American Visa (16 page)

It was a rowdy time of night. The stench from all the vagrants' breath was strong enough to launch a space rocket. I saw a half-breed lady dressed in rags and wearing a tight cap on her head yell at someone behind her, “How dare you lift up my dress!”

“Shut up!” the barman shouted back in Spanish and in Aymara. “Shut the hell up!”

The half-breed lady stared at him with a glazed look in her eyes. She lowered her head. Yujra stuck out his disfigured face and asked me, “Another one?”

“One double moonshine with lots of cinnamon.”

I walked up to the window that had become the perfect lookout. From there, I continued studying Doña Arminda's harmonious routine.

My espionage didn't last long. She closed the curtains to her office, leaving me hanging. Doña Arminda was presumably starting to tally the day's inventory.

I felt the same kind of feverish excitement that I had experienced decades earlier when my father took me to see the ocean for the first time. Just like then, the horizon suddenly seemed to clear out and all of those gray clouds that hovered over my life dissipated. A magical and energizing sensation rushed over me. With some smarts and a little bit of luck, maybe I could put an end, once and for all, to that heavy frustration that had plagued me ever since I received the first letter from my son, in which he proposed to meet up with me in the land to the north.

The problem was that, frankly, I didn't see myself as a competent outlaw. When I used to play cops-and-robbers as a kid, I always wanted to be one of the good guys, and if it was my turn to play a gangster, I was a terrible actor. I had always been a sorry and repentant ruffian. Years later, after Antonia's one-way trip, a few buddies of mine asked if I wanted to work as a mule and carry two kilos of cocaine to Buenos Aires. I turned it down out of the fear of ending up behind bars, disgraced. I preferred to be an easygoing middleman without any ambitions, a guy who doesn't have to put himself or his money on the line. For the first time in my life, however, I now felt that I was ready to put all my cards on the table.

In reality, I didn't have much to lose. If they caught me, they'd lock me up in the slammer to bask in the sun for about five years, to drink their horrendous coffee and bread, to stuff myself with their dog meat, and to rub elbows with the most miserable riffraff in La Paz's underworld. But if I managed to get my hands on a few thousand dollars, or at least the eight hundred to pay the guy at the travel agency, my life would change completely.

Get a move on, Alvarez
: Time for Operation Lazarus.

I anxiously finished my fourth moonshine. I was about to ask the boxer for a fifth, when I saw the lights go off in Doña Arminda's office. I rushed to pay and then cleared a path through the throng of boozers crammed into the Luribay. Once outside on Ortega Way, I hid between two vendor stands, beside a half-breed lady selling imported shoes who could have played Emperor Nero without wearing any makeup. It had never occurred to me that Arminda and Severo, weighed down by all that gold, might make the trip home without a hired gun. They had to have a trick up their sleeves. There was bound to be at least a third man, armed to the teeth, to walk them as far as Tumusla Street. I calculated that it was a distance of about two hundred feet. Another route would be for them to walk to Max Paredes, which was only a hundred feet away.

Nightfall arrived dark, overcast, and silent. Ortega Way was deserted, surely because of the soccer match. The biggest show in town, El Tigre, was playing. Despite the numerous bulbs hanging from lampposts, the street lighting was relatively scant, perfect for an abrupt and violent heist. My imagination was a series of noir films in which I was the guest villain.

To my utter surprise, they were walking down the street alone. She was carrying a James Bond–style briefcase, and Severo, a standard duffel bag. It all looked way too naïve; everyone knew they had a fortune on them. I followed from a safe distance, concealed among the street vendors and the passersby. I walked bent over, as though looking for dropped coins.

They arrived at the corner of Ortega Way and Tumusla Street.
Elementary, my dear Watson
, I said to myself. A vehicle must be waiting for them. While hiding behind the back of a homeless man wrapped in a mass of rags, I took a chance and got to within ten feet of them. Arminda was chatting about the bad weather that was on its way, without showing the least bit of precaution. Severo looked up at the starless sky. Suddenly, he raised his arm and hailed a passing taxi. He opened the front door of the car for his boss, who sat down next to the driver, and then settled in beside her in the window seat. A pair of lovebirds was curled up in the back, leaving room for a third passenger. Without thinking twice, I hopped into the vehicle.

“Corner of Ballivián and Colón, please,” Arminda said.

“And you?” the driver asked, looking at me through his rearview mirror.

“I'll get off around there,” I said in a fake voice.

La Paz is a peaceful city. In spite of all the misery and alcoholism, assaults and robberies aren't as commonplace as in other South American capitals. It's unusual to hear news of a bank getting held up at gunpoint. That being said, Arminda and Severo were extremely unwise to go for a taxi ride loaded down with gold and dollars in the upper barrios of the city. They were tempting the Devil, and at that moment the Devil was me, scared stiff but lying in wait.

The driver looked like a bronze bulldog. Tormented by the traffic jam, he took out his frustrations on his change box, smashing it sadistically. At the Plaza Murillo, he said: “You can get off here. I'm headed to Miraflores to drop off the taxi.”

“No problem,” Arminda said. They got out and headed for Ballivián Street. The driver frowned at me in his mirror.

“I'm getting out too,” I declared.

They were walking hurriedly, as they should have been. I had a tough time keeping up with them. When they paused at a traffic light, I went up to a kiosk and bought myself a pack of gum. In spite of the thick jacket covering her body, Arminda's derrière swayed provocatively. They hung a right at the corner of Colón Street. I sped up to keep pace. To my surprise, halfway down the block they vanished into the doorway of an ancient-looking, two-storied house. Hundred-year-old adobe blocks jutted out of the crumbling stucco façade. I waited at the corner, weathering the wind and cold. It was an uncomfortable time of night to be an undercover sleuth. I consoled myself thinking that those four shots of moonshine had prepared me for this very moment.

I lay in wait for barely five minutes. Empty-handed and with the smile of a job well done, Severo suddenly emerged from the doorway of that big house. Without hesitating, he headed off down the hill and then made a pit stop at a cheap eatery. He pushed open the door, but not before shooting a snooty glance at the menu nailed to a wall. Arminda had obviously stayed behind. I walked away from the corner and crossed the street, heading for the big house. Just inside the spacious doorway, I found myself in a sort of corridor that ended in a small colonial-style patio. At the center of the patio stood a dry, cracking fountain covered by a yellow tarp.

Halfway down the corridor, a shoemaker had set up shop behind a wooden stand. The shoemaker, a tiny and slovenly man with a throwback Rudolph Valentino–style hairdo, was busy resoling a shoe. A lightbulb stained black by buzzing flies lit up the stand. The shoemaker was so focused on the task at hand that he didn't even notice when I passed by two feet away. The striking of his hammer made enough noise to smother the sound of a charging rhinoceros. Ringing the patio was an old-fashioned railing that supported a wall of glass. On the first floor, a series of old signs pointed the way to entrances to stores that had already closed for the evening. A stone staircase led to the top floor, which was divided into two apartments. In the patio a bunch of kids, both boys and girls, were chasing some poor bowlegged dog. One of the apartments was shrouded in silence. Arminda surely lived in one of the two. If Arminda was the mother of that host of screaming dwarfs, then things weren't looking good. Robbing the home of a family of six in La Paz was an impossible task. On the other hand, if she lived in the other apartment, who knew what surprises awaited me?

I lit a cigarette and mentally retraced my steps. There wasn't a whole lot to think about. My plan was completely ludicrous, the frustrated dream of a harmless guy who read Raymond Chandler, Chester Himes, Dashiel Hammett, and Manuel Vásquez Montalbán as if they were prophets. I didn't have the balls for the job. And yet, a wicked force inside me that I had long ignored pushed me to continue with the adventure, which seemed more like a quixotic farce than a serious and thoroughly planned professional robbery. I resolved to return to the street, and as I passed by the shoemaker and his shoes, I spotted a beautiful blue Mercedes easing to a stop at the opposite end of the corridor. The passenger door opened and a man dressed in a fine gray coat stepped onto the sidewalk. His raised collar covered half his head and I couldn't make out his face. I moved closer to the shoemaker's hut and played dumb. I listened to the guy's footsteps, to the shoemaker's gruff greeting, and to a raspy voice responding with an elegant high-society grunt. The guy from the Benz didn't even notice me standing there, concealed beneath the sinister light. He arrived at the patio and climbed the left staircase. He tapped on one of the doors three times, as if it were a secret code. A woman's hand emerged and then, like a caress, with a slow and sensual movement, dragged the guy into the apartment. It could have been a scene out of a movie by the British filmmaker Carol Reed. Despite not hearing very well, the shoemaker evidently had the radar of a bat; without looking up, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

I sat down on the bench in front of him and responded: “I'd like you to give me half a sole.”

“That'll be fourteen pesos.”

“Per shoe?”

“Of course,” he said without batting an eyelid. For the first time I noticed his eyes, cloudy like those of an aging cat. I handed him one of my shoes and he turned it over and over again, studying it. He was badly nearsighted, and his eyeglasses were the size of two magnifying glasses.

“When did you get these shoes?” he asked.

“I first used them during the '78 World Cup in Argentina.”

“Bolivia didn't even qualify.”

“I said I bought them, not that I played with them. They're classy shoes, Plus Ultra.”

“That's a good shoe. They don't make them that way anymore. How many times have you had your soles changed?”

“I don't remember.”

The shoemaker smelled like paint thinner. You didn't have to look at him twice to realize he was high off his ass.

“It would be best if I put in some neolite rubber soles. Otherwise, they'll crack at the heels.”

“This house is one of the oldest in the city,” I said, changing the subject.

“They say it used to belong to Don Ismael Montes. They can't knock it down because it's in the historic district, luckily for me and the other artisans here. Rents have gotten so high in the city!”

“The guy who just walked in is the owner, right?”

“Him? Nah. The owner is an old bat who lives in Arica. The guy with the Mercedes is a tenant. Of course, he doesn't live here. He just uses it as a den for bringing back chicks. I've seen all kinds go through there. Lately he's been with this chubby lady who always spends an hour with him.”

“What time do you work till?” I asked.

“Today it took me awhile to finish these Texan boots for a friend who lives in New Mexico. But usually I go home at 8:30, sometimes earlier.”

“Some bachelor pad,” I affirmed.

“He does her twice in an hour,” he said, then twisted his jaw in a mocking sneer.

“These rich guys won't do it more than once,” I suggested. “They're too selfish to put in the extra effort.”

He broke out in laughter and then started to pound my other shoe. While he worked away, I took a quick stroll around the patio to see if I might discover anything interesting. Silence imposed itself once the screaming little ones went in for dinner. Meanwhile, the guy with the Mercedes and Arminda were moaning and getting it on upstairs.

Ten minutes later the shoemaker handed me my boots. It cost me almost thirty pesos! All my fucking around was getting expensive.

I left the house and walked down Colón. The shoemaker was right: Without the neolite soles I'd have busted my tailbone on La Paz's steep streets. I passed right by Don Otto's, where I saw Severo devouring a succulent pork chop with a jumbo-sized serving of french fries. While he ate his dinner, he didn't miss a second of a soap opera special on TV. A bottle of beer accompanied his feast. To get more comfortable, Severo had taken off his jacket and rested it on the back of his chair. At first, I thought that the thing sticking up out of the lining of his sport jacket was his leather wallet, but a second look convinced me that it was the butt of a revolver. So the sidekick was armed. No two ways about it, he was all the protection she had. No one in his right mind would pay three cents to look like that ugly stuck-up prick, but the guy was no doubt a legitimate thug disguised to look like an accounting assistant or an errand boy. That asshole could probably shoot a gun just as naturally as he swept up dust in the office.