The Black Minutes

7

Columba dropped him off at the tire-repair shop, where the manager was waiting for him.
“I had to put a new tire on.”
“Why, isn’t the other any good?”
“No way, not even with Viagra. Look here, officer.” He showed him what was left of the tire. “How can I fix that? It’s impossible. Who did you get in a fight with?”
The tire had been cut. Slashed, actually.
“That isn’t a tire,” the workman said, “it’s a warning.”
Cabrera’s stomach growled again.
He went looking for Ramírez twice, but the forensics expert had an assignment at the docks and hadn’t come back. Meanwhile, the kid who’d had the pistol started calling; Cabrera hung up on him a couple of times, thinking Go change your diapers, f*cking snot nose. If you want your piece, let your daddy come get it.
At 3:30 he decided to go have lunch at Flamingos, well aware that he had an important date at five. He rummaged through all his desk drawers until he found a very battered book and went out to the parking lot. After he’d made sure the car didn’t have another flat tire—the last thing he needed—he headed to the restaurant: all the troublemakers from the office were there. He caught sight of Ramírez eating in a corner and went to sit down at his table.
“OK, Fatso, out with it! What were you going to tell me?”
In front of Ramírez were two orders of enchiladas suizas and another of cecina-style dried beef, waiting its turn. The expert swallowed a mouthful and wiped his lips with his napkin.
“Don’t get into that, butthead, it’s a minefield.” Ramírez spoke in a low voice.
“I’m not in it for pleasure, dude; the chief gave me the assignment.”
“It’s really weird, really weird. If I were you, I’d drop it. You’re getting in way too deep. I wouldn’t, and”—he took a deep breath, wiping sweat from his forehead—“nobody else would dare take on a case that had been El Chaneque’s.”
Cabrera noticed two of the new guys sitting a few tables away, with Agent Chávez, nodding in agreement at everything he said. What a pity, thought Cabrera. These kids just got here, they’ve got nothing to regret, but with Chávez as their role model they soon will have. El Chaneque had been assigned to this post by Durazo, the worst specimen ever spawned by the national police. That’s why he was still here, showing these kids the ropes.
“What’re you going to do?” Ramírez asked.
Cabrera didn’t answer. A kid in filthy clothes had sneaked into the restaurant and was handing out flyers at all the tables. Soon he handed one to them. What if today was the last day of your life? Come enjoy it at El Cherokee Music Disco! This was a club that had once belonged to Freaky Villarreal, which they’d turned into a table-dance bar. A customer stood up to go, leaving a copy of El Mercurio on the counter, and Cabrera grabbed it. Johnny Guerrero’s column was on page three. F*ck: the bugger worked fast. After mentioning the “deplorable” death of Bernardo Blanco, “the promising young journalist back from San Antonio,” he observed that, according to some rumors, Bernardo had disturbed “prominent residents of the area,” and investigators in charge were speculating about the possibility that “the lately deceased” had perhaps died for attempting blackmail. He went on to say that a respected officer of the secret service was carrying out a parallel investigation—Oh, shit, I’m that officer! This is totally f*cked, he thought. He asked for the menu. Nothing looked good to him, and he burned his mouth on his coffee.
At a quarter to four he recalled he had an appointment and went out to his car. He made sure all four tires were in good shape, then took the main avenue down to the Paracuán Cultural Institute, the Jesuits’ school, and parked in front.
He knew for certain that school was in session because he had studied there. Everybody had studied there, even Bernardo Blanco! For years the Jesuit brothers’ school was the main educational institution in Paracuán. As was to be expected of such an institution, the majority of the students were scholarship kids. Bernardo’d had a full scholarship; Cabrera had had only half, because he never had the grades to get the other half. Aside from having been expelled during his freshman year, he had nothing but good memories of his time there: the field trips, the spiritual retreats, the arguments about social injustice, the insistence on getting better grades, and the steely discipline that strengthened moral fiber.
He knew very well this wasn’t going to be an easy chat. Fritz had studied in Rome: theology and law. He’d lived in Nicaragua and been transferred out, owing to his sympathies with the liberation theologists, but all the moving around never managed to lessen the priest’s activity. Ever since Cabrera could remember, the padre had offered psychological orientation to the local policemen and organized social services in the local prison. But mediating between police and criminals is no easy task, so—to avoid endangering the rest of the Jesuits—the provincial superior had decided that Fritz should move into the bishop’s residence, a secure bulding, with two guards on duty. Cabrera knew for certain that Fritz could be found at the school in the afternoons, because he taught his high-school classes then. He knew all this for certain, because Fritz had told him.