The Black Minutes (45 page)

“Chief, its Cruz Treviño on the line.”

“Tell him I’ll call him back.”

Ever since they put Cruz Treviño in charge of the judicial police, Taboada hadn’t had a good relationship with his colleague. Taboada didn’t like it when someone beneath him got any power that made him look less important. He passed by the glass case where he kept his high-caliber firearms and stopped at his trophies hanging on the back wall: three deer heads and the head of a bear he killed in a nature reserve.
I need to take it to get fixed, the stuffing is coming out
.

At 8:15 Agent Camarena walked in.

“Have you seen Chávez?”

“No, sir. Not since yesterday morning.”

Camarena was a very hard-working young man, but in El Travolta’s opinion he wasn’t mean enough or smart enough to do interrogations. He’d have to start learning how.

“Find Chávez for me.”

When Camarena went out, the secretary came in. “Licenciado, they called you back from the state capital—”

“And why didn’t you give me the call?”

“Because you told me not to. If you want, I’ll call him back.”

The chief shook his head and lamented the fact that Lolita had
retired, his old secretary who knew all the criminals by name and nickname. Sometimes she could say who was guilty of a crime before the detectives had even left to investigate. But she had retired at the end of the eighties.

Taboada sighed deeply and told her to get him in touch with the state government.

“They say Mr. Campillo isn’t available, he can’t take the call.”

Now he’s the one refusing the call. Just my fucking luck.

He looked over the property-tax receipt again: Mile 31, Las Conchas subdivision. He was sure he had heard of that neighborhood, but he didn’t remember the context.

Sandrita knocked on the door at nine on the dot and walked into his office. “Mr. Cabrera’s wife called. She said her husband was run over last night. He’s unconscious at the state hospital.”

“Wait, wait. Which Cabrera? El Macetón?”

“Yes, sir.”

What was Cabrera up to? And before the girl could give it to him, he noticed a telegram in her hands. The envelope was from Customs Agency Number Five, but he knew who had sent it before he even opened it. Only one person sent him telegrams, an impatient person. He worriedly read the contents. No fucking way,
cabrón
, there’s a misunderstanding, and he fed the document into the paper shredder. Quite an invention, the paper shredder.

He looked around the back of the room and noted that the bear was still deflating. Everything’s fucked, he thought. He was going to have to go in person. Chávez was normally the mediator for issues having to do with customs, but he was nowhere to be found.

“Sandrita, call the restaurant at the Customs House and make a reservation in my name.”

Five minutes later, she told him, “Sir, they say they’re all booked up for the day.”

What the fuck, he thought, they’ve never told me that before. The situation had gotten out of control. He couldn’t request backup and he couldn’t go without protection, so he opened the display case where he kept the firearms and took out a .357.

The place to meet about customs issues was the restaurant Mogambo, the most ostentatious and expensive restaurant in any city in the region.

As soon as he parked, he noticed a woman waiting at the door. Instead of the normal bodyguards, a girl of incredible proportions was receiving the clientele. He was saying to himself that the lack of security was suspicious, when he noticed that two people working behind the counter in the store next door were watching him. In the parking lot, two pickups were idling, a man inside each one. Taboada noticed that all of them (every single one of them) was monitoring him. It wouldn’t surprise him if one of them right at that moment were to point a high-powered gun at him. What have I got myself into? This place is perfect for a massacre, he said to himself. Against his better judgment, he left his gun under the seat in the car, so they wouldn’t get violent, and headed to the front door of the restaurant. The hostess smiled at him.

“Good afternoon, sir, do you have a reservation?”

“I’m not here to eat. I’d like to speak with Mr. Obregón.”

“If you’ll just wait one moment, sir, what was your name?”

This girl must be new, he thought; for sure she’s from somewhere else. The girl left and came back with Vivar, Mr. Obregón’s attorney.

“It’s not a good time, Licenciado Taboada, the boss has a really tight schedule.” And he pointed inside the restaurant.

Vivar was almost six and a half feet tall and was wearing a dark blue suit that rippled as he walked. As they crossed the threshold, Taboada saw Mr. Obregon at the far end of the room, in front of several plates of goat meat. At the table, three stunning girls in low-cut dresses and an effeminate young man laughed at his jokes. Taboada started to walk toward them, but the bodyguard cut him off.

“Over here, please. Licenciado . . . please.”

Vivar took him to the table farthest away, at the other end of the room. One of the bodyguards was smoking at a nearby table, his hand under the table like he was holding up the barrel of a gun. So this is the table for questionable visitors.

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Obregón.”

“The boss isn’t able to receive you, Licenciado. Please relay whatever you would like to say through yours truly. I’m at your service.”

One had to recognize that Vivar was an educated man. There was a reason why he was the lawyer for the boss of the Paracuán cartel.

“He complained about an issue that I had nothing to do with. I’d like to explain the misunderstanding and ask him for a favor.”

“Just a moment.”

Vivar went over to Mr. Obregón and relayed the message as his lunch companions pretended to look away. How ridiculous, Taboada thought. Since when do I have to talk through messengers?

“Sir, it’s Chief Taboada.”

“I know who it is, tell him not to fuck around.”

He saw his intermediary lean over and whisper in his boss’s ear.

Mr. Obregón looked very upset. His voice carried across the room.

“Tell him I said El Chincualillo is one of my people and ask what he locked him up for. I don’t know how he’ll do it, but I want him out.”

Judging by his tone, he’d spent the night drinking. Taboada understood he’d picked a bad time, but it would be worse to postpone it now.

Vivar sat down in front of him again. Before he could convey the message, Taboada said, “I already heard; you don’t need to repeat it. I’ll look into what happened, but the investigation is already well under way. Best case, we could transfer him to the prison in the capital, where you already know the way things work.”

“That’s not going to be good enough for him, but I’ll tell him. Something else, Licenciado?”

Taboada accepted his reprimand, but he still needed to find something out. “Was Bernardo Blanco in touch with your people?”

“Please don’t insinuate—”

“Of course not. But I thought perhaps someone from your organization might have acted on his own, someone who wanted to make a good impression with Mr. Obregón.”

Vivar sucked his teeth. “I can answer that one: we haven’t seen Mr. Blanco in a year. We’ve had no contact with him since the day of the interview. If you’re really interested, Mr. Obregón said last night that if you want to find who’s responsible you should look around you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You should know.”

He thought about it for a minute, then stood up. “I appreciate your help. Tell him I’m very sorry and I am more than willing to—”

“I will, Licenciado.”

Vivar shook his hand and led him to the door. Although Mr. Obregón did glance at him, he didn’t say good-bye. The relationship was falling apart.

As he took the avenue back to the office, Taboada saw the white highway they had just finished. He remembered the receipt he’d found among the journalist’s personal effects and told himself it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take a look at the Las Conchas subdivision.

Chief Taboada took the brand-new highway and passed by the lagoon. A sign marked the turnoff he was looking for:
GRUPO ENLACE. BUILDERS
. As he approached a barbed-wire fence, he saw a building emerging out of the dunes. He parked his car and continued on foot. A small bonfire was burning a hundred feet ahead of him, in the sand in front of the building, a bonfire like the ones that construction workers make to heat up their food. Next to it, they had tied up a German shepherd that still hadn’t sniffed him out: finally, good luck, the wind’s blowing in my favor.

A mountain of bricks and cement blocks was piled on the dunes. Taboada ducked down behind them to watch a man walking toward the bonfire; he was stooped over and wrapped in a dirty serape. At first, he thought it was a boy leading him by the hand, but soon he realized that what he had thought was a boy was actually a dwarf. The stooped man raised his eyes and his front teeth showed. I know that guy, he said to himself. It couldn’t be . . . Jorge Romero! What is he doing here? Could he be the building’s night watchman?

In front of the bonfire, there was a carpet of trampled beer cans. The dwarf helped Romero sit down on a stump, and they talked as the dwarf warmed tortillas. A little bit later, a girl arrived with a container of food and started to serve it on four plastic plates. Romero shouted something unintelligible to his right
and another dwarf came out of the building. When they saw what was on the plate, the little men jumped for joy. The girl finished serving and the dwarfs attacked the food as if they hadn’t eaten for a long time.

Right then, the wind must have changed direction, because the German shepherd started barking. One of the dwarves scaled the mountain of blocks with difficulty, and when he got to the top, he saw the policeman and jumped up and down and pointed at him. The other dwarf was jumping, too, and Romero immediately lifted the rifle the girl passed to him. As a reflex, Taboada reached for his belt, looking for his .357, which agitated the dwarves even more. He’d just seen the Blind Man lifting the barrel of the gun when the rifle blast tore through a bag of cement. Holy shit, he thought. There was no reason to fire back if he had no way to cover himself, and if he wanted to get to the car, he’d have to run at least thirty feet in the open. Fuck, he said to himself, there’s nowhere to hide. From his spot in the dunes, Taboada saw the dwarves motioning in his direction, they were running toward him. A second rifle blast, even closer, forced him to jump to the ground. Shit, he said to himself, how can he be such a good shot? His eyes,
cabrón
. The dwarves are his eyes. When he tried to run away, he fell flat on his face right into a puddle full of mud. As soon as he could, he started to run down the slope and he kept on running until he couldn’t hear the barking anymore.

He couldn’t go back to his office looking like such a mess, so he went home to take a bath. As he took off his mud-covered clothes, he had the idea of calling Camarena.

“Find out who Grupo Enlace belongs to. Who owns it. And look for Fatwolf and the Bedouin. Tell them to come to my house.”

He waited ten minutes, which seemed to last forever, and since they hadn’t called him back he called the office again. The girl answered.

“Do you know who owns Grupo Enlace?”

“Yes, sir. Grupo Enlace belong to the governor’s brother. My sister-in-law works there.”

Damnit, girl, he said to himself, you’re finally worth something.

“I’m on my way.”

“Licenciado,” said the girl, “Mr. Campillo just called for you. He says the governor wants to see you in the capital at eleven o’clock.”

Taboada sighed deeply and collapsed on the bed. This is how it starts, he told himself: one day the governor calls you and it’s all over. Back to the street, you fucking dog, thanks for your help. He had helped governors, mayors, secretaries of state, and even union leaders, but suddenly he wasn’t needed anymore. What bullshit, he thought. The governor had wanted to put someone
he trusted in the port, someone who could look out for his businesses. The way things were, he could choose to fight and win some time, stay on top of things, but he couldn’t lose sight of the fact that the governor still had four years in office. . . . He could also negotiate for a good pension, some repayment for many years of loyalty.

“Thanks,” he told her, “call them and tell them I’m on my way.”

I’m on my way? he said to himself, no fucking way! He remembered an important detail: he had already seen a similar situation, a long time ago, when they got rid of Chief García. He wasn’t going to let them do the same thing to him, so he picked up his cell phone and called his office.

“Licenciado?”

“Has anyone gone into my office?”

“Mmm . . . just Camarena, sir, when you went to eat.”

Camarena? He didn’t expect that one.

“And did he take anything?”

“No, I asked him what he wanted, and he said he was looking for you.”

“But did he have anything in his hands?”