Tequila Blue (5 page)

Pretty much what I had in mind.

*

I stopped at a household goods store and spent twenty minutes choosing an electric oven for Gloria. For some time I'd been thinking of buying one for Lourdes. But all's fair in love and war, and
if she was going to walk out on me, there was no way I was going to sing her a love song. When she comes back I'll buy her a microwave. She's going to be sorry for all the evil thoughts she had about Carlos Hernandez.

At the Copilco house I was received by the Oaxacan maid. She had nice teeth and legs, and looked a long way from forty-five, perhaps because all maids are unaware that old age always creeps up on you unseen.

A loose-fitting black sweater and skirt stood guard over Estela Lopez de Jones's consolable body. In the living room three people were engaged in what looked like a conspiratorial meeting. A thirty-year-old couple, so alike they could only be man and wife – grey suit, grey tailored suit; matching tie and dark grey stockings; brown hair and lifeless eyes, both of them formal and polite, complete hypocrites – were presented to me as Jones's accountant and his wife. I knew Valadez from his photo –
Been tried five times. Must have good contacts to still be going around free. The Interior Ministry has its eye on him. One of his known frauds is the habit of pretending to be one of their inspectors in order to extort money from unsuspecting victims
. Having a folder on current cases is useful: that way you know what kind of bastards you are going to run into. The question I wanted to ask Valadez was a simple one: what is the link between a Caribbean fraudster and a rich murdered gringo? Even if I didn't know the Cuban from his photo, I would have recognized him. Impossible
not to, with that shiny bald head, the tufts of brilliantined hair above his ears, his scrawny body in a black roll-neck under the grey suit threaded with silver and the wary look he gave me as I walked into the room.

No sooner had we been introduced, than Valadez asked me:

“How is the investigation going, Officer?”

“As you are aware, we are not at liberty to give any details while we are investigating.” I was trying to make them understand something people find so hard to grasp: it's the cop who gets to ask the questions.

I spent some time with them, without getting very far. The Cuban said he had been with Jones until eleven o'clock on Friday night. “Listen carefully to what I'm going to say,” he told me. “Jones was doing very well in Mexico. He had no enemies. I helped him with contacts and relations. That evening we had a few drinks and talked business. At eleven I left him. That's all there is to it.” The accountant and his wife had been to the cinema that night. They saw
Interiors
at the Elektra, and both thought Woody Allen was not what he used to be. According to the accountant, Jones's bank balances were in the black. Satisfactory and growing profits. The Cuban took advantage of this to boast how it was all thanks to his contacts. He managed to get in references to the former Soviet Union and the world situation, and to emphasize that it was thanks to them, the democratic Cubans who had begun the struggle back in 1960, that
communism had finally been defeated. “Listen carefully to what I'm going to tell you,” he said again. “The bearded one is the toughest nut of all. But one of these days we're going to overthrow him, though as ever it'll be others who take the credit.” Estela Lopez de Jones admitted that “very occasionally” her husband “fell back” into the temptation of unimportant adventures, which did not affect the stability of their marriage, since both she and Jones were “modern, broad-minded” people (when she said “broad-minded” I realized that was the expression generally used to sell pornography, and I had a couple of fleeting images of Estela and the tortoise). She considered it impossible for her husband to be mixed up with transvestites. That must be gossip in the scandal sheets.

Convinced I was going to get nowhere if I continued talking to the four of them together, I pretended to write in my notebook, came out with a few routine comments about counting on their collaboration to see justice was done and set up a meeting with Valadez.

Quasimodo's real name is Jose Miguel Rivas Alcantara, but he's known as Quasimodo because of the enviable gift he has of scaring the pants off everyone. He's a good friend of mine, and, what's more, he owes me a favour. Two years back I testified in his favour in a case of “extortion and abuse of authority”, when if someone had believed more in the sanctity of oaths than in those of friendship, things would have gone extremely badly for him.

He greeted me with an enthusiastic display of countless greenish teeth, we clapped each other's hand as though we were beating a drum, then, as we always do when we meet, spent half an hour telling each other news about our colleagues. Quasimodo knew a lot about the rapist cops in Fuentes Brotantes but didn't know a thing about how the wife of one of the big chiefs had been fucking around; he had information about links between commanders and drug runners but none about the row with the President's people. We had a couple of coffees, smoked a few cigarettes, and then I asked him about Valadez. Things only exist if there's a file on them. Quasimodo smiled his Nibelungen smile and went off to find a folder.

*

I called the office from a bar. Maribel's voice sounded warm, but instantly fell the whole length of the thermometer when she heard who was calling.

I asked to speak to Silver Bullet and arranged to meet him at seven at the Insurgentes roundabout.

“I don't know if I can make it . . . I've got a date,” Silver Bullet said.

I imagined him on a date with Maribel. I imagined her desperate beside the office boy and enjoyed the thought that the nymphomaniac was going to hate me even more.

“There could be a lot of dough in it,” I told him.

“How much?”

“Dunno. That depends on the guy and on us. But it's there for the taking, and if we play our cards right, it could be a lot more than you think.”

“The thing is . . . ” he stuttered.

“I'll pick you up at seven,” I said and hung up. That's what you always have to do in these cases.

Then I called Carlos to find out how he had got on with Lourdes.

“OK,” he said, in that flat tone of someone who has no real news.

“What did she say?”

“She said that if you want to talk to her you should have the courage and decency not to send a boy, and that in a few days she's going to take me and Araceli to live with her.”

That kid gets to me sometimes.

“Did you tell her I'd paid the school fees, that I did a supermarket shop for six hundred
thousand pesos and that our economic situation has improved dramatically?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She didn't say anything. She just stared at me and said nothing.”

“Where's your sister?”

“She went to the cinema with a boyfriend.”

“What!”

“Just a joke, boss. She's upstairs, studying. Want me to call her?”

He's got a sense of humour, the criminal. One of these days I'm going to forget he's my son and, instead of laughing, I'll smash his face in.

“No. I'm busy. Tell her I called, and I'll call again. Don't go out, and don't open the door to anybody.”

I phoned Gloria and told her I'd be with her around ten.

“Have a cold beer ready for me, and something light to eat. And for dessert, I'll eat you.”

“Promises, promises!” she laughed happily. I know that kind of laugh. Like all men, I'm a slave to them.

*

At seven I met up with Silver Bullet. Two days earlier I had asked him as a favour – putting on my best disingenuous face, which brings out the maternal instincts in some women, but apparently doesn't arouse any kind of instinct in office boys – to call by the garage in Buenos Aires street, ask
for Kiko and bring me the money he handed over.

“I couldn't go,” an imperturbable Silver Bullet forced me to hear.

I decided to be realistic about it.

“Try to go tomorrow. Five per cent for you.”

Kiko hands over seven hundred thousand a week (four hundred go straight into the Commander's pocket); in return we turn a blind eye: he has a green light to buy and sell stolen cars and parts – so long as he doesn't get us into any trouble, of course. Kiko hadn't paid for two weeks now, and the Commander was likely to bring it to my attention at any moment. Besides which, all things considered, fourteen days is a long time. If we let three payments slip, he might never pay again. Best to give a bit and avoid all risks.

“How much is in it?” my assistant wanted to know.

“A million four hundred thousand.”

“I'll be there tomorrow.”

We had a beer in a bar, and I asked him about the date he had postponed.

“Not postponed, lost,” Silver Bullet said. “Laura took it really badly. She won't speak to me again.”

“Why didn't you stay to see her?” It's always a good thing to test the discipline of your subordinates.

“With Laura I spend money, boss. With you I earn it. And I need lots of money.”

“Why do you need lots of money?”

“To take women out.”

At half past seven we were in another bar, two hundred yards further on from the first one. At a quarter to eight Valadez arrived, ordered a whisky, and allowed me to pay for it. We smoked a cigarette then I took him out into the street. “I want to show you something I've got in the car,” I told him. The Cuban looked nervous. Silver Bullet and I walked along, flanking him on either side, looking serious.

I sat behind the wheel. Silver Bullet sat beside Valadez in the back.

I aimed for dark streets in the Colonia Roma. I wasn't worried about the couples in the shadows: there is no one more concerned with their own business. Twice Valadez asked: “What was it you wanted to show me?” After twice getting silence as the only reply, he didn't open his mouth again.

I parked under a leafy tree and turned round in my seat.

“Look, Valadez . . . ” I paused to increase the suspense, and my tone was intended to show him that his situation had got more complicated. It was already a quarter past eight, I had another two appointments, and by ten o'clock I wanted to be with Gloria. I went on: “Let's talk frankly. I've got nothing against you, and I wouldn't want you to come to any harm. I don't know how guilty you are, but you've got mixed up in some dirty business with that friend of yours who pretends to be an Interior Ministry inspector.” (When a cop offers the accused the possibility of blaming a third person, he is meant to understand this does
not come free of charge.) “You know ministries don't like to be taken for a ride, especially not the people in Interior. We're not accusing you of anything yet, and I'd be very pleased to hear you demonstrate your innocence. Off you go.”

Valadez cleared his throat nervously, trying to give the impression he was laughing with relief, friendship and self-confidence.

“Oh, so that's what's worrying you! Listen carefully to what I'm going to say!” He was recovering his composure as he went along, while I was deciding that the next time he told me to “listen carefully” I'd give him a good punch in the stomach. “Look, it was all a joke. Someone I know made up the whole thing so he could collect a bad debt. All I did was go with him. My friend introduced me as an agent from Interior, and the other guy paid up. I never even said I was one. That's all there was to it. Just a joke.”

“I don't have a copy of the penal code on me,” I replied, “but I'll send you one in jail. Read it carefully, and you'll see how many years you could get for abuse of position and authority, for intimidation and fraud, extortion and a few other offences that your ‘joke' might involve. That's the problem with our lawmakers: they don't have much sense of humour. Who's your accomplice?”

“Gentlemen! . . . You're putting me in an awkward position here! He's a good person, and I wouldn't want him to think I'm getting him in trouble. And he's not my accomplice, because we
haven't done anything wrong. Although perhaps my associate did take things a little too far. Perhaps he did get a little out of control when I wasn't around to keep an eye on him.”

I sat looking at him.

“His name is Osvaldo Cruz.” The voice is the mirror of the soul as well, and the Cuban's sounded weak. “Ever since I came to Mexico, I've cooperated with the authorities. I have good friends in government.”

“Where does he live?”

“Apartment 2, 20 Cinco de Febrero Street, in Colonia Portales. I wouldn't like this to get out. We're all here to add our grain of sand, to help justice and democracy.”

“You're done for, asshole!” Silver Bullet was quaking with indignation: there's an actor hidden in every cop. “We're going to take you in for interrogation, and you're going to tell us everything, including how many hairs there are in Fidel Castro's beard! You'll rot in solitary while we haul in that damned accomplice of yours!”