The Black Minutes (11 page)

He took them to the only open restaurant: a cement-block food stall, which at the very least protected them a little from the weather. They sat in chairs so cold the child was shivering. She carried a metal lunchbox, rusted, with some pictures from
The French Connection
. She was around ten years old and wearing a torn wind-breaker. As soon as they were inside the restaurant, the blind man sent her away to the farthest corner of the place.

“Go play, Conchita. Don’t interrupt us.” She moved to a different table, pulled out some papers and colored pencils, and started drawing. She was a very obedient girl.

His name was Romero and he’d worked in the Secret Service. At first glance, he looked like he was homeless; under his jacket, he was wearing a shirt that was missing several buttons. His hem was stapled, and he hadn’t shaved in several days.

“Did I frighten you? Don’t be scared, I managed to lose the guys who were following me. You don’t have people following you?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Conchita says there’s no one else on the beach, but be very careful, El Chaneque is serious about revenge, and this case is particularly important to him. Let’s just say he built his career on it. He owes everything to this case.”

The blind man was extremely tense, as if he were constantly expecting danger. According to the archive director, Romero had been a cop more than twenty years ago, and then he became a well-known detective. Just one mistake was enough to ruin his life forever. Cabrera asked him how long ago he knew the archive director, and after a few trivial remarks Romero said, “Whenever you like. I’m at your service.”

“
Bueno
,” said Cabrera. “Let’s cut to the chase. Do you know who killed the journalist?”

“Just like that? Let me have a drink first, or, what, you’re not going to ask me to eat?”

That morning, the blind man was in danger for two reasons: a group of
judici ales
was making his life miserable because of some business about stolen cars, and Chief Taboada was looking for him. Ever since his colleague disappeared, and especially now, with the opposition government at city hall, Romero had had no place to stay, and every week there was another charge brought up against him. There’s nothing worse for a
madrina
, or lackey, than to lose the people who protect him. For three years, he’d had no permanent address; often he had to hide for months, and twice he had to run away to the United States. On the morning they met, he was scratching his scraggly white beard and swore he hadn’t eaten in two days.

Romero ordered the two dishes on the menu with the most food, one for him and the other for the girl, and, on average, he finished off a Cola Drinks every ten minutes. At the same time,
he ordered a block of hard cheese and devoured it in chunks, as well as his incomplete set of teeth allowed.

As the blind man finished his food, Cabrera was able to get him to say a bit more than monosyllables, and by dessert he was a different person entirely, completely unlike the aggressive, crafty bum who had first come into the food stall. When he looked more intently at Romero’s profile, he remembered having seen him at police headquarters, many years before, when Cabrera was still a young man, inexperienced and just starting out on the job.

Romero was sitting very stiffly in his chair with one hand on his cane. Cabrera couldn’t forget he was looking at a former torturer, though he didn’t seem like one: he looked more like an animal tired of running away. Once he felt more comfortable, Cabrera asked him if he knew what Bernardo Blanco had been writing about. He nodded, humbly.

“How could I not? I was his main source. You see this?” And he pointed to his eyes.

Don Jorge Romero wore dark glasses for just one reason: he had no eyes. They’d been torn out.

“In order to solve this case, you have to know what happened twenty years ago: I’m talking about the Jackal.”

After beating around the bush, Cabrera went so far as to say, “Yeah, I remember some things about the case. I was reading about it, too. People said Jack Williams was the killer, right?”

Romero asked Cabrera for a cigarette and Cabrera gave him his almost full pack. The blind man expertly lit one and shook his head as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Jack Williams had nothing to do with it.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because I caught the real killer.”

They were there for three hours. The whole time, Romero referred to his partner, and when Cabrera asked the partner’s name, the blind man said, “Vicente Rangel.”

Cabrera felt a chill surge up his spine, and he asked to meet Rangel as soon as possible.

“That’s impossible. He disappeared; nobody knows what happened to him.” Romero filled his jacket pockets with free sugar packets and said he had to go, but first he asked for a second pack of smokes.

“What about the murderer?”

“That’ll cost you. I have to make something out of this,
chingá
. I’m not doing it for love of country.”

Cabrera handed him practically all the money he had on him. In exchange, Romero called to the little girl, “Conchita: give the piece of paper to the gentleman,” and she handed him a wrinkled piece of newspaper from the section with local society news. There, two men in ties and jackets, surrounded by bodyguards, looked at the photographer intently.

“The murderer is the one in dark glasses.”

As he left, Romero said, “Wait a while before leaving. If we
are
being followed, it’s best if we don’t step out together.”

Cabrera waited for as long as he could. When it seemed like he’d waited long enough, he asked for the check and went out.
Romero was still there, waiting for the bus on the other side of the street. The little girl noticed him, and, so as not to cause them concern, he went to waste some time on the beach.

What Romero had told him was a real bombshell.
¡Carajo!
What should I do now? He was close to the refinery, and the wind had the rotten smell of sulfur.

To calm himself down, he spent a little while contemplating the barrier made of pine and palm trees that signaled the end of the beach. But despite the roiling sea of thoughts in his head, he suddenly remembered the gun. Yeah, I did: I forgot to return the gun. If he wanted to stay out of any more trouble, he would have to go pick it up at the office.

Rosa Isela was waiting for him at the door; she was obviously distressed. As soon as she saw him, she ran toward him and took him by the arm. The Bedouin and the huge Fatwolf were two steps behind her. The Bedouin shouted at him.

“Cabrera! Chávez is looking for you.”

Isela tried to drag him in the opposite direction, but Cabrera pulled free. “Wait a minute,
mi reina
, I’ll catch up to you.”

“No, sir, please, don’t go over there.”

When he heard this, he understood what he was in for.

“Chávez wants to talk to you,” Fatwolf insisted.

As soon as he walked in, he noticed the desks had been pushed to the sides, making an empty space in the middle of the office. And the civilians, who normally were everywhere, were nowhere to be found. Isela was the only one trying to get him out of there. At some point, Fatwolf pulled her off his arm, and Cabrera agreed to go into headquarters.

Chávez was sitting behind a plastic table, playing with his car keys.

“What’s up, Chávez, what can I do for you?”

Chávez looked at him and said nothing. His left hand was hidden behind his back.

In this line of work, if you get distracted, you lose. Chávez slowly looked him up and down, and Cabrera did the same to
him. It went on like that until Chávez laughed and tugged on his little goatee.

“You’ve been very busy.”

“Yep.”

“I heard you met with Romero. Are you looking for Rangel?”

Hearing that name, for the third time in two days, gave him a bad feeling. “Why? Are you looking for him?”

“No.” He mocked him. “But if
you
want to find Rangel, go ask your wife.”

Rosa Isela knew what was going on, because she tried to intervene—“Mr. Cabrera, Mr. Cabrera, come on, please”—but Fatwolf and the Bedouin were guarding the door.

“Stay out of it, miss, leave them alone.”

Cabrera walked toward Chávez. “What did you say?”

“Go ask your wife.”

“Do you want me to beat your ass?”

“
No pues
. If you’re going to get all upset,
don’t
ask her. But if you want to find out where Vicente is, go ask your wife.”

Cabrera kicked the table up into the air. Chávez pulled his hand from behind his back, brass knuckles covering his fist, and brandished it in Cabrera’s face. Cabrera took a step back. While Chávez waved his hand around, Cabrera took the chance to punch him in the jaw, a direct hit as hard as he could, and Chávez fell down face-first. He was on the floor, but he wasn’t giving up; Cabrera guessed that he was about to jump up and hit him back, but as Chávez started to stand up, Cabrera kicked him right in the solar plexus. Unfortunately for Chávez, Cabrera was wearing cowboy boots. Chávez went up in the air, flipped over, and fell behind the table. He tried to get up but his legs gave out. It was already too late: Cabrera’s pacifist spirit was completely gone. The Bedouin and Fatwolf had to grab him by the
arms so he wouldn’t kill Chávez: “Take it easy, dude, take it easy.”

“Ah,
now
you interrupt me, fucking
pendejo?
Fuck your mother!” he screamed, and pulled himself out of their grip. Then he saw Chávez arch his arm and he felt a pain in his right leg. “Son of a whore!” he spat out. The asshole had thrown his brass knuckles without even looking and got him square on the shin. Cabrera pushed Fatwolf off him and he was about to go finish what he had started, but Isela hugged him, bawling, “Mr. Cabrera, please calm down!” When he saw her, he pulled himself together and walked out, gasping for air.

By then a crowed had gathered at the door; all the new guys were there. Goddamn nosy people, he thought. The problem was that in order to leave he had to walk by Chávez, sprawled out on the floor. Rosa Isela dragged him by the arm, trying to get between the two, but when Cabrera went by Chávez, he heard murmuring and went back.

“Repeat what you just said!”

“You’re dead,” Chávez said. “You’re dead.”

“Learn from this,” Cabrera told the newbies. “If you’re going to kill somebody, just kill him and be done with it, don’t run an announcement in the society pages.”

Chávez squinted his eyes like only he knew how to do and Cabrera understood he was serious.

Leaning on Isela, he went out into the street.

“Please, get out of here. Chávez is going to be after you.”

“Don’t worry,” he told her, “nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

“Yeah, but for Chávez. He’s probably spitting his teeth out right now.”

“Have you seen how
you
look yet? They hit you real bad.”

It was the truth. When Chávez hit him the first time, he must have grazed the tip of his nose, because it was bleeding. He was so enraged, he hadn’t noticed. And he noticed his leg was starting to go numb.

“You have to see a doctor. It might be broken.”

Where his leg had been hit, a dark black mark had begun to form. Rosa was right. He wasn’t going to be able to do anything like this, it would be better to head home.

“Here he comes. Get out of here, please!” The girl was incredibly anxious, “Chávez is coming.”

And, in fact, Chávez was walking out, leaning on Fatwolf. Cabrera saw him say something to one of the new guys, giving him instructions, and the kid got into a patrol car, staring at Cabrera the whole time. I can’t believe it, he said to himself. What has this fuckin’ world come to when other officers are following me?

“Thanks, sweetheart. You should go get some rest, too. Your work here is done.” He hugged the girl and said good-bye.

Just walking caused sharp, shooting pains, but he couldn’t stop; the youngster had already started his car. We’ll see if you get me, you son of a bitch.

Instead of getting into his car, he took a bus downtown. Disconcerted, the kid followed the bus at a prudent distance. At the third stop, Cabrera got off and the kid slammed on the brakes. OK, he said to himself, we’re going to find out how smart you are. He grabbed a taxi headed in the opposite direction and watched the kid struggle to complete a U-turn in the middle of the avenue. This was fun and games for Cabrera. He asked the taxi driver to take him to the Rosales Supermarket.

“But it’s right over there.”

“Exactly.”

The driver groaned and turned and the kid did, too. Cabrera got out of the taxi and limped into the main entrance; then he walked out the back door and walked back to headquarters. The patrol car was caught in the thicket of señoras in the cars looking for parking spaces. Too bad, he said to himself, he’s got a lot to learn. He walked around the block and said hello to everyone there before getting into his car.

“Good afternoon!”

Chávez was so angry he was red in the face, and Cabrera was dying of laughter.
Pobres pendejos
, he thought, missing the mark can be really frustrating; I hope they won’t build up a lot of negative energy on my behalf. He was saying this to himself as he drove down the street; accelerating hurt a lot, but he would be able to make it home on empty roads. When he got to the intersection with the avenue, it was a red light. His leg was throbbing. A movement as simple as depressing the accelerator caused shooting pains. As he waited for the green, a pickup with blacked-out windows that had pulled up on his left side suddenly went in reverse. He didn’t pay much attention because the pain in his leg was killing him. That’s weird, he thought, going in reverse in the middle of the street; at least there aren’t many cars. If there were, he could cause an accident. Then the guy in the pickup slammed on the accelerator and ran right into the driver’s side of his car.