In the head, right, said el Negro. He put two rounds in her head.
Thanks for coming to tell me, I said.
I didn’t just come to tell you, said el Negro. I came so you would defend him.
I don’t practice any more, I said.
I can see that, said el Negro.
Was he still in the union? I said.
He wasn’t, said el Negro. He worked at the mill, but he wasn’t in the union.
That’s too bad, I said.
I knew it would end up like this, said el Negro. I knew. I told him.
He stood up and turned toward the window. A gray light came from the street. Then el Negro turned toward me.
I told him. Always, he said.
I told him to calm down.
He sat back down on the leather sofa. It groaned under his tense, dark body. For a moment he looked so vigorous that I asked myself what the hell he was feeding himself. His eyes were wide open and his graying hair was starting to look distinguished. There was a time when, after a couple of drinks, el Negro would pick up an accordion or sit down at the piano.
Do you still play the accordion and the piano? I said.
Sometimes, said el Negro. He looked at me severely. You used to defend the workers, he said.
Yes, I used to, I said.
They’ve told me you live off gambling, said el Negro.
Just the opposite, I said.
Then I asked him to tell me about Fiore. He said that he had gone hunting in Colastiné Norte with his wife and their girl. In the truck from the mill. That on the way back they stopped at a bar. There was an argument, and when they were leaving he shot her, twice. I asked if the argument had been violent. He said he didn’t really know. He said that he had used the shotgun.
That could actually help, I said.
They’re going to give him twenty years, at least, said el Negro.
He’ll be comfortable in prison, I said. Much more than on the outside. It’s always more comfortable in prison, in a way.
El Negro stared at me. The skin on his face was thick and taut. Two cords curved from the base of his nose, dropped to the corners of his mouth, and died at his jawline.
I never thought I would find you like this, said el Negro.
Come on, Negrito, I said. We go back. Tell me what you can, because I’m not asking out of curiosity.
I asked if Fiore and his wife got along, and he said that they fought sometimes. Normal stuff, said el Negro. I asked if he often went hunting and if the wife always came along and if he always brought the shotgun. El Negro said that it looked that way. I asked if the wife was cheating. He said it wasn’t likely and added that Fiore was a drunk. Luisito is a good kid, but I was always telling him, said el Negro. Then I asked how long Fiore had been out of the union. A long time, said el Negro. Things got bad, and worse, and finally he left completely. I asked if he had been sanctioned, and he said no.
Boozing and hunting. That’s all he did, said el Negro. Then he asked if I would defend him.
No, I said.
Just as he got up to leave, Delicia came in with the coffee. Another step and they would have collided. When he saw Delicia, el Negro hesitated.
I’m going to recommend a lawyer, I said. Someone better than me.
He didn’t move. Delicia left the coffee tray, walked out, and closed the door. I put sugar in el Negro’s coffee, stirred it, and held it out. I took mine black. El Negro drank his coffee. His skin was almost the same color as the drink. His eyes were wet.
Mr. Rosemberg, I said.
A comrade? said el Negro.
No, a friend, I said.
Can he be trusted? said el Negro.
Completely, I said.
El Negro sat back down, the coffee cup in his hand. The sofa groaned. I said I would call him, and I left the study. I dialed Marquitos’s number and a woman answered. I said it was Sergio.
Oh, said the woman. This is Clara.
Clara, I said. It’s been years since I’ve heard your voice.
Marcos isn’t here, said Clara. He went to the courthouse.
Her voice sounded hoarse.
I’ll call back later, in that case, I said.
At noon, said Clara. He will definitely be home for lunch.
Alright, I said, goodbye.
Ciao, said Clara.
We hung up. I went back to the study and found el Negro back at the window. He didn’t turn around. I approached him.
He’s sequestered, I suppose, I said.
Yes, said el Negro.
Then I asked him if he was still at the mill too. He said no, that he ran a domestic soda delivery. He said he had his own truck. I asked if he had a telephone, and he said no, but that I could call him at the corner store. I took down the number and said I would call him at one.
Things didn’t used to be like this, said el Negro, looking at me and shaking his head.
I said that, in effect, they didn’t. He asked if I was going to the wake for Fiore’s wife, and I said no. He said that he would leave me the address in any case, and if I wanted to go to the cemetery, the burial was the next day at ten in the morning.
Luisito is too hard-headed, he said at the door. I always told him.
Then he left. I followed him to the door and then I went back to the study. I stood exactly where he had stood, facing the window, looking out at the rain. The rain wasn’t the same, of course, but it was hard to tell the difference. It was the same gray sidewalk, the asphalt pavement, the tree on the opposite sidewalk covered in shining green leaves, the house behind it with the two latticework balconies and bronze railings. The rain seemed the same too.
At noon I called Marcos and explained the case. He said to tell el Negro to come by his house at three. I called the store and asked for el Negro. Ten minutes later, el Negro picked up, breathless. I gave him the message from Marquitos and the address, and then I hung up. After that I got in bed and took a nap. At five Delicia brought the mate, and at six the worker from the game called. He confirmed the address and said the game started at ten exactly. I stayed at my desk until after eight, and when I went out Delicia was setting the table. The kitchen smelled like cooking. Delicia had washed my wife’s black sweater, which was fitting her tightly now. It looked good. For the first time, I noticed how long her fingers were, and how dark. We didn’t say anything during the meal. Then I got up from the table, took the hundred-seventy-thousand pesos from the desk, and went to the game.
It was downtown, around the corner from San Martín. So I walked toward the avenue, turned at the Casa Escassany at nine forty-five, and walked three blocks north up San Martín. I passed the news ticker at the La Región building and stopped to read it, but it didn’t say anything about Fiore. I turned east on the next corner, walked a block and a half, and crossed to the opposite sidewalk. I didn’t have to look for the number because the worker was standing in the darkness, in the threshold to a house. I recognized him by the smell of the cologne. He shook my hand and told me to go in.
I don’t know why, but the room looked like a stage set. Five guys sat around a long table covered with a velvet-bordered cloth. Two chairs were still empty. In a corner, a guy was standing over a little wooden table, organizing a box of chips. Behind him, a discolored curtain covered a sort of arch. That was probably what gave me the impression of a stage. The guys at the table had stacks of chips in front of them. I sat down at a corner of the table, with my back to the curtain, and asked the cashier for a hundred thousand. He brought me ten green rectangles. I reached into my pocket for the money, but he said we would settle up at the end. Then he asked if I wanted a whiskey. I said I didn’t drink.
The worker sat down at the empty seat in the center of the table and started shuffling the cards. One of the other guys, who looked vaguely familiar, inserted the joker into the stack and the worker cut it. He separated the two halves of the deck, placed the top one below the bottom one, and then dropped the cards into the shoe. Then he opened the auction for the banco.