by Chris Leibig
“How much? Whatever it is, we can solve it.”
Torres tried to muffle his wail with both hands.
“Two hundred, maybe a little more. The interest doubles it every few months.” Torres rocked back and forth, arms around himself.
Two hundred thousand? Sam tried to remain expressionless. He could have made a long meeting out of the questions spinning in his head—How did it start? Why not go to a bank? How did he meet Steve Buterab? Is he an addict? Or is it gambling? But Sam decided not to. He knew Torres as a kind, smiling, law-abiding guy. A good, stern father and a doctor people really trusted. Whatever it was, Sam was sure he had his reasons to use a loan shark.
Sam’s former client, Steve Buterab, was a Hungarian guy in Bennet County known for his lucrative bookie business and was reputed to be a pretty big pot dealer. Steve’s father, Raj Buterab, whom Sam had only met once, was a rather notorious loan shark and an even bigger bookie that always seemed just legit enough to stay a free man. It was courthouse lore, true or not, that Raj was indirectly responsible for the bulk of the contributions to Mayor Douglas’s campaigns. Raj carried himself with the old-school manner of a polite mob boss and resembled an elderly version of the wrestler and movie star The Rock. Huge, fit, and with a full head of white hair, he could have played a successful Southwestern rancher, an Italian gangster, or the president of a Latin American country.
Years ago, Raj had stunned Sam by approaching him at a local coffee shop about representing his son on a drunk-driving charge. When Sam heard the astonishing fee Raj was willing to pay, Steve had become his first off-the-books client—the first of many referrals from Raj, including Barnabus Farley.
Sam had successfully defended Steve and eventually became a regular at Steve’s poker games in Bennet, a real game, with decent money at stake and a cut to the house every week. Sam had always known it was kind of sketchy, playing like that while working as a public defender, but he had appreciated the practice against opponents with real skin in the game. Steve came across as a nice guy, about Sam’s age, and had started to refer cases to Sam. But it was all a bit too coincidental that a doctor in a neighboring county who had hired Sam to represent his son was now in the hole to Steve Buterab. Not impossible—but not likely.
“Doc, did you by any chance get my name as an attorney for your son’s marijuana case from Steve Buterab?”
“I guess he did suggest it to me. I figured a criminal would know about such things. But I tell you, meeting you is the only good thing that’s come out of my dealings with that, that vulture! If I don’t come up with what I owe, he’ll destroy the office, my practice, and then my marriage. It’s over, Sam. I’m so far in the hole, and Renata knows nothing. You should see me, diving to hide the mail with the extra mortgage and credit cards. Oh shit! And I had an emergency delivery early tonight. A woman’s life was at risk from preeclampsia, and I was so stressed about my own problems my hands were shaking. Pathetic. I’m pathetic!”
Sam was about to ask why he had needed the money in the first place, but he did not need to. He could already tell it was nothing sinister. No drugs. No gambling. Just a guy trying to be a successful doctor with a little less-than-successful income. The cars, the home, the private schools, all a bit too much for his nice, quiet, solo practice.
“Tell you what, Doc.” Torres’s face froze. He stared expectantly at Sam. “Give me about a week. I’m going to try to take care of this for you. Cut a deal. Maybe get them to take less, at your pace. I know Steve. I know his father, Raj. Maybe they can be reasonable if they see you just need more time.”
Torres shivered, but straightened up.
“And I don’t break legs. I’m just a lawyer.”
“If you do this, I’ll never forget it. I’ll make it up to you no matter what it takes.”
Sam patted Torres’s shoulder. “I know you will. Just out of curiosity, what’s preeclampsia?”
Torres looked puzzled. “A condition where a pregnant woman’s blood pressure spikes,” he said. “Sometimes it requires emergency early delivery, why?”
“Sometimes I just wanna know stuff.”
CHAPTER 8
WHEN SAM ARRIVED HOME just after four in the morning he flipped through a stack of mail. Credit card bills, as always, but Barnabus’s new case would take care of them and then some. He opened the envelope from You Keep the Key Storage, where he kept the six boxes some friends had packed up from his mother’s bedroom and home office after she died. Sam had been paying the bill on the small storage space ever since—sixteen years. He thought about the boxes every once in a while, about looking through them, saving a few things, and getting rid of the rest. But instead, every six months, when the bill came, he paid it. This letter was different. State law had changed, and he had to personally appear at You Keep the Key Storage within sixty days to sign some paperwork. Whatever. Maybe he would pick up the boxes. Maybe he would just sign the papers.
One glass. Just one. He dumped vodka on some ice, making sure to give himself a nice pour since, after all, it would be only one. He sat with his drink in the soft leather chair in his living room. The journal, half in and half out of its brown envelope, lay in front of him on the coffee table next to his laptop. He pulled on a pair of blue, tight-fitting latex gloves, a box of which he kept in a drawer for just such situations. He picked up a cardboard-bound notebook, a small one, like those used by television detectives or reporters. He kept one in every big case: a personal notebook, not part of the file, not part of any formal record at all, just something for his own thoughts. Often, they were notes to no one—not the client, not the client’s next lawyer, not some nosy secretary. Sometimes, when Sam looked back at his personal notes on a case, months or even years later, he was astonished by his prescience, or lack thereof. Always, though, it was an interesting peek into the past of how his mind worked—or failed. He inscribed Andrada on the cardboard cover, flipped it open, and placed it on the table next to Camille’s journal. He quickly scanned over the small portion he had already read as he opened a Google browser. The Internet made things so easy; it was hardly even challenging anymore. It certainly evened the playing field, eliminating the difference between the truly knowledgeable or hardworking and all the rest. Any fool in an office cubicle could learn the history of China while on a phone call.
Bariloche—a town in southwestern Argentina, in Patagonia, which was believed in the 1520s to be the land of giants, since its indigenous people were taller than Europeans. Argentina, originally a Spanish colony, gained independence relatively easily, and Patagonia, Bariloche in particular, was settled largely by Germans—Nazis in fact. Swiss, Italians, and French. But Gypsies? Roma? The foreigners naturally would have become the elite of the region while the indigenous population suffered below them, but why would a European, an Eastern European at that, wind up living in a slum in Western Argentina?
Roma—The Romani people, originating in India but dispersed throughout the world, especially in Eastern Europe, but also in the Americas. Orange dots representing Roma, a subgroup of Romani, appeared on a population-density map. They clustered throughout Eastern and Central Europe in various pockets. Roma were variously persecuted throughout European history, most notably during the Holocaust. And yes, here it was: many were deported to Brazil during the colonial period.
Roma Girls’ Names—T. Talaitha, Tshilaba, Tsuritsa … Trinity.
Sam began to take notes. Many believed Roma, or Gypsies, originated in Egypt. An apocryphal story has them exiled from Egypt for harboring the infant Jesus. Many fictional depictions of the Romani people present romanticized narratives of their supposed mystical powers and habits of criminality.
Clearly, Camille’s mystery man knew of these special Gypsy powers; indeed, he narcissistically claimed them. Sam had a case a few years back, an unmedicated schizophrenic charged with murder, whose rants touched just enough truth to make one wonder, a sick but curiously brilliant mind. His former client had repeatedly complained about the
medication he was ordered to take while awaiting trial. It makes me dead inside.
Sam conducted several more searches until he found what he needed: The Romani people are present in Argentina with a population numbering around 300,000. They mostly live on the trading of used cars and jewelry, traveling all over the country. An Argentine soap opera called Romane, based around the Romani people in the 1980s, featured Chilean-born Romani speaking their native language with Spanish subtitles. Of course, the mystery man, whether Roma or not, could have learned all about them from his couch as his diseased mind evolved. And all that had nothing to do with whether he was really the Rosslyn Ripper. Certainly, a person can gain more than enough knowledge both of the Roma and the Ripper murders to pass initial muster. Even with the cops.
Sam scanned the journal and plucked out a few more terms to Google for significance.
The third hit was a Bible verse, the Standard American Bible. His computer screen depicted the words in an overdone Gothic script. Sam copied it down. Luke 4:3-8, and then 13.
The Devil said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” Jesus answered him, “It is written, one does not live by bread alone.” Then the Devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. And the Devil said to him, “To you I will give their glory and all this authority, for it has been given over to me, and I give it to whomever I please. If you then will worship me, it will all be yours.” Jesus answered, “It is written, Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.” When the Devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.
Maybe the mystery man likened himself to either Jesus or the devil in the old story about Jesus’s ability to resist earthly temptation. Maybe people like my mother or me are always born to a chosen or forgotten people.
Sam walked into the kitchen to pour another vodka. He then wandered into the bathroom. He rifled through a few drawers until he found some Q-tips and then returned to his work. He carefully swabbed the edges, front and back, of the top three pages of the unread section of the journal. He similarly swabbed the journal portion he had already read, knowing it would likely have his own DNA, which would distinguish swab one from swab two, since he had not touched the second journal piece from Sister Camille.
The writer sure doesn’t seem like a teenager. Especially not a teenager raised in poverty in a slum on the outskirts of Nowhere, South America so long ago. He either had been one special teenager or this was a rewrite, a final copy he had written as an adult.
As he often did with cases, Sam took an early guess so that later, when he figured everything out, he could see how astute, or not, he had been. He made a final note: Journal is not original, but author believes the story to be true.
Sam pulled out the pad where Camille had written the names of the church employees. He closely compared the writing to the tight cursive in the manuscript. He was no expert, but the writing was not even close. He looked hard at the tight cursive. He felt he had seen that writing before. But then, many people wrote in similar ways. Sam drained his glass, refilled it again, and leaned back in his chair to read.
FEBRUARY 21, 1957
I am worried about Paul. I fear that years of Miguel’s abuse has damaged him inside beyond repair. He is a smart kid but so angry and dark inside. When a black mood strikes him, he acts crazy. I worry he will be killed or arrested. For years, his fear of Miguel’s wrath subdued him. I’m not sure my mere love is up to the task.
Yesterday we stopped at a cantina on the side of a long dirt road. While I spoke to the owner inside about a place to sleep, a group of drunken men left the cantina. I heard the yelling, but by the time I burst out the door, Paul had stabbed two of the men with the small knife he carried. In the confusion of the ruckus, I leapt onto the motorcycle and spun it around, spraying gravel towards the cursing group of men, two of whom lay screaming on the ground. Even in the flurry of seconds between grabbing Paul’s hand and pulling him onto the bike, I saw in his eyes—in the hardened and menacingly confident way they looked during a dark spell—that such a mood had struck him. The drunks had been no threat at all. Paul had mistakenly believed we were in danger.
Today, our motorcycle roared and bumped over the dirt road into Buenos Aires. The colored lights of the city emerged from the darkness like those out of a magic kingdom. Paul sat behind me, hands gripping me tightly and head buried in my back.
“Hurray!” I called out over the loud motor. I wanted to be able to see his face, perhaps to see that rare occasion of a smile. His arms relaxed as we slowed. These outskirts were, of course, filled with my people—not Roma, but the shack dwellers without the means to live either inside or far outside the center of commerce. I revved past the shanties.
We entered downtown. I want a new life. Maybe one where we are happy, like the Americans on the comedy shows. Maybe I am not crazy or evil and only worry so because I have seen so little of the world. But I am learning that sometimes fate, pure luck, or some other force lightly pervading this world leads us to a place that makes sense—for better or for worse. As our motorcycle glided on the streets of Buenos Aires that evening I saw, within minutes, just what I was looking for. Room for rent.
“How old are you?” the cragged-faced landlord asked me.
“Nineteen, sir.” I felt his mind, soft at the edges but firm and circling around that which he knew well: money. He looked skeptical but saw the hundred-peso notes in my hand.
“Two hundred and fifty a month. Paid up front, the first of each month. One day late, you’re out.” His huge red nose sniffed. Annoyed. Neither Paul nor I had bathed in days.
I handed over the money and gripped Paul’s hand as we carried our backpacks down the hall. Underneath the smell of cooked meat and mopped floors, our new room in the back of the restaurant smelled like Miguel’s shed, a decaying animal’s cage. I knew by now that sometimes what I experience as a sense of smell is not about scents at all, but little glimpses into the past. The smell of fresh flowers follows a happy woman, a waft of feces surrounds drunks and liars, and a lemony, icy scent marks places of safety and generosity. The monkey-cage smell meant suffering has occurred here. Just now I tucked Paul into our one narrow cot and now watch him drift off as I write. Our slit window looks only upon an alley, but our room, nevertheless, pumps with the noise of the Palermo district and its even louder emotions. I have never been so physically close to so many people. I need to turn it off somehow.
Moments ago I opened the drawer on the small bedside table and found a roughed-up, hand-sized, Spanish-language Bible with red-rimmed pages. I opened it straight to a passage, the exact words of which I have now memorized. To place the Bible’s ownership beyond dispute, I wrote both of our names inside the cover on a space labeled Nombre, along with the date and Buenos Aires. Whenever I read my name in my Bible, I will picture this room and Paul sleeping deeply and so innocently near me. Maybe this Bible can make us happy. Trinity would be twenty-two years old today. Not sure why, with all our magic, I cannot tell whether she is alive or dead.
•••
Sam turned over the next page, which began with a new entry. So far, each entry had been dated, but it was not clear whether the mystery man was mailing Father Andrada every entry, or just selected ones.
FEBRUARY 23, 1957
I am unwilling to leave Paul alone in our room at the back of the restaurant. Instead, today we walked together through Palermo, scanning the storefronts throughout the barrio in hopes of stumbling upon a job.
I finally found a proper job for both of us. Shoveling shit at a chicken factory was not exactly what I had in mind, but the loose employment rules at such a place made it an easy choice. Though I am older, Paul is already almost as big as me and tremendously strong for his age. We thus appear closer in age than we are, a good thing for ten-year-old Paul in the job market. From all appearances, we will work with teenaged boys and girls, hunchbacked old ladies, and drunks. The manager s
ays I can work next to Paul all day, and I hope the calmness of my mind surrounding his throughout the day will prevent any sudden dark moods.
Tonight I read to Paul in our room, a ritual I plan to continue. I started with the Bible, the only book we have. There are many other religions, but Jesus reigns in Argentina. In my Argentina, anyway. This is the religion I am stuck with for now. Which is nobody’s fault, not even Miguel’s.
•••
Sam turned the page. The short entry was over, and the next entry skipped many months. He stood and refilled his glass again, at first only halfway. The bottle was almost empty anyway, so he filled the glass all the way, the last drips of vodka almost overflowing it, like raindrops falling into a pristine lake in the crater of a quiescent volcano.
Again, Sam reached out for a sense of the writer. If this were the Ripper, his sense of self-grandiosity would justify, even sanctify, the killings. But the current random violence didn’t quite fit. The boy’s killing of Miguel could be seen as self-defense. Paul, on the other hand, who at the age of ten gleefully knifed two innocent men while in a dark mood, might be a better Ripper candidate. With a sudden Etch-A-Sketch shake of the head, Sam erased these reasoned guesses from his mind, for that’s all they were. He hadn’t truly sensed anything about the journal’s author, whose voice was strong but whose spirit was opaque.
Sam turned to the next entry and paced the room while reading, a common practice of his. A bit like being in the courtroom.
JANUARY 2, 1958
Two days ago, New Year’s Eve, I sat alone at a table at a Retiro district street café as midnight neared. I was surprised by the emptiness of the square. About ten minutes before the square clock showed midnight, I heard a tremendous bang. Multi-colored balloons raced for the sky from atop a building. Just as suddenly, throngs of dancing citizens of all ages filled the street. Many wore costumes, from devil masks to dragon heads to clowns. As the crowd focused itself around an intense circle of drummers, I marveled at the utter lack of self-consciousness with which the dancers of all ages moved to the magical tune made by nothing more than drums, clapping hands, and a cacophony of joyous voices.
