“I’ll call you back in ten.”
“I’ll call you, Gomitos, and thanks.”
He hung up. The bucks are there, all of them in green fifty-dollar bills. And seeing as how I don’t work on a team, it’ll all be for me. Fuck the team! Now we’ll see who’s a better investigator. Fucking investigation!
The professor was already in the cantina drinking his first tequila of the day, his tequila of salvation, as he called it, to be imbibed ritualistically, as if it were a sacrament. García took him over to a booth.
“Find out anything?”
“Luciano Manrique’s exemplary life is an open book to me.”
“What kind?”
“A somewhat pornographic book, like those novels they write these days, the ones they say are new art and very highbrow. Can I order another tequila, Cap’n?”
“Go ahead.”
The professor ordered a double.
“Who was protecting Manrique?”
“Luciano Manrique’s entire life, as well as his specific activities, can be reduced to one bit of legal terminology: chargeable offense. His name first appears in the Mexican police records of Tampico as a procurer: arrested for aggravated assault, charged with procuring and carrying illegal weapons — a club and assorted other bits. Three years. Released in two. He had learned an important lesson. If one wants to devote one’s life to the professions of procurement, robbery, and similar activities, one must be allied with some member of the police force. So he becomes a policeman in Tamaulipas. As you can see, Cap’n, and without meaning any offense, he rose in the criminal ranks while sinking deeper into the swamp.”
“Who got him out of jail?”
“He became buddies with a policeman, who in turn became buddies with the chief of military operations, one General Miraflores. Cheers, Cap’n.”
“Why did he get him out?”
“Perhaps out of noble feelings of mercy for his fellow human beings, Christian mercy. Though if that were the case, it would be the only instance of such feelings in General Miraflores’s brilliant career. There are those with malevolent but probably correct notions who claim that Miraflores had him released from jail so he could help him collect his cut from the local prostitutes.”
“Then what?”
“When the general came to Mexico City and Mr. Rosendo del Valle left the government of Tamaulipas, Luciano came, too, and apparently without a job title. Just in case, as they say. He brought with him his wife, or mistress or consort, with whom he lived on Camelia Street, number 87.”
“Has in been in jail here in Mexico City?”
“Once, for robbery. He got out on bail thanks to his brilliant defense attorney, your humble servant.”
“And who paid for your services?”
“His wife. Again, they caught him with a stolen car. But they couldn’t prove anything, and the owner of the car, thanks to my efforts, withdrew the complaint.”
“Who paid you, Professor?”
“The wife.”
“Where did she get the money?”
“You want hearsay?”
“Yes.”
“General Miraflores. Seems he was very fond of our man. I was, too, and he was turning out to be a good client, until. . until he died.”
“What else?”
“The woman’s name is Ester Ramírez. She was working at a whorehouse in Tampico, and Luciano Manrique rescued her from that ignominious and degraded life. So, what about my fee, Cap’n?”
“Here.”
“Thank you. I see you subtracted the thirty pesos.”
“I did. That was the deal.”
“Okay, okay. In fact, Cap’n, the police still haven’t found out who murdered the men in the black Pontiac, as they are now called in the newspapers.”
“So?”
“But in the courts, word has it that the police know who killed them but orders have come from higher up to drop the investigation. Cheers, Cap’n.”
“And lately, just before he died, is anything known about what Manrique was doing?”
“He had more money than usual and was often seen in the company of new friends.”
“Who?”
“One they call the Toad. He’s also from Tampico, and he also worked with the police there. The other one, according to what they say, is a recently arrived gringo who lives in a hotel on Mina Street. And, it seems, there’s been a whole new wave of crimes. Last night, they found four men and a woman, dead, in a room on Guerrero Street.”
“Really.”
“Turns out the woman was the inconsolable widow you and I interviewed yesterday afternoon. She was strangled with an electrical cord.”
“Really.”
“They must have killed her shortly after we left.”
“I left her with you, Professor.”
The professor took a sip of tequila, then smiled.
“We both live from crime, Cap’n, but those of my profession have reached the conclusion that killing our potential clients is not only unethical but very bad business. In the circles you move in, on the other hand, one has not reached this conclusion.”
“You’re crossing a line, Professor.”
García’s voice did not sound hard, only tired. The professor smiled again.
“Don’t get mad, Cap’n. It was only a joke. Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
The professor finished his tequila and ordered another. Fucking jokes. Fucking truth. So we’re dumbasses because we kill our clientele. Maybe only chumps work in this business — the sharp-witted ones study law. And what about the Russian and the gringo? Seems they studied their profession, like the professor. And I didn’t study shit. I fell into it without even knowing why or how. Maybe because it was there for the taking. Or because that was life in those days. Or because that’s how they wanted me to be. Fucking life! And the gringo and the Russian studied a lot to become what I am. And this lawyer, what is he? A cantina rat? Specialists, del Valle said. Fucking gunslingers like me! And now Marta comes along and tells me how good I am! What the fuck?! What would the professor say if I told him that? Good Filiberto. Fucking faggot Filiberto! What would he say if I told him about Marta? There should be a university department for gunslingers. Experts in slinging guns. Experts in screwing others over. Experts in churning out the faithful departed. One year of studies to learn not to remember the dead you leave behind. And another year, so that even if you do remember, you don’t give a damn. Does this lawyer remember all the dirty cases he’s been in on? All the bribes? They say some killers notch their guns for each of their victims. Dumbasses! I don’t need to make any marks to remember. For all I know Graves made a mark on his gun last night. Or maybe he keeps a list. That Russian with his reactions. If after every killing, he ate like he said he does, he’d be fat as hell. And he says Graves goes and tells all, like in confession. And Marta confesses to me. All that’s left is for me to have the urge to confess to her. Fucking confession! There are things you never tell anybody. Hey, Marta, one day in Parral I killed a woman. She was making a chump out of me and I killed her. Hey, Marta, out in Huasteca, I strangled an old man with an electrical cord. And in Mazatlán, I whacked two guys in a cantina. First I got them drunk. There they were, slumped over on the floor, backs against the counter, their eyes wide open. The dead always have stupid expressions on their faces. And me pretending to be good old Filiberto. Listen, Marta, out there in San Andrés Tuxtle, I killed a man then fucked his wife, right there in the same room, I raped her. Must have been one of those reactions the Russian was talking about. Because now those things aren’t low-down shit, they’re reactions. The Russian police even keeps lists of them: after killing, Filiberto García is known to rape the victim’s wife.
“You angry, Cap’n?”
“No, Professor. Actually, there’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time.”