“I swear it doesn’t have anything to do with Simon, or with old Spooky.”
“You’re that afraid of him?”
“You should have seen Simon, like a Swiss cheese…”
“Make up your mind, Lichita. Either all this is tied together, you, Memo, Simon, the Director General, the girl’s death…”
Licha could only shudder. “No, honey, oh, honey, no, I swear on my mother’s…”
“Or it’s two separate things. Make up your mind.”
“Oh, yes, honey, it’s the way you say. I went to the hospital as a nurse, as Simon’s friend, I didn’t know what it was all about. It doesn’t have anything to do with Memo’s taxi, I swear by my mother, it’s like you say, two different things.”
“Stop trembling, Lichita. If you’re telling the truth, you don’t have anything to be afraid of. But the police might believe differently. They might think it’s all part of the same affair, you know? That you and Memo know something about an attempt against the President’s life, understand? And the Director General doesn’t fool around, you know that, don’t you? He knows how to shut people up forever.”
“Sheee-it!” Sergio exclaimed, leaping from the bed and scrambling for his undershorts. “I just came here for a good lay. What the fuck’s going on?”
“Think about this, Licha,” Felix went on, as Sergio flew into his clothes. “The girl who was murdered was the lover of the Director General’s mortal enemy. He’s going to figure everything out and then come around to ask for an accounting.”
“Not that, honey. Oh no, sweetheart, do anything you want, but don’t sic Four-eyes on us…”
“Listen, you dumb bitch, what is all this?” Sergio tripped as he tried to put his legs into his trousers. “What kind of mess are you getting me into?”
“All I want is the truth,” said Felix, ignoring Sergio.
“But, sweetie, I owe everything to Memo. I told you that already. Don’t make me tell on him. I told you, we have to scratch for a living.”
“Sometimes the pay is death.”
“I’m scared of the old man with the glasses, honey, I’m scared of him!”
“I believe you.”
Sergio was knotting his necktie. Licha looked at him, and hung her head, defeated. “Tell him, Sergio.”
“I don’t know anything about anything, you bitch.” Sergio was buttoning his blazer.
Felix examined the small, elegant young man with interest. “You’re the one who used Memo’s plates on August 10?”
Sergio tipped his ridiculous blond head to one side, small even for his small body. “Look, man, you’re getting all worked up over an innocent prank. Look how you’ve upset poor Licha. Okay, be seeing you, Licha.”
Felix grabbed his arm.
“Careful, ape-man,” said Sergio. “I don’t like being pawed.”
“Tell him, Sergio,” Lichita repeated dejectedly. She had collapsed on a plastic chair. “Tell him, or even though we’re not guilty of anything — I swear it — we’ll both end up full of holes.”
Sergio stroked the sleeve where Felix had seized him. “An innocent prank,” he said, and smiled. “That’s all it was. A few of us asked Memo for his plates so we could have a little fun that night. We were chasing some blondes, gringas, who were staying at the Suites de Génova. We’d promised to serenade them, you know how they are. They expect to find romance in Mexico and didn’t want to leave without a serenade. What’s so bad about that?”
“Nothing,” said Felix. “But you wouldn’t have had to change the plates for that.”
“Oh, man. You don’t understand. Like everyone else, my old man keeps me on a short rein. The way things are, he says, don’t get in any trouble, don’t call any attention to yourself, or we’ll be kidnapped by the Communists. So what could we do? Just a little fun without letting the old man know, you understand now?”
Sergio lighted a cigarette, dropped the match on the floor, and stared cockily at Felix. He thought he was looking good before Licha, and his vanity was stronger than his fear. “My old man has a lot of influence,” he said smugly, with more than a hint of a threat.
“I wouldn’t think so, if he can’t handle a little racket with some mariachis in front of a hotel in the Zona Rosa. What’s influence for? To scold you if you eat a piece of candy before dinnertime?”
Again, Sergio’s eyes narrowed. “I said it once before. I never saw a cop that wasn’t a bastard, but you top them all. If you don’t want to understand…”
“You put on a good show. No, I’m not from the police. I’m a member of the Communist conspiracy. Tell your old man to watch out.”
Sergio’s lips curled in contempt. “Someday we’ll pick up where we left off, Lichita. Ciao.”
He left, whistling “Blue Moon,” and Licha closed her sleep-heavy, love-heavy, fear-heavy eyes. “Stay a while, honey,” she murmured.
She opened her eyes. Felix walked toward the door with the notebook in his hand.
“You know the truth now. Leave me the notebook, sweetheart.”
“But I’m getting more and more interested in Memo’s customers,” Felix said. “So long, Lichita. When this is all over, I’ll take you to Acapulco.”
“Honest, honey? I’m not asking for anything fancy. I’d rather see you steady, once a week, that’s enough.”
“Can you work me into your schedule?”
“You bastard, I told you the truth. On my soul.”
He left her with the sign of the cross on her lips.
44
ON DURANGO, he saw a mustard-colored Mustang pulling away from the curb. He jotted down its license number in Memo’s notebook, just below the date August 10.
He returned to the Suites de Génova and asked room service to send up roast beef, salad, and coffee. He studied the notebook carefully. Then he picked up the telephone and asked for the central police station of the Federal District. He reported the theft of a mustard-colored Mustang and gave its license number.
“This is the owner speaking, Licenciado Diego Velázquez, Chief of Cost Analysis at the Ministry of Economic Development. Let’s not lose any time on this.”
He received obsequious assurances. He looked at his watch. It was three o’clock and the morning sun had disappeared behind heavy, slow-moving clouds. He had time and he needed to rest. He slept until five, with the tranquillity that had been missing the previous evening. He was sure now. Now he knew.
He checked the.44 and placed it in an inside jacket pocket. He walked the block from Génova to Niza and bought a raincoat at Gentry’s. The downpour began as he left the men’s shop; traffic was snarled and people sought refuge beneath awnings and canopies. He put on the coat, a good Burberry trenchcoat, too new to reflect satisfactorily the image in his subconscious. He smiled as he walked through the rain toward the Paseo de la Reforma. If he hoped outwardly to resemble Humphrey Bogart, inwardly he felt ridiculously like Woody Allen. He remembered Sara Klein in the mortuary, and his smile faded.
At the corner of Hamburgo, he stopped to wait. He had five minutes. He preferred to be exactly on time. He was the most punctual official in the entire Mexican bureaucracy, even though his appointment wasn’t with a more or less friendly Under-Secretary but with a more or less savage criminal.
At a quarter to six, the taxi stopped before the Cronopios Boutique on Niza and honked insistently. Young Sergio emerged, laughing and waving goodbye to the employees. He opened the rear door of the taxi and got in. Felix followed closely behind him. He pulled out the.44 and pressed it against the ribs of the small and elegant youth. Memo looked around with alarm.