From the shadows across the street he watches the students of Lia’s Art Studios leave the building and walking away in groups of twos or threes, carrying their portfolios under their arms. Mole looks at his watch. It’s a little after ten at night. He waits two minutes, crosses the street and enters the building. From the foyer he can see Lia, who has not yet noticed his arrival. She has an asymmetrical haircut with a quiff of shocking-red hair falling over half her face. She’s got a great body, and her lily-white skin is not marred by a mole, a freckle or even a spot, according to his memory of her body from very close range. Nobody would guess that this tiny woman is as powerful as a locomotive when she makes love. Miranda smiles with satisfaction; he feels his sex getting restless. Her unconditional loyalty to him seems a lot like love but also contains a good dose of gratitude, a rare virtue Mole values highly. He convinced her to give up prostitution, paid for her to take classes with a painter with an unpronounceable name, whom everyone called Bear, set her up in the studio and bought the equipment that allowed her to become what she is now, what she calls a plastic artist. Miranda thinks this is funny because, as far as he can tell, this girl hasn’t a touch of plastic about her. Lia’s charm sells more paintings than her brush and as a born survivor on her way to fame and fortune, she knows quite well how to deploy her virtues to their full advantage. Just as Lia starts to take off her apron, she sees him. She looks surprised, then freezes, then shoots him a sidelong glance out from under that cute red quiff. Then a smile, unreserved and also bright red, spreads out like a curtain to reveal a vaudeville of teeth, restless tongue and shining eyes.
Wow, this really is a surprise. Hi, Lia. It’s been so long, how are you? What you see… I missed you. I was abroad. Yeah, I saw you on the news. Oh, you saw me. I saw you. You okay?
Perfect. The family? Very well, thank you. What’s going on with your life? Do you have a minute? I’ve got all night.
Lia gives him a complicit smile and picks up the telephone.
Just a second, I have to arrange something. Hello, Clara, it’s me… Yes… No, nothing… If Ricardo calls, don’t answer your phone… I’m going to tell him you’re having problems with your boyfriend and I’m going to see you… You witch, how did you guess?… You’re evil… Anyway… we’ll talk tomorrow.
She hangs up and dials again.
Ricky… Everything okay, honey?… Listen, don’t come pick me up… No, nothing… It’s just that Clara had a row with Roberto, she’s really upset… You don’t mind putting it off till tomorrow?… Sure?… Ooh, I wanted so badly to see you… You don’t sound sad enough… I’ll call Clara and tell her I can’t… Sure?… Okay, that’s fine… Let’s talk tomorrow… Great big kiss… Okay. All squared away. Sure was easy for you to string him along. Not really, it’s in his interest, he’s married. Have you ever gone out with anyone who wasn’t? I don’t remember, I was very young. Where are you taking me? Shall we go eat? Let’s. What do you feel like? I’ll take you to a very “in” place. You’ll like it.
With one quick movement, she grabs her leather jacket and her purse, then turns off the light. She motions to Miranda to go out of the door before her. She closes and locks it behind her, takes his arm and walks quickly with him to the corner. They turn up an alleyway and stop in front of a boarded-up house. Under an enormous rubber tree, Lia turns and plants a kiss on Miranda’s mouth, which he reciprocates by putting his arms around her waist and pressing her against his body. Lia disengages, turns toward the main street and lifts her arm as gracefully as she possibly can. The taxi driver is young but the city has already poisoned his spirit. Lia is sitting next to Miranda, definitely pressing her thigh against his. Her aroma, the physical contact, the sound of Lia’s voice awaken each and every cell in Mole’s body, which is joyous and full of energy, anticipating the delights of this woman’s body that he knows he’s going to inhabit that very night when he’s a bit lightheaded from the wine they’ll have with their meal. The driver is listening to disco music at full volume. Lia gently strums her fingers against Miranda’s hand to the beat of the music. They do not speak. The taxi driver derives some kind of neurotic pleasure from speed and his remarkable skill at swerving in and out between the traffic and the pedestrians. He drives with cunning, passing other cars along Avenida Corrientes, which, at that moment, is relatively deserted. He pulls into the lead and catches the green wave, never letting other drivers sneak into the empty spots at the corners between the cars that are waiting for the lights to change. All the while he is constantly checking to make sure no sleepwalker wanders into the road from one of the side streets, modulating his speed as he approaches each light. In mere minutes they have crossed the city from Colegiales to near the Plaza San Martin, where Lia takes him by the hand and leads him into Morizono, a Japanese restaurant where Mandrake the Magician’s girlfriend prepares delicious rolls of raw fish with rice. Life has finally shaken itself awake. Prison has been left a thousand years behind.
9
Valli sees the sign from the freeway, takes the next exit, drives over the overpass and returns along the frontage road to Two Gold Coins grill. The last customers are still gorging themselves on pieces of mixed grill washed down with cheap wine. Horacio is stirring the coals and spreading them out to create the uniform heat he needs to finish cooking without burning a few large pieces of flank steak. Valli walks through the wood-framed opening hung with plastic that serves as a door. Fatso Horacio has left part of the grill without coals. That’s where he piles up the grilled chorizos he’ll heat up for that night’s dinner. Valli walks up to the bar and sits down on one of the stools.
How’re you doing, Boss? Where’ve you been hiding? I’m stopping by to pay you a visit. Wanna eat? Thanks, but I already did. I’ve got some grilled peppers with garlic that will make you lick your fingers up to your elbows. Another time. I’ve got a gig for you.
Horacio checks to make sure nobody is listening.
I heard Turcheli kicked the bucket. Heart attack. Right after his promotion. Tough luck. Who’s going to take his place? Filander. Can I come back? I don’t know, we’ll have to see. What you got for me? A hit, serious shit. Who? A former superintendent. Who? Lascano. Perro? The one and only. Didn’t he die? Not even remotely. There was a gunfight with some soldiers, but he got away. No shit, somebody must have had his back. Who’s protecting him? Protected him. Who? The one with the heart attack. Say no more, where do I find him? We’re tailing him. You up for it? No problem, what’s in it for me? Same as always, maybe a reinstatement, if everything works out. Everything will work out. Be careful, Perro’s no pushover. Don’t worry. You’re the one who should worry. Everything’s got to go just right. If you screw up or they nab you, you’re going to be lonelier than Adam on Mother’s Day. Have I ever screwed up? I don’t know. You’ll get me the gun? You get it yourself. Okay, okay, how much will you give me now? Five grand, will that do? That’ll do. As soon as I hear, I’ll let you know where he is. Done deal.
The next day Horacio parks his car in front of the Retiro bus terminal. Around his own neighbourhood, they call his Valiant II “The Panther” because of the of black spots showing through the yellow he painted on after he stole it. Horacio puts on the steering-wheel lock and walks into Villa 31, the shanty town. He turns down an alleyway and continues for about two hundred yards till he gets to the home of One-Eyed Giardina.
In 1965 anti-Peronist thugs organized a demonstration against Isabelita Peron, right in front of Hotel Alvear Palace in the middle of Barrio Norte, where she was staying. For a little spare change, Giardina signed up to be counted in this demonstration for the posh and privileged. But the plebs from the Infantry Guards beat the demonstrators with sticks and shot tear gas canisters at their heads. One of those canisters took out one of his eyes.
Horacio stops next to one of the hovels, in front of a paisley cloth curtain. He hears two men inside talking. He claps his hands. The voices stop. A moment later One-Eyed appears and invites him to come in. An ashen-f
aced man sits at a wooden table in front of a jug of red wine and a plate full of cubes of salami and cheese.
Sonia! Bring a glass for my friend.
A woman of undefined age appears from the next room, dragging her feet. She’s missing her two front teeth and the rest of them are broken and yellowed. She looks Fatso up and down and slams the glass down on the table.
This is my buddy, Jose. What’s up? Nothin’ much. It’s been a long time, Fatso. Yup, sure has.
One-Eyed looks at Jose and forces a smile. He serves Horacio some wine, then turns back to Jose and smiles.
Can we talk? My friend here was just leaving. Hey, no worries, I don’t mean to rush you. Didn’t I tell you he was just leaving? You were just leaving, weren’t you? Yeah, it’s getting late.
The goodbye ritual is short and sweet. After the man walks through the curtain, the other two check each other out during a long moment of silence. Finally, One-Eyed gets up, goes to the doorway, pulls back the curtain, looks up and down the alleyway and returns. He switches on the radio; a rasping cumbia is playing and he turns the volume way up.
Long time no see. You back in? Not yet. What’re you up to? I opened a grill, you should come by one day. Where is it? Next to Acceso Oeste, right after the Moron exit. It’s called Two Gold Coins; when you’re heading into the city, it’s on the frontage road on the other side. Where did you get that name? I opened it with the dough I made on a hit, a pretty-boy in a cabaret who had great big enormous eyes. When he saw he was done for, his eyes looked like two big gold coins.
One-Eyed’s formidable laugh finishes up in a hacking cough that turns his one eye red; he pounds himself on the chest to quell it.
Man, you are nuts. What do you need? A twenty-two long. Good timing, I’ve got a jewel. What is it? It’s not cheap. Show me. Wait here.
One-Eyed Giardina stands up, tells the woman to keep Horacio company and leaves. She sits down, lights a cigarette and stares at him while she fiddles with a box of matches. Horacio can’t remember if he’s seen her before or if she just reminds him of somebody else, but he knows that what he has in front of him is the ruins of a woman who once was beautiful. She still has some of a beautiful woman’s gestures, something her appearance can’t completely cancel out. Ten minutes later Giardina returns carrying a gun wrapped in a flannel cloth. The woman, clearly obeying rules long since established, immediately gets up and leaves. One-Eyed places the package on the table and lights a cigarette, motioning to Horacio to unwrap it. He slowly folds back the flannel. One-Eyed was telling the truth: there in front of him is a Ruger MK II. 22LR semi-automatic stainless-steel pistol. Few guns are as well made as this one. It’ll cost him a fortune, but it’ll be well worth it. Light, trustworthy, he’s never heard of one of these jamming. It has one feature that makes it the king of close-range shooting: the chamber is mounted on a system of springs that dampens the recoil from the detonation. The long barrel considerably reduces the report from this notably quiet pistol. To miss with this you’d have to be a real moron.
Seems you got yourself a good gig. You could say that. How much? Don’t you want to try it? Don’t need to, how much? Three grand, which includes one hundred hollow-pointed bullets. I’ve got two thousand. I guess you’re out of luck. Don’t fuck with me, how much will you give it to me for? Listen, you’re not going to find anything like this anywhere else, but if I don’t sell it to you today, I’ll sell it tomorrow. How much? Not a peso less than two thousand eight. Okay, but on one condition. What? For the same price you drive my getaway car. Okay, who’re you going to hit? A super. Do I know him? Bow-wow. Not Perro? Yup. In that case, not a peso less than three grand.
A few blocks from there, on Viamonte past Leandro Alem, Miranda is sitting and waiting for Bangs and Dandy at one of the tables in the back of El Navegante. He orders a bottle of Gancia wine and a plate of olives. He sees them enter: Dandy’s fatter and Bangs is more nervous than ever. They join him at the table. Anybody seeing the three of them would think they were co-workers out on a dinner date. They order pork loin with chips a la provenzal, red wine and soda water. Dandy digs in, Bangs talks non-stop. Miranda observes: the crow’s feet, the reading glasses, the slow reaction time, the unsteady hands, the hearing loss, the liver spots and that look of only slightly haughty resignation. Bangs speaks now with a lisp — his tongue is dual-tasking, making sure his dentures don’t pop out. Dandy’s movements are a lot less precise; he looks depressed, dispirited. The etchings time has left on his friends’ faces are merely a reflection of the same on his own. He looks at the three of them in the mirror on the wall and asks himself: I’m going to rob a bank with these buffoons? The prospect does not inspire much confidence; on the other hand, he doesn’t like the young ones. Those hoods are way too crazy, they snort a lot of blow, they want everything yesterday, they’re greedy and strung out, they turn violent at the slightest excuse, and at the drop of a hat they’ll stab you in the back or betray you without the least little qualm. He prefers old-school crooks, those who live by a code of honour, who aren’t going to turn you in or sell you out for a couple of pesos. People with experience, who’ve been inside and know it’s better to stay out. Like these two. Something can always go wrong, and time for robbery is always less than for murder. His plan is good, so good that he gets more and more excited as he spells it out to his accomplices, who also get excited just listening to him. His divine inspiration spreads a gold patina over all their regrets, which just a moment before had soured the scene with bitterness.
Here’s the deal: the bank and the nearby police station are both undergoing renovations. The construction workers leave for lunch around one and return around two. Fifteen minutes past one, the three of us arrive dressed as workers. I’ve already scoped out a place where we can get the company’s uniforms. You hang a sign in the door that says “Closed for Renovations” and stay put. Luckily most of the windows will be papered over for construction. You subdue the guard while I pack up the cash. At one thirty there are no squad cars on the streets. Especially not on that Monday when Independiente will be playing the final against the Brits. At the same time, another man will be blocking the police station parking lot with a truck, claiming he’s got materials to deliver. While the duty cop goes to find out what’s what, the guy driving the truck vanishes. We’ll make the handbrake on the truck stick, which will give us a few extra minutes. The getaway car will be at the door of the bank. We’ll be wearing suits and ties under our overalls. We’ll leave them in the car. The driver will drop each of us off at a different place. We’ll meet up three days later at a place I’ve already picked out.
The technical part of the discussion continues till midnight. They work out the details, weigh all the pros and cons. They decide that Mole will look after the loot and how they’ll divvy it up. The most complicated part is choosing the team. The three of them trust and respect each other, but it won’t be an easy matter to choose two others. One guy’s inside, another’s sick, the other’s retired, they don’t trust that one and that one’s crazy. They deal out then discard one name after another and finally decide on Fastfingers to drive the getaway car. Valentin, a drama student, will drive the truck. Mole will be in charge of setting things up with them. Valentin will place the order at the lumberyard. A few minutes before the order leaves the warehouse, he’ll show up and ask them to add a few things to it, then he’ll get in the truck with the driver to show him the way. Their destination will be an abandoned house that has a long driveway to the back of the property. When they get there, he’ll subdue him and leave him tied up in a shack in the back. Then he’ll take the truck to the police station and act out the delivery scene.
Mole hands out a few thousand to make sure nobody gets into trouble before the day of the robbery. At the door to the restaurant, Bangs stops the first taxi that drives by.
Where’re you kids going? I’m staying in the centre. I’m going to Haedo. I’ll get you close. No, no problem, I want to walk a little.
Dandy starts down Leandro Alem, then turns down La Boca on his way to his dealer’s house; he wants some good blow, not like that shit he sold him last time and that he’ll have to make good on now. Miranda starts toward Retiro. He’s going to scope out some weapons for the heist. He turns into Villa 31. When he’s a few yards from his destination he sees someone coming out of the same shack he’s headed for. Quickly, he slips down a side street and watches from the shadows as Horacio leaves. He can tell he’s a cop in a split second. He watches him walk away whistling. Then he steps out of his hiding place, goes up to the curtain and claps his hands. When One-Eyed appears and greets him, the stench of cheap wine on his breath hits him in the face like a backhanded slap.
What’s up, Mole? I’m right as rain, and you? Good, what brings you here? I’m looking for some equipment, but it looks to me like you’re keeping some pretty questionable company lately. What are you talking about? The guy who just left. What’s wrong with him? What do you mean, what’s wrong? I can see the mark of the police cap on his forehead. He’s out of the force. You don’t say. I’m telling you. What did he want? We’ve got a gig. Oh, really. You’ll be happy. Why? Let’s just say it’s the guy who nabbed you last time. You don’t say. And when’s that coming down? Don’t know, soon. What do you need? Guns. Just tell me how many…
10
It’s been two days since Ramona left him at a pension in Chacarita with a few australes, a bottle of analgesics and a lot of advice. She said she’d call or come by, but he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of her and has no way of getting in touch. This morning the owner came to ask him how long he’d be staying because someone else was interested in the room. He also told him he’d have to pay in advance.
Sweet money il-2 Page 5
