Brazilian Psycho- Blog Tour Extract

                                          

Many Thanks to the publishing team for providing me with an extract to share. A very intriguing start and cant wait to read the rest!

                                      Brazilian Psycho

Joe Thomas

 

Published by Arcadia

 

June 17 | Hardback | £14.99

 

 

 

 

A blockbusting story resolutely of our times, Brazilian Psycho weaves social crime fiction, high literary style, historical fact, and personal experience to record the radical tale of one of the world’s most fascinating, glamorous, corrupt, violent, and thrilling cities.

 

 

Brazil, 1 January 2003: Lula begins nearly fifteen years of left-wing government.

 

1 January 2019: Jair Bolsonaro is inaugurated, a president of the far right.

 

An occult history of São Paulo told through the lens of real-life crimes, Brazilian Psycho reveals the dark heart at the centre of Brazilian social-democrat resurgence and the fragility and corruption of the B.R.I.C. economic miracle; it documents the rise and fall of the left-wing – and the rise of the populist right, prefiguring and explaining the violent political divisions of contemporary Brazil.

 

Over the fifteen years in which the action takes place, a diverse cast of characters below the surface of power plays a significant part in the unfolding social and political drama, setting in motion a whirlwind of plots and counterplots: the murder of a British headmaster and the consequent cover-up; the chaos and score-settling of the PCC gang rebellion over a weekend in 2006; a copycat serial killer; corruption investigations, and the secret international funding of nationwide anti-government protests; the bribes, kickbacks and shakedowns of the Mensalao and Lava Jato corruption scandals, the biggest in Brazilian history.

 

About the Author

 

Joe Thomas was born in Hackney, London, where he grew up. He lived in São Paulo between 2002 and 2012, before returning to London. Joe is currently a Lecturer in English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Hertfordshire and previously taught at Royal Holloway, University of London. In 2018, Joe was the recipient of a K Blundell Trust Award for British authors under forty whose work aims to increase social awareness. Joe is the author of the São Paulo Quartet – Paradise City (2017), Gringa (2018) and Playboy (2019) – and Bent, his first London novel.

Extract

1 Money talks

January 2003

What was São Paulo like in 2003? Like it is every year: filled with a grandiose sense of its own worth, its own self-importance. Yeah, so Lula and the PT were elected and the left-wing buoyed, flying on the wings of hope and optimism, and the students and the unions and the lefties and gays and the anarchists and addicts and the dealers and pimps and the artists and aristocrats were pretty hopped up too. It was a good time to have a social conscience; it was a good time to be young and forward-looking. Who knew that the socialist paradise would mean cash-money and credit for all. Well, not all. There was still the little something known as the São Paulo elite, and they held the keys to the safe, a fortress in the jungle.

Detective Mario leme is on his way down to the swank old neigh- bourhood of Jardim Paulistano to figure out who has whacked the headmaster of the British international school in his own home.

leme is green and he is apprehensive.

he knows the school; who doesn’t? it takes a serious amount of dinheiro, cash, to even consider sending your kids there.

The monthly fee is well over what leme earns as a rookie detective in the civil Police.

it is a closed community, in many ways, protective of itself and its interests, and he reckons they won’t be tickled pink to have him poking about the place, asking awkward questions.

Joe Thomas

and on top of this, leme’s superior – superintendent lagnado, a squat man with a mean streak – has made it clear how this whole investigation is going to go.

‘now, leme,’ he said earlier that morning, ‘i think it’s pretty obvious this is a robbery-went-wrong scenario. rich white guy tragi- cally iced by nasty, opportunistic street thug. you shouldn’t need more than a few days to sort it out.’

leme has a feeling that this won’t be the case, and he’s not sure why.

ricardo lisboa, leme’s old friend and partner, drives. ‘This is lose- lose, son.’ he keeps his eyes dead ahead. a big man in a slovenly suit, he’s funny, lisboa. ‘a couple of catholic priests at a kid’s party,’ he says, ‘is what we’ll be.’

leme doesn’t doubt it and says nothing.
‘Know who goes to this school?’
leme shakes his head.
‘Maluf ’s grandkids for a start. Mick Jagger’s boy. i think the word

i want is elite.’
leme nods.
Paulo Maluf: one-time são Paulo mayor.
They coined a phrase for old Maluf: Roba mais faz.
He steals but he gets things done.
it’s what são Paulo has voted for time and again.
it’s more important that the city runs – the rubbish gets picked

up, the metro works, the roads are repaired – than to worry about the kickbacks and shakedowns at city hall.

But, of course, most of these kickbacks and shakedowns relate to the contracts that enable the city to run.

Though this might change, leme thinks, with lefty lula installed in office only the day before. it might change, yes, but when it comes to social transformation of any sort, são Paulo is a fucking mule.

‘Do me a favour,’ leme says. ‘Don’t start.’
‘it’s a new beginning,’ lisboa declares.
leme shakes his head.
lisboa continues, ‘The Workers’ Party begin their reign with a

hard-on for rubbing out inequality and whatnot. and the very next 

day, a symbol of the, you know, the elite, is the victim of a nasty- looking snuff job.’

leme nods, tries not to smile.

‘all i’m saying,’ lisboa says, ‘is that it’s poetic, know what i mean? symmetry.’

lisboa pulls off alameda Gabriel Monteiro da silva and into the low-rise, green spaces of the roads behind the school. There are women power walking, clad in expensive lycra, dogs trotting beside them on leads. Maids and nannies dressed in white, shoulders hunched, scurry between shops, home, school. Kids kick footballs. Kids fuck about. school is out.

lisboa ghosts round shallow bends, eases past glittering sUVs. leme spies the private security booths on every corner.
it is this kind of a neighbourhood.
security is business, after all, and whether or not the guys stationed

in the booths have any idea how to prevent crime – and it certainly hasn’t helped in this case – the booths themselves, and the camera systems that flow from the booths, tend to be a pretty good deterrent.

leme notes different security company names on different booths.

leme clocks the house where the headmaster lives. it is big. The gate is green, heavy. Barbed wire bunched on top. leme clocks the uniforms and the tape, the flashing lights and the neighbourhood gawpers, the local rubbernecks.

he points at a space. lisboa nods, pulls over –
‘Deep breaths, old son,’ lisboa says. ‘Walk in the park.’ leme spears his door. ‘More like the fucking jungle, mate.’

Work. The sun beats down. large trees form shadows on the uneven pavement. leme runs his hand over his neck, under his collar. he wipes sweat; grime clings to him.

leme flashes his badge. a uniform steps aside. leme steps inside.

a dark hallway. a rectangle of light from the door. Keys on a small table. silver cufflinks. Tasteful paintings on the walls. a small coat folded up on a chair.

leme moves through. The back door is open. it is taped off to show this is how it was found, undisturbed by anyone since the night before.

Joe Thomas

Back garden. chairs clustered around a metal table with a glass top. a barbecue in the corner, ash collected in the bottom. leme runs his finger across the grill. still greasy. leme looks for signs of activity. There are light dustings of dried mud. There are small living quarters on the other side. The maid’s, he assumes. To his left, a side entrance from the street. This door is locked, from the outside, leme thinks. no sign of a key.

a helicopter buzzes overhead. leme lights a cigarette.
lisboa stands in the doorway to the garden.
leme nods upstairs. ‘What are they saying?’
‘Early hours. single blow. Blunt instrument, most likely. some-

thing heavy.’
‘no weapon then?’
‘no sign, as yet.’
leme nods. ‘Who found the body?’
‘The maid,’ lisboa says. ‘she’s in a fair old state.’ he gestures

across the garden. ‘her room.’
leme nods. ‘anything missing?’
‘his wallet is still on the dressing table.’ ‘Full?’
‘For now.’
leme snorts.

Upstairs. Three men in white flit around the body. They step back.

Elegantly furnished, the room is calm. The bed is ruffled. There are clothes scattered over it. on the dressing table is an open note- book next to a louis Vuitton wallet. a stylish wooden chair lies on its back.

The light is on in the en suite. Damp towels hang over the shower rail. Toothbrush bristles damp. clean and uncluttered.

Bedroom –
The body face down on the carpet.
a crumpled red dressing gown, slashed open and untied, revealing

a pair of white y-fronts. Thin, hairless legs bent like question marks. arms halfway to his face.