City of Knives

by William Bayer

He thought: I've come to an angry place.

  Yet he also saw sweet things: lovers walking hand-in-hand, beautiful women who showed dazzling smiles, joyful kids kicking around soccer balls in the parks, old men with long fishing rods fishing patiently from piers. Perhaps sweetest of all was a demonstration of striking musicians singing choruses as they picketed in front of the opera house.

  On a street corner in the posh neighborhood, Recoleta, he saw an old man, wearing a 1930s style zoot-suit and a jauntily angled fedora, mime tango verses to an amplified recording of the great tango singer, Carlos Gardel. Hank listened a while, then dropped some coins into the plastic cup at his feet.

  He passed street artists on Calle Florida drawing caricatures of people posing before them on stools. The displayed sample work always included cartoons of Che Guevara, Evita Perón and Gardel—the Argentine equivalent, he thought, of the American street artists' trio: JFK, Elvis and Marilyn Monroe.

  At night, after dinner, he ascended to the roof of his hotel, where he studied the configuration of astronomical bodies in the Southern sky. The sky seemed fuller, more star-studded than up North. Locating the constellation Centaurus, he shivered with delight, when, for the first time, he set eyes upon the Southern Cross.

  On his fourth day in Buenos Aires the weather changed, the humidity gave way to a crisp autumn breeze and the overcast sky turned clear and blue. People walked with purpose, and so did Hank, as he considered his predicament.

  DiPinto, with his pointed beard, petty expenses scam, and proposal to stage a robbery, was seeming more and more like a little Mephistopheles.

  But was he just a little one?

  There were things in Hank's past he didn't tell people right away. He hadn't always been a militaria dealer. He'd taught high school science for ten years; had worked two years as a private investigator for a Chicago law firm; and he'd always supplemented his income playing poker.

  Nor did he mention that the aspect of dealing in Third Reich militaria he liked best was the thrill of the chase. Employing psychology, stealth and instinct to track down a treasured object was for him the joyful essence of the game.

  When he was on the lookout for a particular dagger, he always asked himself basic questions:

  Where would I be today if I was a rare SS honor dagger brought back to the States by a WWII vet?

  What would a vet's widow do with me, after she found me in an old attic trunk after her WWII vet husband passed away?

  His answers led him to successful searching strategies: placing cleverly worded ads promising "Immediate Cash Payment" in little newspapers in the Midwest and South; haunting small town garage sales, rural gun shops and musty Army/Navy surplus stores.

  Now, on his fourth day in Buenos Aires, sipping coffee in an outdoor café, he asked himself:

  If I was the jeweler who saw the Göring Reichsmarschall dagger, where would my store be?

  Luisa Kim had given him a hint—she said she'd taken the dagger to a "local" jeweler. Thus one way to find the jeweler would be to ask DiPinto for the address of the Pedraza residence, and then, on the pretext of scouting the house for a robbery, he could scour the neighborhood for likely stores. Though this would entail a lot of legwork, it would give him a purpose as he walked the streets.

  Too many aspects of the game made him suspicious. He wasn't happy that he didn't know Mr. G's identity nor why Mr. G was paying him so well. He wasn't pleased that he couldn't communicate with Mr. G directly, and that Marci always refused to give him her telephone number or email address. As much as he liked her, he didn't feel he could trust her despite her well-intentioned warning that there might be "unsavory characters involved."

  Now he wondered whether DiPinto's cavalier attitude as he spoke of the possibility of staging a robbery, suggested that such a plan had been in Mr. G's mind from the start. If, in fact, that was how Mr. G intended to obtain the dagger, it suggested a level of dishonesty that made Hank very uncomfortable.

  He prided himself on being an honest dealer, one who refused to deal in fakes and didn't steal. Yes, he was ready to take advantage when he turned up something more valuable than its owner realized. That was what all antique dealers did. But a staged robbery was something else.

  Back in his hotel room, he phoned DiPinto to ask for the Pedraza's address. He wasn't surprised when DiPinto turned him down. He'd correctly anticipated what the detective would say and the pained soft-spoken manner in which he'd say it:

  "Sorry, Hank. Can't tell you that. In time, my friend...in time...."

  He put down the phone, stared out the window a while, then went out again to wander the avenues and continue to think through his situation.

  He was walking down a narrow street of watch repair shops, when the notion struck:

  There's more going on here than getting hold of a dagger.

  Chapter Seven

  PASEO

  "If you go ahead with this, Marta, you'll be fishing in very deep waters," Elena Lantini said.

  Marta nodded. Judge Lantini was what people in the criminal justice system called "a serious person." She was in her late fifties, tall and thin with a long thin nose and shoulder length silver hair. She didn't smile much, and she rarely stepped out of role. Best of all from Marta's point-of-view, she was fearless. As far as Marta was concerned the title "La Incorrupta" could as easily be applied to Elena as to herself.

  "I've heard things about Charbonneau," the Judge continued. Her office was paneled in dark wood. Law books weighed down the shelves behind her desk. "He was an acolyte of a crazy French immigrant named Mahieu, prominent during the Perón days. Mahieu was a fascist who preached racial theory to a small circle of followers. Charbonneau was the youngest of half a dozen nationalist priests who hung on his every word. Far as I know, he's never spouted Mahieu's poison, but now that he's a political operative, one has to ask what he brings to José Viera's table."

  Marta couldn't tell whether Elena was leaning toward acceding to her request, or backing off from it. From the time they'd worked together on the Casares Case, Marta felt the Judge liked her, but was careful not to fraternize.

  "When you say 'obstruction of justice,' Marta, are you saying you think there's a conspiracy?"

  Marta nodded. "I don't know who sent me those photographs, but Charbonneau's reaction convinced me he was lying. To my mind, in the context of a homicide investigation, that's obstruction."

  "Suppose I go along? Then what?" This was the question Marta had been waiting for. She'd prepared her answer the night before. "I'll continue investigating the two homicides. That's my principal case. Meantime, I'll try and use this secondary investigation to force Charbonneau and Viera to tell me the truth or ensnare themselves in additional lies. I believe the crocs tortured and killed Santini and Granic because they were involved in a blackmail scheme. I also believe Charbonneau and Viera are up to their ears with the crocs. I don't know who was being blackmailed, but I view an obstruction investigation as a tool to help me solve the homicides."

  Judge Lantini sat back. "All right, consider yourself assigned to investigate possible obstruction. I'll send over papers later today. Copies too to Charbonneau and Minister Viera. There's no way I can keep this secret. But I don't want to read about it in El Faro. If there're leaks, I don't want them coming from you."

  "Understood. Thank you."

  Marta rose. Lantini followed her to the door.

  "Be careful, Marta," Judge Lantini said, placing her arm over Marta's shoulder, the first gesture of affection the Judge had ever shown her. "Casares was small fry compared to Viera. It's almost certain he's going for the Presidency. He's slick and Charbonneau's tough. Don't expect them to roll over."

  She met Rolo outside Countess Natasha's building on Avenida Alvear, perhaps the best residential street in Buenos Aires. Unlike so much of the city, everything here was well-maintained, clean, glittering, redolent of wealth and power.

  "The Countess is expecting us," Rolo said. "Says she knows you."

/>   Marta studied the apartment house. It had the look of a deluxe building in Paris, the front door resembling the door to a vault. Marta was certain she didn't know anyone who could afford to live at such an address.

  The doorman was snobbish until he heard whom they wanted to see. Then he waved them politely toward the elevator.

  "I have a hunch the Countess is a big tipper," Rolo said.

  A beefy, heavily made-up maid in curly blonde wig, black uniform and frilly apron opened the apartment door.

  "The Countess is expecting you," the maid said in a deep masculine voice.

  "What's your name?" Rolo asked.

  "Countess calls me Milly."

  "But you're a man."

  Milly looked away. "This way, please," she said, leading them to the door of the salon.

  The decor, just as described by Ernesto Ponce, was entirely black and white: white walls, black leather-upholstered furniture, black and white photographs on the walls. A young, attractive, dark-haired woman, wearing a black pants suit and stiletto heel shoes, was sitting in a throne-like chair by the window. Her lipstick and shoes were scarlet, the only colored items in the room. She didn't rise to greet them.

  "I'm Countess Natasha," the woman said, smiling at Marta. "You probably remember me as Teresa Levi."

  Marta stared at her. There'd been a Teresa Levi in her high school, two classes behind. Marta didn't remember much about her.

  "I wouldn't have recognized you," Marta said.

  "Good! I wouldn't want you to. Or anyone else from school. But I remember you well. You were a heroine of mine. I've been following your career. 'La Incorrupta.' Very nice! Who'd have thought you'd end up a cop? And who'd have thought a nice Jewish girl like me would ascend into the ranks of the nobility? We should congratulate each other, Marta, don't you think?" The Countess glanced severely at the maid, still hovering in the doorway. "Milly, open a split of champagne, serve it, then leave us to talk in private."

  "Very good, Countess," Milly said.

  "Milly has a rather low voice," Rolo said, after the maid retired. "Is she—?"

  "Yes, Milly's male, acting today as my personal sissy maid. I'd appreciate it if you'd respect her fantasy. It means a lot to her. She's also paying me a great deal to fulfill it."

  "That's fine," Marta said, annoyed by Teresa's manner. "But Rolo and I didn't come here to participate in someone's fantasy. Also, let's cut the 'Countess' crap. Should I call you Teresa or would you prefer Ms. Levi?"

  "Teresa, of course."

  "We're here about the Ivo Granic murder."

  "Your cousin told me. He also told me the Window Dresser sent you. To set the record straight, yes, I did know Ivo. And as far as I'm concerned Ernesto Ponce's a lying piece-of-shit."

  "Fine. Now that you've got that out of your system, what can you tell us about Granic's blackmail operation?"

  "Not much. I liked the guy. I attended his parties. He tried several times to implicate me in his schemes. I always refused. I run a highly confidential business. My clients are loyal to me and I to them. I've never betrayed them and I never shall. So cooperating with Ivo was out of the question."

  "You told him that?"

  Teresa nodded. "That's when he tried to pressure me. He said 'You owe it to your people to help me out.' When I refused again, he threatened to spread it around about my background. He said he didn't think my clients would appreciate the fact they were enslaved to a Jewess. I told him most of them knew and they liked serving me with that in mind since in their heads it added to the humiliation they sought."

  Milly entered the room with three crystal champagne flutes and an open split on a tray. Marta waited until she left and shut the double doors before continuing.

  "What exactly did Granic ask you to do?"

  "I don't feel I have to tell you that, Marta. But for the sake of our friendship, I will."

  Marta nodded, though she found Teresa's reference to friendship pretty funny. She doubted they'd exchanged ten words back in school. But if Teresa wanted to play it that way, fine...so long as she told what she knew.

  "Ivo wanted me to engage in a covertly videoed scene with a well-known political personality," Teresa said, "a scene which, if revealed, could discredit the gentleman with his followers."

  "What sort of scene?"

  "Sadomasochistic."

  "You knew this man?"

  "Yes."

  "Yet you refused?"

  "I did. So I imagine Ivo found someone else. He had this girl, Silvia—not a dominatrix, but for the right amount of money she'd pretend to be. I read in the papers she was killed. They found her up the street by the cemetery wall. If I'd gone along with Ivo, I might have ended up there too."

  Though excited by this information, Marta didn't let on. If she could get Teresa to reveal the name of the 'well-known political personality,' that could help her understand why Granic and Santini had been killed.

  "Who was the mark?" she asked.

  Teresa laughed. "You expect me to tell you that?"

  "I do," Marta said gravely.

  "Well, I won't. Not ever. As I told you, my clients are loyal to me and I to them."

  "This is a homicide investigation, Teresa. We can force you to cooperate."

  "Don't act tough with me, Marta. I won't tell you even if you put me in jail. I'd be putting myself out of business...and a lot worse." She paused. "Look what happened to Ivo and Silvia. If I talk, I'll rightly expect the same."

  "We can put you in protective custody," Rolo said.

  "Are you kidding?

  "What's the problem?"

  "The problem, Marta, is my life! Who'd have thought a girl like me, from a Yiddish-speaking family, would end up living in an apartment like this? No matter what you think, I'm not a prostitute. I don't have sex for money. I work with clients the way a psychoanalyst does. It's a service business and I give deluxe service. Take Milly. She's vice-president of a bank. She comes here twice a month to participate in a psycho-drama. I help her by relieving her tensions, assisting her to balance her life by providing respite in the form of powerlessness. Frankly, she gets a lot more from me than she would from one of those pretentious shrinks peddling their mumbo-jumbo in Villa Freud."

  "What's your point?"

  "I'm not giving this up. I worked very hard to get where I am. There's no other educated woman in Buenos Aires who offers this type of service at this level. By that I mean total discretion, tremendous style, sensitivity and expertise. So forgive me if I refuse to cooperate. And forgive me too if I prefer not to die a violent death. And thank you very much for the offer of protective custody, but knowing what I know about the Federal Police, I consider that absolutely worthless. Even if you could protect me, what then? Set me up with a new identity in some God forsaken town in Patagonia? No thanks!" Teresa glanced at her watch, then stood. "I've a slave due here in half an hour. I must dress, make myself up, mentally prepare to devastate his ego."

  At the door, Marta turned to her.

  "Why the black and white decor?"

  "My decorator's idea. It stylizes the apartment, turns it into a theater-of-cruelty."

  "And the red shoes?"

  Teresa smiled. "Lipstick color. All the better to focus their eyes." She turned to Milly. "Right slut?"

  "Yes, Ma'am!"

  "And all the better to show them what they're expected to kiss."

  "What a bitch!" Rolo said, as they descended in the elevator. "Let's go back and arrest her. I bet I could get her to talk."

  "Maybe, maybe not," Marta said. "Anyhow, there's a better way. Next time she goes out, have the building superintendent let you in, then bug her apartment. Meanwhile I'll ask Ricardi for a surveillance team to video everyone coming in and out of the building. Sooner or later we'll get enough leverage to make her talk. Then if she still refuses, I'll make the ultimate threat."

  "Which is?"

  "What she fears most: that I'll spread it around that she spilled to us even though she didn't."r />
  That afternoon, she picked up Marina at school, drove her to tango class in San Telmo, then watched for a few minutes as the class began. Pleased by the way Manuel was partnering her, Marta blew them a kiss and left. Leon would come by in an hour, pick the cousins up and bring them home.

  She was in the process of unlocking her car when a man wearing sunglasses and a fedora approached her from the street.

  "Marta Abecasis?"

  She turned to him, noticed a scar on his cheek. "Yes?"

  Suddenly he grabbed her car key out of her hand, opened the car door, roughly shoved her inside, then got in beside her taking the driver's seat. He reached across her, opened the passenger door, letting in a second man, this one with a mustache, also wearing sunglasses and a hat.

  All this took seconds, after which she found herself pinned between them, unable to move her arms. While the man on her left started the car, the man on her right tossed her purse into the back seat, then held a gleaming knife to her belly.

  "Stay calm and look straight ahead," he ordered. She noticed a heavy gold ring on one of his fingers.

  "We're going to make a little paseo," the driver announced.

  When she turned to look at the driver, the mustachioed man grabbed her by her hair.

  "I told you, look straight ahead. Follow orders. Next time I'll use the knife."

  "Where're you taking me?"

  "Shut up!"

  He roughly placed a pair of wraparound sunglasses on her. The lenses, painted black, cut off her vision.

  "You're making a big mistake," she said. "I'm an Inspector in the Federal Police."

  The men laughed.

  "You think we don't know that?" the driver said.

  Five minutes later, when the car sped up, she understood they were on the freeway.

  "Listen up, Jew-bitch," the man with the knife said, holding it now against the side of her throat. "We're going to have some fun with you. My friend here's got a big dick. He's going to rape you front and rear, then I'm going to do the same. And guess what? Mine's even bigger!"

  "Don't you wish!" the driver said.