“In this profession, you can’t trust anything or anybody.”
Graves flashed his full tourist smile.
“Well, there are some things you can trust. Like the FBI.”
“You think?”
“Of course. We’re all working on the same side of the curtain.”
García kept staring at him. The gringo’s smile turned less touristy, colder.
“Fact is,” García said, “I haven’t seen your credentials.”
“True. Nor I yours.”
“You’ve already investigated me. You should know me by now.”
“Here.” Graves took out a metal badge and a card. García looked them over carefully.
“Everything alright?”
“Yes.”
“So, back to what we were talking about — our Russian
colleague.”
“He’s already been investigated, hasn’t he?”
“It’s not so easy. Ivan Mikhailovich Laski took part in the Spanish Civil War. Later, his name turns up in Asia, Central Europe, and Latin America. He speaks many languages without an accent, and there are long periods of time when he disappears altogether. For example, we haven’t heard anything about him since 1960. He was in Cuba.”
Graves spoke Spanish perfectly, without an accent. Fucking gringo! I bet the Russian’ll give me the same line about this fellow. They’ve got people to investigate everything. I think that’s all they do, investigate, and that’s why they couldn’t prevent what happened in Dallas. They were so busy investigating, they didn’t see that guy with his rifle. And now, if we keep spinning our wheels, the same thing’ll happen here while they’re still investigating everybody. Who knows what he knows about me. For all I know he knows what a chump I was with Marta and that’s why he’s laughing so much. She looked so lovely, sleeping there in my bed. I would have liked to take her to Chapultepec Park today. Fucking Outer Mongolia!
“Based on our research, Mr. García, we have concluded that you have never been a Communist and that you once foiled a plot by Castro. That’s why we consider you trustworthy.”
Trustworthy with a gun, trustworthy to kill. How many Christian souls has this gringo sent on their way?
Graves stared intensely at him.
“You are anti-Communist, aren’t you?”
“Didn’t you just say you investigated me?”
“But you are anti-Communist?”
“I’m Mexican, and here in Mexico we have the freedom to be what the hell we want.”
Fucking gringo! Why is it whenever you talk to one of them, you always end up making stupid speeches? Here we’re all free to be whatever we are — fucking assembly lines of dead bodies, second-rate stiffs. And there are other people out there, out in Outer Mongolia, people who have the freedom to churn out a load of first-rate dead people, proper corpses. Nothing better for that than Communists and anti-Communists. What if I tell him the truth? That I’m a hit man, a gunslinger, and that’s that. And I don’t give a damn what party the deceased belongs to. I even killed a priest once. Orders from General Marchena, back around ’29.
Graves looked at him, his eyes steely, but with that same smile of a tourist, or maybe a used-car salesman.
“I thought we were going to collaborate, Mr. García.”
“We are.”
“So, do we agree on the tactic we’ll use with our Russian colleague?”
“We’ll see.”
“I’ve told you everything we’ve done till now,” Graves sounded offended. “You have contacts in the Chinese community, but you haven’t told me anything.”
“Nope.”
“Do you actually have those contacts?”
“I play poker with them.”
“Great contact.”
Yeah, real great, for loosing money like a chump. Maybe this gringo, with his chronic investigationitis can be useful. Fucking Chinamen! Liu must be looking for Marta. Unless they were the ones who sent her to get me to my place and keep me distracted.
“There are indications that the Chinese know something, Graves.”
“Really. That could be important.”
“There’s a Chinaman named Wang, owner of a joint on Donceles Street, Café Canton. You wouldn’t be wasting your time if you investigated him.”
“Why?”
“They say he supports Mao. And that he’s organizing something.”
Graves stood up and walked over to the telephone. Fucking FBI! All you got to do is mention Mao’s name and they run off to report and investigate. Not bad, though, working with them. Here I sit, nice and easy, handing them information for them to investigate. It’s like I’m the colonel. Maybe they’ll even turn up something about Wang that I can use later. Those Chinamen always have dough and Yuan doesn’t like him. There’s got to be something to it. Fucking Chinamen. This gringo seems to know his trade. Very professional, karate, the whole enchilada. Marta should be up by now? After we meet with the Russian, I’m going to go buy her a dress and a coat. But maybe not, not yet. Who knows, maybe she can already see what a chump I am. And maybe this gringo is finking on me to the colonel or even del Valle, telling them I’m not playing nice. And me, I still can’t figure out what Marta’s up to. And now that I’ve got the gringo following a scent, I’d better play it cool. First I’ll talk to the Russian, alone. For sure he’ll feed me the same line as this one. All of them so professional and Marta making a chump out of me.
Graves returned and sat down:
“We’ll have all the information we need in two hours. Where should we meet, Mr. García?”
“Do you know La Ópera cantina on Cinco de Mayo?”
“Sure do.”
“At two?”
“Good. So, we have an understanding, Mr. García. You and I make one group, and the Russian makes another, if you know what I mean. We don’t need to confide in him all our virgin experiences. Ha ha.”
“No need to confide in anyone, Graves.”
“I mean between you and me. .”
“I understood. At two at La Ópera.”
García stood up. Graves remained seated, still smiling, his eyes hard. He has false teeth. For all I know he’ll pull a miniature gun out of one molar and a radio transmitter out of another, like in the movies they show on TV. Fucking gringos! Good thing I didn’t tell him anything about last night. I definitely smell a rat there. If Luciano Manrique, or whatever the hell the name of the one with the bat was, had really wanted to kill me, he would have packed a gun or, at least, a knife. As I see it, they just wanted to give me a scare. But they ended up getting it. No, I don’t think those guys were there to kill me. They were just delivering a message, letting me know they knew what I was up to. And if that’s the case, then one of those Chinamen sent them. Or sent Marta to set me up. That means they do know. Or they think I’m on one job when I’m really on another. Like those guys tailing me, very professionally, as if they really knew what’s what. Maybe they belong to the gringo or the Russian. Or the Chinese. At least these guys seem like they’ve got more know-how than the ones last night, who were complete and total morons.
He arrived at Café Paris, sat at a table facing the door, and ordered an espresso. It was a quarter to twelve. A shoeshine boy polished his shoes until they were shining like mirrors. He read the morning paper. There’ll be something about the dead bodies in Últimas Noticias and El Gráfico. Another crime the police never manage to solve. But we’re playing pretty rough with the cops. Maybe the colonel will tell them something to tide them over. Fucking colonel! Don’t you go around killing people, García. So, why hire me? So I can submit six copies of a spiffed-up report? How many more are involved in this business, anyway? For all I know, I’ll end up knocking off one of his pals. Things can get ugly when there’s too much secrecy. I prefer the old-fashioned way any day. Take that one out. Knock off those guys, they’re causing trouble. None of this shit about Outer Mongolia or Hong Kong. And that del Valle, also too gullible and too friendly. That business of smiling all the time, it must be the latest fad. Like that gringo. But me with my scar, it doesn’t suit me, and anyway, only morons walk around laughing all the time. What’s to laugh about in this goddamned fucking life? So del Valle doesn’t like to talk to gunslingers. Who’s he going to get to make his stiffs for him? And who’d hire our fellow Mexicans for a job like that? I don’t think those two guys last night were martyrs for any Chinese Communist cause. Someone’s dealing out some dough. A whole lot of dough, because these things cost a pretty penny. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to find out who’s got it and where it is. A few extra pesos wouldn’t hurt. Hey, then I can spend them on Marta like a goddamn chump.