“It is true, Mr. Policeman. She is under the protection not only of our humanitarian laws but also the government of the United States of America.”
“Identification, please,” García demanded from the woman.
She ran into the other room and returned almost instantaneously with an enormous, flaming-red handbag. She opened it, dug around inside, and pulled out an American passport. She held it out to García triumphantly and with absolute confidence. Just seeing her passport infused her with renewed strength, as if it placed her in a different human category.
“Look, American Citizen. See. Anabella Ninziffer, from Wichita Falls, theater artist. And look at my tourist card. Everything’s in order. Everything —”
“I see.”
“Obviously, I don’t use my real name on stage and in cabarets. My stage name is Anabella Crawford. Maybe you’ve seen me advertised in Tijuana or maybe L.A.”
García handed her back her passport. Fucking gringa! Her mouth stinks like a cantina at daybreak. Big deal, an American citizen, like that’d be enough to scare me off.
“Look here, mister. . I’m telling you, that money’s mine. .”
“We’ll see.”
“Come on, honey. Be good. . Be good with me and I’ll be good with you? Want to come to a party tonight, just you by your lonesome?. . I’ve always liked strong dark men with green eyes. I’ll be good, honey.”
The professor poured himself another glass of rum and drank it down in one gulp. Anabella sidled up to García, letting her robe open at her neckline. Under her robe, there was only Anabella, lots of Anabella.
“I haven’t done no deal with this shyster. . with this lawyer. He wanted some of my money, honey.”
“Really?”
“He wanted thirty percent of my money. Five hundred dollars. Jesus F. Christ! Ain’t it true I don’t got to give him nothing? You’re going to get it for me, aren’t you?”
“If you can prove where that money came from, there’s no reason you have to give anything to anybody.”
“What?”
García repeated the sentence, this time in English. The woman kept talking, also in English:
“He earned it, every penny of it. We both earned it. .”
“What kind of work did he do?”
“He was hired, for a special job, an investigation. He was a private detective, honey.”
“Who hired him?”
“That car’s mine too, the Pontiac. I gave him the money to buy it in Tijuana.”
“Who hired him?”
“You gotta give me that money, and the car, too. It’s all mine. .”
“Who hired him?”
The woman went over to the table, picked up the bottle of rum, and took a huge slug.
“Honey, you don’t need to know that. Come back tonight and you’ll see that none of that matters. . We’ll have a party. .”
García went straight up to her. His eyes were two chunks of green ice. With his left hand he yanked the bottle away from her and with the left he gave her a sharp slap.
“Who hired him?”
The woman brought her hands to her mouth. Her eyes were spinning. She slowly sank into an armchair, still not removing her hands from her mouth. The tears welled up in her eyes, then rolled down her cheeks, mixing with mascara and powder.
“Who hired him?”
“I can’t. . I can’t tell you. I can’t. But that money’s mine, it’s all I’ve got. . I’ve got nothing else. That bastard took everything from me. In Tijuana he said. . I was a performer there. . He said we were going to make a bundle. .”
“Who with?”
“I can’t. . I can’t tell you. . I’m afraid.”
García grabbed her robe and pulled her up to standing. Anabella’s eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her head. Her full lips were trembling.
“They were Chinamen who hired him, weren’t they?”
The woman shook her head, weakly.
“Wang, from Café Canton, right?”
The woman kept shaking her head. García let go of her robe and pushed her into the chair. Anabella covered her face with her hands and began sobbing.
“We can have a party, honey. . A really good party. Tonight.”
“Was it Wang?”
Anabella nodded.
“What was the job?”
“I don’t know. . I don’t know. . Something very secret, very mysterious. They didn’t want to tell me anything. . Rock, that’s how I called Roque, he promised me we were going to have lots of money and be very important. . But I don’t know what the job was.”
García turned, as if to leave.
“But, Mr. Policeman. . Mister. . you promised you’d get me that money. . And the car. .”
“Talk to your lawyer.”
“That crummy bastard! Best you come back tonight, at nine, I’ll explain everything to you. I’ll spiff myself up and we’ll have a party. You want a party with an American girl, eh, lover boy?”
García left, closing the door behind him. Fucking washed-up gringa! Still reeking of the rotgut she drank last night. I’d almost rather sleep with the professor. So Wang was going around dealing out the dough, eh? Those fucking Chinamen. Now they’re really in for it. And the guys from Communist China trying to play catch-up in this international intrigue. Just look at how they’re fucking it up! That’s why I smell a goddamned rat here. Fucking rat! All that bullshit about Outer Mongolia, and this is all they can come up with. And out there are a bunch of fifty-dollar bills, greenbacks. I could buy Marta a fur coat. There I go, acting like a chump again. No. Tonight, she either gives out or she gets out. She’s too damn fine. Half a million for a fuck-up like this? More than six million pesos. Wait till the colonel hears. Then we’ll start the game of marbles — who’s got their marbles? And who’s lost theirs. Whoever takes the first turn usually wins, and that’ll be me.
IV
When García opened the door to his apartment, Marta was on the floor on her knees, cleaning the rug with a damp rag. She looked up when she heard the door open:
“The stain is almost gone, Filiberto.”
“Why are you doing this, Marta?”
Marta stood up slowly.
“I thought you wouldn’t be back till late, and I didn’t have anything else to do.”
“Have you eaten, Marta?”
“I made a little rice.”
“That’s all?”
“I’m not hungry, Filiberto.”
García closed the door, walked into the bedroom, and took off his hat. Marta kept looking down at the rug she’d been cleaning. When García returned, she lifted her eyes to look at him.
“What happened?”
“No big deal, Marta.”
“But, those men. .”
“They were both criminals, wanted by the police.”
He sat down on the sofa. Maybe she’ll come sit next to me and I’ll put my arm around her. I should have put my arms around her when I came in. I’m really turning into a faggot.
Marta took the rag into the kitchen. From there she called out:
“Do you want some coffee? I made some. .”
“Thanks, Marta, but you shouldn’t bother. .”
“I’ll bring it to you. Do you want some cognac?”
“Yes. . please.”
“Coming.”
Marta’s voice sounded happy, confident. She’s not afraid like she was last night. Maybe now she’ll play harder to get. She didn’t try to kiss me when I came in, didn’t even give me her hand. I made her not afraid of me and now she brushes me off. That’s what I get for being a dumbass — and a faggot. I’m a fucking faggot.