THE guy with the round face said, not for the first time, “get me to a hospital! My ribs are killing me!” Arnaldo ignored the killer’s complaint and continued going through his pockets. The rib thing was no revelation. In fact, he’d be surprised if the thug wasn’t in pain. He’d given him a capoeira kick in the chest to bring him down, flipped him over, pressed a knee into his back, and leaned his full weight upon it while he was cuffing him. The pockets contained a set of keys, some small change, a cell phone and a wallet. In the wallet were several hundred Reais in cash, a condom, a national identity card, credit cards in three different names, driver’s licenses in two, and a dog-eared photo of a woman. The woman was smiling at the camera and wearing makeup that looked like it had been laid on with a trowel. She bore a strong resemblance to the guy who owned the wallet. Even punks like Joaquim had mothers. The national identity card matched one of the credit cards and one of the driver’s licenses.
