A heavy, marital silence descends, now denser, more unbending, irremediable. He looks at her, she looks back at him and for the first time understands how different they are in every way. She has the sensation that they are no longer a man and a woman of the same species, that they never really were, they were only ever joined in some kind of unnatural symbiosis. Whatever it was that kept them together has shattered in a way that is beyond repair. They are two strangers stranded in this field of lovers. We are of the material world, she thinks, and the material world exacts its revenge. Just like when a job is shoddily done, without mindfulness or respect. A thing poorly done remains like a curse, always there to remind us of our faulty workmanship.
When Susana gets out of the car, Miranda turns off Sinatra. He feels like crying, like breaking something. He has the worst of all sensations: impotence. She’s right, there’s nothing he can do to make things right, to fix what he set out to destroy. She has always been loyal and faithful, and he always knew he was ruining her life, but over and over again he figured he’d pull one final job that would lift him above the fray, and then they’d be able to go to another country and live the lives of kings, and never worry about anything ever again. But that goal was as phony as a three-dollar bill. Because what Miranda really likes is to take risks. All that crap about going straight once and for all is just a ploy to justify himself. Now the time has come to pay off his debt to Duchess. He feels like his heart is crumbling inside his chest. He doesn’t make the least effort to hold her back, to try to convince her, to seduce her as he has a thousand times. He stays in the car until he gets so cold he has to drive. Two days after Duchess’s goodbye, Miranda parks his car in front of her uncle’s house. He doesn’t have to wait long before he sees his son cross the street with a hurried step. He rolls down the window and calls out to him. The young man stops and, surprised and baffled, looks at the man in the car.
Papa?… Hey, son. Get in.
Which he does. He sits down in the passenger seat, throws his backpack in the back seat and stares straight ahead of him, in silence. At that moment he feels like he hates his father.
When did you get out? A few days ago. And you’re already in trouble again. It’s my style, what can I do? How is it possible that somebody of your intelligence simply doesn’t get it? What should I get? Something you yourself told me when I was still a little kid. What did I tell you?… That if your main investment is your body, you’re not in the right business. We say all kinds of crap… It’s not funny. What isn’t funny? You’re not the only one in danger. The other day they tried to kidnap us. Mama told me. Yeah, she spent the whole day crying. One of the cops gave us a message to give to you. Who? Lascano. He said you should turn yourself in to him, that you’d be safer. Thanks. Leave it to me, I’ll work it all out. You’d better. I want to talk, I’ve got something very important to tell you. I can’t now. You in a hurry? Yeah, I am, in fact. Can we meet for lunch? When? Whenever you want. Tomorrow?… Where? Remember that place we used to go when I’d pick you up from school? On Luca Street? That’s the one.
Fernando grabs his backpack, gets out of the car without saying goodbye and walks away. It doesn’t take Miranda long to get Flores’s phone number.
Flores, Miranda here… Why the hell are you fucking with my son?… You’re a family man, you sonofabitch… I don’t give a fuck… Okay… What do you want?… Not a cent… no more than a hundred grand… I said no… Are you nuts? With that money I can blow you and your entire family away. Take the hundred and stop busting my balls… I’m telling you, no, Flores… and don’t make me lose my patience… Okay… Good… I’ll take care of it… I know, Flores, it won’t be the first time… Friday at the latest… No… No…
25
What the hell do you mean he wasn’t there?! Just that, he wasn’t there. Did he escape? He couldn’t have escaped because officially he wasn’t even there. They never booked him? No. What happened? Depends who was at the station. If it was Roberti, Miranda paid him off with the money from the heist. If it was Flores, Miranda is probably dead and buried after a brutal interlude. What do you think? I want to believe it was Roberti. Why? Humane reasons. Mole isn’t a killer, he’s just a bank robber, and an old-fashioned one at that. Seems you kind of admire him. I’ve always admired intelligence and Miranda is a very intelligent guy, though his methods… Too bad he doesn’t use his intelligence for something worthwhile. What do you want me to tell you, Pereyra? That in a country like this one, where the government, in cahoots with the big companies, robs people of the desire to live, where a guy can spend his life busting his balls and all he gets is a pension that doesn’t even pay for his morning coffee… Better to be poor and honourable, Lascano. Oh, really? So tell me, why are the prisons so full of poor people? Because they don’t have money for lawyers. You’re an honest bloke swimming in a sea of corruption and trying to keep your nose above the shit. Let’s say, I’m a little more honest than the others, but the truth is, I don’t know if it’s out of conviction or cowardice. And I don’t really care to find out. I just hope, Lascano, that when I’m your age, I don’t think like you do. And I, Marcelo, share that hope for you, with all my heart.
Once outside, he decides to walk. He has in his pocket all the information he needs to get in touch with Eva. Juquehy… He likes that name. The problem now is where the money will come from to get there. Mole has vanished and he’s losing steam; he couldn’t care less about anything besides finding Eva and seeing if there is any possibility to begin a new life with her somewhere else. Eva is like the Promised Land. He considers going to the bank and telling Fermin that he has found out that Mole is in Brazil and he needs to go there after him. If he can’t get any money out of him, he’ll at least be able to get him to buy him a ticket. Once there, he’ll play it by ear. It’s not the most honest idea in the world, but that doesn’t worry him too much. He searches through his pockets for Fermin’s card, but in vain. He thinks that anyway it’s better to go in person. He picks up his pace as he heads to the bank’s offices in the centre. Along the way he rehearses his speech. If things work out well, great; if not, God knows what he’ll do.
The minute he enters the building, he sees that it’s been redecorated. Its previous atmosphere of a postmodern barracks has made way for the aesthetics of an expensive hair salon. The security people, the sheriffs who used to guard the entryway, have metamorphosed into young men wearing blue suits, with refined manners and eternally damp hair. The turnstiles have disappeared. The bank’s impressive emblem has been replaced by the image of a sun shining on an ear of wheat wrapped in a banner on which is written “ Banco del Pueblo ”, The People’s Bank. Lascano heads straight for the elevators, gets into one with a group of boludos — some things haven’t changed — and hits the “five” button. When he gets to the fifth floor, he sees there’s nothing there. It’s empty, the walls stripped bare. Two workers are gathering up their tools.
Hi. Good afternoon. Didn’t a bank used to have its offices here? Don’t know, could be, we’ve been clearing everything out because tomorrow another company is moving in. Who hired you? Tepes, the architect. Where can I find him? We’re also waiting for him, it’s payday.
The elevator opens and a short, stocky and irritable-looking man appears, wetting his fingers as he counts out a thick wad of banknotes. He sees Lascano, stops counting and stares at him. He looks him up and down and immediately understands that he’s a cop. He wonders what he wants. Just to be safe, he asks him to wait a second. He pays the workers and dismisses them.
Are you Tepes, the architect? I’m not an architect, superintendent. I’m not a superintendent. So we’re in the same boat. Might as well be. Might as well be. How can I help you? Look, I’m trying to find the people from the bank that used to have its offices here. You’re out of luck. Why? Don’t you read the newspapers? It was taken over by the government; seems they were involved in a lot of monkey business. Then word spread that the bank was about to go under and all the cust
omers made a rush to get their money out. Then what happened? The directors grabbed the dough that was left and took off. You don’t say. That’s why I always keep my money in cash; you can’t even trust the banks in this country.
26
Through the telephone earpiece, Pereyra’s secretary’s sharp voice informs him that the prosecutor wants to see him right away. The edge in her voice puts him on guard. A few minutes later he is at the door of the courthouse. The line for the elevator is too long and he doesn’t want to wait. He climbs up the wide, empty staircase. But on the third flight, which is the first floor, he feels like his heart is about to explode. He sits down to catch his breath. Once he has recovered, he walks across the corridor and presses the elevator button. When it arrives, two very young female lawyers get out, seemingly indifferent to the effect their splendid bodies have on the men that crowd the elevator. On his way down the narrow corridor to the prosecutor’s office, Lascano doesn’t realize how much he hates this building because at that moment he hates the world, himself, everything. He feels sick, tired and disgusted.
We’ve got big problems, Lascano. Tell me something I don’t already know. I can’t seem to get out from under, but you, what do you have to worry about? That this guy is on the loose, for one. What guy? Miranda, who else could I be talking about? A bank robber implicated in the murder of three people has gone scot free, and all because you detained him illegally… Miranda didn’t kill anybody. That’s not what people around here are saying. I know, but he had nothing to do with the armoured vehicle job. How do you know? Because he told me. And you believe him? I believe him. It was a botched job, the robbers were interrupted by a patrol car that just happened to be driving by, and they took off. The cops took the opportunity to keep the cash. All you have to do is figure out if it was the robbers or the cops who killed the guards. When you’ve got Chorizo in the mix, anything’s possible. Who’s Chorizo? A super from the Bonaerense precinct, the one who framed Miranda. Mole isn’t a killer, he’s a first-rate thief, an intellectual criminal. Doesn’t matter, intellectual or not, I want him in jail. What do you suggest we do about it? We? I’m not planning on doing anything; the truth is, I’m sick of all of it, Miranda is your problem now. What do you mean? There’s something I’ve got to do to try to fix my life, just a little, now that I’ve finally realized I can’t change the world. Can I help you? No, it’s something I’ve got to do alone, but I can help you with Miranda. How? If you want to nab Mole, tail his son. Miranda is a family man. Sooner or later the son will lead you to the father. Thanks for the tip, I was starting to think you were in this with him. If you want to know the truth, I’m not telling you this to further the pursuit of justice. Oh no? It’s just that I’d rather you get to him before someone like Flores does, someone who’d be capable of doing just about anything to get some money, do you understand? What are you going to do? I need to find someone who left the country, so I’m going to leave. I can get you back on the force, Lascano. You know what, Marcelo, if I did get reinstated, I’d last less time than a fart in a wicker basket. Why? The one who was protecting me was Jorge Turcheli. The chief who died right after he took over? He didn’t die, they killed him. The newspapers all said it was a heart attack. Don’t believe everything you read. What happened? The Apostles and Turcheli were vying for the job or, rather, there was a struggle between two different ways of seeing the Federal Police as a business opportunity. I don’t understand. The Apostles are a group of young officers in bed with cops who deal drugs. And? Turcheli didn’t like that; he always said that drugs always come with a lot of violence, and that those narcos don’t have any respect for anybody. Turcheli beat them out of the job, so they killed him in his office and made it look like a heart attack. I wouldn’t be surprised if the ones who did it had the blessing of some very important politicians. Now the head of the Apostles is sitting in his chair. I have no intention of hanging around to squabble with guys like that…
27
Horacio opens the small door under the grill and sees with satisfaction that the wood fire is burning heartily. Normally he doesn’t begin preparing the grill until an hour later, but today is not a normal day. With the money Valli gave him for the job, he’ll be able to pay off the last two instalments on the stainless steel grill he had put in two months ago. Outside, a storm is blowing, whistling down the chimney and pushing smoke in his face. This will be the first time he leaves the kid who helps him in charge of the grill. He’s been watching him work the last few days, and he trusts he can manage on his own, especially if not a lot of customers show up. He gives him some final instructions, then leaves him to do his job. He drags a bench over to the four-door freezer, reaches up and takes down the package that contains the Ruger he bought from One-Eyed Giardina. He says goodbye and leaves, gets into The Panther, stuffs the package under the seat, drives down the ramp, merges onto the motorway and continues toward Buenos Aires.
It’s around noon when he takes the Jujuy exit and parks along Moreno next to a truck depot. He walks through Plaza de Once, crosses the railroad bridge and, zigzagging, reaches the Abasto marketplace, where he arranged to meet Giardina, who’s waiting for him behind the wheel of an old, beat-up Renault 12.
You couldn’t find more of a wreck, old man? Don’t be deceived by appearances, you have no idea how well it runs. But there can always be problems. Relax, Horacio, this car you see here is a fiend. You want a demonstration? The only thing I want to do is finish this job and return to the grill, so let’s get going. What about the other car? It’s already in place.
They drive in silence. When they reach Aguero, Giardina points to a parked green Torino. Horacio gets into it; Giardina drives around the block and double-parks at the corner. From there he can see Horacio’s head through the rear window.
Horacio prepares himself for the wait. His target, Lascano, should appear on this block, but he doesn’t know when. His worst enemy is sleep. Boredom during indefinite waits can lead to dozing and then the target can get away. But he came prepared. He looks from side to side, then in front of him, then in the rearview mirror: apart from Giardina in the Renault, the street is empty. He takes a small envelope out of his shirt pocket, opens it and takes two generous snorts of blow into each nostril, using the long nail on his baby finger to shovel it in. He sucks off whatever’s left stuck under the nail, then puts the envelope back in his pocket. He takes the package out from under his seat, unwraps the gun, checks to make sure the clip is full, loads a round into the chamber, engages the safety catch and places it between the two front seats. He waits. There’s a walkie-talkie on the passenger seat so they can alert him to Lascano’s approach. But he needs to keep watch because they couldn’t guarantee they’d be able to warn him. The problem is impatience, as well as the paranoia the cocaine provokes. He looks through the rearview mirror. Nothing. He saw Lascano only a few times at the station. He never spoke to him, but he remembers him as a bitter and sulky guy. Horacio promised Valli that he knew him well, but now he’s not too sure he’ll recognize him when he sees him. He remembers he had a peculiar way of walking, as if he had springs on his heels — that’ll surely help identify him. The plan is simple. When Lascano walks by the car, he’ll get out quietly, walk behind him without him noticing, place the barrel of the Ruger under his ear pointing upward and pull the trigger twice. The advantage of the twenty-two long is that it doesn’t make a mess; it’s not powerful enough to send the bullet all the way through the skull, so it stays lodged inside the brain, where it’s impossible to remove. The victim doesn’t fall right away; he staggers a little as if he were drunk, then goes into a coma from which he never awakens. All he’s got to do is wait.
Lascano was on the verge of telling that punk kid, prosecutor or not, to go to hell, but he restrained himself. Anyway, he thinks, he’s nothing but a kid trying to stay afloat and keep clean in a pond full of shit. He’s sorry he wasn’t in the mood to give him some tips on staying alive. Considering the hornets’ nests he’s stic
king that nose into, it’s foolhardy the way he’s walking around the streets as if nothing would happen to him. He decides to go home on foot. He quickly gets away from the deafening traffic of Tucuman and Uruguay, quickening his pace until he reaches Cordoba. As he passes by the doors of the General Registry Office, the exuberant relatives of a glowing and smiling couple shower him with rice. He shakes the grains off his jacket and out of his hair, reaches the corner and turns toward Callao. The traffic is hellish here, too, but at least the roar dissipates across the breadth of the avenue. He’s tired and in a bad mood, and he has no idea where he’s going to get the money to fly to Brazil now that he’s failed to settle his accounts with the people from the bank. Apparently bankers are better accountants than he is. He decides to go home and see how much cash he has left. It’ll probably be enough to get to Sao Paulo by bus and stay there a few days. From there he’ll improvise. A Ford Falcon is parked across the street at the corner of Laprida and Cordoba. The sun reflecting off the windshield makes it so he can’t see Onionskin, an ex-cop, or the other two in the car with him. A breeze blows through the street, making a pile of papers dumped in the street swirl into the air. When Lascano can no longer see the Falcon, it drives off, screeching around the corner at full speed. At the next corner it turns toward Fuseli’s place and parks a few yards behind the Renault, where Giardina has fallen asleep.
Sweet money il-2 Page 14
