The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (27 page)

‘Not a happy general, your uncle.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Peralta sighed.

‘Has he ever talked to you about his dealings in medicines?’ Guzmán asked.

Peralta shook his head. ‘No, but then he barely speaks to me anyway. All I know is what María tells me and that’s very little. He’s a director of the company which imports pharmaceuticals for hospitals – that’s the extent of my knowledge. It seems a harmless sideline to me.’

Guzmán nodded. ‘Harmless. Not been seriously ill lately, have you,
Teniente
?’

‘No, thank God. No, I’ve been healthy all my life so far.’

‘Do you like bullfighting?’

Peralta looked puzzled. ‘Bullfighting? Well enough, I suppose. I rarely go. The general gets lots of complimentary tickets but none of them come my way. I listen to it on the radio when I can.’

‘Do you remember Manolete?’ Guzmán reached for two more drinks from a waiter’s tray. He emptied the contents of one into the other and placed the empty glass on the tray.

‘Manolete? Who doesn’t? I was in my teens when he died but everyone said he was the greatest bullfighter who ever lived. They still show his fights sometimes at the cinema. He was sensational.’

‘He was.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘It’s a shame your uncle killed him.’

Peralta’s jaw sagged. ‘Are you joking?’ he asked, already knowing Guzmán didn’t joke.

‘Not at all. Remember how he died after being gored at Linares?’

Peralta nodded: the photos of Manolete hanging from the bull’s horn adorned most of the bars of Madrid.

‘He died while they were sewing him up,
jefe
. He was gored in the femoral artery.’

‘Not fatally.’ Guzmán took a drink. ‘He’d still be around today if it wasn’t for your uncle’s products.’

‘What products?’

‘Dried plasma,’ Guzmán said. ‘They needed to make it up there and then so they could give him a transfusion. If it had been untouched, things would have been fine. It wasn’t and he was dead within minutes.’

‘Untouched?’ Peralta asked.

‘What I mean is, just like a barman in a brothel, your uncle makes his products go further. Only instead of watering down the brandy, he adds something to the products to bulk them up.’

‘And no one notices?’

‘Of course they do but after that they frequently die.’

‘And he does this with all the drugs he imports?’

‘No. He can’t risk a scandal. Some things he doesn’t touch. Particularly drugs that are used on the bosses in the military or government ministers. You be careful next time you get a scratch,
Teniente
, that penicillin they give you might not be quite what you hoped.’

Peralta finished his drink. ‘That’s despicable.’

Guzmán smirked. ‘Welcome to Spain,
señor
. Your uncle sells cut-price stuff to hospitals for the poor. The poor die. Only to be expected. That’s what the poor do, isn’t it? There’s no fuss because no one really cares.’

‘The poor might.’

‘As I said,
Teniente
, this is Spain. No one gives a fuck about the poor.’

‘But—’ Peralta never finished his sentence because Guzmán held up a great paw to silence him. Across the room Franco was bidding them all goodbye. A last regal wave and he was gone, leaving only the guests and their applause.

‘You forgot to introduce me,’ Peralta chided, hoping to lighten Guzmán’s mood.

‘I didn’t forget,’ Guzmán said, looking round for a waiter.

Franco’s exit gave them licence to make inroads into the buffet. The catering staff exchanged a few knowing looks as the two policemen returned yet again to the table, but none were unwise enough to say anything. Guzmán ate because he was hungry and Peralta ate because he thought he might never see so much food in one place again. Roast chickens, mountains of chorizo, seafood vol-au-vents, each dish a revelation to a hungry man. Between mouthfuls of potato omelette, Peralta could even forget for a while the slaughter they had carried out only a few hours before.
That Guzmán carried out
, he reminded himself.

‘I feel guilty you know,’ Peralta said to Guzmán as they refilled their plates.

‘Guilt? There’s a strange thing to feel when you’re stuffing your face,’ Guzmán said.

‘Yes, but I mean, María’s at home with the kid and here I am making a pig of myself. She goes hungry sometimes to feed me and the little one.’

Guzmán laughed. ‘Well take her something. One of these flunkeys could put you some stuff in a bag. I’m sure they’re going to steal what’s left at the end anyway. That’s right, isn’t it, my friend?’

The waiter looked round furtively. ‘Certainly, sir. God helps them who help themselves, no?’ And then, turning to Peralta, ‘I’ll make up a bag in the kitchen for the gentleman. Let me know when you’re leaving,
señor
, and I’ll bring it out for you.’

Certainly not,
Peralta thought.
Take advantage of one’s position when others are going hungry?
‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’

‘My name’s Raoul, by the way, and if the gentleman should wish to show his appreciation by way of a small contribution…’ Raoul smiled knowingly, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

‘He wants a few pesetas,’ Guzmán said. ‘That right, Raoul?’

Raoul grinned. ‘The gentleman is clearly a businessman. He knows how things work.’

Guzmán glared at the waiter. ‘The gentleman is a policeman. And he understands the way things work only too well. Now piss off and bag up some of that food, Raoul.’ Raoul was only too happy to follow Guzmán’s order and slunk away, pale-faced, to the kitchens.

Guzmán looked at the
teniente
’s bulging cheeks and nodded approval. ‘
Hombre
. Get it down you while you can.’

‘It means a lot to be able to eat all you want,’ Peralta said. ‘Did you ever go hungry?’

Guzmán bit into the pie in his hand. ‘All the time. We never had enough food when I was a kid. My father was always out of work and my mother was too ugly to be a whore.’

Peralta looked to see if Guzmán was joking but Guzmán continued, ‘We’d steal apples off the trees, eggs, the odd chicken. Like gypsies. In fact we’d steal off the gypsies if they had anything worth having.’

‘
Jefe
, what about your new lady friend?’ Peralta blurted, his face flushed with wine and food.

Guzmán looked at him blankly.

‘The widow Martinez,’ Peralta said. ‘Take her some of this.’ He beamed. ‘A nice surprise. She’d be very impressed. That would keep you in her good books.’

Guzmán looked at him incredulously.

Peralta laughed. ‘Christ,
jefe
, you’re a one. Food’s always a welcome gift. Everyone wants to eat.’

Guzmán still looked puzzled. ‘I hadn’t considered it, I must say.’ He thought about it. ‘This is your idea,
Teniente
. So if it goes wrong I’ll blame you.’

Peralta nodded and went to tell Raoul to prepare another package. Raoul readily agreed, taking the opportunity to relieve Peralta of a few pesetas for his troubles.

The quiet murmur of the room was suddenly broken by shouting and raised voices from the lobby. People running towards the main entrance. Guzmán reacted fast: most of the guests were straining their necks to see what was going on without wanting the discomfort of leaving their seats. But the noise sounded like trouble and trouble was Guzmán’s speciality. He moved quickly and purposefully across the dance floor, tall and broad, drawn towards the sound of action. The
teniente
followed him, less purposeful, more angular and a good deal less threatening, his worn shoes slipping on the polished wooden floor.

Outside, the three policemen were refusing entrance to a group of swarthy, strangely dressed men. Peralta caught up with Guzmán. The
teniente
stared at the men in surprise.

‘What are they wearing?’ he muttered, taking in the peg-topped flapping trousers and exaggeratedly long jackets of the strangers.

‘Zoot suits,’ Guzmán said slowly. ‘Younger
Yanquis
used to wear them during the war. I saw it on a newsreel. Some sort of fashion for young hoodlums and degenerates.’

The oddly dressed men were arguing loudly and vociferously as Guzmán and Peralta approached. Guzmán recognised them from Valverde’s photographs. He could see the bald, bearded Melilla, the huge bulk and jug ears of the boxer, Sanchez. The languid wiry youth in a wide-brimmed hat and wearing sunglasses was Vasquez. As Guzmán studied them, Melilla started to push his way up the stairs. The others followed, jostling on the stairs behind Melilla who was now confronting the guards at the top of the staircase.

‘Fuck you, man, fuck you.’ Melilla was yelling abuse into the face of the policeman who had taken Guzmán and Peralta’s weapons earlier. ‘We got an invite, we’re US citizens, man, we are
somebody,
not like you
nobodies,
so let us in, Don Jose. You don’t want to mess with us.’ He turned to grin at the others, a gold tooth glinting in the lamplight. The other Dominicans cackled encouragement.

‘Sound like South Americans from the accent,’ Peralta said quietly to Guzmán.

‘To be precise,
Teniente
, I’d say the Dominican Republic,’ Guzmán said. Peralta looked at him admiringly. He had so much to learn.

‘Come on, we don’t have all night,
señorito
.’ The one with the sunglasses was practically face to face with the secret policeman. ‘It’s cold out here, man.’

‘Yeah, where’s the Spanish hospitality?’ one of the others sniggered.

‘You can’t come in, this is a private reception,’ the policeman said, uncertainly.

‘That’s where you’re wrong,
señorito
,’ the older one said, ‘cos we’re coming in and we got an invite from your very own Francine Franco himself. We’re official, man.’ Guzmán could see the man had an engraved invitation in his hand. He was also very drunk.

Suddenly Peralta stiffened. ‘That one has a gun,’ he muttered to Guzmán.

Guzmán instinctively reached under his left arm, only to caress the empty shoulder holster.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ the older Dominican asked. ‘Lemme speak to the
jefe
, the big
jefe
. I deal with the main man, don’t waste my time with no hired helpers. Get me the organ grinder, not the monkey.’ He grinned broadly, his gold front tooth twinkling.

‘Yeah, I’d throw the man a banana but they ain’t got no bananas in this country. They can’t afford fruit, man,’ the big boxer sneered before dissolving into intoxicated laughter.

‘
Comandante
Guzmán.
Policía
,’ Guzmán said loudly as he stepped toward the Dominicans.

The young man with the sunglasses and broad hat grinned mirthlessly up the stairs at Guzmán. ‘Copper? Oh my, I’m gonna cry, man. The police is on us. Oh no.’ He waved his hands, palms facing Guzmán.

‘You’re in a shitload of trouble, officer, if you don’t let us in, man,’ the older man said, this time his gold tooth flashing out of a snarl.

‘I don’t quite see how you work that out,’ Guzmán said.

‘Because there’s six of us, man,’ Goldtooth said. ‘Why don’t you find something else to do, while we make ourselves at home.’

More mirth. One of the other Dominicans burst into a loud cackle.

‘See,’ Goldtooth smiled threateningly, ‘you be out of your depth here, man.’ His left arm moved away from his side, drawing his jacket open to reveal a glimpse of the butt of a handgun stuck into his waistband.

Peralta was edging slowly forwards, trying to decide which of them he would try to grab if things turned ugly. He waited, hoping Guzmán would be able to resolve the situation or at least tell him what to do.

‘Well, I do have other things to do,’ Guzmán said in a conciliatory voice.

Peralta breathed more easily. Calm the situation, he thought. I remember this from the training at the
Academia
: defuse the situation, calm things down. Don’t escalate the dispute.

Guzmán smiled, looking into Goldtooth’s eyes. ‘In fact I’m going to fuck your mother – once I’ve finished with your wife…’ he paused, ‘again.’

Goldtooth’s eyes narrowed and he reached inside his jacket. There was a flurry of movement as the three policemen who had been on the door drew their weapons.

Goldtooth moved his hand from his belt. ‘Hey, we’re only here to party, Don Jose.’

Guzmán’s fist smashed into the side of Goldtooth’s face. The man flew backwards down the steps, sprawling amongst his companions. He lay motionless for a moment, the centre of a sudden whirl of activity as the Dominicans gathered around him, trying to get him to his feet, at the same time shouting curses up at Guzmán. Guzmán started down the steps towards them. Peralta followed.

‘What the hell is going on?’ It was Valverde, storming through the doorway, red-faced, riding boots clattering on the stone, medals glittering across his chest. Behind came him a gaggle of subordinates, also replete with rows of medals, although to a lesser extent than their general. At Valverde’s side was a tall, middle-aged man in a well-cut suit, his dark hair short in a
Yanqui
crew cut. The man stepped past Guzmán and looked down the steps where Goldtooth was struggling to his feet, having staunched the flow of blood from his nose with a large silk handkerchief.

‘What occurs here?’ the man said in stilted Spanish.

‘Ask him, man, he started it. All we want to do is party. And we are
invited
,’ Goldtooth snarled, struggling to get at Guzmán. The other Dominicans restrained the incensed Goldtooth, his fury increased by Guzmán’s mocking smile.

The man turned to Guzmán. ‘I am Alfred Positano, US Trade Advisor to the Embassy. These men are part of the United States trade delegation. I can vouch for them. They are US citizens. I demand that you do not interfere with them.’

‘These men have every right to be here,
Comandante
,’ Valverde snapped, ‘I want to know why they have been denied entrance. The
Caudillo
himself invited the delegation tonight.’

‘They weren’t invited to carry firearms,’ Guzmán said, his eyes still locked on Goldtooth. The Dominican finally looked away and sneered under his breath to one of his companions.