna, waiting there for the drinks. I have my answer.
Now she's back with a couple more drinks for each of us. I sip my Sagres slowly, buying time to get as much information as possible from Marianna. She sits closer now, her warm, soft body pressed against my side as we talk comfortably. I learn that her family is up in the rugged land that divides Brazil from the adjoining Spanish countries to the west and north: Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador or Colombia. All are about the same distance from Manaus and connected by road. I want to narrow down her home location.
"I used to live in Lima," I tell her.
"I not be there. To Cusco, yes," she replies in Spanish.
"Cusco! I have some friends there."
The Andean highland city is midway between Lima and the junction of Peru's border with Brazil and Bolivia.
"We both from Peru! " she gushes. leaning close with her heavily-painted lips inches from mine. "My home. And many girls here," she replies, sweeping her arm around the room.
This is interesting! Are they the mules, carrying pieces of Peruvian heritage across into Brazil? Is this how they supplement their income? I want to find out more.
"Do you get back home much?"
"I save money. Visit family when I can," she says wistfully, adding, "Just came back."
"Do you like working here?"
She tilts her head to my ear and makes her play, whispering.
"Yes, with guys like you. You want to fuck me, Marcos? We go upstairs."
"How much?" I ask, sorely tempted, even though I am reluctant to play for sex. Bad for my pride, but I want to get upstairs to scout around.
She names a price, quite a bit of money.
"I don't have much money left. All these drinks. How much to blow?"
"Half."
"Still can't do it. But I want to see your body. And touch. How much for that?"
She seems disappointed, but some easy money undressing is better than none at all. So, she shrugs her shoulders.
"Half of that. No touch down here," she states, motioning to her lap.
"I have just enough money. We'll go upstairs after these drinks, OK?".
While this is happening, I know that Elena is watching the upper-level window from our apartment across the street. Later she tells me that the boss came to his desk, and she zoomed in when he jotted something on an envelope, before opening a locked bottom drawer to lift out a small metal box. He counted out a few bills and put them into the envelope, which he dropped into the top drawer.
That completed, the boss opened a large folded map and traced across it, perhaps indicating different routes to and from Manaus? Whatever he was doing, Elena has a closeup record of it.
Meanwhile, across the street, I'm climbing the second flight of stairs to the third level above the club. Marianna is ahead of me, her flared hips swaying as she totters in high heeled shoes. The skirt is short enough that I can see right to the shadowy area between her upper thighs. I'll soon be viewing it much more closely, and I wonder if I can limit myself to no more than looking at this sexy woman.
We reach the top level and I look around while her back is still turned to me. As the two of us pass down a narrow hallway, all the doors are closed except one on the window side of the building. The dingy aisle is briefly lit up by sunlight pouring out from that room. Then I hear a deep voice come from within.
"Marianna, is that you?"
"Si, Antonio," she says, frozen like a startled rabbit.
Then he notices me behind her and orders.
"Come see me when you finish, chica."
She looks in and nods obediently. I know that Marianna isn't eager to go into his office. I've watched her before and I know that she'll be in for another rough pounding up on his desk.
A bit farther along the hall she pushes a door open, leading me into a windowless inside room- more of a cubicle. There's a bed, a chair, a small table and a metal jug and washbasin with a towel. Overhead, a single light bulb hangs from a cord, casting shadows on the peeling walls. The stale air hangs heavy like a damp blanket. Though Marianna probably sleeps here, it is mostly just a squalid hole for illicit sex.
"Your room?"
"Yes. You must pay me now, Carlos, like our deal. More money, if you want to fuck," she insists.
"No more money," I shrug in mock resignation, and she begins to undress.
Marianna unbuttons her print blouse quickly, and lays it over the back of the chair, before dropping her skirt. Her arms go behind her back to unclasp the black bra, freeing those beautiful, round tits I've seen before from across the street. They tumble out of confinement, ripe womanhood that gets me stiff. Now she wears only a black thong and those big heels. My throat feels dry.
"Just leave the shoes on for me," I rasp.
"OK, but no touching here," she reiterates, looking down. "Only if you pay more."
