“Why?”
“He told me not to talk to you. He doesn’t want me to talk to anybody. He says it could be bad for him.”
“Is he sweet on you, Marta?”
“I can stay here tonight, on the sofa in the living room, and tomorrow I’ll go look for work. It’s not difficult to find work and now that. . now that I’m not afraid, now that I know you’re going to help me. . I don’t have to go back to Mr. Liu.”
García kept staring straight at her.
“Is he sweet on you, Marta?”
“You have to rest, Filiberto. Many things have happened and. .”
“It’s okay, Marta. You sleep in my bed. I have to leave very early tomorrow. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“But. .”
“Go on, Marta, it’s late.”
Marta went up to him and kissed him gently on his cheek.
“Thank you.”
She went into the bedroom and closed the door.
Now things have really gotten complicated. Fucking Chinese. So Chinaman Liu’s got a good thing going. That dirty old man!
He lifted his hand to his cheek, to where Marta had kissed him, right next to his scar. Now I’m really acting like a chump. A stupid ass. What kind of crap is this anyway? How did they find out I was in on this international intrigue? Maybe it’s better this way with Marta. At my age it’s better to take things slow, to enjoy them more, but I’ve never done that before. And what was that about only three men in Mexico knowing about this; and with me that makes four; and then the Russian; and the gringo; and those who gave orders to the Russian and the gringo. And the two guys in the Pontiac, but they don’t know anything anymore. And the Chinamen at Café Canton. And the police in Outer Mongolia. And then, why did they put me on this investigation? Fucking investigation. We haven’t even really started and already there are two dead bodies. Just stiffs so far, we haven’t gotten to the proper corpses. And Marta is so serious, watching every last thing. As if she’s used to it. And she chose tonight to go out with me. Couldn’t she be trying to pull a fast one? And me, instead of taking advantage of it, I act like we’re in some kind of daytime radio soap opera. Fucking Palmolive soap opera! With international intrigue to boot. As if there wasn’t any competition. I’m on Hitler and Stalin and Truman’s team. Hey, you guys, how many dead have you got? But I’m very Mexican about it, which means I’m old fashioned. As you know, we’re a little underdeveloped. Just bullets for us. Sometimes I think it’s only a question of quantity. The more dead you chalk up, the less you go out at night. The first two, they kind of bummed me out. The widow of that dead guy, Casimiro, she stuck with me for a long time. The dead guy, too. Some dead people become very sticky, like syrup. And there are times you want to keep washing your hands. And now that Marta kissed me, I don’t want to even touch my face. Fucking Marta! As far as I’m concerned, she’s playing a dirty trick on me. Like the kind I’ve played on others. So I’d recognize a dirty trick when I saw one, as if I’d cooked it up myself. I don’t like so many people knowing my business. In matters like this, better to go solo. And even solo there are too many people involved. My left hand shouldn’t know what my right hand is doing. And what good is it to blab about it. Blabber mouths don’t live long. I keep my lips sealed, because fish die by the mouth. And me, I haven’t been the dead one yet, not like my pal Zambrano, who got into trouble in San Luis Potosí. All because of his big mouth. Right there in Alfonsa’s bordello, that’s where they did him in. I wasn’t there. I didn’t kill him. But I let on that he was talking more than he should and then I stayed in my hotel room like a goddamned faggot. Would have been better if I’d gone and killed him myself. They say he suffered a lot, because they kept kicking him in the gut and didn’t want to finish him off. Alfonsa, being his lover and all, she asked them to get it over with. But the guys who did it didn’t know what they were doing. Seems they got scared. They say one of them even wet himself. I should have done it myself. It was the least I could have done for my pal Zambrano. Make sure he had a good death, one any loyal soul deserves. Zambrano had a way with bitches. For better or for worse, not a single one ever left him. And there’s Marta in the bedroom and me here like Vasconcelos with my memories. Fucking faggot! And the next night, at the wake, I did it with Alfonsa. She smelled like a woman in mourning. From that day on she had it in for me. For all I know she knew something. Fucking Alfonsa! She was hot. And now, what am I doing with all these memories? Nobody can live off memories, only people who haven’t done anything. Fucking memories! They’re like hangovers. That’s why drunks vomit, so they don’t have to remember, and beginners vomit after their first hit, like they were trying to get rid of it. But the trick is to be like an old drunk and carry your Alka-Seltzer around inside you. That way it all stays put and everything that stays put turns into memories. Good thing not everything stays put. Especially from when you’re a kid and really a chump. Sometimes I think I’ve finally forgotten that gal’s name, Gabriela Cisneros. Why remember a woman’s name? One woman is like any other. All with their little holes. Gabriela Cisneros. There I was, just a boy, and on my knees to her, and finally she let me have a go. And Romualdo Cisneros found us out in that orchard in Yurécuaro. She was almost naked already. And right then and there, Mr. Cisneros made me get down on my knees on the ground, for real, and lower my pants, and he started whipping me with his machete. Right there, right in front of Gabriela Cisneros. And I started crying and I told him I wanted to marry her and Mr. Cisneros kicked me in the mouth. And Gabriela Cisneros pretended like she was crying, but she was laughing. She didn’t even cover up her legs. And there I was, crying, with my naked butt in the air, red, as if blushing with shame. And Mr. Cisneros said he didn’t want the son of La Charanda for a son-in-law. That’s what they called my old lady, same as the rum they drank back there. I never knew what they called my old man, because I never knew who he was. A few years later I went back to Yurécuaro. Must have been around ‘29 or ‘30, and Romualdo Cisneros had already left for the capital and Gabriela had run off with a lieutenant, who’d left her in Santa Lucrecia or somewhere around there, pregnant. Some things stay inside, especially things like that, things that are left half done. That’s why I don’t like to leave things half done. Not international intrigue and not this business with Marta. And you also learn not to talk too much. There are things you don’t talk about. Or better, there’s nothing you do talk about. So you don’t end up like my pal Zambrano, whose big mouth got him killed. Only bitches go around blabbing everything, at least what they want to. And that’s why it’s best to do it with a bitch once or twice and then walk away. Fucking bitches! And so you don’t start blabbing, you’re better off forgetting. What if I tell Marta everything? Like about how my butt was red from the whipping, as if ashamed. Like about my pal Zambrano. Instead of telling her things I should be in bed with her. Fucking Marta! For all I know she’s laughing at me. But maybe things will turn out better this way, by taking it nice and easy.
III
García here, Colonel.”
“Aren’t you at your meeting?”
“I’m in Sanborns, and I’ve got my eye on the cigarette counter.”
“The person who was here yesterday, he called me earlier today.”
“I talked to him last night. There’s nothing new to report.”
“You’re not going to tell him about the two men the police found in a car, three blocks from your house? They were both dead.”
“Oh, that.”
“What do you know about it, García?”