by Rolo Diez
Convinced I was going to get nowhere if I continued talking to the four of them together, I pretended to write in my notebook, came out with a few routine comments about counting on their collaboration to see justice was done and set up a meeting with Valadez.
Chapter seven
Quasimodo’s real name is Jose Miguel Rivas Alcantara, but he’s known as Quasimodo because of the enviable gift he has of scaring the pants off everyone. He’s a good friend of mine, and, what’s more, he owes me a favour. Two years back I testified in his favour in a case of “extortion and abuse of authority”, when if someone had believed more in the sanctity of oaths than in those of friendship, things would have gone extremely badly for him.
He greeted me with an enthusiastic display of countless greenish teeth, we clapped each other’s hand as though we were beating a drum, then, as we always do when we meet, spent half an hour telling each other news about our colleagues. Quasimodo knew a lot about the rapist cops in Fuentes Brotantes but didn’t know a thing about how the wife of one of the big chiefs had been fucking around; he had information about links between commanders and drug runners but none about the row with the President’s people. We had a couple of coffees, smoked a few cigarettes, and then I asked him about Valadez. Things only exist if there’s a file on them. Quasimodo smiled his Nibelungen smile and went off to find a folder.
*
I called the office from a bar. Maribel’s voice sounded warm, but instantly fell the whole length of the thermometer when she heard who was calling.
I asked to speak to Silver Bullet and arranged to meet him at seven at the Insurgentes roundabout.
“I don’t know if I can make it . . . I’ve got a date,” Silver Bullet said.
I imagined him on a date with Maribel. I imagined her desperate beside the office boy and enjoyed the thought that the nymphomaniac was going to hate me even more.
“There could be a lot of dough in it,” I told him.
“How much?”
“Dunno. That depends on the guy and on us. But it’s there for the taking, and if we play our cards right, it could be a lot more than you think.”
“The thing is . . . ” he stuttered.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” I said and hung up. That’s what you always have to do in these cases.
Then I called Carlos to find out how he had got on with Lourdes.
“OK,” he said, in that flat tone of someone who has no real news.
“What did she say?”
“She said that if you want to talk to her you should have the courage and decency not to send a boy, and that in a few days she’s going to take me and Araceli to live with her.”
That kid gets to me sometimes.
“Did you tell her I’d paid the school fees, that I did a supermarket shop for six hundred thousand pesos and that our economic situation has improved dramatically?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She didn’t say anything. She just stared at me and said nothing.”
“Where’s your sister?”
“She went to the cinema with a boyfriend.”
“What!”
“Just a joke, boss. She’s upstairs, studying. Want me to call her?”
He’s got a sense of humour, the criminal. One of these days I’m going to forget he’s my son and, instead of laughing, I’ll smash his face in.
“No. I’m busy. Tell her I called, and I’ll call again. Don’t go out, and don’t open the door to anybody.”
I phoned Gloria and told her I’d be with her around ten.
“Have a cold beer ready for me, and something light to eat. And for dessert, I’ll eat you.”
“Promises, promises!” she laughed happily. I know that kind of laugh. Like all men, I’m a slave to them.
*
At seven I met up with Silver Bullet. Two days earlier I had asked him as a favour – putting on my best disingenuous face, which brings out the maternal instincts in some women, but apparently doesn’t arouse any kind of instinct in office boys – to call by the garage in Buenos Aires street, ask for Kiko and bring me the money he handed over.
“I couldn’t go,” an imperturbable Silver Bullet forced me to hear.
I decided to be realistic about it.
“Try to go tomorrow. Five per cent for you.”
Kiko hands over seven hundred thousand a week (four hundred go straight into the Commander’s pocket); in return we turn a blind eye: he has a green light to buy and sell stolen cars and parts – so long as he doesn’t get us into any trouble, of course. Kiko hadn’t paid for two weeks now, and the Commander was likely to bring it to my attention at any moment. Besides which, all things considered, fourteen days is a long time. If we let three payments slip, he might never pay again. Best to give a bit and avoid all risks.
“How much is in it?” my assistant wanted to know.
“A million four hundred thousand.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow.”
We had a beer in a bar, and I asked him about the date he had postponed.
“Not postponed, lost,” Silver Bullet said. “Laura took it really badly. She won’t speak to me again.”
“Why didn’t you stay to see her?” It’s always a good thing to test the discipline of your subordinates.
“With Laura I spend money, boss. With you I earn it. And I need lots of money.”
“Why do you need lots of money?”
“To take women out.”
At half past seven we were in another bar, two hundred yards further on from the first one. At a quarter to eight Valadez arrived, ordered a whisky, and allowed me to pay for it. We smoked a cigarette then I took him out into the street. “I want to show you something I’ve got in the car,” I told him. The Cuban looked nervous. Silver Bullet and I walked along, flanking him on either side, looking serious.
I sat behind the wheel. Silver Bullet sat beside Valadez in the back.
I aimed for dark streets in the Colonia Roma. I wasn’t worried about the couples in the shadows: there is no one more concerned with their own business. Twice Valadez asked: “What was it you wanted to show me?” After twice getting silence as the only reply, he didn’t open his mouth again.
I parked under a leafy tree and turned round in my seat.
“Look, Valadez . . . ” I paused to increase the suspense, and my tone was intended to show him that his situation had got more complicated. It was already a quarter past eight, I had another two appointments, and by ten o’clock I wanted to be with Gloria. I went on: “Let’s talk frankly. I’ve got nothing against you, and I wouldn’t want you to come to any harm. I don’t know how guilty you are, but you’ve got mixed up in some dirty business with that friend of yours who pretends to be an Interior Ministry inspector.” (When a cop offers the accused the possibility of blaming a third person, he is meant to understand this does not come free of charge.) “You know ministries don’t like to be taken for a ride, especially not the people in Interior. We’re not accusing you of anything yet, and I’d be very pleased to hear you demonstrate your innocence. Off you go.”
Valadez cleared his throat nervously, trying to give the impression he was laughing with relief, friendship and self-confidence.
“Oh, so that’s what’s worrying you! Listen carefully to what I’m going to say!” He was recovering his composure as he went along, while I was deciding that the next time he told me to “listen carefully” I’d give him a good punch in the stomach. “Look, it was all a joke. Someone I know made up the whole thing so he could collect a bad debt. All I did was go with him. My friend introduced me as an agent from Interior, and the other guy paid up. I never even said I was one. That’s all there was to it. Just a joke.”
“I don’t have a copy of the penal code on me,” I replied, “but I’ll send you one in jail. Read it carefully, and you’ll see how many years you could get for abuse of position and authority, for intimidation and fraud, extortion and a few other offences that you
r ‘joke’ might involve. That’s the problem with our lawmakers: they don’t have much sense of humour. Who’s your accomplice?”
“Gentlemen! . . . You’re putting me in an awkward position here! He’s a good person, and I wouldn’t want him to think I’m getting him in trouble. And he’s not my accomplice, because we haven’t done anything wrong. Although perhaps my associate did take things a little too far. Perhaps he did get a little out of control when I wasn’t around to keep an eye on him.”
I sat looking at him.
“His name is Osvaldo Cruz.” The voice is the mirror of the soul as well, and the Cuban’s sounded weak. “Ever since I came to Mexico, I’ve cooperated with the authorities. I have good friends in government.”
“Where does he live?”
“Apartment 2, 20 Cinco de Febrero Street, in Colonia Portales. I wouldn’t like this to get out. We’re all here to add our grain of sand, to help justice and democracy.”
“You’re done for, asshole!” Silver Bullet was quaking with indignation: there’s an actor hidden in every cop. “We’re going to take you in for interrogation, and you’re going to tell us everything, including how many hairs there are in Fidel Castro’s beard! You’ll rot in solitary while we haul in that damned accomplice of yours!”
“You can’t do that to me, Officer! I’m on your side! At the very least I have the right to a lawyer!”
As was only proper, this plea was aimed at me.
“We’ll do what the Commander here decides is right,” I explained, nodding at Silver Bullet.
“By the time we’ve finished with you, there won’t be much left to drag to a lawyer.” Silver Bullet was tougher than Bogart and Dirty Harry put together. “You’ve been stealing and dragging the name of a government department through the mud! I bet you don’t even pay your taxes! In case you didn’t know it, asshole, in this country you have to pay taxes whenever you do business!”
You could say a lot of things about the Cuban. But no one could ever accuse him of being slow on the uptake.
“Perhaps there’s some way of coming to a reasonable arrangement?” he said wearily.
The stage was set. I spoke the prologue.
“I’ve got a murder case to solve,” I said. “I’ve got more things to attend to, and my family is waiting for me for dinner. I’ll walk to the corner, and when I get back we’ll go wherever the Commander has decided.”
I lit a cigarette and stretched my legs. I would willingly have changed places for half an hour with one of those guys I saw being made love to without embarrassment but with intense pleasure. As though they deserved it, the bastards!
When I got back to the car I switched on the engine. The faces reflected in the rear-view mirror told me everything was fine.
“We’re going to Colonia Cuauhtemoc,” Silver Bullet said. “It’s near where you’re going, Officer. Go down Florencia, cross Reforma and take the first street parallel on the left.”
Five minutes later and I left them outside Valadez’s apartment. I don’t like leaving Silver Bullet to work on his own for the same reason I don’t like my daughter going out with boyfriends. Both of them are growing up, I know, and have to face the realities of life, but whenever I see them struggling with temptation I get the gut feeling that at any moment there could be a catastrophe. Of course, if Araceli succumbed, it would be far worse. With Silver Bullet there’s always the option of crushing his balls and sending him to hospital for the rest of his life. It’s a possibility he understands, because I’ve warned him of it several times. But what can you do with a lost childhood? What can you do with that first time, when you know it’s bound to be followed by a second time, and after that by all the numbers in the world? It’s hard. I’m not ready yet to become the father of a woman.
As far as the Cuban was concerned, I had no option. If I got directly involved in this “Let’s Share the Loot” operation, I would lose my moral authority for the murder investigation. Experience has taught me not to mix work and business. Even in the case of someone who has been so underhand, who you’re doing a favour by not throwing them in the slammer.
*
I headed for the Zona Rosa to see the Three Marias. Who was it who named them after a constellation? . . . I’ve no idea. Perhaps they themselves did, with that passion all whores have for artistic names. Perhaps they saw themselves as stars coming down to the city to bring a light to the heart of the sad and lonely; or maybe it was a client of theirs, some “mister” with a superficial knowledge of Mexican folklore. Or it might even have been me, as I was linked more closely than anyone to the three sisters’ talents.
Three years earlier, when Rosario started working at home in San Pedro de los Pinos, she never said a word. Three months had gone by before I even became aware of her existence. Then one day I started looking at her and discovered a pleasant face and well-built body. I’m not one of those slimeballs who think that by paying a minimum wage they not only get a shiny clean house but have found themselves a free sex slave into the bargain. All I did was look at her from time to time. It all started when Lourdes went to visit a relative in Morelia for a week. Carlos and Araceli left for school, and Rosario was on her own in the house for several hours. During the first few days there was her body and there was my temptation. (Something similar happened to Saint Anthony.) But nothing would have happened if I hadn’t got drunk and lost control. I don’t usually drink too much, although like every son of Darwin I like to get a skinful now and again. I hardly ever do so during the day, and whenever I have, it’s brought trouble. The fact was I arrived home pretty drunk only to find Rosario in a blouse that left her shoulders bare and revealed the top of her juicy little apples. What follows is a jumbled picture: talking to her, making her laugh, playing with her, chasing her, cornering her in the bedroom, tearing off her clothes. I was too excited, and came before I could even get inside her. Then there’s a depressing scene: the girl cries and you feel ashamed for behaving like an animal and still more ashamed you couldn’t do it. I ended up giving her a load of money and succeeding in calming her down. The next day I came back stone sober and gave it to her properly. Realizing she wasn’t a virgin reassured me a lot.
When Lourdes got back, not only was Rosario saying nothing, but I was silent too. And since in certain matters my wife is a better bloodhound than the entire Mexican police force, she said nothing either but within three days had kicked the maid out. I felt sorry for her, and a bit guilty too. I found her three or four jobs, but they didn’t work out. I lost sight of her for a month. By the time I met her again she was on the streets and having trouble with a pimp who beat her. I had to break his leg to get him to leave her in peace. I put Rosario in touch with some girls who worked for themselves. As time went by, her work inevitably led to other problems: permits, health checks and other hassles. I got into the habit of helping her. Rosario ended up bringing her sisters to the city and passing me my cut every month out of sheer gratitude.
I would never have taken it, but I realized this helped her feel more protected and less in my debt. And I’ve never accepted her offers of payment in kind. I’ve only very occasionally tried something from her delicatessen counter that I couldn’t get from Lourdes or Gloria, given their tendency to prefer routine and a classical approach. What I could not avoid was the Commander muscling in. He’s the one in charge, so he gets to hear these things. And he likes to employ one of the basic principles of public service: the one which states that any business or money a public servant manages to get his hands on beyond his salary has to be shared with his boss. I don’t like the idea, just as I don’t like pollution or water shortages. The Commander is over sixty; he’s a grandfather and doesn’t have much luck with the ladies, so perhaps that’s why he is so interested in payment in kind. Once a month I have to organize him a session with the Three Marias. Then, of course, along with a guest he brings with him, I find myself forced to take part in order to prevent the Commander getting ideas above his station or decidi
ng to take on the protection himself.
The three girls work from the Oasis Bar in the Calle Hamburgo, the Boboli Bar in the Plaza Florencia Hotel and other dark corners in the neighbourhood.
At the entrance to the Oasis I found two drug dealers I know tossing coins under the bar’s red neon light. I asked after the Three Marias, and they sent me to the Boboli.
The Plaza Florencia is a typical Zona Rosa hotel specializing in tourists who pay dollars. The Boboli is a cellar that operates as the hotel’s function room. That’s where breakfasts and dinner dances are organized for foreign families to enjoy the exotic side of local life at a favourable exchange rate. Some nights too it’s where groups of single men come to partake of special services. That’s where the Three Marias and other nocturnal butterflies come in.
I asked the receptionist if I could talk to Rosario. She disappeared inside and reappeared a minute later with a shimmering panther with shiny black curls, a model’s make-up and four-inch high heels, all the vitality and sexuality that can be poured into 123 pounds, which, as I looked more closely, I identified: it was Rosario.
“What’s up, big man?” she said, giving me an affectionate peck on the cheek.
Conclusion: anybody likes a neat piece of ass, and a full set of mammaries is a joy to behold, but what a man really wants is a woman who smiles at him, kisses him on the cheek and gently tells him a white lie by calling him big man.
“Just come to see you, so you won’t forget me,” I told her.
“I haven’t got anything at the moment, but there’s lots around,” Rosario said, a dialectic look on her face. “All I earned last week has gone, but there’ll be plenty for both of us. Right now I’m with the stupidest gringo I’ve ever met. And let me tell you: one, I’ve met a lot of gringos, and two, gringos in general are the stupidest people of all.”
