“Do you have the passport, Marta?”
“Yes. Here.”
She was carrying it in her handbag. An old Mexican passport. The Pontiac was still following them. Now they’re going to shoot me in the back, no sweat, just happened to be passing by, and boom. He died because he was a chump. Had to happen one day, the pitcher that goes to the well once too often gets broken. But they probably don’t want to take Marta out, too. Fucking Poles!
“Where are we going, Filiberto?”
“My place. We have to look at the passport and make a call.”
Marta said nothing. She kept walking with her head bent. García took her by the arm. When he touched her, his hand trembled. Is it because I’m afraid of the Pontiac or because I’ve got the hots for her? I’ve never done it with a Chinese gal, and I’ve had my eye on for this one for a long time. But she should have acted offended when I said we were going to my place. Or maybe they told her to get me there. Just bring him where we can whack him easily. She is really fine. And those guys behind me. They’re giving me the shivers up and down my spine. If they do me in now, I won’t get to do it with Marta. And anyway, at times like this, I’ve never wanted to be the one who ends up dead.
At the corner of Allende, a one-way street where the traffic went in the opposite direction, he turned and pushed Marta against the wall. The Pontiac seemed to hesitate, then sped up and passed them. Only one man was in the car. García stopped a taxi and gave him his address. Marta got in without a word. The story this Chinese gal told might be true, but I’ll have to take a good look at the passport, and at her, too. I’ve got a bottle of cognac at home. That always loosens them up. And come to think of it, these guys have no reason to be tailing me. Though maybe the Pole tipped them off — some international conspiracy. Now I’ve been promoted to the Department of International Intrigue. Holy shit! Next they’ll tell me to go whack some jerk in Constantinople, where they dance with their belly buttons swirling around. The dance of the seven veils. How do they whack people in Constantinople? As far as I’m concerned, a dead body is a dead body in any country. Like bitches. They’re all the same. But I’ve never done it with a Chinese gal, and I think tonight all that’s going to change, with or without Outer Mongolia. Fucking Chinese gal!
He told the driver to stop a little before they reached his place. He got out, paid the amount on the meter, and looked up and down the street. It was empty.
“Come on, Marta.”
Marta got out of the car. She looked up at the houses and the sky. García took her to the door of the building, opened it, and they went in. The entryway was dark.
“The bulb must’ve burnt out. This way, Marta.”
He took her firmly by the arm. Truth is, I don’t like this light being out. I also don’t like what I saw from the street — one of my windows open, in the living room. Something’s definitely up.
They climbed one flight of stairs. They stopped in front of his door. Apartment four. Dark in there, too. He put the key in the lock and turned it slowly. He drew his gun with his left hand. As soon as he felt the bolt slide, he pushed hard against the door and fell into the room. The club hit his left shoulder and he dropped his gun. He fell to the ground on his side. The man with the club came at him. Marta was standing in the doorway, not moving, and the man didn’t see her. Or maybe they were in cahoots. The man raised his club and leaned over to hit him. García could just barely see him outlined against the dim light coming in through the window. As soon as he was within reach, García grabbed his leg and pulled. The man dropped his club and fell on top of him. Not bad, this guy, a contender, after all. The club rolled to the door and stopped. The man sat astride him and reached with open hands for his throat. He had already found it when García jammed his knife into his stomach. The man groaned but didn’t let go of his throat. At that moment, Marta hit him on the head with the club she’d picked up off the floor. García stabbed him again with the knife, and the man rolled off him, landing face down on the rug. García stood up, took the club from Marta, closed the door, and turned on the light. It was the Pole. García leaned over and touched him. He was dead. Marta stood motionless, her eyes wide open.
“Is he. . is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“I killed him. .”
García looked up at her. There was indescribable anguish in her eyes.
“I killed him. .”
García kept watching her. Her lips were trembling. She looked like she was about to vomit.
“I killed him. .”
“Do you know him? Look at him, look at his face, Marta.”
“I can’t. .”
“Look at his face!”
Marta took a few steps toward him and forced herself to look at the dead man.
“It’s. . it’s the man who was in the shop this evening. . When you were there and. . and you asked me who he was and if he came often. .”
García dropped the dead man’s head.
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’d never seen him before?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. . and I killed him.”
García stood up. Seems like she’s telling the truth. Fucking Pole! He nearly broke my shoulder. And now Marta thinks she killed him with the club. This’ll make things easy. I’ve got her now!
“I killed him. . It’s horrible, but. . but he wanted to kill you, Filiberto.”
García walked over to her.
“No, Marta. I killed him, with my knife. You’ll see if you turn him over, it’s still in him. . Anyway, thanks for the help.”
Marta went over to the armchair and collapsed. The blood was starting to puddle onto the carpet. García didn’t take his eyes off the girl. Her eyes were glistening.
“Thank you, Marta. I killed him because he attacked me.”
“You’re covered in blood, Filiberto.”
“It’s his.”
He had a large blood stain on his jacket and down the front of his shirt. He sat down, next to Marta.
“You see, Marta, they weren’t lying to you when they said I know how to kill. They weren’t lying to you. .”
“He tried to kill you. He hit you with that club and then he tried to strangle you. I saw everything, Filiberto, and I can tell. . I can tell the police if you want. I saw it, he attacked you. .”
Marta’s words came out quickly, almost sputtering, like sobs.
“That’s exactly what happened, Marta. But look at us — first time you go out with me, and we already have a dead body. .”
He stood up and went into the bedroom and returned with a sheet. He covered the body. Marta sat in her armchair, not moving.
“Maybe you should go into the other room, Marta.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen a dead body.”
Marta’s voice was shaking. She’s making a big effort not to vomit. That’s always how it is the first few times. And once they start vomiting, there’s no stopping it, like they were drunk. Better not give her any cognac.
Martha stood up. She left her shawl on the sofa.
“What are you going to do with him, Filiberto? I saw everything and I know it’s not your fault. If you hadn’t killed him, he’d have killed you. .”