Tequila Blue (6 page)

“You can't do that to me, Officer! I'm on your side! At the very least I have the right to a lawyer!”

As was only proper, this plea was aimed at me.

“We'll do what the Commander here decides is right,” I explained, nodding at Silver Bullet.

“By the time we've finished with you, there won't be much left to drag to a lawyer.” Silver Bullet was tougher than Bogart and Dirty Harry put together. “You've been stealing and dragging the name of a government department through the
mud! I bet you don't even pay your taxes! In case you didn't know it, asshole, in this country you have to pay taxes whenever you do business!”

You could say a lot of things about the Cuban. But no one could ever accuse him of being slow on the uptake.

“Perhaps there's some way of coming to a reasonable arrangement?” he said wearily.

The stage was set. I spoke the prologue.

“I've got a murder case to solve,” I said. “I've got more things to attend to, and my family is waiting for me for dinner. I'll walk to the corner, and when I get back we'll go wherever the Commander has decided.”

I lit a cigarette and stretched my legs. I would willingly have changed places for half an hour with one of those guys I saw being made love to without embarrassment but with intense pleasure. As though they deserved it, the bastards!

When I got back to the car I switched on the engine. The faces reflected in the rear-view mirror told me everything was fine.

“We're going to Colonia Cuauhtemoc,” Silver Bullet said. “It's near where you're going, Officer. Go down Florencia, cross Reforma and take the first street parallel on the left.”

Five minutes later and I left them outside Valadez's apartment. I don't like leaving Silver Bullet to work on his own for the same reason I don't like my daughter going out with boyfriends. Both of them are growing up, I know, and have to face the realities of life, but whenever I see them
struggling with temptation I get the gut feeling that at any moment there could be a catastrophe. Of course, if Araceli succumbed, it would be far worse. With Silver Bullet there's always the option of crushing his balls and sending him to hospital for the rest of his life. It's a possibility he understands, because I've warned him of it several times. But what can you do with a lost childhood? What can you do with that first time, when you know it's bound to be followed by a second time, and after that by all the numbers in the world? It's hard. I'm not ready yet to become the father of a woman.

As far as the Cuban was concerned, I had no option. If I got directly involved in this “Let's Share the Loot” operation, I would lose my moral authority for the murder investigation. Experience has taught me not to mix work and business. Even in the case of someone who has been so underhand, who you're doing a favour by not throwing them in the slammer.

*

I headed for the Zona Rosa to see the Three Marias. Who was it who named them after a constellation? . . . I've no idea. Perhaps they themselves did, with that passion all whores have for artistic names. Perhaps they saw themselves as stars coming down to the city to bring a light to the heart of the sad and lonely; or maybe it was a client of theirs, some “mister” with a superficial knowledge of Mexican folklore. Or it might even
have been me, as I was linked more closely than anyone to the three sisters' talents.

Three years earlier, when Rosario started working at home in San Pedro de los Pinos, she never said a word. Three months had gone by before I even became aware of her existence. Then one day I started looking at her and discovered a pleasant face and well-built body. I'm not one of those slimeballs who think that by paying a minimum wage they not only get a shiny clean house but have found themselves a free sex slave into the bargain. All I did was look at her from time to time. It all started when Lourdes went to visit a relative in Morelia for a week. Carlos and Araceli left for school, and Rosario was on her own in the house for several hours. During the first few days there was her body and there was my temptation. (Something similar happened to Saint Anthony.) But nothing would have happened if I hadn't got drunk and lost control. I don't usually drink too much, although like every son of Darwin I like to get a skinful now and again. I hardly ever do so during the day, and whenever I have, it's brought trouble. The fact was I arrived home pretty drunk only to find Rosario in a blouse that left her shoulders bare and revealed the top of her juicy little apples. What follows is a jumbled picture: talking to her, making her laugh, playing with her, chasing her, cornering her in the bedroom, tearing off her clothes. I was too excited, and came before I could even get inside her. Then there's a depressing scene: the girl cries and you feel
ashamed for behaving like an animal and still more ashamed you couldn't do it. I ended up giving her a load of money and succeeding in calming her down. The next day I came back stone sober and gave it to her properly. Realizing she wasn't a virgin reassured me a lot.

When Lourdes got back, not only was Rosario saying nothing, but I was silent too. And since in certain matters my wife is a better bloodhound than the entire Mexican police force, she said nothing either but within three days had kicked the maid out. I felt sorry for her, and a bit guilty too. I found her three or four jobs, but they didn't work out. I lost sight of her for a month. By the time I met her again she was on the streets and having trouble with a pimp who beat her. I had to break his leg to get him to leave her in peace. I put Rosario in touch with some girls who worked for themselves. As time went by, her work inevitably led to other problems: permits, health checks and other hassles. I got into the habit of helping her. Rosario ended up bringing her sisters to the city and passing me my cut every month out of sheer gratitude.

I would never have taken it, but I realized this helped her feel more protected and less in my debt. And I've never accepted her offers of payment in kind. I've only very occasionally tried something from her delicatessen counter that I couldn't get from Lourdes or Gloria, given their tendency to prefer routine and a classical approach. What I could not avoid was the
Commander muscling in. He's the one in charge, so he gets to hear these things. And he likes to employ one of the basic principles of public service: the one which states that any business or money a public servant manages to get his hands on beyond his salary has to be shared with his boss. I don't like the idea, just as I don't like pollution or water shortages. The Commander is over sixty; he's a grandfather and doesn't have much luck with the ladies, so perhaps that's why he is so interested in payment in kind. Once a month I have to organize him a session with the Three Marias. Then, of course, along with a guest he brings with him, I find myself forced to take part in order to prevent the Commander getting ideas above his station or deciding to take on the protection himself.

The three girls work from the Oasis Bar in the Calle Hamburgo, the Boboli Bar in the Plaza Florencia Hotel and other dark corners in the neighbourhood.

At the entrance to the Oasis I found two drug dealers I know tossing coins under the bar's red neon light. I asked after the Three Marias, and they sent me to the Boboli.

The Plaza Florencia is a typical Zona Rosa hotel specializing in tourists who pay dollars. The Boboli is a cellar that operates as the hotel's function room. That's where breakfasts and dinner dances are organized for foreign families to enjoy the exotic side of local life at a favourable exchange rate. Some nights too it's where groups
of single men come to partake of special services. That's where the Three Marias and other nocturnal butterflies come in.

I asked the receptionist if I could talk to Rosario. She disappeared inside and reappeared a minute later with a shimmering panther with shiny black curls, a model's make-up and four-inch high heels, all the vitality and sexuality that can be poured into 123 pounds, which, as I looked more closely, I identified: it was Rosario.

“What's up, big man?” she said, giving me an affectionate peck on the cheek.

Conclusion: anybody likes a neat piece of ass, and a full set of mammaries is a joy to behold, but what a man really wants is a woman who smiles at him, kisses him on the cheek and gently tells him a white lie by calling him big man.

“Just come to see you, so you won't forget me,” I told her.

“I haven't got anything at the moment, but there's lots around,” Rosario said, a dialectic look on her face. “All I earned last week has gone, but there'll be plenty for both of us. Right now I'm with the stupidest gringo I've ever met. And let me tell you: one, I've met a lot of gringos, and two, gringos in general are the stupidest people of all.”

I study law; I'm going to be a judge one day; I have almost two thousand books in my library. I stared at Rosario and resolved not to try to explain to her that being smart is for gypsies, it's all that's left to those of us who are really in the shit,
whereas a chubby freckled little gringo who's been brought up on a diet of proteins and computers doesn't need to be smart at all. He's the one who'll always be the manager and owner of the factory, the one who employs whole teams of smart people like us to work for him.

“What time tomorrow can I see you?” I sighed.

“I don't know if I'll be here,” she said, flashing her teeth. “The gringo wants to take me to Taxco and Valle de Bravo.”

Not being a gringo, I frowned.

“As soon as you get back, come and find me,” I said, pointing at her. “I want to hear from you within two days.”

Rosario clung onto my arm, rubbed herself against me, purred:

“Don't be angry, big guy. Everything will work out fine.”

How do they manage to change like that in just three years? I'll never know.

I called home to make sure everything was all right. My kids were fighting over the next TV programme: they said they had eaten well, and I didn't doubt it. Next I phoned Gloria to tell her I'd be with her in an hour.

“What's for dinner?”

“Steak, guacamole and salad.”

“And beer?”

“A six-pack.”

Even though I hadn't said a word, sleeping with her two nights running was a clear sign. Gloria was
going to try all her tricks to soften me up. I couldn't avoid it and didn't want to even if I had been able to.

I had one more thing to do before my day was done.

Cruz turned out to be a hard nut: tough and booze-sodden, one of those who refuse to cooperate. He opened the door four inches, enough for me to make out his furtive animal face and the mop of hair sprouting in thick swirls from just above his eyebrows.

Realizing there was a cop outside and trying to slam the door in my face combined in a single thought and action. I stuck my foot in the crack to stop him, and although my foot came out of it badly, I was stronger than he was, and managed to push my way in.

I showed him my badge with my left hand, keeping my other hand on the butt of my regulation pistol. Cruz collapsed into a chair and did nothing but grunt unintelligibly for a couple of minutes.

The place displayed all the charm of a typical bachelor's apartment: bottles, clothes and newspapers strewn all over the floor; an inch of dust on any object an unwary visitor might touch; the stale smell of dirt, urine, alcohol, tobacco, marijuana and fetid underwear. All of this protected from environmental pollution by firmly shut windows.

I didn't think there was much possibility of getting anything out of this ape. If he hadn't got such valuable information, I would have made do with giving him a good kick in the balls for his bad manners, and gone off to sleep with Gloria.

Instead, I took out Jones's photo and said:

“You threatened this man and pretended to be an Interior Ministry agent in order to blackmail him.”

Cruz spat between my shoes and replied:

“Fucking gringo faggots! They think they're God's gift, but all they do is come down here to Mexico and steal our fucking dough!”

“Hmm. So you decided to give him a fright because he was mixed up in shady business.”

“Why don't they all just go back to their own fucking country!”

“And make a bit of dough while you were at it.”

“No, whaddya . . . ”

Cruz was not someone it was easy or interesting to talk to. Unlike his associate, who was quick to seize what was going on, he behaved like a chimpanzee on the defensive. His replies consisted of a mixture of vague generalizations; empty phrases passed off as answers to specific questions; insults intended to demonstrate rejection, denial or disagreement; and monosyllables in a kind of primitive tribal language aimed at protecting the speaker and confusing the questioner.

I considered hauling him in and softening him up in solitary for the night, but it was already well
past ten (I'd like to know who else works all day and is still working at ten at night . . . just so that the citizens of this fine country can hold the opinion that the police do not deserve the meagre wages we're paid) and I was desperate to get back, eat, drink a couple of beers and go to bed. So I came straight to the point: