The Black Minutes

4

“Where to, boss?”
Cabrera looked at his watch and told the driver to take him to Gulf Funeral Parlor.
“The small branch or the big one?”
“The big one, and step on it; I’m really late.”
The driver took the avenue downtown. Around the military hospital, after a brief contest for dominance, the taxi passed a pickup with polarized windows, which was taking up two lanes simultaneously.
“Hey,” the driver said to him, “that was the dead man’s house, right? That’s where the journalist they killed lived.”
“That’s right.”
“Are the rumors true?”
“What rumors?”
“That he was running with the dealers, that he was friends with El Chato Rambal.”
He was about to reply, but before they reached the light the pickup cut them off. The cabdriver slammed on the brakes and stopped in the middle of the street. The first thing they saw when the pickup door opened was a leather boot with metallic studs. Cabrera imagined a six-foot-tall rancher, nasty and riled up, but instead the pickup spat out a five-foot-tall kid. Even that height was largely thanks to his boots. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, but he already sauntered with drug-runner arrogance. He had on a sleek leather jacket and his gun was in sight.
At first Cabrera didn’t understand, because the youngster was talking too fast, but soon he realized that he was angry with the cabdriver for passing him.
“Are you in a hurry, a*shole? What’s the rush?” He talked straight at the driver. “You won’t be in a hurry when I’m done with you, you f*cking dickhead.” Then he realized the driver wasn’t alone. “And you, a*shole? Someone talking to you?”
In this city, if you don’t know how to keep your mouth shut you don’t last long. Luckily, Cabrera was a pacifist and responded with a friendly smile.
“It’s no big deal,” he said calmly. “I’m on my way to a funeral.”
“Well, you can walk,” the kid provoked him. “Get out of the car.” He lifted his jacket to show his gun.
Of all the cars on the road, the detective said to himself, this kid had to pick me to tangle with, an honest citizen just doing his duty. As Cabrera was getting out of the car, the kid slapped the cabdriver. Shaking his head, Cabrera turned the tables on him. One slap knocked the kid’s face to the side.
“Hey, a*shole! F*ck off!”
“You f*ck off. Act right or I’ll make you.”
When Cabrera saw the kid was about to pull his gun, he twisted the kid’s arm with one hand and grabbed the pistol with the other. Then he raised it to look at it closely. It was top of the line and sported in gold plating the initials C. O. Since the kid kept on jumping around and wasn’t listening to reason, Cabrera slapped him again.
“I said stuff it, a*shole. Do you have a carry permit?”
“No,” the kid answered, “but it’s not mine. It’s my dad’s.”
“If you don’t have the permit on you, I’ll have to confiscate this. Tell your dad to pick it up at the police station.”
The kid just laughed. “My dad is a friend of the chief.”
“Well, when he drops in to say hi to his friend, he can stop by my desk and pick up the gun. Now get out of here, you f*cking punk. If you keep messing with me I’ll tell your father on you.”
The kid was red in the face, he was so angry, but he faked politeness. “Yes, sir. And who might you be?”
“Agent Ramón Cabrera, at your service.” As soon as he said it, he knew he’d said too much.
“I’ll remember that.”
“And now, get a move on.” He tucked the gun into his pants.
The kid stepped on the accelerator, his tires squealing, and pulled in to the curb a couple hundred feet farther down.
“Oh, God,” said the driver, “he’s waiting for us.”
“Do you know him?”
“I’ve seen him coming out of the clubs. I think he’s El Cochiloco’s son.”
Cabrera thought it over for a moment and finally said, “Could be.”
He tried to persuade the cabdriver to follow the kid, but the driver was entirely freaked out. “Give me a break, sir. Let me just take you to the funeral home. I don’t want the kid to get mad; these guys’ll shoot you for less than that.”
“Well, all right,” he agreed, but he didn’t like it. It was one thing to avoid violence, but something very different to let the dealers do whatever they wanted.
When they passed the truck, its engine revved five times, but it didn’t follow them.