City Without Stars

by Tim Baker

  And after that, there were no more regrets.

  No more memories.

  No more doubts.

  Not about that execution, not even about the first junkie he ever shot. The shouts from the woman were finally silenced. He became a cop who did not give a shit about what happened to all cops’ enemies: criminals. Violent death was a part of his world. There were shootings all the time and someone was always going to die. Maybe even him.

  So Gomez has no qualms about the two men he killed at the ranch house, or the man Fuentes shot through the forehead, or the deaths of the two injured gunmen. The girl is alive. Forensics are gathering evidence. And Fuentes is wrong. There is no conspiracy. Innocents die because there are too many bad people out there, forcing their evil on the world. It makes a difference when they are taken down.

  It usually saves someone.

  This time it was the girl. Gloria Delgado. He found her ID in the ranch house. Fuentes told him not to tell anyone just yet. Fuentes is fucking paranoid.

  He drives back to town. Fuentes wanted him to stay at the ranch house, to make sure forensics didn’t screw up. Weren’t being controlled. Fuentes has it all backwards. It isn’t forensics, it’s the people with oversight of the evidence. People like Valdez, who get to choose what is retained and what is misplaced or simply destroyed as contaminated samples. Powerful people. More powerful than any street criminal.

  People you never want to cross.

  Gomez drives straight to the hospital. The staff see him coming. They point the way to the emergency ward like he’s a panicked parent. As though they’ve never seen a cop there before.

  Fuentes comes out of a room just as he’s turning into the corridor, his face dropping into an ugly mask when he sees Gomez. Here it comes. Anger and then the lecture about disobeying orders. He’s had it with Fuentes. After the insanity of that morning; after the puto unnecessary risks. And he’s striding towards Fuentes, about to tell him where he can shove his fucking indignation, when he sees them – two municipal policemen, coming up fast from the other end of the corridor. Heading towards the room Fuentes has just come out of.

  Sicarios.

  Gomez unholsters his weapon. He sees the look of doubt on Fuentes face, and then the understanding as he too draws his weapon and turns, the two municipal policemen freezing, running odds through their heads; coming up short. They turn. They run. They knock staff out of the way. Equipment goes crashing.

  Sunlight slashes across their faces then vanishes with the slamming fire door. Gomez and Fuentes pursue them out into the delivery bay and the dazzle of high noon. The crack of two shots, the lisp of a near miss; the slur of a ricochet too close for comfort. And then the squeal of a getaway car. Fuentes races after the unmarked black sedan, his gun raised in contemplation of a shot, then slowly lowered, the car already distending then disappearing behind blacktop rolls of heatwaves.

  The girl really is in danger.

  Fuck Fuentes. He’s right.

  Again.

  Gomez follows him back to the girl’s room. Fuentes whispers his discovery over the rhythmic gasp of a ventilator and the pulse of a monitoring machine playing bass in the corner. The Jane Doe from yesterday is Mary-Ellen González. No rap sheet but almost certainly a high-end escort and experienced drug mule. She was a dual national and that’s what makes her important.

  ‘Important how?’ Gomez asks.

  Fuentes explains his plan. Gomez gets the chills just listening to it. It’s genius. It’s out there. It might even work. But that’s not what gets him sweating. It’s the consequences. Save one life by destroying an entire kingdom. It would be the apocalypse and Fuentes doesn’t seem to care. Not about his career, not about his freedom, not even about his life. And certainly not about the careers of others … about their lives. Fuentes has flipped. All he wants is just this one moment of brilliance. Of defiance.

  Of redemption.

  He is going to save one innocent life and one is better than none. But the cost will be devastating to both him and Gomez.

  Gomez stands there, sucking deep breaths in time with the ventilator. ‘Well?’ Fuentes asks.

  Fuck it. ‘I’m in.’

  59

  Pilar

  They take a taxi to Mayor’s hacienda, Juan Antonio peering out under the bandage that covers his eyebrow, trying not to show how impressed he is as the gates open for them.

  ‘This is a stupid idea,’ Pilar says, slamming the gate behind her. Ventura and Mayor watch from the shade of the verandah as she and Juan Antonio cross the courtyard, the mosaic pavement hot underfoot. The two speak to Pilar in a soothing rush, saying words that mean nothing. Glad. Safe. Terrible. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ They retreat from her, nodding, chastened, then turn to Juan Antonio. ‘How bad is it?’ Ventura asks, touching his bandage as though it will help him heal faster. Pilar interrupts Juan Antonio’s self-deprecating response. ‘Not bad enough. He can’t think but he can still talk.’ Ventura laughs, Juan Antonio poking his tongue at her.

  They enter the century shadows that have prospered inside the hacienda, ceiling fans hushing them into a respectful silence. ‘Thank you, Señor Mayor,’ Juan Antonio says, diminished by the reverence in his voice.

  ‘Why thank him?’ Pilar says. ‘This is stupid. We’re not in any danger.’

  Juan Antonio sighs like a man whose dog has just pissed on his host’s Persian rug. ‘Now you’re being irrational.’

  ‘Irrational?’ Her inflection mocks not just Juan Antonio but the very existence of the word. ‘Of course, that’s what men always say to women who oppose them.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Pilar, stop pretending that nothing happened this morning.’

  Her voice breaks as she speaks. ‘Don’t patronize me. I know more than you could imagine about what happened this morning.’ She goes over to a bookshelf, glancing at titles.

  ‘Then you know that we need protection.’

  ‘This isn’t protection, this is hiding …’ She turns to Mayor. ‘Not a single book by a woman?’

  ‘Keep looking. You’ll find the works of Woolf, Matute and Mansfield. Lispector and Meireles. Campobello and Castellanos. Atwood and de Beauvoir …’

  ‘You’re perfect. Is there one female writer you don’t have?’

  ‘Ibárruri.’

  Her laugh is more a choke of outrage. ‘What would a man like you know about La Pasionaria?’

  Mayor fixes her with a hard gaze. ‘Too much.’

  ‘The rich judge. It’s what they do instead of work.’

  ‘Pilar, please.’

  She glares at Juan Antonio. Ventura goes up to her. ‘Let me show you your room.’

  Pilar pulls her arm away from Ventura’s touch. ‘I’m not your friend, so don’t pretend you’re mine.’

  ‘Whether you like it or not, we’re all allies,’ Mayor says. ‘You’re safe here. You should rest.’

  She turns to Ventura. ‘Does he tell you what you need to do too?’

  ‘He’s right,’ Ventura says gently.

  ‘You’re both witnesses,’ Mayor says. ‘And you know what happens to witnesses in this town.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Juan Antonio says. ‘They’ve already bombed my car. We have to be careful. If anything happens to you it will jeopardize tomorrow.’

  ‘We’re safe here,’ Ventura whispers. ‘And it’s nice to feel safe for a change.’

  Pilar stares at the three people gazing at her – not so much to intimidate but worse, as though they were trying to understand a puzzling mind. She walks through the enormous dining room with its feudal table out into the kitchen. A maid turns when she comes in. ‘May I get you something?’

  Pilar sees an empty glass upside down beside one of the sinks. ‘I’m old enough to get myself a glass of water, thank you.’ But the maid insists on taking a fresh glass from a cabinet anyway. A decorative tumbler. ‘Would you like sparkling water or plain?’ Pilar reaches for the glass by the sink and fills it up with tap water. ‘Please. T
hat’s not a glass for guests.’

  Pilar shuts off the tap, turns and faces her. ‘Who is it a glass for?’

  ‘The staff.’

  Pilar shakes her head, disappointed that she guessed the answer so quickly, and drinks from her glass. The maid is startled to notice Mayor in the doorway, watching. ‘I’m sorry, Señor Mayor.’

  He smiles at her, speaking so softly that it is difficult for Pilar to hear every word. ‘It’s not your fault, Maya. She’s not being deliberately rude, she’s just upset.’ Pilar stares at him with mounting outrage. ‘You may go upstairs and help the others with the bedding.’ Maya turns to Pilar with a look of curiosity before she goes.

  It’s a rare moment for Pilar, to have to gather her thoughts before she can speak. ‘Any woman for you is just a—’

  ‘Shut up and listen for once in your life. You may learn something, although I doubt it with your ego and arrogance.’ Pilar’s body goes rigid with anger, her face scarlet; her eyes fierce and furious. She lifts the glass as though she’s going to hurl it across the room. ‘If you break that glass, I’ll call Maya back and make her clean it up in front of you.’

  ‘You pig!’

  ‘I don’t care what names you call me, but never humiliate my staff again.’

  ‘I did nothing of—’

  ‘The arrogance of people like you—’

  ‘You know nothing about me!’

  ‘I could put someone like you together on an assembly line with my eyes blindfolded.’

  ‘You disgust me!’

  ‘And you repeat yourself. All the time. Now shut up please and listen, because unlike you, I’m not used to repeating myself.’

  Pilar stands there, debating whether she should hurl the glass across the room anyway, or better yet, aim it at Mayor’s head.

  ‘Eight people work full-time in this house. Twelve if you count the gardeners. The gardeners live out at the back, but the eight domestic staff live here with their spouses and children. Take a look around. It’s a big house with large grounds. But still. Do you really think I need twelve people to look after it? To look after me? I could live here happily on my own.’

  ‘You have twelve servants because you need to play the feudal lord, the great cattle baron. The criollo!’

  ‘The reason you’re absurd is because you know nothing of the lives you claim to represent.’

  ‘And a man born into privilege and wealth does?’

  ‘I let my staff get on with their work. And they let me get on with my writing. Everyone is happy. It’s not just economic co-operation. It’s more. It’s community. It’s a functioning society. It’s something a professional political activist like you knows very little about. And when I do have guests, my staff enjoy it, because it gives them something extra to do, to prove their worth, to show that they are capable of doing as good a job for ten as for one. They don’t need some conceited little apparatchik to storm in here and preach a revolution they don’t want, that will leave them and their families homeless.’

  ‘Your logic of domination is perfect; just like the plantation owner’s. Preaching liberty through slavery.’

  ‘I am a writer, so of course you don’t understand me. I rely on the power of words. You rely on slogans.’

  She goes to slap him. He catches her hand. She flings the glass to the floor, filling the kitchen with the detonation of exploding crystal and the singsong of scattering shards. Ventura runs in, staring in shock at the couple joined by a hand around a wrist and surrounded by broken glass. Maya hurries in after her, taking in the scene. ‘Don’t worry, Señor, I will clean it up.’

  Pilar turns to her, her face drawn. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘This is my kitchen.’ Maya’s voice is haughty; unforgiving. ‘I don’t want your help. You’ve already caused enough damage.’ Maya drops to her knees and starts to sweep up the glass. Pilar picks up the larger pieces, but the other woman pulls away from her. ‘I said I’ll do it on my own.’

  Pilar steps over the rest of the glass, walking back towards the library.

  Ventura waits a moment, then follows her across the dining area into the den. And by the time she notices her, curled up on a corner sofa, Pilar is already asleep.

  60

  Fuentes

  Gomez wasn’t happy. Join the club. But in the end, he saw the logic: extreme measures were the only ones that would ever be effective in a society of extremes. Extreme poverty and extreme wealth. Extreme corruption.

  Extreme evil.

  The set-up was simple. He gave Gomez Mary-Ellen’s address. All he had to do was try and retrieve her passport. The rest was up to Fuentes.

  There was a full rotation of staff at noon. The doctor he had spoken to was gone. The emergency room staff didn’t know exactly what had gone down, except that someone had tried to kill a patient guarded by police, and shots had been fired outside. San Vicente was safer, Fuentes said, signing a form. Nobody argued. She was just another Jane Doe. NOK unknown. And now a target.

  The girl was transferred in an ambulance, her slim medical file in Fuentes’ hand. No police escort. It would only attract attention, he said, and this time he wasn’t just dissembling.

  On the way to San Vicente he gets the call from Gomez. They’re on. He shouts across the two medics to the driver at the front. Change of plan. They’ve just IDed the patient. She’s a US citizen wanted by the cartels. A wave of fear rises hot above the air conditioning. That means only one thing. A potential cartel witness. A potential cartel ambush.

  Fuentes tells them to take her straight to the border. The ambulance siren rises in frequency, as though wailing the question of all the medical staff inside: Why us? The rest of the trip is spent setting up the ambulance to meet them on the other side, while listening to the curses of the driver, desperate to evade traffic so he can unload his potentially fatal cargo as fast as possible. Fuentes has done three medevacs in Tijuana. He knows the drill. He has his credit card out before they’ve even asked him.

  Gomez is waiting at the border and takes possession of all his weapons and ammo. Then he hands over Mary-Ellen’s passport. He even has her health plan. That will assist with admissions but it will also compound the crime. Criminal fraud in addition to impersonation, facilitation, transportation and illegal entry. Possible people smuggling. Human trafficking, if they really want to hammer Fuentes. He passes Gloria’s file to Gomez and tells him what to do.

  ‘You promised this would be it.’

  ‘You just have to drop it off at the desk.’

  ‘They know me.’

  ‘I’ll take the rap if there is one.’

  ‘You bet there’ll be one and I’ll make sure you fucking take it solo.’ He storms off. No goodbye. No good luck. And why should there be? He’d worked it out only recently. Gomez is way smarter than he is.

  61

  Pilar

  Pilar sleeps for an hour. She dreams that she’s lost something but can’t remember what it is, and it is only when she comes across a pool and looks into it that she realizes it’s the moon. It hovers like a crown above her hair, a crescent of blue and white light. Then she wakes, still within her slumber, and rests for ten minutes, until her heartbeat regulates and her vision fully focuses and she is able to stand without fear of fainting.

  She has a long shower, changes into the clothes that she brought to Mayor’s, then goes downstairs. The kitchen is empty. The floor gleaming. No sign of fury; no sign even of life. She prepares some food from the refrigerator. There are footsteps behind her, coming to an abrupt stop when Maya sees her. Pilar opens her mouth to speak, but Maya is already gone.

  She eats her food outside in the hot air. Then she washes up her plate and glass, goes upstairs and gets her bag. ‘What are you doing?’ Juan Antonio says as she starts to cross the courtyard. It isn’t a question. It’s an accusation.

  ‘I’m going to work.’

  Juan Antonio stands in her way, blocking the sun from her face. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
<
br />   ‘Don’t talk to her that way.’ It’s the new girl, watching from the shade.

  ‘She’s being absurd. And you stay out of it.’

  ‘Don’t talk to her that way.’ Does Pilar even care how he speaks to the girl, or is she just on autopilot?

  Juan Antonio stares down at her. ‘You haven’t slept in over two days. The strike is tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s why I need to work.’

  ‘There’s nothing more you can do. Please, Pilar, just this once, be reasonable. Save your strength for tomorrow.’

  Pilar walks around him. He watches her go, his face a mixture of exasperation and admiration. ‘You are the most stubborn person I have ever had the misfortune to know.’

  ‘And you are the most repetitive,’ she says, closing the gate behind her. The gate reopens quickly. She turns, ready for conflict, expecting Juan Antonio, but it’s the new girl. The new woman. She catches up with Pilar, so that they are walking side by side.

  ‘I’m going with you.’

  ‘I don’t need your help.’

  ‘But I want to help.’

  ‘So what? I don’t want you with me.’

  ‘You can’t stop me,’ Ventura says.

  ‘I can do whatever I want.’

  ‘Well, so can I.’

  Pilar sighs and increases her pace, calling back over her shoulder, ‘Then keep up with me. And if you want to make yourself useful, give me all the change you have.’

  Ventura fishes through her camera bag, coming up with a fistful of coins. Pilar takes them all, sliding them into side pockets. ‘Why do we need so many coins?’

  ‘Because we’re going to do a bus marathon …’