The Penalty by Mal Peet Read Free Book Online Page B

thought—”
    “Although, of course, I
am
interested.”
    “Right,” Salez said. “Of course. It’s a helluva thing. If you’ve got any thoughts—”
    “I read your piece in yesterday’s edition. You seemed to buy the kidnap story.”
    “Well—”
    “And within hours of your filing the piece the police dismissed it as a hoax. At a news conference.”
    “Listen, that don’t mean a thing. I mean, if the boy
has
been kidnapped, the cops
would
deny it, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t want us all over them like a rash while they were negotiating or whatever. Besides, Paul, you can’t believe a word the police say, not in this city. They’re all as bent as a dog’s back leg. Believe me, I know.”
    Faustino’s expression did not suggest that he believed anything. Or anyone. Especially Max Salez.
    “What about the idea that the kid had some sort of nervous breakdown, couldn’t take the pressure, maybe?”
    Salez stuck his bottom lip out and shook his head. “Nah. I don’t buy it. Seems to me he doesn’t
have
any nerves. Either that or he’s too thick to know where they are. Hard to tell which.”
    Faustino reflected, not for the first time, that stupidity and complacency were a very unpleasing combination. Especially in a so-called journalist.
    “So you’re stuck with the kidnap theory.”
    “Well, hey, I’m not
stuck
with it, Paul. I mean, young Señor de Barros is a very valuable piece of property. You know what DSJ paid for him? When he was sixteen years old? Nothing. A signing-on fee. Enough for a month’s supply of candy. And what d’you reckon he’s worth now? Ten million? Fifteen? If he was for sale, of course. Which as far as I know he isn’t.”
    Faustino nodded slowly, as if Salez had just shared a rare and important snippet of information. He stubbed his cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray. While doing so he said, “Did you know that Brujito left the ground unaccompanied? That he just walked out of the home-team entrance like he normally would?”
    Salez blinked. “Who says?”
    “A reliable source.”
    “Right,” Salez said, and clammed up.
    “You know what, Maximo? You’re a very lucky man. I’d part with a few teeth to be covering a story like this. I’d be out on the street chasing up every lowlife I knew who might have heard even half a whisper.”
    “Well, Jesus, Paul, what d’you think I’ve been doing? That’s what we’ve all been doing. Man, there isn’t a single scumbag in this city we haven’t waved our wallets at.”
    “And?”
    “
Nada
. Nothing.”
    Faustino thought about that. “I assume, then, the conclusion you’ve come to is that if,
if
this is a kidnap, then it’s not the usual suspects. That right?”
    Maximo Salez picked up a ballpoint pen and examined it as if it were the first one he’d ever seen.
    “Yeah,” he said, eventually. “I guess so. Maybe.”
    Faustino watched the other man’s face for a couple of seconds; then he said, “Let’s watch the video.”

 
    T HE TV ROOM contained a small collection of soft and mangy chairs. The window ledge was lined with empty plastic bottles and beer cans.
    Faustino said, “Let’s skip to the second half.”
    The cameras had lingered on Brujito, even at times when he was not involved in the play. He was not – as certain magazines liked to point out – a particularly handsome youth, and he held his head lowered slightly, like a solemn but dangerous dog. He was short, for a player, with a rather heavy upper body. The same sort of build as Maradona or the young English striker Rooney; the build that gives you a low centre of gravity, making it hard for defenders to knock you off balance. He was the kind of boy that, if you saw him in the street, you would take to be slow-witted and slow-moving. And when he had played his first games for DSJ, opposing defenders had made the same mistake, and paid dearly for it.
    Watching the screen, Faustino was again astonished by Brujito’s ability to