“So, stop wasting it telling me off and tell me what you found out from Wang.”
Graves smiled. He placed his briefcase on the table but didn’t open it. Now he’ll pull out a stack of papers. A thousand-page investigation. Give ’em to your fucking mother to read.
“Wang imports merchandise from Communist China through Hong Kong. Mostly canned Chinese food. He brings in a significant amount of merchandise. The last shipment was worth eighty thousand pesos. I think the Mexican police should search the café and his warehouses in Nonoalco.”
“Looking for what? Canned lard and fish sauce? My government doesn’t prohibit trade with China.”
“This is a special case.”
“Anyway, I found out that there are half a million dollars in fifty-dollar bills, out there, floating around, as we say, somewhere.”
“How do you know, García?”
“The money comes from Hong Kong. With half a million dollars you can get a pope assassinated, never mind a president.”
“How did you find out about that money?”
“Maybe your people, who like to investigate so much, would have news of an operation of that magnitude. The money, in cash, comes from Hong Kong Shanghai Bank, in Hong Kong.”
“Yesterday Wang exchanged, at Banco Nacional, a hundred fifty-dollar bills. He changed them for pesos.”
“Graves, you think you can get the numbers of the bills from the Hong Kong bank?”
“I can try, through London, but we don’t have much time.”
“Do it, even if you have to go through Outer Mongolia. And we’ve got a date, at seven, at Café Canton, with Laski.”
“Okay. What was that you said about Outer Mongolia?”
“Nothing. It was a joke. See you at seven.”
García stood up. Graves stayed seated:
“I’d like to know where you get your information, García. About the money.”
“You would?”
“It’s important.”
“One of the dead men in the Pontiac was carrying thirty fifty-dollar bills. A lot of dough for a guy like that.”
“Half a million dollars is too much money for something like this, García.”
“You don’t think your president’s life is worth that much?”
“These kinds of attacks are usually carried out by fanatics, people who don’t need to get paid much. Half a million is a lot of money.”
“See you at seven.”
García went out and stopped at a public telephone.
“García here, Colonel.”
“Kill anybody else?”
“Have you got those bills they found on Villegas?”
“Yes. And they’re staying right here.”
“I just want the numbers.”
The colonel told him the numbers and García jotted them down on an old envelope.
“Thanks, Colonel.”
“The person we talked to last night called me. He wants a report.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve got nothing more to say?”
“Could you also get the numbers of some fifty-dollar bills that Wang, from Café Canton, changed at the Banco Nacional? There were a hundred of them.”
“Yeah, that’s easy. The bank has no reason to conceal that information. You can ask them yourself.”
“I don’t have time. The president of the United States arrives tomorrow.”
“Keep me informed.”
The colonel hung up. Fucking colonel and his jokes! Have I killed anybody else. What does he care, as long as I don’t kill his clients? They’ve all gotten so high and mighty. Like that del Valle. Who said anything about killing anybody? And me still in the same old shit — but now it’s even worse. There used to be respect. I was Filiberto García, the man who killed Teódulo Reina in Irapuato. When that fucking little colonel was a nobody, a punk kid. But it’s not like that now, now the Revolution wears white gloves. And that gringo asks too many questions. Same as the Russian. All this shit about investigating, about being a team. Fucking team! These things are done by one man, alone. Filiberto García, who killed Teódulo Reina in Irapuato. Alone. Man to man. No investigation needed. Fucking colonel!
He tried to catch a taxi, but couldn’t, and ended up taking a bus. Guerrero Street, number 208, was an ugly apartment building, the kind of ugly reserved for this street. Apartment 9 was on the second floor, at the end of a filthy hallway with paint peeling off walls where several generations of renters had scrawled their ideas about politics, life, death, and, above all, sex. García stopped and rang the bell. It didn’t seem to be working, so he knocked. A few moments later the door opened. A blond woman dressed in a dirty bathrobe, her hair mussed and her face smeared with traces of yesterday’s makeup, spoke to him in English, then sprinkled it with Spanish:
“What the hell. .?”
“Police.”
He showed her a badge. The woman brought her hand to her mouth, as if to stifle a shout, and let him in. He entered a room filled with a motley collection of old, cheap furniture. Disorder reigned. The dining table was strewn with dirty dishes and the floor with newspapers, cigarettes butts, and items of clothing. On a couch in the middle of that mess sat the professor, a cup in his hand and a bottle of rum on the coffee table in front of him. The professor stood up.
“Police,” García said to him.
“I am a lawyer and I represent this woman.”
The woman stood absolutely still next to the open door, her hand over her mouth, still struggling to stifle that shout. García turned to her:
“Are you the wife of Roque Villegas Vargas?”
“Yes, I am. And the money he was carrying is mine. . mine. The dirty bum, the lowdown dirty bastard. . That money is mine. .”
The professor walked across the room and closed the door. The woman kept talking:
“That money is mine. . it’s all mine and don’t think for a minute I’m going to let you cops steal it from me.”
“Mr. Policeman,” the professor interrupted, “this woman has just now found out about the death of Mr. Villegas Vargas. .”
“The dirty bum, the no-good motherfucking bastard —”
“. . and naturally she is quite upset by the news.”
“I want that money, all of it —”
“On the other hand, I have recommended she take a bit of a stimulant, a sip of rum, to perhaps calm her frayed nerves —”
“The no-good sonofabitch. One thousand five hundred bucks, Mr. Policeman, and they’re mine. . all mine.”
García stood there staring at her. The woman closed her mouth, which she had readied for further expressions of her sorrow, and took a step back.
“Do you have any documents that prove you are Villegas Vargas’s legal spouse?”
The professor intervened:
“Look, Mr. Policeman —”
The woman gestured to him to shut up:
“That money is mine. It’s the only damn thing I’m going to get out of this whole fucking mess, five months living with that motherfucking bastard. . The only —”
“Do you have any documents?”
The professor again intervened:
“She has her passport, and everything is in order. She is in Mexico legally. .”
“She is, eh?”
“Now, sir, one minor — let us say — legal requirement does seem to be missing — the marriage license. But, as you know, our laws are compassionate and protect mistresses in good standing. It can be proven beyond reasonable doubt that this woman has lived with Mr. Villegas Vargas as his wife and, hence, has full rights to the estate left by the deceased —”
“You tell him, Mr. Lawyer! Damn right I have my rights. . That money is mine, and if you steal it from me, I’ll go straight to my consulate. No goddamned greaser is going to take it away from me. A thousand five hundred dollars. Holy Jesus!”