Cut to Rio de Janeiro.
Behind the wall is a fan. In front of the fan is a block of ice. In front of the block of ice is a man. A shrewd and manipulative man who wears his white linen jacket with its slug-slime pits the way some men wear a frown. His socks are worn similarly, although he is relatively light trousered and has a nice tie. His face, if that inadequate word could be stretched to encompass the sagging corsetery of the varied jowls and bags that drip down over his skull cheeks, is full of menace and made slack jawed by too much bad hooch and a bad dentist.