‘Comandante Guzmán, police. I’d like to see Don Bartolomé.’
The barman’s face scarcely moved but Guzmán saw his fear. He had good reason to be afraid.
‘Don Bartolomé is working upstairs, sir. In the office.’
‘Then you can show me the way,’ Guzmán said evenly, ‘before I start to take an interest in you rather than your boss.’
The man swallowed hard, gesturing towards a door at the far end of the bar.
‘After you.’ Guzmán followed the barman up the narrow stairs, his heavy steps muffled by the dusty, threadbare carpet. A landing, dark timbered and shabby, a lamp on a table providing meagre illumination. Beyond the landing, a series of numbered doors on either side of a corridor. Guzmán turned the handle of the first door and opened it. Total darkness. He pressed the light switch, spilling grey light over the sparse furniture in the room. A bed, a sink in one corner. A chair.
‘You have guests here,’ Guzmán said. ‘I don’t remember seeing a permit to run a hotel on display in the bar.’
The barman looked increasingly worried. ‘These are private rooms, señor. They are…’ he paused, ‘not for accommodation.’
‘I can imagine,’ Guzmán sneered. ‘Where’s the office?’
The man pointed down the corridor. ‘Near the end. Number twenty-four.’
‘I’ll follow you.’
Hearing a faint noise from one of the rooms, Guzmán wrenched open the door and reached for the switch. The room was suddenly illuminated in a bilious light. The two men in the bed were a twisted knot of limbs amid the tangled cheap sheets. They looked up in outraged surprise.
‘Who the hell are you?’ The man on top leaped from the bed, clutching a sheet to cover himself. ‘I’ll call the police. This is monstrous.’
Guzmán took a step towards the man and punched him in the face. He slumped to the floor groaning. The other man screamed in a voice so high even Guzmán was disturbed by it. ‘Christ.’ He stepped back into the corridor and closed the door. The screaming stopped and was replaced by sobbing. Guzmán pushed the barman along the corridor.
‘I only serve the drinks,’ the barman spluttered. Sweat ran down his face, despite the cold. ‘I have nothing to do with what goes on here.’
‘That’s what you say.’ Guzmán stopped outside the door of room twenty-four and raised a cautionary finger to his lips. ‘Go on, get lost,’ he whispered. The barman obeyed, moving quickly to the stairs. Guzmán opened the door and stepped inside.
It was a cramped and shabby office, a desk facing a small window at the far side of the room. The man sitting at the desk turned. Middle-aged, flabby-cheeked, balding. A thick moustache. Guzmán noted the cut of his jacket. Quality. Silk shirt and tie. Expensive shoes.
‘Quien es usted?’
‘Comandante Guzmán. Policía.’
‘Bartolomé Alvarez, para servirle.’ Alvarez looked at Guzmán impassively. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’ll let you know,’ Guzmán said, noting the man’s expensive ring and his fancy watch. ‘Business is good then, Don Bartolomé?’
‘I can’t complain, Comandante,’ Alvarez said languidly. He seemed very self-assured. That was reason enough for Guzmán to dislike him.
‘I can.’ Guzmán sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘Do you realise just how many charges I could bring against you for running this place? Even renting rooms without an official permit is a serious offence. Doing so for the purposes of pederasty and prostitution as well means I could throw the book at you.’
Alvarez smiled. Guzmán was astonished. He was expecting a stumbling explanation, perhaps the offer of a bribe. Not the patronising grin of some backstreet ponce.
‘I think the comandante is perhaps a little confused,’ Alvarez said, maintaining his supercilious air. ‘This is one of those businesses you have no need to worry about, señor – if you get my meaning.’
Guzmán felt indecisive, wondering precisely how he would begin the beating.
‘What I’m saying,’ Alvarez continued, compounding Guzmán’s anger, ‘is that these premises are protected. I don’t expect to be bothered by you or your colleagues because I know one phone call will be enough to curb any interest you have in my activities. Let me make it clear: I am protected.’
‘Not from me, you’re not.’ Guzmán had had enough. He seized Alvarez by his collar, hauling him to his feet. The man continued to protest right up to the impact of the first blow. He gasped and sank to the floor where he knelt, clutching his belly. ‘Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?’ Guzmán snarled. ‘You’re breaking the law and you try to tell me it’s none of my business? Hijo de puta.’ His next words dissolved into an angry growl as he kicked Alvarez in the ribs. Alvarez sprawled on the floor, groaning. Guzmán stood over him.
Alvarez struggled to his knees. He was having trouble breathing. ‘Apologies, Comandante. A misunderstanding. Perhaps you’re not aware of my little arrangement.’
Guzmán was having trouble controlling himself. ‘Señor Alvarez, I want to know about some of your clients. The ones who did the work for Don Enrique at the Bar Dominicana.’
‘Of course,’ Alvarez agreed, clutching his ribs, ‘the property buying? What do you wish to know, Comandante?’
Guzmán hauled Alvarez to his feet and pushed him into his chair where he leaned forward, holding his stomach.
‘Do you have anything to drink?’ Guzmán asked.
Alvarez pointed at a small cabinet. Guzmán inspected the contents and took out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He poured the drinks and handed a small glass to the other man who took it with a shaking hand. Guzmán filled a glass for himself and swallowed a large mouthful.
‘You were aware of what these men were doing?’
Alvarez nodded. ‘Assisting with the acquisition of commercial properties…’
‘If you treat me like an idiot, señor,’ Guzmán said quietly, ‘I shall maim you and believe me, I’m not exaggerating: we do it quite often in the Brigada Especial.’ He waited for Alvarez to take in the fact that he wasn’t dealing with some ordinary copper. Sure enough, the man’s face grew appropriately pale. Guzmán continued, ‘They were engaged in buying properties using assumed names. Properties destined for use in illegal activities. You were aware of this, so we’ve already established your guilt. All that remains is for you to assist me by giving me the names of the men involved. If you don’t, then you’re under arrest and we’ll continue this conversation in a cell in my comisaría. Entiende?’
‘I understand.’ Alvarez nodded eagerly. ‘Of course I’ll assist.’
‘I want the names of all the men involved.’
‘Of course,’ Alvarez nodded, ‘they weren’t bad boys, Comandante, I assure you.’
‘Names and addresses,’ Guzmán growled.
‘They’re in my card index.’ Alvarez turned to his desk and fumbled with a series of neatly written cards arranged in an ornate walnut box. After a couple of minutes, he produced four cards and handed them over.
Guzmán looked at the first card. It was written in a clear script: name, age, interests and pastimes, employment. He went through the other cards. All men aged under twenty-five, all single. Two with no known employment. One working in a library. And the final card, Jaime Posadas, aged twenty-five, employed as a civil servant at Servicios de Inteligencia Exterior y Contra Inteligencia – or at least he had been: a line had been drawn through the words.
‘Jaime Posadas,’ Guzmán said. ‘I want his address.’
‘That young man?’ Alvarez said, with a flicker of a smile. ‘A very popular choice, Comandante, in much demand. You obviously have taste in your companions. There are others beside yourself who—’
Guzmán smashed his glass into the man’s face. Alvarez screamed as he fell from the chair. He lay, clutching his face with both hands, blood oozing through his fingers.
‘I only want his address,’ Guzmán said, brushing shards of glass from his hand.
‘M
y address book,’ Alvarez groaned, pointing at the desk. Guzmán yanked the man to his feet and pushed him towards the desk, blood spattering down Alvarez’s silk shirt. Guzmán waited while Alvarez went through the leather-bound book. ‘Jaime Posadas,’ Alvarez said, relieved, handing the book to Guzmán.
Guzmán tore the page from the book and pocketed it. ‘Why did you think you were immune from prosecution?’ he asked.
Alvarez hunched in his chair, trembling with pain and shock. ‘It was made clear when the premises were purchased from me.’
‘You don’t own this place?’
‘Not any more,’ Alvarez said. ‘The property was purchased on the understanding that I would manage it for the new owner. And, in return, I was told that I could keep the profits with just a contribution, in return for which I was assured I was protected. I pay the money every month.’
Guzmán scowled. ‘You pay protection money to the person who bought the place from you? Who is it? Vamos, señor, I want a name.’
Alvarez hesitated for a moment but thought better of it. ‘It isn’t paid directly to him, you understand. But we all know who it goes to in the end.’
‘I said who?’ Guzmán was getting impatient.
‘The general.’ Alvarez looked down. ‘General Valverde.’
Guzmán wondered whether to kill Alvarez. Dead, he could do no harm, but alive, he could be even more useful.
‘Thank you for your cooperation, Señor Alvarez,’ he said. ‘That will be all.’ He opened the door and went back down the dingy corridor and through the now empty bar out into the street. Crossing over, Guzmán blended into the shadows of a small alley. If he was correct, Alvarez would be calling his protector about now. And, if he was lucky, someone might show up to protect him, belatedly of course. Maybe even Valverde himself, or possibly the Dominicans. It was worth waiting in the cold for a little while at least. The light from the bar’s open door spilled out onto the dark cobbles. Guzmán drew his pistol and cocked it.
A few minutes passed before Guzmán heard them coming. The distant sound of a car being driven recklessly. A squeal of tyres, then the throbbing of a car engine coming down the hill. A large black sedan pulled up outside the Almeja and two men jumped out and ran into the bar. Big men in dark heavy overcoats. Not Dominicans. The driver of the car kept the engine running and waited in the road, constantly looking round him. Right now, Guzmán thought, the men upstairs would be taking Alvarez’s description of his assailant. That would send a message to Valverde – at the very least it would annoy him to know Guzmán had found out what he’d been up to. What Guzmán had not expected were the two muffled gunshots inside the bar. No protection after all, then. The driver didn’t turn a hair, waiting until the two men came out of the Bar Almeja before he got behind the wheel and gunned the engine. The other two were in no hurry either, Guzmán observed. Nor were they worried if they had been seen. The taller one even took off his hat before bending to enter the vehicle. The pale light from the bar was feeble, but even with such slight illumination Guzmán could still recognise Positano.
MADRID 1953, CALLE BERNARDINO OBREGON
A bustling street near the Plaza de Lavapiés. Posadas certainly doesn’t live well, Guzmán thought. People passed him, wrapped in rags, their patched clothes a symbol of shared poverty. It was nine o’clock and some shops were closed though the street was still busy. Guzmán didn’t care much. Being seen wasn’t a problem when you were the Law. He found the entrance to Posadas’ building. He waited and when a woman laden with shopping opened the door, he followed her into the hallway. She switched the hall light on, illuminating the stairway with a pale sourness, as much shadow as light. She moved to her door, turning to look at Guzmán who was studying the mailboxes.
‘Qué quiere?’ Her voice was harsh and challenging.
‘I’m looking for Señor Posadas, señora,’ Guzmán said cordially.
The woman scoffed. ‘You mean Señorita Posadas. What do you want with him?’
‘I have business with the gentleman,’ Guzmán said.
‘Business? Hombre, everyone who comes to see that gentleman is here on business.’
‘Buenas noches, señora.’ Guzmán climbed the stairs.
‘Another maricón.’ The woman fumbled for her key. ‘I hope the police get you.’
Posadas’ flat was on the first floor. The hallway was dingy and smelled of damp. Guzmán tapped on the door. Inside, he heard the sound of someone moving.
And then a cautious voice through the door, ‘Quien es?’
‘Señor Posadas? My name is Alberto Loinaz. Don Bartolomé Alvarez sent me.’
The door opened and Jaime Posadas peered out, squinting in the half light.
‘It’s late,’ he said, ‘I was just going to bed.’
‘Don Bartolomé said you’d be good company.’ Guzmán smiled. ‘For a man who has money.’
Jaime’s face brightened. ‘In that case, please come in. You’re new to Madrid?’
‘Oh yes.’ Guzmán closed the door behind him and followed Posadas into the small living room. He paused by the window. The curtain was open, giving a clear view of the street. In the building across the road, he saw a cleaner at work in a dingy office. He sat by the fire and waited for Jaime to take a seat.
‘There’s some bad news for you,’ Guzmán said. ‘I’m a policeman.’ He held up his identity card, watching Jaime’s horrified reaction. ‘I expect you to answer my questions truthfully. Otherwise we’ll fall out. Entiendes?’
Posadas nodded vigorously. ‘Of course, señor.’
‘Muy bien. All I want to hear from you are answers to the questions I ask. Nada más.’
Posadas nodded again.
He was scared and keen to cooperate, Guzmán thought. This wouldn’t take long. ‘Bueno. I understand you’ve been a visitor at the Bar Dominicana?’
‘Don Bartolomé told me there was part-time work available.’
‘And this involved some gentlemen from the Dominican Republic, I believe?’
‘Yes. They said they wanted help with some property they were buying.’
Guzmán smiled. ‘And what happened after you’d bought the property?’
Posadas looked worried. ‘They were friendly at first. But they turned nasty. They knew where I worked, even where my office was. They started to bully me – said they would tell my superiors what I was. They didn’t want me for their property deals at all.’
‘I see,’ Guzmán said, ‘so they blackmailed you. And what did you do for them?’
‘I had no choice,’ Posadas said. ‘You know how it is if they find out you’re… different.’
‘I don’t know at all,’ Guzmán said, ‘but I do know the law stipulates severe penalties for deviancy and perversion. In fact, I could charge you right now, under the 1933 Vagabonds and Delinquents Act. You’d do hard labour. Twenty years, I’d guess. Of course,’ he smiled, ‘you’d have all the company you could wish for – maybe you’d like that?’
‘No,’ Jaime muttered unhappily.
‘Then just answer my questions, coño. What did they want you to do?’
‘They said a policeman was asking for information. Someone I knew, Francisco Peralta. He’s a teniente at the police station at Calle de Robles.’
‘I know,’ Guzmán said. ‘He’s my assistant.’
‘Then I know who you are,’ Posadas stammered, wide-eyed. ‘You’re Comandante Guzmán. Francisco told me about you.’
‘He’d better not have,’ Guzmán growled.
‘Nothing secret. Just that he worked with you.’
‘Well, it’s good to know you two had a nice little chat about me,’ Guzmán sneered. ‘Who knew Teniente Peralta was coming to see you? Which one of the Dominicans was it? Was it this one?’ From his pocket, Guzmán produced the photographs Valverde had given him. Jaime looked at them and selected one. Goldtooth.
‘Don Enrique,’ Posadas said. ‘He did most of the talking. At first, anyway.’
‘Someone else
took over from him?’
‘Yes, but not one of the Dominicans. They said if I helped them I’d be well paid. And that I had to meet someone important. He came to the bar.’
‘Who was this important person?’
‘I don’t know his name. But he wasn’t Dominican. Or Spanish.’
‘You’re sure? He didn’t have grey hair, big moustache, look like a soldier?’
‘No, he was quite young. Very fit, muscular. Tanned as well.’
‘Joder, I want to know who he is, not marry him,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘If they didn’t say his name, where was he from?’
‘He was a foreigner. They called him the Americano.’
Guzmán smiled. ‘You’re doing very well, Jaime. Keep this up and we’ll have you back in the civil service in no time.’
‘He wasn’t the usual Americano from South America. You could tell. He was a Yanqui. He spoke good Spanish.’
‘So this gentleman told you what to give to Teniente Peralta?’
‘Exactamente. He had some cuttings and told me what I should say and how I should act. I had to get rid of the real information our people in the United States had provided and put the stuff he gave me in its place – that was easy. Then Francisco came to see me. Things went well at first. I gave him the information and he was pleased. We chatted for a while but then he turned nasty. His wife was always hostile to me and that came up. There was a scene and he denounced me in front of my colleagues. He even hit me. I had to resign.’
‘I know,’ Guzmán said. ‘But these things can be changed – as long as you’re cooperative. You just have to know the right people. Like me.’
‘Really?’ Jaime asked.
Guzmán nodded. ‘Tell me, the material from the United States, did you destroy it?’
Posadas looked down. ‘They told me to.’ His face told Guzmán he was lying.
Guzmán restrained an urge to slap him. ‘Jaime, if you kept any of that material, it will help you a great deal in getting your job back. Now, what did you do with it?’
‘I did wonder if I was doing the right thing. So I brought it home. Just in case.’
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 53
