Though what Amelia said struck them as reasonable, the others didn’t feel they could gamble with the deputy director of opinion’s life with nothing to go on but a hunch. They decided they should talk with Marcelo Galván, Bonso’s protector, before midnight.
“We need a bargaining chip, and if possible, a way to scare him. Otherwise he’ll deny any relationship with Bonso. My team is looking for skeletons in his closet. I’ll have a report at eleven. I hope we find something. With that, I can go straight to his house or wherever he is.”
“I want to go, too. He should know El Mundo is prepared to air out any dirty laundry we can find and crucify him publicly,” Tomás said.
Jaime suppressed the urge to tell Tomás no. He would have preferred approaching Galván with a couple of tough guys in tow, but he understood that for now, he was still an outsider.
“Where could Milena be?” Claudia said, almost to herself.
“Or better still: Who is she?” Amelia responded. “What did she do to make these guys go crazy chasing her down?” She was still ruminating over Madame Duclau’s words: “a fucking enlightened whore.”
Them IV
I go see whores because I love my wife, and thanks to that, we’ve had four happy years of marriage. Don’t think I’m going outside for what I don’t get at home. No, sir. I’m lucky enough to be married to a fine-looking lady who’s not at all shy when it comes to fulfilling her conjugal duties. In fact, most of the tramps I go to bed with would come out losing if they had to go head to head with my Anita. But what can you do, even a guy who eats filet mignon every day is going to want to go out for tacos once in a while.
The guy who says he prefers monogamy is either lying or something downstairs isn’t working right. A healthy monogamous man is nothing more than a frustrated animal, say what he will about it. More than one friend has destroyed his family because he ended up in love, so to speak, with his secretary, when all he really needed was to get off. It’s better to deal with your dick’s necessities up front than wind up getting your heart involved like a damn jerkoff.
Me anyway, I’m happy. Thanks to my escapades, I’ve always been faithful to my wife. No lovers, no one-night stands. My thing is just a purifying, detoxifying fuck every two or three weeks with one of the pros I pick out at the bar. Sometimes an elegant foreigner, other times an exotic, dark-skinned chick. I even fucked a mulata before. Variety’s the spice of life, as they say. And after my relaxing session, I’m more romantic with my wife than before.
Anyway, let’s be real. Who doesn’t like to get down and dirty sometimes? How are you going to ask the mother of your children to lick your asshole? Not that I like that, but you get what I’m saying.
To sum things up: if it weren’t for whores, I would have cheated on my wife. The only bad thing is that for a while, I only fucked her with my underwear on. I mean, that was six months ago. Now it’s not even that. But whatever, who cares, that’s what the sluts are for. I don’t think it really bothers my wife that we don’t have sex anymore. I mean, women are different, right?
J.G., Asset Manager
Mexican Stock Exchange
28
Milena, Luis, and Rina
Wednesday, November 12, 11:15 p.m.
The images of the war in Ukraine on the TV screen still hadn’t left her mind. If what she was beginning to suspect was true, the implications were terrible. The people looking for the black book knew the information inside it was also in her brain. They’d have to get rid of her, too. The only way out was to end it all.
Should she wink at the camera before throwing herself on the tracks? What if the station’s video system wasn’t working? Or somebody on the platform took the notebook before the authorities confiscated it? Or her notes never made it to the newspaper? Maybe no one would find the information about the Russian mob hidden in the notebook, but she was sure they would at least find the stories from Them. She remembered the names of the characters who signed her stories. All of them public figures in Spain and Mexico and all had passed through her bed, blathering on with their repugnant justifications for using women.
Sitting in the café those past few hours, she had revised and translated the last two stories. Originally they were in her mother tongue, but she had started to rewrite them in Spanish since she arrived in Mexico. Now all she needed was an introduction, and her work was done. Her stories would be more than just reprisal against the men who had abused her, a final payback from beyond the grave: she also aspired to make them experience some of the pain and humiliation her family had been through. Her last hope was that the recording of her tragic end would turn into a viral video on the Net and arouse more interest in her writings.
That led her to think she needed to do something more than jump onto the tracks to make the filmed finale a breathtaking spectacle. Maybe she should take off her clothes on the platform before calling it quits. She rejected the idea, because showing off her body would inject a sexual element that betrayed the spirit of her notes. It would be better to look straight into the camera, point out the notebook in her hand, and leave it carefully on the platform before leaping in front of the train.
She looked at the cup of hot chocolate in front of her and thought there wasn’t much about life she would miss. For the moment, her only tie to the human race was the weary-faced, round-bodied waitress working the night shift. No risk of her being exploited for sex, Milena thought sarcastically. She’d have probably had a better chance at happiness with a body like that, no? She thought about the life she would have led as a farm girl in the hills in her country, probably beaten and abused by some huge, filthy husband. She looked back at the woman with the round, brown face and was filled with tenderness.
She’d given up the idea of going back to Croatia a long time ago. That life was over: for the inhabitants of the village, she’d always be “the whore.” Prostitution was the only job she knew, and she didn’t have the energy to learn another one. Sadly, she realized that nobody would miss her, either. For her family, she had stopped existing long ago, for Vila-Rojas she was a shameful episode in the past, and for everyone else she knew, she was just merchandise, a piece of meat to be bought and sold. Alka had disappeared a long time ago, and everyone would get alone without Milena just fine. Even more, she herself would get along fine without Milena. Her and the rest of the universe.
“Milena! You scared us!”
Rina and Luis burst into the café. Their expression was genuinely happy. Unable to contain herself, the Mexican hugged her long and hard before sitting at the table.
Milena didn’t know how to reconcile her thoughts of death with this display of affection and joy.
“How’d you find me?”
“The cell phone I gave you this afternoon before we said bye, remember? I told you to call us if you had any issues.”
Confused, Milena looked in her bag and pulled out the Samsung she had forgotten as soon as she’d taken it from Luis’s hand. She lifted it suspiciously, as though it were a dead rat.
“Don’t worry, it’s recycled,” he said, and though she didn’t quite understand what he was implying, she supposed it meant it wasn’t dangerous.
She looked at the two of them and asked herself how they fit into the story she was making up minutes before. Rina looked at her, relieved. The young people’s passion moved her, but the memory of the notebook in front of her convinced her that her plan was the right one.
“Please, forget me. You’re in danger just being around me. Don’t you know what happened at your house, Rina?”
“I saw an email from Vidal, he told me two people got killed and you had disappeared.”
“Look, we can’t be together. They found me because of you guys.”
“Impossible,” Luis said. “I’m using my alternative cell phone and Vidal’s the only person I’ve used it with. It’s untraceable.”
“Let me go on my own. I’m broken, I’m no good for anything. You both have your whole lives ahead of
you.”
“How can you say that? We’re the same age! Anyway, don’t you remember, you’ve got to teach me to dance Flamenco!” In fact, Milena was three years older than Rina, but they might as well be twin sisters.
Milena looked at the notebook in front of her. Again, she saw the woman struggling to serve the tables, the one she’d considered her last link with humanity only seconds before. Discouragement and fatigue overtook her body when she thought of running on and on like a scared animal waiting for the irrevocable end. Once more, it struck the most reasonable thing was to bring her life to an end. One final act of dignity.
“Do it for me, Milena. Don’t leave me alone,” Rina said, taking her hand.
Milena was perplexed. Except for Rosendo Franco, who was now dead, no one had spoken to her that way for a long time. The feeling was as strange as it was disturbing. Could this girl she barely knew really feel something for her? Maybe deep down they weren’t so different. Rina had lost her entire family, as she had explained to Milena in a rush, and even so, she still had her life ahead of her. Milena had a family, but felt she was at the end of her road.
“You can’t stay in a place you don’t belong,” she finally said to herself.
“It will just be for a bit, until we get the situation under control,” Luis interrupted. “Then you can go to your country, or wherever you want. Money’s not a problem.”
Milena considered Luis’s words. How could she tell him the truth was she didn’t belong anywhere?
“Well, we can’t stay here, we’re too exposed. I found a safe spot where we can hide out a few days. We’ll keep talking there,” Luis said, standing up, and Rina followed him, picking up Milena’s purse. More from inertia than faith, the Croatian got up, too, looked at the waitress one last time, and exited the café.
29
Jaime and Tomás
Wednesday, November 12, 11:40 p.m.
On the way to Marcelo Galván Espíndola’s house, Jaime received the spec sheet his team had put together about the immigration chief. Galván was the most senior employee in his post, and had been area director under four commissioners, so he must have been a reference point for the teams that came and went during the constant back-and-forth in the government that had characterized those years. He represented the power behind the scenes in that office, and it wasn’t surprising that he had become a key player in the human-trafficking networks.
The report showed Galván had taken thorough advantage of his strategic post. He had a dozen properties, some in other countries, most in his wife’s name, including a large cattle ranch in the north of Mexico. Lemlock had uncovered various bank accounts in his and his adult children’s names, but they were still working on the record of deposits and withdrawals.
“It’s not much to try to incriminate him or scare him, is it?” Tomás said.
“It’s enough if we know how to work it. Leave it to me.”
Jaime called Galván from outside his house. “The best thing is to bum-rush him so he doesn’t have much time to think,” he had told Tomás. It was enough for the former director of Mexico’s intelligence services to say it was a delicate matter involving him, better discussed in confidence. He took them to the library of his residence: classical sculptures and colonial paintings, apparently authentic, accompanied their walk down the hall. Galván must have felt very safe not to restrain his ostentation: owning artworks belonging to the country’s patrimony was a crime in and of itself.
“Jaime Lemus, Esquire, and Doctor Arizmendi. What can I offer you to drink?”
In reality, Jaime wasn’t a lawyer and Tomás didn’t have his doctorate, but in Mexican politics, titles were as indispensable as a coat of arms at the Victorian court. They both ignored his invitation.
“Marcelo, I’m sorry to say that one of your protégés is about to murder a deputy director at El Mundo. We have the threat on tape. The guy’s obviously gone off the rails. If he pulls the trigger, the best you can hope for will be a scandal in the national and international press.”
“A scandal, no doubt about it,” the official replied cautiously.
“A scandal that will sweep up anyone connected to it. After that, the only thing left for Bonso and his protector to do will be to flee the country or end up in prison.”
“Easy, boys,” their host said, with no trace of fear. “Life always offers alternatives, particularly to public officials with impeccable records like your humble servant here.”
Tomás had to respect Galván’s aplomb. To judge by his reactions, they had a long conversation ahead of them. Impatience began to eat at him: the minutes between now and midnight seemed to be slipping between his fingers.
“Let’s leave off with the formalities,” Tomás interrupted, grabbing the man’s robe at the wrist. “We know you’re protecting Bonso. If my editor shows up dead, prison is the least of your worries.”
“Now why the violence, Don Tomás? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Galván responded, agitated.
The way he looked at the hand on his wrist showed profound, genuine, and bitter indignation. Tomás hesitated a moment and let him go. The man looked carefully at his wrist and closed and opened his fist.
“The important thing here is that all of us can help each other. We’ve come as friends,” Jaime said, trying to take control again. He thought it would be better to appeal to Galván’s interests than to threaten him. “If this Bonso goes through with his threat, the wolves will come out, and they’ll chew up everything in their way, regardless of whether they’re right or wrong. You know that in these cases, a lot of people end up hurt unnecessarily.”
“Lots of people,” the man said, and nodded.
“Even people who didn’t know him, people in positions of public service that might have brought them into contact with him. Gossips ready to turn these kinds of relationships into a scandal are never in short supply. Here, for example, because it’s a Romanian, all the officials who deal with visas and permissions could be affected, even if their only involvement was doing their job.”
“A Romanian?” Galván responded.
“A Romanian working in sex trafficking,” Tomás said. “All fingers point to Bonso, and you’re his protector. Now let’s cut the bullshit.”
Jaime sighed with resignation, understanding it was time to change strategies. Tomás’s impatience made it impossible to play nice.
“Look, Galván, here’s the deal: either somebody stops Bonso in the next couple hours or lots of shit is going to go down. El Mundo has documents related to your accounts in Canada and Indonesia, the little hotel in Costa Rica where you launder your money, and the six apartments in that tower in Miami in your family’s name. That information could go public tomorrow morning. Your career would be over.”
Galván went pale, but kept his calm. He paused, his eyes fixated on the tassels of his Persian carpet, then looked up.
“It’s just money. Whoever tangles with Bonso on this will end up dead.”
“Is it your life you’re worried about? You should have told me before,” Jaime said. He tapped a few numbers on his phone and walked back down the hallway to open the front door.
“Come in,” he said, and an immense man in a black suit, almost as fat as he was tall, entered the house.
They called him Tony Soprano, though the Mexican was taller and heavier. Jaime looked at Tomás perplexed, Galván terrified. That was the usual reaction Tony Soprano got from people.
When his boss gave him the signal, he walked to the middle of the library, the boards creaking beneath his feet, and laid a roll of gray canvas on the desk. He pulled it open to reveal his instruments.
Before Tomás could put the consternation that was already on his face into words, Jaime took him by the arm and led him toward the door.
“It would be better for you to wait outside,” he told his friend, and then, turning toward Galván, added in an apologetic tone, “These journalists are softies.”
Tomás
went out to the street, lit a cigar, and walked along the sidewalk, staying in sight of the chauffeur, who remained behind the wheel of the car that had brought them there. Two men observed him from a black truck fifty feet away. He preferred to think they were his friend’s associates.
One part of him hoped the fat guy would tear into that vile functionary inside and get a pass for Emiliano regardless of the cost. But another part compelled him to go back inside and put a stop to what was about to happen. He decided to smoke his cigar and wait.
Ten minutes later, Jaime came out. The fat guy stayed in the house.
“Let’s go, there’s nothing for us to do here anymore. Go in my car,” he said, and waved over the truck with his men inside.
“What? Did you kill him?” Tomás said as soon as he got in his seat.
“Don’t be melodramatic. We just had to scare him. It wasn’t easy getting him to talk, we had to apply a little pressure. He says he can’t do anything about Bonso, that the thing with the Croatian girl is taboo and out of his league. But he fessed up: the gang’s protector is Víctor Salgado.”
“Salgado? The one who was head of federal prisons?”
“You have no idea, do you?” Jaime said with an ironic smile, and explained.
Salgado was a colonel in the army when the president’s office called on him to take charge of the penal system. When he gave up the job, after eleven years, he was the biggest link between the corrupt police chiefs, the army, and organized crime.
“He’s the guy the businessmen hire when they get tired of the kidnappings in their area, the consultant a governor calls on when everything else has failed,” Jaime said, and Tomás thought he heard a tinge of respect in his tone. “He can bring peace to an area just by selling it to the highest bidder among the cartels. Then he’ll turn all the resources of the criminals and the police against the loser. He’s the gateway to the darkest part of Mexico. He knows which generals are on the cartels’ payrolls, usually because he’s the one who put them there.”
Milena, or the Most Beautiful Femur in the World Page 15
