Ahead, sparkling light spilled from a string of coloured bulbs around the terrace of a café. He strolled onto the terrace and took a seat. As he called the waiter, he heard a slurred voice behind him.
‘Buy a girl a drink, señor?’
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CAFÉ LEÓN, CALLE DEL GENERAL IBAÑEZ DE IBERO
General Ortiz was propping up the bar, his arm round Carmen’s waist. ‘There you are, Corporal,’ he bellowed as Ochoa came through the door. ‘Where’s Guzmán? It’s his round.’
‘I think he’s busy, sir. He might be along later, I’m not sure.’
‘Have a drink then, Corporal.’ Ortiz grabbed a bottle of wine from the bar and filled three glasses to the brim. ‘Here’s to beautiful women,’ he bellowed. ‘Well, one actually.’ He grinned mischievously as he raised his glass in a toast to Carmen and drank it in one swallow. ‘Keep Ochoa company for a minute, will you, Carmencita? I just saw someone I need to talk to.’
‘So, Corporal, what shall we talk about?’ Carmen smiled.
Ochoa stared into his glass. Being in the presence of a beautiful woman always put him on edge. ‘I was looking for your brother actually, señorita.’
‘Well, you’re in a bar, so there’s every chance he’s here.’ Carmen brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. ‘Or you could try a few whorehouses. The ones that give credit, that is.’
‘I’ll take a look in a minute.’ She was exceptionally beautiful, he thought, unhappily.
‘Has Miguel done something wrong?’ Carmen asked. ‘Or does he owe you money?’
Ochoa shrugged. ‘It’s personal.’
‘If it’s so important, go and find him. I’m used to standing at this bar on my own.’
‘I wouldn’t want the general to think I’d gone off and left you alone.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Carmen sighed, exasperated, ‘it’s 1982. Women are liberated now, haven’t you heard?’
That came as news to Ochoa, though since he didn’t know what it meant, he said nothing. Over Carmen’s shoulder, he saw Miguel Galíndez hanging about in the car park. ‘I’ll be off.’
‘Nice talking to you, too.’ Carmen turned and called to the barman to bring her a vodka Martini.
*
As Galíndez parked his car, he saw Ramiro waiting in the shadows.
‘Your man got back from Sweden then?’ Ramiro said.
Galíndez glanced around nervously. ‘Have you seen the sarge from the motor pool? He’s down for three of these. That’s twelve thousand pesetas I’ve made without doing anything.’ He sniggered. ‘Which is more than I can say about the kids in these magazines.’
‘That’s a tidy profit,’ Ramiro said. ‘I’d say the first round is on you.’
Galíndez took two thin packages from his bag. ‘You want a couple? You can owe me till payday.’
‘Not me,’ Ramiro said, shaking his head. ‘I think my father knows what you’re up to, so you better be careful.’
‘What’s the harm?’ Miguel snorted. He pushed the packages inside his uniform jacket. ‘I’m off to the crapper. Why don’t you get the drinks in?’
Miguel watched Ramiro go into the bar. Behind him, he heard a sudden rustle as something moved in the darkness. He turned and gasped as a fist hit him in the chest, sending him staggering back, gasping. The bag fell from his hands, spilling the brown paper packages onto the ground. When he looked up, Ochoa was standing over him, his eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses.
‘What the fuck?’ Miguel bellowed. ‘Didn’t you see me?’
‘I saw you all right,’ Ochoa said. ‘Just like I saw you a few days ago.’ He bent down and picked up one of the parcels.
‘That’s private property,’ Miguel shouted. ‘Put it down.’
Ochoa stared him in the eye. ‘Make me.’ Miguel stayed where he was, shifting uncomfortably as Ochoa ripped open the package and slid out a magazine.
‘Christ, Corporal, put that away,’ Miguel hissed. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
Ochoa opened the magazine and stared at the contents. ‘What the fuck is this?’
Miguel lowered his voice. ‘You can see what it is: porn. I buy it from the long-distance lorry drivers who’ve been to Sweden.’
‘These are pictures of children.’ Ochoa took off his spectacles and put them in his top pocket.
Nervously, Miguel ran a hand over his hair. ‘Now look here—’
Ochoa’s headbutt knocked him to the ground. Before Miguel could get up, Ochoa was astride him, raining blows into his face, ignoring his cries for help.
‘What’s going on over there?’ General Ortiz came strutting across the car park. ‘Ochoa, is that you? You can’t go brawling in the gutter when you’re in uniform, man. What the hell’s come over you? Get up at once.’
Ochoa got to his feet, though he took the opportunity to take a last vicious kick at Galíndez’s ribs as he did.
Miguel got up slowly, wiping blood from his nose.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ General Ortiz bellowed.
Ochoa gave a cursory nod at Miguel Galíndez. ‘Ask him, sir.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Miguel stammered, ‘just a difference of opinion.’
‘You can’t go round punching my officers, if you don’t agree with them, Corporal,’ Ortiz said. ‘Explain yourself.’
Ochoa picked up the magazine from the ground and handed it to the general.
‘That belongs to Ochoa,’ Miguel spluttered. ‘I told him not to—’
His words were sheared off as General Ortiz punched him. As Miguel rolled on the tarmac, dazed, the general tore up the magazine and threw the pieces over Galíndez’s prostrate body. ‘I warned you about this before, you piece of shit, and you’ve disobeyed me.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re a disgrace.’
Seeing General Ortiz about to launch another attack on Miguel, Ochoa stepped between them. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be brawling in public, General?’
‘You’re right, Corporal,’ Ortiz said, panting with anger. He glared at Miguel. ‘If I catch you with any more of that filth, I’ll court martial you.’
He turned on his heel and stamped off back into the bar.
‘He won’t court martial you,’ Ochoa muttered, ‘because I’ll kill you first.’
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, BAR LA PERLA, CALLE SOTOMAYOR
Guzmán twisted round in his seat to get a better look at the woman. She was clearly a better class of whore. Reasonably well dressed, her hair tied back tight, exaggerating her pale face. A silver chain around her neck accentuated her tan.
‘Have a seat.’ He would have got up to hold the chair for her but such details never counted for much with whores. Behave like a gentleman and they put the price up.
When the waiter arrived, she asked for gin and tonic. He ordered a double brandy.
While the waiter was getting the drinks, he leaned closer. ‘You look tired,’ he said. ‘Maybe you should spend less time on your back?’
‘Excuse me?’ She stared at him, puzzled.
‘It doesn’t matter to me.’ Guzmán shrugged. ‘But it’s bound to put the punters off if you look like you’re about to doze off at any minute.’
She looked away as the waiter brought the drinks. Guzmán noticed her flushed cheeks. ‘You are on the game, aren’t you?’
‘For heaven’s sake, stop saying that. Of course I’m not.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. It was your line about buying a girl a drink.’
‘I lost my purse on the bus, if you must know, señor.’
‘Leo Guzmán.’ He shook her hand, careful not to crush it. Her hands were chapped, he noticed. A different kind of working girl, obviously. ‘You lost your purse?’
‘Yes. I phoned my friend and asked her to meet me here. She’s going to lend me a few pesetas so don’t worry, I’ll pay you for the drink.’
‘No need,’ said Guzmán. ‘I hope I haven’t offended you?’
‘Not at all, I’m sure you said it because
you found me attractive?’ Her attitude was skittish: nervous one moment, confident the next. An interesting mix. She was pretty too: dark brown eyes, deep and intense as if trying to work him out. If that was true, it would be a long time before her observations paid off.
He saw her face turn pale. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Santa María.’ She raised a hand to hide her face as she turned towards him. ‘That’s one of my neighbours over there. If he sees me with you, the whole neighbourhood will know and so will my husband.’ She leaned closer, draping an arm round Guzmán’s shoulder, pulling him closer. ‘Kiss me.’
Guzmán obliged.
After a couple of minutes, the neighbour went off down the steps of the terrace into the street. Relieved, she rested her head on Guzmán’s shoulder. A faint air of soap and citrus.
He took a sip of brandy. ‘What are you laughing at?’
She took a tissue from her handbag and dabbed his mouth. ‘Lipstick. You don’t want to go home to your wife looking like that.’
‘I don’t have a wife.’ He was tempted to add ‘thankfully’, but decided against it. She might think he was a cynic.
‘What do you do for a living, señor?’
‘I’m a police officer,’ Guzmán said, omitting the detail.
‘A detective?’
‘Sometimes.’
She looked at him, suddenly curious. ‘So, what do you deduce about me?’
Guzmán looked her over. The intensity of his gaze made her blush. ‘Don’t keep me waiting,’ she said, suddenly uncomfortable.
He took a swig of his brandy and set the glass down slowly. ‘You work in a laundry, you’re unhappily married and you drink too much, though you probably manage to stop before anyone can tell you’re drunk.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Your hands gave away the laundry work. Too much bleach, perhaps? It’s clear you’re unhappily married though since you wouldn’t be tapping strange men for a drink unless you were sick of your husband. And the story about losing your purse is bullshit. Your purse is sticking out of your handbag. That suggests your husband checks how much you’ve spent when you go out. To avoid that, you cadge drinks off mugs like me.’
She flushed deeply. ‘Maybe I’m not married at all? I’m not wearing a ring.’
‘Not now, you aren’t, but there’s a white mark on the third finger of your left hand, even though the rest of your hand is tanned.’
‘My husband doesn’t love me,’ she said abruptly.
Guzmán called the waiter over and ordered another gin and tonic for her. He let the waiter move out of earshot before speaking. ‘What did you expect when you got married? Love and affection for the rest of your life?’
A sudden petulant look. ‘It would have been nice,’ she sighed. ‘I hate him.’
‘That’s normal,’ Guzmán said, as if he knew anything about the subject. ‘They ought to mention it in the marriage vows, it would save time later.’
‘I suppose you think I’m a terrible person now?’
‘Not at all, I like a woman who drinks. As long as she can hold it anyway.’
‘I mean, being married.’ Her voice trailed away.
‘That’s none of my business, señora.’ He noticed the thin silver chain round her neck. ‘Are those your initials on the chain?’ Not that he had any interest in her jewellery but women appreciated men who paid attention to such detail, he had noticed.
A shy nod. The gesture of someone he’d known years ago. Another woman with chapped red hands. A woman who blushed. A woman long dead.
‘How about dinner?’ he suggested, thinking the evening was picking up nicely, especially now the pain in his groin had died down.
‘Another night perhaps? I have to get home.’
Guzmán handed her his card. ‘Call me at my pensión and leave a message.’
She frowned as she read the card. ‘It says Ramirez on here.’
‘You’re not the only one with secrets.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll see you to the Metro.’
‘I’d like that.’ A complicit smile.
‘I can’t keep calling you señora, what’s your name?’
‘Lourdes.’
‘That’s a pretty name,’ Guzman said, though he wondered whose initials those were on the necklace since none of them was an ‘L’. Not that it mattered: he was on to a good thing here. It would be a shame to spoil it.
They walked arm in arm along Calle Sotomayor past the geographic institute. Spots of rain were starting to fall and when Guzmán offered to pay for a taxi, she accepted the money without protest.
He watched as the taxi drove away. He had never understood women so it was unlikely he was about to start now. She seemed rather old-fashioned, a woman who expected a man to open doors or to hail a taxi when necessary. A woman who made him feel like a gentleman. Even so, he was relieved she was gone. They had been followed since leaving the bar and the last thing he needed in such a situation was a woman on his arm. Some things were best done alone.
The sun was setting, softening the familiar contours of the city with gentle light. As he walked, listening to the footsteps behind him, the sun slipped below the horizon and the city was reborn as a place of shadows, feral and threatening. He walked on, his senses straining to detect the sounds men make when trying to conceal their presence.
And those sounds were all around him now. Soft, subtle echoes, the faint scrape of a shoe, a muffled cough. Sounds that followed him along the darkened cobbles as he took a convoluted route down narrow streets ripe with possibilities for ambush and escape. By no means a direct route, more an examination of the ability of the man dogging his footsteps.
He continued his circuitous journey, irked by the persistence of his pursuer. It was an annoyance, though an unavoidable one. Dealing with people like the Centinelas inevitably meant becoming the object of their attention at some point.
At the corner of an alley, he paused, listening to the sullen silence as he he lit a cigarette and then stooped as if to tie his shoelace. Carefully, he eased the big trench knife from the scabbard on his calf and tucked it into his belt. Then he started walking. As he went down the street, he heard the man start following again. It was not a problem. Over the years, the men changed, but the night did not. And the night was Guzmán’s territory.
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CALLE DEL CARMEN
It was just after midnight as Guzmán pushed his way through the crowds on the Plaza del Callao. He had lost his tail half an hour ago, though it had taken some doing. Whoever followed him had been good, though not so good that Guzmán couldn’t shake him off in the end. He had planned to lure the man into a quiet spot and kill him. But when he initiated that tactic, his pursuer backed off, though without giving up. That was impressive in one way, annoying in another. But if it happened again, it would have to end in death and fuck what Gutiérrez said about keeping a low profile. Some things were a matter of professional honour.
The square was awash with coloured light. High above, he saw the blue Schweppes advert on the modernistic Carrión building. The bars and clubs were teeming as he continued on to Calle del Carmen. Across the road, he heard the heavy thump of music coming from a club. A neon sign over the door illuminated several life-sized cardboard images of young women wearing strategically placed red tassels. He looked up at it:
RICCI’S EL TOPLESS – GO GIRLS-MUSIC-DANCING
In need of a drink, he decided to take a look, out of curiosity. The entrance fee was a hundred pesetas. He paid and followed the line of people ahead of him through a black-curtained entrance into the club.
The music hit him at once, thick and physical. From the dance floor, waves of heat rose from the swaying crowd, packed so tightly that Guzmán could only make out the men from the women when the flashing lights of the mirror balls played over them. He smelled perfume, cigarettes and sweat, a carnal odour that clung to him as he pushed his way through to the bar.
As he leaned
against the bar, he found himself suddenly diverted by the three women dancing in a gilded cage at the far end of the dance floor. To Guzmán, they appeared to be doing gymnastic exercises, though since they were so scantily dressed, he felt obliged to watch. After a few minutes, he was thirsty and raised a hand to attract one of the bar staff.
She came at once. ‘What can I get you?’ Her voice died away.
Guzmán stared at the girl behind the bar. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘What does it look like? I work here.’ Daniela was wearing a halter top with the club’s logo emblazoned on it: El Topless, Numero Uno. And, as far as Guzmán could see, a pair of silver hot pants.
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘About two years now.’
‘You can’t,’ Guzmán said. ‘What would your father say?’
‘My father hasn’t earned a céntimo since the sixties. Mamá used to go out to work to keep the pensión going. Then she died. So now it’s down to me.’
‘Everything all right, Dani?’ A deep voice close to Guzmán’s ear.
Eduardo Ricci was standing half a metre away. He recognised Guzmán at once. ‘Come to piss on my staff again, have you?’
‘It’s not like anyone’s going to stop me.’ Even as Guzmán spoke, he saw three men emerge from the pulsing shadows of the dance floor. One was stocky and heavily muscled, his pallor suggested he’d been released from Carabanchel after a particularly long sentence. Another was an Arab, thin and wiry, with a scar across his forehead. Guzmán couldn’t see him taking a punch and staying on his feet. The third man was a joke. Guzmán already knew what he was capable of and it wasn’t much.
‘You’re on our turf now,’ the fat man said, unhappy as he recognised Guzmán.
Guzmán gave him a malicious smile. ‘How’s your gypsy pal?’
The fat man didn’t answer.
‘Is he with you, Dani?’ Ricci asked.
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 19
