They stopped in front of Liu’s shop and got out of the car. They knocked on the door. A few moments later it opened. It was Liu. He looked at García and then at the Russian, his face expressionless. The shop was almost dark, lit only by a Chinese brazier filled with charcoal and burning papers. It smelled of smoke and incense. Liu stepped back to let them enter, then closed the door and turned to his visitors.
“Marta is dead,” García said.
“Yes.”
“You killed her?”
“Yes.”
García slowly drew his gun. Laski intervened.
“What papers are you burning?”
“Paper, bad paper, very bad paper. .”
They walked up to the brazier. A large stack of fifty-dollar bills was burning on the coals. There were still two or three tea tins full of bills, and several others already empty.
“Very bad paper,” Liu said.
García raised his gun. Laski intervened.
“Just a moment, Filiberto. .”
“Let him, sir. Better like this. .”
“Why did you send that girl to watch over García?”
“What it matter?”
He threw another fistful of bills on the coals, the room lit up, and the white porcelain bellies of the Buddhas lined up in the window were glowing.
“Are you working with Wang and that gang?”
“What it matter?”
“What did you want to know about García?”
“My son dead. . what matter else? My oldest son. . And you killed him. . My son Xavier. .”
“Your son, Liu? I didn’t know you had a son,” García said.
Liu threw more bills on the flames.
“He lived in Cuba. . And Marta ran away and she give him to you. And now he dead. . He my only son and now finished honorable house of Liu. Now nobody to continue to pray for honorable ancestors. That what happen when you kill my son, Xavier. And Marta like every woman, bad, very bad. She fall in love with you, Mr. García, but this no matter now. Everyone know woman is bad from birth, very bad, traitor. But then she give you my son, Xavier, who come from Cuba full of dream to do important thing there, very important. And he give me this bad money to keep. .”
He threw some more bills on the fire, then leaned over to blow on the flames. Laski grabbed his jacket and forced him to stand up.
“Who was the leader of this business with Cuba?”
“What matter now? You kill my son, Xavier. . What matter the other?”
“Who was the leader?” Laski insisted.
“What matter. .?”
Laski smashed him across the face with the butt of his gun, but Liu didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t even bring his hands to his face. García stepped forward and forced Laski to let Liu go.
“Why did you kill Marta?”
“She bad, very bad. She sold my son, Xavier. .”
“She didn’t tell me anything about your son.”
Liu stood in silence, as if pondering his words. The blood was running down onto his chest. He leaned over and threw more bills on the fire.
“She tell me she going to stay with you, because you good. . I don’t believe her. Women always tell lie. . She told you about Xavier and he dead. .”
García fired. The Chinaman fell against the window, broke the glass, and the porcelain Buddhas fell to the ground. García put his gun in the holster and left the shop. Some lights went on and a few Chinese cautiously peeked out their windows. A police siren could be heard from far away. García left the car where it was and walked toward Avenida Juárez. His hands were hanging by his sides, heavy, like two useless items. I have to wash my hands. Why keep carrying around other people’s blood? It’s not right to go to her with my hands covered with blood. She might get frightened. Fucking hands!
Laski caught up with him at the corner of Avenida Juárez.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Filiberto.”
García kept walking. He turned right, toward Cinco de Mayo and La ópera cantina. Laski walked alongside him.
“You shouldn’t have done that. It was important to find out everything possible about this Chinese conspiracy.”
García kept walking. My hands are heavy, too heavy, as if I were carrying stones. Liu killed her. I killed Liu. My hands are heavy. They hurt, too many deaths all together. I feel like sitting down on this bench. . on a rock in the open fields, like before, by the side of the road. But there are no more roads to walk down with my heavy hands, my aching hands from all the dead I carry around with me. Fucking hands!
“That wasn’t professional what you did today, Filiberto. You must get everything you possibly can out of a suspect before killing him. That’s elementary.”
García crossed San Juan de Letrán. In Yurécuaro I would sit on a rock next to the train tracks. My hands weren’t heavy then. I could throw stones against the rails. I could climb the orange trees and pick stolen fruit. My fucking hands weren’t so heavy.
“Or maybe your government gave you orders not to get to the bottom of it. Or maybe the Americans. . It would be sad if you, a Mexican, were working for the gringos. They are your real enemies.”
García turned down Condesa Alley. And here I am with my hands so heavy, walking down the street. And she in my bed, alone with her death. And me alone, walking down the street, my hands as heavy as the many dead. And nothing’s heavy for her anymore, not time, not nothing. Or maybe her death is heavy, as if a man were on top of her. I don’t know what that’s like, death. She does now. That’s why she’s alone. That’s why she’s not with me. Because she knows and I don’t. All I know is how to start down this road, how to live carrying my solitude. Fucking solitude!
Laski grabbed his arm:
“You have to listen to me, García.”
García stopped and turned around. His hat shadowed his face.
“Look, if your government ordered you to act this way, I have nothing to say, I understand you. But otherwise, if it’s for personal reasons, sentimental reasons. . For Miss Fong. . That’s just not professional! None of us kills for reasons like that. It would be absurd. It would be criminal.”
García said:
“Go fuck yourself and your mother!”
Then he turned and started walking again. Laski stood there, watching him go.
At La ópera cantina, the professor said to him:
“The colonel is looking for you, Cap’n.”
The professor was very drunk. His voice was slurred and his eyes unfocused.
“Give me a bottle of cognac,” García asked the man at the bar.
Only a few clients were there. The cantina was getting ready to close.
“You’ve got blood stains on your clothes, Cap’n,” the professor said.
García opened the bottle of cognac and poured himself a glass.
“In the old days, lawyers always had ink stains on their hands and their clothes. Occupational hazard. But we don’t use ink anymore. We use typewriters. You people should find some equivalent system. Our whole civilization tends toward allowing us to keep our hands clean. . At least, our hands.”
García gulped down a shot of cognac and closed the bottle. Fucking professor! He’s never been afraid of me or, maybe, he’s looking for a way to die. Maybe he’s the only one who’s really got any balls, at least when he’s drunk. But Marta is alone in my bed. Alone with her death.
“Come with me, Professor. We’re going to a wake.”
“Did you supply the deceased?”
“Come on.”
He picked up the bottle of cognac, paid, and they walked out.
When they entered the house, García didn’t turn on the light. Enough was coming in through the window. He went into the kitchen and washed his hands. Shouldn’t go to her with this blood on my hands. With all this fucking blood.