“You want to find out who killed him and why?”
“What for? A man killed him. .”
“You don’t want to know who?”
“A man.”
“And if it was the Toad and that gringo who lives there in that hotel on Mina Street?”
“What does it matter?”
“You don’t want them to be punished?”
“What does it matter? Look, sir, I know he was nobody important. But he was a man and he had the right to live, like you do and like I do. And they killed him. And he’d never killed anybody. He might have been a thief, he might have been a crook, like they say, but he wasn’t a gunman, he wasn’t a hit man. He didn’t even own a gun. Just a club, to defend himself. He did bad things, but who hasn’t? But he didn’t have blood on his hands. And they killed him.”
“What about the gringo?”
“I told Luciano not to have anything to do with him. But he told me we were never going to be poor again, we were going to be important people. ‘You can’t imagine all the things we’ll do, Mrs. Manrique,’ that’s how he talked to me because he was good to me. We weren’t married, but when he was happy he always called me Mrs. Manrique. He even said we were going to get married and we were going to live in our own house, in Chihuahua. He was going to hunt deer. He even had a rifle.”
“Is it here?”
“What?”
“The rifle?”
“No, the gringo has it. He brought it across the border.”
“Had Luciano ever been a hunter?”
“No, but he was going to be. He told me that when he was a boy, the men would take him along. Sometimes he was like a child. He lived on dreams, on his desire to do things they told him important people did, like hunting. And four days ago, he brought a rifle to show me. I don’t think he even knew how to use it, but he was very happy with it. He told me the gringo was going to give it to him.”
“What was it like?”
“I don’t know anything about those things. It had a lens on top of the barrel and he told me to look through it. He was like a child.”
They sat in silence. Fucking child! Playing with the rifle they were going to use to kill the president of the United States. But now he’s dead. I figure Marta wouldn’t understand these things. Even though she said she saw a lot of things there in Canton. But those are Outer Mongolian things. Fucking Outer Mongolia!
“You don’t know if he had any Chinese friends from around here?”
“No. I never heard him talk about any of them. Not even the Chinaman from the coffee shop on the corner. Luciano was mad at him because he didn’t want to let us have credit.”
“And the Toad? When did he come around?”
“About two weeks ago, or less. He came to talk him into something. I never trusted that man. I know he’s a bad one. Once, in Tampico, he killed one of the girls in the whorehouse. For no reason. He’s mean. And I told Luciano, but his head was turned by the money they offered him and with the idea of buying me a house in Chihuahua. That’s how he was. He wanted everything for me, and now they went and killed him.”
“What did the Toad want to talk him into?”
“I don’t know. Something big. Along with that gringo. Poor Luciano had always wanted to do something big.”
“Do you need money, Ester?”
“For what?”
“There are always expenses. Here, I’m going to give you five hundred pesos.”
He left the house. Ester sat there, the bill in her hand, not aware of anything. I’m a fucking dumbass! But one day, I could tell this to Marta. No, on second thought. . She saw the dead man, she saw the knife. She won’t understand this. I threw away five hundred pesos, and I don’t even know why. Here I am, once again, thinking I’m in a soap opera. She’d already told me what I wanted to know, without me giving her any money. But there goes the chump again. “Here, take, five hundred pesos, buy whatever you want.” I don’t even know if she realized I put it in her hand. Fucking dumbass!
At the third hotel he visited on Mina Street, he came upon the name of the American. Edmund T. Browning, from Amarillo, Texas. Tourist. He was the only gringo tourist registered, and it looked like Magallanes Hotel didn’t get many foreigners. The receptionist, a thin young man, neatly dressed with big dark eyes and a full head of shining, well-groomed hair, was obviously nervous:
“We’ve never had any problems with the police, sir. This is a family hotel. .”
“Yeah, to make families,” García said.
The receptionist looked at him with sadness and disgust. He’s got a limp wrist. Butters his bread on the wrong side.
“When did Browning get here?”
“Six days ago. He seems like a responsible man, very polite.”
“Where’s he from?”
“The States. He came in his car, and I myself gave him room 328. He wanted an inside room, without windows on the street, because of the noise. He’s very sensitive.”
“What car does he drive?”
“A beautiful Chevrolet. Impala, brand new.”
“Is he in his room?”
“No, he went out.”
“Give me the key.”
“I don’t know if I should, sir. .”
García grabbed his tie and almost lifted him out from behind the counter.
“You have no right.”
“Give me the key.”
“You have no right, I’m going to complain —”
García slapped him with his left hand. The receptionist exuded the scent of a sickly sweet perfume.
“No right,” he said, his eyes filling with tears.
García abruptly released him and pushed him backward. He fell to the floor, banging his head against the wall filled with pigeonholes for the room keys. Blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. García reached over and took the key to room 328. The receptionist looked at him, his eyes filled with hatred.
The elevator stopped on the third floor. Room 328 was to the right — 300 to 325 to the left, 326 to 340 to the right. García knocked on the door, waited a moment, then opened it. Mr. Browning was a very neat and methodical man. Two suits were hanging in the closet, and there was a hunting rifle with its telescopic sight in its leather case. On the shelf above the closet was a box with twenty-eight rifle cartridges. García took the weapon out of its case. Fucking gringo! He sure knows how to take care of a weapon. It’s well oiled. But he hasn’t used it much. All dressed up and ready to go, as they say. A gift for his Latin American friend, Luciano Manrique. So, they didn’t see this at customs. Maybe it didn’t even pass through customs.
The tools for cleaning the rifle were in a bag in the case — rags, a small brush, and a can of 3-in-One Oil. MADE IN MEXICO.
He put everything back in its place, walked out, and locked the door. When he got downstairs, the receptionist had already cleaned the blood off his face and combed his hair. He seemed on the verge of tears.
“Here’s the key, my friend.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell Browning the police were here.”
“Yes, I will.”
“One more thing, my friend. .”
The receptionist pushed himself back against the wall, as far away from García as possible.
“Does Mr. Browning ever have any visitors?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
García stretched his hand out toward him. The receptionist saw it coming but did nothing to stop him. The hand again grabbed his tie and pulled.
“Two gentlemen came. .”
“That’s better. Nobody can say you don’t cooperate with the police, my friend. What are the visitors’ names?”
“Truth is, I don’t know, sir. I swear I don’t. They never told me.”
“One of them is about as tall as me, dark, heavyset, with bulging eyes, right?
“Yes. He’s the one who comes most often.”