How’re you doing, Boss? Where’ve you been hiding? I’m stopping by to pay you a visit. Wanna eat? Thanks, but I already did. I’ve got some grilled peppers with garlic that will make you lick your fingers up to your elbows. Another time. I’ve got a gig for you.
Horacio checks to make sure nobody is listening.
I heard Turcheli kicked the bucket. Heart attack. Right after his promotion. Tough luck. Who’s going to take his place? Filander. Can I come back? I don’t know, we’ll have to see. What you got for me? A hit, serious shit. Who? A former superintendent. Who? Lascano. Perro? The one and only. Didn’t he die? Not even remotely. There was a gunfight with some soldiers, but he got away. No shit, somebody must have had his back. Who’s protecting him? Protected him. Who? The one with the heart attack. Say no more, where do I find him? We’re tailing him. You up for it? No problem, what’s in it for me? Same as always, maybe a reinstatement, if everything works out. Everything will work out. Be careful, Perro’s no pushover. Don’t worry. You’re the one who should worry. Everything’s got to go just right. If you screw up or they nab you, you’re going to be lonelier than Adam on Mother’s Day. Have I ever screwed up? I don’t know. You’ll get me the gun? You get it yourself. Okay, okay, how much will you give me now? Five grand, will that do? That’ll do. As soon as I hear, I’ll let you know where he is. Done deal.
The next day Horacio parks his car in front of the Retiro bus terminal. Around his own neighbourhood, they call his Valiant II “The Panther” because of the of black spots showing through the yellow he painted on after he stole it. Horacio puts on the steering-wheel lock and walks into Villa 31, the shanty town. He turns down an alleyway and continues for about two hundred yards till he gets to the home of One-Eyed Giardina.
In 1965 anti-Peronist thugs organized a demonstration against Isabelita Peron, right in front of Hotel Alvear Palace in the middle of Barrio Norte, where she was staying. For a little spare change, Giardina signed up to be counted in this demonstration for the posh and privileged. But the plebs from the Infantry Guards beat the demonstrators with sticks and shot tear gas canisters at their heads. One of those canisters took out one of his eyes.
Horacio stops next to one of the hovels, in front of a paisley cloth curtain. He hears two men inside talking. He claps his hands. The voices stop. A moment later One-Eyed appears and invites him to come in. An ashen-faced man sits at a wooden table in front of a jug of red wine and a plate full of cubes of salami and cheese.
Sonia! Bring a glass for my friend.
A woman of undefined age appears from the next room, dragging her feet. She’s missing her two front teeth and the rest of them are broken and yellowed. She looks Fatso up and down and slams the glass down on the table.
This is my buddy, Jose. What’s up? Nothin’ much. It’s been a long time, Fatso. Yup, sure has.
One-Eyed looks at Jose and forces a smile. He serves Horacio some wine, then turns back to Jose and smiles.
Can we talk? My friend here was just leaving. Hey, no worries, I don’t mean to rush you. Didn’t I tell you he was just leaving? You were just leaving, weren’t you? Yeah, it’s getting late.
The goodbye ritual is short and sweet. After the man walks through the curtain, the other two check each other out during a long moment of silence. Finally, One-Eyed gets up, goes to the doorway, pulls back the curtain, looks up and down the alleyway and returns. He switches on the radio; a rasping cumbia is playing and he turns the volume way up.
Long time no see. You back in? Not yet. What’re you up to? I opened a grill, you should come by one day. Where is it? Next to Acceso Oeste, right after the Moron exit. It’s called Two Gold Coins; when you’re heading into the city, it’s on the frontage road on the other side. Where did you get that name? I opened it with the dough I made on a hit, a pretty-boy in a cabaret who had great big enormous eyes. When he saw he was done for, his eyes looked like two big gold coins.
One-Eyed’s formidable laugh finishes up in a hacking cough that turns his one eye red; he pounds himself on the chest to quell it.
Man, you are nuts. What do you need? A twenty-two long. Good timing, I’ve got a jewel. What is it? It’s not cheap. Show me. Wait here.
One-Eyed Giardina stands up, tells the woman to keep Horacio company and leaves. She sits down, lights a cigarette and stares at him while she fiddles with a box of matches. Horacio can’t remember if he’s seen her before or if she just reminds him of somebody else, but he knows that what he has in front of him is the ruins of a woman who once was beautiful. She still has some of a beautiful woman’s gestures, something her appearance can’t completely cancel out. Ten minutes later Giardina returns carrying a gun wrapped in a flannel cloth. The woman, clearly obeying rules long since established, immediately gets up and leaves. One-Eyed places the package on the table and lights a cigarette, motioning to Horacio to unwrap it. He slowly folds back the flannel. One-Eyed was telling the truth: there in front of him is a Ruger MK II. 22LR semi-automatic stainless-steel pistol. Few guns are as well made as this one. It’ll cost him a fortune, but it’ll be well worth it. Light, trustworthy, he’s never heard of one of these jamming. It has one feature that makes it the king of close-range shooting: the chamber is mounted on a system of springs that dampens the recoil from the detonation. The long barrel considerably reduces the report from this notably quiet pistol. To miss with this you’d have to be a real moron.
Seems you got yourself a good gig. You could say that. How much? Don’t you want to try it? Don’t need to, how much? Three grand, which includes one hundred hollow-pointed bullets. I’ve got two thousand. I guess you’re out of luck. Don’t fuck with me, how much will you give it to me for? Listen, you’re not going to find anything like this anywhere else, but if I don’t sell it to you today, I’ll sell it tomorrow. How much? Not a peso less than two thousand eight. Okay, but on one condition. What? For the same price you drive my getaway car. Okay, who’re you going to hit? A super. Do I know him? Bow-wow. Not Perro? Yup. In that case, not a peso less than three grand.
A few blocks from there, on Viamonte past Leandro Alem, Miranda is sitting and waiting for Bangs and Dandy at one of the tables in the back of El Navegante. He orders a bottle of Gancia wine and a plate of olives. He sees them enter: Dandy’s fatter and Bangs is more nervous than ever. They join him at the table. Anybody seeing the three of them would think they were co-workers out on a dinner date. They order pork loin with chips a la provenzal, red wine and soda water. Dandy digs in, Bangs talks non-stop. Miranda observes: the crow’s feet, the reading glasses, the slow reaction time, the unsteady hands, the hearing loss, the liver spots and that look of only slightly haughty resignation. Bangs speaks now with a lisp — his tongue is dual-tasking, making sure his dentures don’t pop out. Dandy’s movements are a lot less precise; he looks depressed, dispirited. The etchings time has left on his friends’ faces are merely a reflection of the same on his own. He looks at the three of them in the mirror on the wall and asks himself: I’m going to rob a bank with these buffoons? The prospect does not inspire much confidence; on the other hand, he doesn’t like the young ones. Those hoods are way too crazy, they snort a lot of blow, they want everything yesterday, they’re greedy and strung out, they turn violent at the slightest excuse, and at the drop of a hat they’ll stab you in the back or betray you without the least little qualm. He prefers old-school crooks, those who live by a code of honour, who aren’t going to turn you in or sell you out for a couple of pesos. People with experience, who’ve been inside and know it’s better to stay out. Like these two. Something can always go wrong, and time for robbery is always less than for murder. His plan is good, so good that he gets more and more excited as he spells it out to his accomplices, who also get excited just listening to him. His divine inspiration spreads a gold patina over all their regrets, which just a moment before had soured the scene with bitterness.