The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (69 page)

‘Mamacita really like a smoke,
Señor Oficial.’

‘You sound like my
teniente
,’ Guzmán said. ‘Just keep talking.’

‘I buy the Bar Dominicana and then everyone pay Mamacita. Until this year.’

‘What did you do with the money?’

Mamacita blinked in the flickering light. ‘Tucked away,
Señor Oficial. Banco Hispano Americano.
Savings account. Someone who help Mamacita, she be very grateful to them. Mamacita always pay good money to those who help her. We could go get it now. I could change it for dollars, if you want.’

Guzmán was used to people offering him bribes. He was used to taking them as well, but money wasn’t what he wanted right now. ‘We’ll see. Maybe we’ll make an arrangement later. You said you bought the bar. What happened after that?’

Mamacita swallowed. ‘This year, men come to see me. Men from the Old Country.’

‘Goldtooth?’

‘Yes, Don Enrique. Very nice man, strong man.’

‘Less detail,
coño,
do you want me to get angry?’

‘He make good offer to Mamacita. He buy Bar Dominicana. He be the boss but Mamacita run the place for him and he pay Mamacita a salary. Like a job – see?’

‘Yes, I understand how it works.’

‘Perdóneme, Señor Oficial.
He buy the place and use upstairs for him and his friends. The whores, they stay and Mamacita still make money from them. All Don Enrique want is sell a little dope, play some cards.’

‘Clearly the man’s a saint,’ Guzmán said. ‘Keep going.’

‘Don Enrique start asking Mamacita for information. He start using the place to meet people to buy property. Bars and cafés. Rough places, places where you do business and the law don’t bother you. And they got a place in the centre where they keep their supplies, a warehouse on Calle Maestro del Victoria. I bet you never knew that,
Señor Oficial?’

‘You’re right.’

‘A warehouse. That where they keep all their dope. And they got a big sign that says “Pharmaceutical Products of Spain”.’

‘And Don Enrique bought all these places, did he?’

‘He buy these places, but you know what?’ Mamacita paused. ‘It not him who pay for them. It a man. Another man, an important man. Big boss. He got plenty dinero. And he like to spend it.’

‘So he bought these properties through your Dominican pals?’

‘He keep his name out of the deals. Far as Mamacita see, he tell them what he want to buy, and then they send round some respectable guy to put in the offer. They use about four different guys.’

‘Let me guess. These respectable types, did they use assumed names?’

‘Absolutamente, señor.
You real smart. They get these guys from Don Bartolomé’s place.
Le conoce usted?’

‘No, I don’t. What’s his place called?’

‘Café Almeja. Nice place. Lots of young guys. They have rooms. Young guys needing money, they negotiate a price, go upstairs. Don Bartolomé get a cut. Real nice place.’

‘Never heard of it,’ Guzmán growled. ‘What’s the address?’

‘It’s in La Latina. Calle de la Ribera de Curtidores. Bottom of the hill. You know it?’

‘Do I look like a taxi driver?’ Guzmán snapped. ‘Anyway, who was this important man putting up the money to buy these properties?’

‘They never say his name when I’m around. Not like I can just say hey,
señores,
sorry to interrupt but please tell me who you all talking about. I can’t say that now, can I?’

‘You mean you don’t know his name?’

Mamacita shook his head emphatically. ‘Never know it. And they always go and meet with him someplace else. They keep it very quiet. I don’t know who he is, I swear.’

‘Never mind, you’re being helpful. So what else can you tell me?’

‘All these bars they buy,’ Mamacita said, ‘they sell their dope through them. Then one day they get a delivery, a couple of sackfuls. They take it upstairs. And one guy goes out, says he going shopping. He come back later and let me tell you, it was some weird shit he bought.’

‘He showed you his shopping list?’

‘I see the packaging afterwards. What you think he buy? I tell you. Bags of flour and rat poison. What you think of that?’

Guzmán lit another cigarette. ‘What did he do with that stuff?’

Mamacita brightened. ‘Next day, the junkies start turning up dead. They’d cut the dope. Put too much shit in it. Rat poison –
hombre,
that stuff dangerous.’

‘You don’t say. Why did they do it?’

‘I don’t know. Mamacita not going to ask questions like that. After that, we get raided by you and your boys. All that shooting. And now, poor Mamacita in jail and never done nothing.’

Guzmán stood up. ‘That was quite useful.’

‘I did say Mamacita help you,
Señor Oficial.’

‘You’ve been a great help.’ Guzmán took off his jacket and placed it carefully on a ledge. He loosened his tie and removed it before starting to unbutton his shirt.

‘Que pasa
?’ Mamacita asked uncertainly.

‘I’m getting undressed.’ Guzmán placed his shirt carefully on his jacket.

‘That fine with Mamacita,
Señor Oficial,
I give you good time. I give you all the information you want and now we have some fun, yes?’

‘Yes.’ Guzmán took off his shoes and unbuckled his belt.

‘You a big man,’ Mamacita said approvingly. ‘Powerful man. Big muscles.’ He watched Guzmán carefully fold his trousers and place them on the ledge. ‘I give you real good time,
Señor Oficial.
Real good.’

‘Yes you will,’ Guzmán agreed, pulling his shoes back on.

Mamacita looked at Guzmán uncertainly. ‘Don’t stop now, baby.’

Guzmán took off his watch and placed it next to his clothes. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ he grunted. He moved towards Mamacita, the candlelight flickering on his heavy body. ‘That’s a new suit,’ he said.

‘New suit?’ Mamacita’s streaked clown face looked up at him, uncertainly.

Guzmán nodded. ‘It cost a lot, and I don’t want to spoil it.’

Mamacita still didn’t understand. She gaped as he came nearer. ‘What gonna spoil your suit?’

‘The blood,’ Guzmán said. ‘I don’t want to get your blood on it.’

MADRID 1953, CALLE MESÓN DE PAREDES

Guzmán took a taxi to Puerta del Sol and walked the short distance home, stopping frequently to see if he was being followed. Even on the stairs of his building he was careful, keeping the Browning in his hand, listening for the Judas sound that would betray someone hiding on one of the landings.

He opened the array of locks on his door and entered the apartment. Pulling back the carpet in the living room, he lifted the loose floorboards. The documents of those he had killed, their money and identification, all went into the hiding place alongside his other treasures. Everything was in order. He replaced the floorboard and pulled the carpet back into position. Then he washed and put on clean clothes, before going into the kitchen in search of food.

He poured a brandy and found a chorizo which he ate in great angry mouthfuls. He checked the Browning, ensuring the action of the big semi-automatic worked smoothly, listening to its metallic cadences as he squeezed the trigger on the empty chamber. How he loved this weapon, its destructive power, the fear it provoked. He could spend hours taking it to pieces, cleaning and oiling it, ensuring it functioned perfectly. It was the possession he loved the most in this world.

Love. It was not a word Guzmán used often. It made him think of Alicia Martinez. The first woman in years who’d interested him. Normally a selection of whores kept him happy when the need took him, like any Spanish man. But Alicia Martinez was respectable and she had responded to Guzmán with politeness. A respectable woman: he tried to imagine it for a moment, them as a couple,
Comandante
and
Señora
Guzmán. Such things were not impossible. These were things people did. Other people, in other lives. It was unlikely, he knew. Given his work, how could he return home to a wife and make small talk with the blood of his victims still on him?

Guzmán still didn’t understand what he felt about her. Couldn’t understand. Normally, he took what he wanted. Yet with
Señora
Martinez, he hadn’t even used her first name. She’d stood up to him, afraid but defiant. And he let her. He thought so much of her he’d had her tortured – within limits, of course – to ensure she’d kept nothing back about the letter from Guzmán’s mother. He could trust her. And she had softened to him – or was it the other way round? He could still feel the touch of her hand on his. But could he exempt anyone from the premise which made him so good at his job and kept him alive?
Suspect everyone and no one
can betray you.
The trouble was,
Señora
Martinez was different. He never thought someone like her could come into his world. And now she had, he wasn’t sure how to handle it. He needed to spend more time with her. Learn her ways. Perhaps there would be time when this was over – if he survived. But, as ever, work came first. Now, he had to find this Don Bartolomé at the Bar Almeja. If Guzmán could find out who the Dominicans had used as intermediaries in their property-buying, that would at least be a start. There was just one more thing to do before he left. He telephoned the
comisaría
and asked the sarge to check the name of the owner of the pharmaceutical warehouse on Calle Maestro del Victoria.

MADRID 1953, BAR ALMEJA, CALLE DE LA RIBERA DE CURTIDORES

The taxi slowed as it came down the steep cobbled hill.
Bar Almeja.
The sign was illuminated, but only just. From inside came a faint sound of voices and music. Guzmán got out of the taxi, taking care not to tip the driver who leaned out of his window as the car pulled away: ‘I hope your boyfriend’s waiting,
maricón.’

Guzmán pushed open the door to the bar, stepping into a warm fug of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. It was crowded and heads turned towards the door as he came in. His menacing build and hostile stare indicated he was not there to find company and he noticed how the men’s eyes quickly lowered, how they turned away and attempted to resume conversations or suddenly developed an interest in their newspapers. His presence cowed the room, voices turning to whispers, hands moving away from the hands of others, a sudden desire to maintain distance where previously there had been clandestine proximity. Even the music stopped.

Guzmán made his way to the bar, the crowd of drinkers opening before him. He placed his foot on the bar rail and leaned forward.

‘Señor
?’ the barman asked, uncertainly.

‘Comandante
Guzmán, police. I’d like to see Don Bartolomé.’

The barman’s face scarcely moved but Guzmán saw his fear. He had good reason to be afraid.

‘Don Bartolomé is working upstairs, sir. In the office.’

‘Then you can show me the way,’ Guzmán said evenly, ‘before I start to take an interest in you rather than your boss.’

The man swallowed hard, gesturing towards a door at the far end of the bar.

‘After you.’ Guzmán followed the barman up the narrow stairs, his heavy steps muffled by the dusty, threadbare carpet. A landing, dark timbered and shabby, a lamp on a table providing meagre illumination. Beyond the landing, a series of numbered doors on either side of a corridor. Guzmán turned the handle of the first door and opened it. Total darkness. He pressed the light switch, spilling grey light over the sparse furniture in the room. A bed, a sink in one corner. A chair.

‘You have guests here,’ Guzmán said. ‘I don’t remember seeing a permit to run a hotel on display in the bar.’

The barman looked increasingly worried. ‘These are private rooms,
señor.
They are…’ he paused, ‘not for accommodation.’

‘I can imagine,’ Guzmán sneered. ‘Where’s the office?’

The man pointed down the corridor. ‘Near the end. Number twenty-four.’

‘I’ll follow you.’

Hearing a faint noise from one of the rooms, Guzmán wrenched open the door and reached for the switch. The room was suddenly illuminated in a bilious light. The two men in the bed were a twisted knot of limbs amid the tangled cheap sheets. They looked up in outraged surprise.

‘Who the hell are you?’ The man on top leaped from the bed, clutching a sheet to cover himself. ‘I’ll call the police. This is monstrous.’

Guzmán took a step towards the man and punched him in the face. He slumped to the floor groaning. The other man screamed in a voice so high even Guzmán was disturbed by it. ‘Christ.’ He stepped back into the corridor and closed the door. The screaming stopped and was replaced by sobbing. Guzmán pushed the barman along the corridor.

‘I only serve the drinks,’ the barman spluttered. Sweat ran down his face, despite the cold. ‘I have nothing to do with what goes on here.’

‘That’s what you say.’ Guzmán stopped outside the door of room twenty-four and raised a cautionary finger to his lips. ‘Go on, get lost,’ he whispered. The barman obeyed, moving quickly to the stairs. Guzmán opened the door and stepped inside.

It was a cramped and shabby office, a desk facing a small window at the far side of the room. The man sitting at the desk turned. Middle-aged, flabby-cheeked, balding. A thick moustache. Guzmán noted the cut of his jacket. Quality. Silk shirt and tie. Expensive shoes.

‘Quien es usted?
’

‘Comandante
Guzmán.
Policía.
’

‘Bartolomé Alvarez,
para servirle.’
Alvarez looked at Guzmán impassively. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’ll let you know,’ Guzmán said, noting the man’s expensive ring and his fancy watch. ‘Business is good then, Don Bartolomé?’

‘I can’t complain,
Comandante,’
Alvarez said languidly. He seemed very self-assured. That was reason enough for Guzmán to dislike him.

‘I can.’ Guzmán sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘Do you realise just how many charges I could bring against you for running this place? Even renting rooms without an official permit is a serious offence. Doing so for the purposes of pederasty and prostitution as well means I could throw the book at you.’