Her mind travels to a future after Giribaldi is dead, Anibal has left and Roberto… who knows? She imagines herself alone in the world, alone in life, making the first, only, and last free choice: to swallow an entire bottle of sleeping pills. In her mind’s eye she sees herself as an old woman, lying down on her bed to die. She sees herself dead. The ants, in patient procession, come to devour her. Her body will be communion for those indefatigable creatures whose only god is hunger. By the time someone finds her, there will be nothing left but bare bones; her flesh will have become part of that despicable army of obedient and minuscule beings who will remain in the house to torment its next residents as they have tormented her. In the end, the ants will be the victors, no matter how many she kills.
14
Alone. Lost. Confused. Wandering the streets. Surrounded by rushing strangers. Pursued. Hunted. Dressed as a construction worker and carrying a bag loaded with disorderly bundles of dollar bills. Trying to catch his breath, to calm down. Trying, without success, to quiet the wild beating of his heart, which is making him dizzy. Gasping for breath. The sirens of the police cars bounce off the buildings full of respectable white-collar workers. The adrenaline courses through his blood, prevents him from thinking, readies him for only fight or flight. Rage clouding his vision. His awareness that this state of mind is his perdition. Just when he feels his last edge of sanity cracking under his step, thunder echoes and it begins to pour. Strong, furious, as if it will never cease. A dense, ferocious rain, one that seems determined to wipe the human race off the face of the Earth. A rain that slows the rush and increases anxiety, that destroys the makeshift hovels of the poor and spoils the parties of the rich. A rain that forces suits paid out in six instalments to take refuge under the eaves and balconies, and their contents to look up to the sky, begging for a reprieve that will allow them to get to work on time. That’s when Miranda the Mole begins to walk under the downpour. Refreshed, renewed, composed. He thinks about Duchess. As if she had sent him this storm to abate the squall within. He walks for blocks like that, calmly, until he enters the mouth of the underground. He lets the first train go by. The platform is momentarily deserted. He stands behind the newspaper stand, takes off his soaking-wet overalls and stuffs them under the stand. His suit has yellow stains on it.
When he re-emerges at Primera Junta station, the rain has turned into cold, sharp needles. He enters a second-rate clothing shop. He leaves behind him, to the astonishment of the sales people, a trail of water that could almost have been blood.
In the changing room he takes off his stained clothes, puts on some new ones, and dries the bag off with the old. In this minuscule space of privacy he slips his thirty-eight under his belt, takes out ten bills of a hundred dollars each, puts four in one pocket and six in the other. He bundles up his used clothes and stuffs them under a broken-down stool. He ignores the salesman who helped him and walks resolutely up to the cash register, where a smarmy man is doing some bookkeeping. He’s the one in charge. You can tell because he looks like a rat. Miranda places six bills on the counter, in piles of two, two and two.
These two are for the clothes. Give me two hundred australes for these two. These two are so you’ll keep your mouth shut.
He subtly adjusts his jacket to show his weapon.
If you ever saw me, I’ll come back and kill you. Understand?
The rat immediately evaluates the deal on the counter: just one of those Franklins pays for the clothes and one more covers the amount of Argentinean money the man wants. He nods, picks up the six bills with his effeminate fingers, and stuffs them into his pocket; then he opens the register and places three bills of fifty australes and five of ten on the counter. He turns back to his bookkeeping as if Mole didn’t exist. He never saw him.
Goodbye, sir, thank you very much.
Miranda walks out slowly. Along the way, he picks a raincoat off the rack, pulls off the price tag and throws it on the ground. Once outside, he trots to the corner, and with one small shove steals the only free taxi away from an elderly gentleman.
Where to, sir? Just drive. I’ll tell you in a minute.
On the radio they’re talking about Percudani’s goal that beat the Brits in Tokyo. Miranda pays no attention to the driver’s enthusiastic remarks.
Take me on a little tour. Anywhere you want, other than the centre.
The driver looks at him through the rear-view mirror. Why did I have to get this deadbeat? He decides to ignore his passenger and starts driving slowly down Rivadavia, in the right lane, adding his horn to the general uproar. Unconcerned, Mole watches the wet city go by while he tries to work things out: first, where to hide the bag with the money; and then, where to hide himself. The robbery was a disaster, as usual, the victim of happenstance. A plainclothes cop, hoping to get his picture in the papers, was waiting in line at window 6. He’ll be there in the afternoon edition, photographed in a pool of his own blood. The idiot drew his nine millimetre, but so clumsily that it fell on the ground, right at Dandy’s feet. He doesn’t understand why fat people have a reputation for being so calm. Dandy lost his head and shot him straight in his chest with his sawn-off twelve gauge, and for no reason at all because the copper was already unarmed. He had the advantage, but he killed him anyway. Bad nerves. The cop jumped back when the shells tore into his chest, then crumpled onto the ground. People started shouting as if they were all getting killed. Then Dandy shot into the air to make them shut up. Damn fool — a piece of plaster the size of a large pizza fell on him. Fastfingers, waiting in the getaway car at the door, heard the shots, put it in gear and hightailed it out of there. Mole had already packed up the loot, so he closed up the bag and pushed the dazed Dandy outside. When they got to the door, he told him to run in one direction and he took the other. In these cases, the best thing to do is separate. As he ran away, Mole managed to see Dandy slip, dropping his shotgun as he fell, at the precise instant a patrol car drove onto the sidewalk — two policemen grabbed him, and one knocked him out with a punch to his jaw. Mole’s last glimpse was of Bangs running across the street.
A fuck-up, a major fuck-up. But that’s life. Even when you’ve got the whole thing planned out to the very last detail, unexpected things happen, and then there’s a chain reaction that ends up making a mess of everything. Or, as his grandfather used to say, when things are in a mess, the tip of the turnip points up. At least he came away with some cash, even if the bag with the money weighs three tons at the moment. He’s got to think fast, hide out somewhere until things calm down. Which isn’t going to happen anytime soon. Back in the bank there’s a dead cop, and the police don’t like that at all, they always think it could have been one of them. He doesn’t have much faith in Dandy if they put pressure on him, which he assumes they’ll do. He considers running off to Rosario, but he immediately discards that idea. Loro Benitez got nabbed a week before, and the Reverend is still breathing, barely and only as long as they don’t unplug him. Hell of a life I lead. Lia? No, Dandy knows her.
As he rides down towards the Avenida San Martin bridge, he’s already shuffled and discarded almost every possible place to hide. He decides to return to the one he has in the hopes that he hasn’t been followed for the last couple of days. He doesn’t think so, but you can never be sure.
15
Walking through the heart of the banking district, known as La City, Lascano feels alienated, as if Buenos Aires didn’t belong to him, as if an army of headless suits had taken over. The invaders are around thirty years old; they wear grey suits and loud ties. They keep their eyes peeled straight ahead of them, speak only to each other, have cords hanging out of their ears, and wouldn’t move aside even if their dying grandmother were trying to get through. Who are all these people, where did they come from all at once, and what happened to them? They go in and out of huge glass buildings. Some wear colourful backpacks, many haven’t shaved for a couple of days, most take refuge behind large sunglasses, all of them are in a hurry. They are insolen
t, shout when they speak and call each other boludos, or morons. As he walks down 25 de Mayo toward the business centre of the city, the crowd of boludos becomes denser and denser, more compact. He’s looking for the address he wrote down on a piece of paper; it must be one of these glass monoliths. In the lobby are two dark-skinned toughs dressed up in sheriff costumes, the little star badge and all. They look at all the men as if they want to punch them and at all the women as if they were about to rape them, but nobody looks at them, except others with the same colour skin. One of the cowboys is guarding a row of turnstiles in front of the elevators. Lascano watches as they all open the turnstile with the card they wear hanging off their waists. Modern shackles for these corporate slaves, he muses. The Turnstile Sheriff points him to a round counter where there’s someone who looks like the marshal in a Hollywood Western — though this one’s a Mapuche Indian. After a brief exchange and several longish pauses, he gives him a pass card and tells him to return it when he leaves, as well as a piece of paper on which he must get the signature of the person he is going to see. Now he’s absolutely certain: this is a prison. He gives the guard at the turnstile a smile, but the other makes no sign of having received it; he must be studying how to be a boludo. The card lets him through and he enters the elevator, where five uncomfortable-looking boludos have already taken up residence. One of them looks him up and down, as if wondering what this guy is doing here. Finally, the elevator vomits him out into a hot, carpeted corridor lit by small lightbulbs. On the wall is a huge reproduction of the bank’s logo. He walks up to the door and rings the bell, another light turns on and above his head a tiny closed-circuit TV camera focuses in on him.
Good morning. Lascano here to see Mr Fermin Martinez. Please come in.
As he opens the door he notices that it is much heavier than it seems. There to greet him is a girl dressed in a blue suit that matches the carpeting and the wallpaper. She’s gorgeous and, in spite of how very young she is, she’s known it for quite some time. She was probably born knowing it. She invites him to follow her, much too conscious of the effect of the swinging of her hips when she walks. She leaves in her wake an invisible cloud of imported perfume one could easily plunge into and sail away to one’s final destiny. Turning around like a model on a catwalk, she points to some blood-red real-Russian-leather chairs and asks him if he would like something to drink. Perro says no and stares at her as she walks over to her desk, where she sits down, crosses her legs and checks to make sure she is being admired. She regales him with the mere hint of a smile that looks a bit like polystyrene. There’s a small lamp above the armchair where Lascano sits down, which seems to have been placed there expressly to fry his brain, his feet grow warm through the carpet, ambient music comes faintly to him from somewhere, and every once in a while, a little peep…
Mr Martinez will see you now.
He opens his eyes to the vision of the torso and upper legs of the girl who is standing over him and smiling. He feels ashamed. If he knew he’d been waiting for half an hour, he’d be cross.
Forgive me, I fell asleep. I wish I could do the same. Follow me, please.
The office overlooks the renovations going on at the docks. The Rio de la Plata stretches out beyond: brownish grey, slow, treacherous. Fermin is standing next to a man with bright white hair, who’s sitting at the desk looking at something Fermin is showing him on a piece of paper.
Come in, Lascano, come in. I’d like to introduce you to Mr Makinlay.
The white-haired man stands up and reaches his hand out as Perro approaches the cherry-wood desk. His clothes alone are worth not a penny less than five thousand dollars, without counting the gold cufflinks, the watch and all the other trinkets. He speaks in a very refined voice, the voice of a man accustomed to dealing with kings; he himself looks like royalty. And he smiles as if he were on vacation in the Bahamas.
Mr Lascano, Fermin has spoken very highly of you. I understand you are a police superintendent. I was. Not any longer. Even better. He also tells me you are the best detective of the Federal Police. Tell me what you need and I’ll tell you if I can do it. Agreed. Let’s get straight to the point, then. Please do. There was a robbery at one of our branches. Uh-huh. The assault failed… partially. One of the robbers is dead, another is in prison and one or two escaped. If the assault failed, I don’t see why you need me. I said it failed partially. One of the ones who escaped did so with one million dollars. You call that a failure? Officially, yes. I don’t understand. That million dollars wasn’t supposed to be at that branch. It was a misunderstanding between the accountant and the armoured truck company. In other words, you can’t report it and so the insurance won’t cover it. To tell you the truth, sir, I’d rather not have anything to do with dirty money. Why do you assume it’s dirty money? Because if it weren’t dirty, you’d report it and the insurance would cover it. I don’t think you’ve understood me. Please explain. The insurance company requires us to keep track of all the cash at each branch. Because of an accounting error, this money didn’t get recorded, the accountant left it for the following day. He was negligent. Report the accountant. I can’t. Why not? Because he’s my son. And you’re sure your son isn’t an accomplice of the robbers? I’d like to be able to suspect him of that, but the poor boy is so stupid he wouldn’t even be capable of it. You’ve got to have some talent to rob a bank. If you say so… What do you want me to do? I need to find that robber and, if possible, the money. The essential thing here is that my son never comes under suspicion. What do we know about the robber? Almost nothing. And the one they arrested? You can interrogate him whenever you like, but he hasn’t let out a peep. What’s his name? No idea. You can speak with our contact in the police department. Who is he? Deputy Superintendent Sansone. I know him well. What are you offering? Three thousand now. If you find the robber, fifty thousand and ten per cent of the money you recover. And if I don’t recover anything? Too bad for you. And if I don’t find him? Also, too bad for you. And how will you know that I don’t just take the three thousand and do nothing. I don’t, but I pride myself on being able to read a person’s character, and you don’t seem like somebody who would do that. Anyway, if you were a con artist, Fermin wouldn’t have recommended you and, finally, Lascano, I know a little about your situation, and I don’t think you are in any position to make more enemies. Wouldn’t you agree?
Perro nods. Makinlay picks up the telephone and talks to his secretary. An instant later, the girl comes in, places an envelope on the desk and leaves.
This is for you. Do we have a deal? I guess so. From now on you’ll communicate only with Fermin. Whatever you need or have to say, you tell him. Understood? The one who pays, makes the rules.
Fermin hands him his card, takes his arm and walks him to the door.
At the corner of 25 de Mayo and Mitre there’s a cafe with a curved bar to sit at and drink coffee on the fly. It’s empty, too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. Perro sits down, asks for a double espresso with cold milk and a croissant. While the kid is preparing the coffee he goes over to the public phone and looks through the front pages of the phone book for the central switchboard of the police department. He sticks a coin in the slot and dials.
Good morning, this is Superintendent Lascano… I’d like to speak with Deputy Superintendent Sansone, please… Thank you… Lascano. How’re you doing?… As they say, only the good die young… Fine… Yes, I know… A mess, eh?… You bet… I need to see you… The guy you’ve got there from the bank heist… Yeah, I talked to that Lord somebody… Who is it?… Now?… Okay, if it’s got to be now, I’m on my way… In about an hour… Don’t mention my visit to anybody… No worries… That’s fine, I’ll call you when I’m almost there… Done deal… thanks… Bye.
He eats the croissant in two bites and drinks the coffee in three gulps. It hits him like a punch from Coggi the Whip who knocked out Gutierrez in the first round. Once he’s out on the street again, a shiver runs up and down his spine. He’s about t
o walk straight into the belly of the beast. Again. He’s sick of danger, but he goes anyway.
Sansone lets Lascano in through a small side door on Virrey Ceballos. Sansone is short and energetic, an unrepentant grouch, but a straight shooter. He leads him down dark, narrow, damp and empty corridors. They end up in a kind of reception room surrounded by barred doors. A beer-bellied sergeant stands up when he sees them and opens one of the doors, lets them through, then closes it behind him. He leads them to a cell door, opens it and steps aside to let them pass. They enter, and the sergeant returns to his desk. The man in the cell has his head wrapped in a bandage. When the door opens, he looks up, on guard. Perro has known him for ages; it’s Dandy Benavidez, a bank robber from Miranda the Mole’s gang. He’s pale and in a cold sweat. He shows all the signs of having been seriously roughed up.
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