The Black Minutes (22 page)

“Well?” the Wizard asked him. “When are we gonna drink some beers?”

“One of these days,” Vicente said to him, and let him walk by.

One night when Vicente was in a good mood and didn’t have anything else to do, he bought a six-pack at the Negro’s gas station and went to give it to his neighbor.

“I don’t drink alone,” the Wizard said. “Do me the honor of staying.”

They finished off the six-pack of Tecates and drank the last of a questionable bottle of
aguardiente
that the Wizard bought by the liter. The next day, Rangel had one of the worst hangovers of his life. He didn’t go back for months, but the night of conversation helped him to keep up a good relationship with the Wizard, who every once in a while left messages for him at headquarters. “Looks like they’re shipping drugs in a green truck, license plate 332 TBLB” or “I’ve got a hunch the owner of a white Ram is a pimp, license plate 470 XEX.” Sometimes the Wizard would ask him to pick up some alcohol, soap, or toothpaste for him; Rangel even had to lend him money once.

“Aw, shit, what’re you writing down on there?”

“I’ve got a logbook.”

The Wizard kept an excessively bizarre diary in a book with a green cover, in which Rangel had seen him writing. That Tuesday, when they ran into each other in the office, the Wizard reminded him it was lunchtime.

“What’s up, Rangel? Wanna get a beer?”

“I wish, man. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Well, then, what do you think? When are you gonna come by?”

“Yeah, well, another day; soon.”

“Friday?”

“Could be. I’ll look for you.”

Just then, Lolita showed up and interrupted them.

“Mr. Rangel, Mrs. Hernández is on the line.”

“Who is it?”

“The mother of the girl who disappeared, the one from Colegio Froebel.”

“No, goddamnit,” Rangel said. “Tell her to get in touch with Officer Taboada. He’s in charge.”

“I already told her that, but she insisted on speaking with you.”

“Tell Wong to pick it up.”

Lolita came back a minute later. “He says he can’t right now.”

She turned toward his desk at the back of the room, where the Chinese guy was giving him the finger: Fucking Rangel, whaddaya think I am, an idiot or what? That’s Taboada’s job, man.

The clock read ten o’clock on the dot. Rangel said to himself, If this woman keeps calling, I’m going to have a very long day.

At one o’clock, a guy selling guayaberas came into the headquarters. Cruz Treviño bought one from him, Crazyshot bought another, and, before he left, the salesman left two more on El Travolta’s desk.

“You wouldn’t want to buy one, would you, sir?”

“No, thanks.”

“You can spread out the payments.”

“Some other time.”

“It’s not a shirt, it’s a way of showing your support for the president of the country.”

Ever since President Echevarreta made guayaberas fashionable, all the government employees were wearing them. Not only that, they also put photos of him on their desks, as if Echevarreta were a saint handing out miracles, able to deliver them from evil. Just then, Lolita stuck her head into the hall. Since he didn’t get along with the girl, the guayabera seller waved good-bye and walked out with his things.

“Oh, you’re over here? I called your extension but they didn’t answer. Mrs. Hernández is looking for you on line one. It’s the fourth time today.”

What a fucking pain, he thought; this lady just doesn’t get it.

“Tell her I’m not in the office, that I’ll be back tomorrow.”

The girl nodded angrily and added loudly so everyone could hear her: “And Licenciado Barbosa on line two.”

It seemed like everyone who was there—Wong, the Professor, the Bedouin—lifted up their heads to look when they heard that name. Oh, shit, Don Agustín Barbosa was the mayor of Ciudad Madera, one of the leading opposition mayors. Those were the days when going against the will of the establishment was practically impossible. Barbosa, who, thanks to his renown as a lawyer and independent businessman had beaten out the establishment candidate and won the elections, was not viewed kindly by the chief. Rangel had seen him twice, both times while he was with his uncle, and they had a cordial relationship. How strange, he thought, why’s Barbosa looking for me? And since the secretary was waiting for an answer, he said, “Thanks, Lolita. Forward the call to my desk.”

The Bedouin shook his head in disapproval. A minute later, Lolita connected him with the mayor of Ciudad Madera’s office.

“Don Agustín just left,” his secretary said. “He said you should catch up with him at his restaurant. It’s very important.”

OK, he said, I guess I’m going to the Excelsior.

He took Calle Juárez to Avenida Hidalgo and waited at the intersection for the red light that always refused to change. There was a Cola Drinks billboard that Rangel tried not to look at, and another for the Oil Workers’ Union. The second billboard consisted of a picture of the refinery with a union boss saying, “Honesty first.” When the cars coming from Las Lomas crossed the street, the left turn light came on and a Cola Drinks truck headed the other way almost ran into his car. The Cola Drinks logo was just inches from his face. Their drivers do whatever they damn well please, he said to himself, like the road was all theirs. One day they’re gonna end up killing somebody. Gotta do something about that. Then the light finally turned green and he accelerated the car.

He passed by the National Professors’ Union office and parked in front of the Excelsior. As he got out of his car, he saw two crabs crossing the road. It was normal to see them picking through the garbage dumps, since the ocean wasn’t far away. Rangel walked across the sand covering the asphalt and into the restaurant.

The air-conditioning hurt his throat. Damn, he said to himself, why do they turn it up so high? Besides the cold, one of the things that stood out in the Excelsior was the interior decorating. Extravagant objects hung from the walls, and behind the bar an
amateur had done his best to paint the palm trees at the beach, the cargo cranes at the port, and the pine forest: some limp corn-stalks, a pasture and a few cows. Rangel wouldn’t have gotten hung up on the picture were it not for the eyes of a tiger shining in the middle of the forest.

The voice of the waitress caught him off guard. “Good afternoon, just one person?”

Blinded by the fierce light outside, he couldn’t see her, even though he strained.

“No, I’m here to talk to Don Agustín Barbosa.”

“In what capacity?”

“As mayor.”

“But it’s not time yet—”

“He asked me to come.”

“Please take a seat, he’ll be right with you.”

Rangel sat down at a table away from the others, under a huge, impeccably preserved swordfish. There was a ship’s anchor behind the bar and a row of crabs, also dried out, with their claws at the ready. As he waited, he flipped through a copy of
La Noticia
. On his way through the region, the leader of the National Professors’ Union, Arturo Rojo López, had taken the opportunity to criticize Daniel Torres Sabinas and Don Agustín Barbosa:
THE CHILDREN AREN’T SAFE
. Don Agustín came out to receive him in a shirt with its sleeves rolled up.

“What’s up, Rangel, thanks for coming. Have they taken your order already?” And he called the waitress without waiting for an answer. “What do you want to drink? Vodka, whiskey? Natalia, bring us one of those bottles that came in yesterday.”

The waitress, a tall brown-skinned girl with unruly hair, smiled and walked away with a sway in her step. Her curves were highlighted by her tight skirt, and Rangel, who had quite a few
months of involuntarily celibacy under his belt, couldn’t keep himself from admiring the girl’s figure.

“She looks good, huh?” the mayor asked him. “As soon as I find a new hostess, these assholes go and get her pregnant.” He pointed to one of the regulars. “I’m going to set up a marriage agency.”

“How’s the budget going?”

“Bad.”

“And respect for the government?”

“The same, you know how it is. The governor doesn’t send me the funds and what they give me just isn’t enough. But we gotta keep pushing, there’s no other way.”

Rangel smiled a little. Don Agustín had been mayor for the Partido Revolutionario Institucional, and was a respected mayor, according to the rumors, a man straight out of the business elite, but two months into his term the governor kicked him out on a whim. Three years later, Don Agustín ran as a candidate for the same position, but representing the left. He won impeccably, thanks to all the work he did. And since he didn’t belong to the official party, they took forever to authorize his expenditures each budget period. He always had to come up with a creative way to get financing; he even lent the government money from his own funds. Even before getting into politics, Don Agustín had two gas stations, a hotel, and the Excelsior restaurant, which he ran in his free time, like a favorite toy. One of his anecdotes had become famous.

Two representatives from the gringo consulate went to talk to him at his office in City Hall. They worked out the issue they were concerned about, and at the end of the meeting they asked Don Agustín’s assistant where the best place to eat was. The assistant recommended the Excelsior, and they headed over. Because
that day they were missing a few waiters, Don Agustín himself was forced to work the tables, bussing plates, and taking orders. They saw him and were nudging each other, until the older one asked him, “Excuse me, aren’t you the mayor of Madera?”

“Yeah,” he told them, “but just in the mornings. The governor hasn’t sent me any funds and what they pay me doesn’t cut it, so I have to work two jobs.”

As the waitress leaned over to serve their drinks, Rangel made out the girl’s long neck. The sunlight glinted off the silky golden fuzz on her neck.

“Thanks, Natalia, that’s all. And you, Rangel, don’t get distracted on me,” he joked.

“You’re the boss.”

“I read in
El Mercurio
that you’re taking on the investigation into the girls again. Your uncle would be proud of you. It’s long past time you got Taboada out of the way.”

“I’m not getting him out of the way. Yesterday I had to investigate because I was on duty.”

“What? No way, Rangel, don’t say that! You know just as well as I do that you’re more qualified than Taboada. As long as he’s in charge, the investigation’s not going anywhere. Your uncle always thought you would take his place. He said you had a natural instinct for solving these things.”

“I’m not so sure,” he responded, and he scratched his hands.

“Can I take your order?” The girl was back.

“How about some nice fresh braised sea bass? We got a few fillets this big.” Don Agustín gestured to show how large they were.

“I have to get back to the office.” “You better stay. Natalia! Take this man’s order.”

Rangel said no, but he could do with a beer, and the girl smiled. Damn, thought Rangel, she has green eyes, like my ex.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars, what do you think? They’re going to give twenty-five thousand dollars to the guy who nabs the Jackal. With that money, you could start over wherever you wanted to. You could buy a house here in Madera, or in the United States. You wouldn’t want to come live here in Madera?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because I know about a couple of spacious, comfortable houses, built by the government, that they’re about to sell to people who worked with my administration. With all due respect, Rangel, my people think you’re going to catch this guy. But there’s one thing you haven’t thought of. Once you’ve arrested him, how are you going to turn him in?”

Rangel leaned back in his chair. Where was this guy going with all this?

“I want to make a deal with you. When you find out who did all this, because everybody’s convinced you’re going to catch him, don’t take him to Chief García. Bring him to me and Sergeant Fernández.”

Rangel smiled. “Look, Don Agustín: first, I’m not looking for the killer, I’m in charge of smuggling and kidnappings, not homicides, and second, what would I possibly get from turning him in here in Madera?”

A huge smile lit up Mr. Barbosa’s face. “That we’ll actually try the case here. The rumor is going around that your boss is protecting some bigshot.” And Agustín pointed at the cola bottle that was starting to sweat. “The girl they found in the Bar León was originally from Madera, even though she lived in Paracuán. Last night I went to see the parents and I stayed with them until one in the morning. They asked me to intervene, because they said when they reported what happened to your boss he turned his back on them. Catching this guy would be a big achievement
for the opposition. The kidnapping occurred in Madera, but the murder took place in Paracuán,” continued the mayor, “and that makes things a little complicated. As you can imagine, I don’t have access to the fingerprints, for example, and your boss refused to send me a copy of the case file. He said he needed to prevent information leaks. Can you believe that? The old man shut the door in my face, but I know the governor’s the one giving the orders. If you turn over the killer to me, you’ll keep the reward, all of it, and you’ll get a promotion, because as soon as you quit your job with the old man, I’ll hire you and give you a raise. We need an assistant police chief.”