No Happy Ending

by Paco Ignacio Taibo II

  “I killed him, didn’t I?”

  “If you hadn’t shot him, he would have gotten me. I guess I owe you one, pal.”

  “I killed him, didn’t I?” repeated El Gallo.

  “Yeah, you killed him, and I killed the other one. And it feels like shit, I know, even when it’s in self-defense.”

  El Gallo put the Colt back in his jacket pocket and started walking. Héctor followed him. The crowd parted to let them pass.

  “They shot first, jefe. We all saw it,” said a gap-toothed paperboy.

  El Gallo turned to Héctor and asked, “Where to now?”

  “Away from here. I need time to think. And I don’t want to have to deal with the cops.”

  They walked side by side and the circle of onlookers closed again behind them.

  “Where’d you get the gun?” asked Héctor.

  “I’ve had it in the office for a while now, since that time a couple of years ago when they tried to kill you. And when Carlos said that these two had been hanging around, I thought…I never thought it would really happen. I’ve never even fired a shot before in my life, and then I go and hit this guy the first time. He was moving and everything. I only wanted to scare him off.”

  They turned the corner and, absurdly, no one stopped them, no one followed them. Héctor glanced over his shoulder now and then, but the city remained the same. They turned onto Reforma at the statue of Carlos the Fifth, and there they could hear the first sirens.

  “Don’t worry about it, Gallo. Those two were hired killers, they got what was coming to them. We don’t owe them anything.”

  “I killed him,” said El Gallo.

  The sun was climbing higher now, lighting up the brilliant morning, as Héctor Belascoarán Shayne and El Gallo Villareal went their separate ways.

  ***

  He desperately needed someplace to think and, following his rule of keeping to the most unlikely places, he ended up at a carnival near Buenavista station.

  He wandered past the rickety rides, big pieces of metal rising and falling and spinning around with an endless screeching. The merry-go-round music seemed unusually subdued. He assiduously avoided the shooting gallery, and headed over to the Ferris wheel, where, with fifty pesos of encouragement, he was able to convince the operator to start it up and give him a solo ride.

  A solitary traveler, Héctor Belascoarán Shayne saw again and again in his mind the double impact that had felled the black-haired man in the gray suit. He saw again the look of release on the dead men’s faces. He cursed this whole weird story that had been forced upon him, that had filled his hands with corpses, confusion, and blood. At its highest point, the Ferris wheel gave the detective a view of the rooftops of the Colonia Santa María, the Nonoalco Towers, the overpass on Insurgentes, the railyard behind the station, the furniture stores on San Cosme, and the buildings that housed the headquarters of the ruling Institutional Revolutionary Party. Aiming at the PRI building, he hocked a gob of spit and watched it trace a lovely curve down onto the roof of a dart booth.

  He was thirty-three years old and he’d wasted the first thirty years of his life, or, to put it another way, the first thirty had wasted themselves on him. To change your job, your patterns, your style, your ideas, the familiar places, to go in search of something, scratching like a leper at the skin of your own country, to try and find a place, trying to adapt to the encircling violence; it all sounded good, and he’d lived through it and even enjoyed himself in the process. In three years he hadn’t lost his sense of humor, his ability to laugh at himself. And he’d learned to accept the chaos at face value, the uneasiness, the fear, the surprise. He had plenty of easy truths, empty platitudes. What he didn’t have was the slightest idea of why they were after him, who they were or where they were from. He was beset by the forces of evil. The lousy stinking faceless fucked-up forces of evil. He laughed at himself for needing to give a name, even such a ridiculous one, to his unknown aggressors. Maybe that was enough. That smile. He was going to find the forces of evil and kick their butts. The assholes who’d sent him dead Romans, photographs, and subway cops moonlighting as hired killers. He needed to get it all out on the table, put it all into some kind of order, feel out the angles, and get down to work. Fast. Get the whole thing moving so fast that it would spin out of their control, force them to make a mistake, show themselves, show their hand, and finally let him into the game. And then, bam, he was going to take them for all they were worth. The man he killed today was dead and there was no bringing him back, and if there were going to be more dead men, then so be it. And if they killed him, for whatever reason, in whatever way, then he was going to die. Better to die than to eat shit.

  Oblivious to the detective’s euphoric mood, the Ferris wheel kept turning stubbornly around and around, even after Belascoarán wished that it would stop so he could get off and go find a place to write some notes and put his thoughts in order.

  The machine finally ground to a halt with Héctor at the highest point, and he realized the most important thing of all: if this was about good versus evil, he was going to be the good guy. One-eyed and limping, but the good guy in the end.

  But the two dead men still stared endlessly skyward, past the shoulder of the detective who looked down at them from above, ready to deliver the coup de grace.

  ***

  The rabbit was waiting for him. It sat in the middle of the rug, watching the door with shiny red eyes. Around it, dozens of tiny black dots. It hopped across the carpet and licked Héctor’s shoe. It had eaten part of a chair seat and most of the broom. Fortunately it hadn’t tried to eat any books.

  Héctor picked it up and went into the kitchen, summarizing out loud, for the rabbit’s benefit, his theories on the forces of evil and how to kick their butts. He filled a dish with water and got out a couple of carrots. Then he took off his jacket and his shirt. Just in case, he stuck his revolver into the waistband of his pants. He took the Gerry Mulligan record off the stereo and put on Louis Armstrong, then he sat down at the table with his notebook and two bottles of soda pop.

  1. They send me two corpses (one in the flesh, the other a picture).

  They want to scare me, not frame me, because they remove the corpse. To make their point, ticket to New York.

  Apparently they want me to stop doing something that has something to do with the dead men. But they’re wrong, since I wasn’t doing anything.

  2. The dead men worked for Zorak, a magician-contortionist-escape artist-daredevil-showman who died in 1973 when he fell out of a helicopter.

  The third man in this group, Captain Freshie, knows me by sight and ran away when he saw me.

  3. “Them,” the forces of evil, are highly organized: ticket to New York, removal of body, subway cops, etc.

  At that moment the doorbell rang.

  Héctor took out his gun and stepped to one side of the door.

  “Who is it?” he asked, placing his back to the wall and raising his gun.

  “Marino Saiz, at your service…If I could have just a moment of your time…”

  Héctor opened the door. There was something about the voice that reassured him.

  A small, neatly dressed man entered the apartment, gripping a large sample case in each hand.

  Héctor tucked his gun into the back of his waistband and crossed his arms, waiting.

  The man put his cases on the floor, briefly contemplated the shirtless detective and, with a resigned expression (it was getting harder all the time to find decent clients), he launched into his sales pitch.

  “I’ve come to offer you the best and most complete collection of zarzuelas available on record today…”

  Héctor smiled. The man took it as a sign of encouragement and forged ahead: “This rare collection consists of eight long-playing records with a veritable treasure trove of classical zarzuelas, the very same folk songs that have moved Spanish monarchs to tears and sweetened half a century of Iberian life…”

  Héctor’s smile br
oadened. The man sensed victory and continued: “And, if you buy now, I am empowered to give to you free, absolutely free, an entire bonus album of today’s hottest disco hits, along with a personally autographed photograph of John Travolta.”

  “Where’d you get the autographed picture of John Travolta?” asked the detective.

  “They come already signed, all I do is write your name at the top, with a dedication, whatever you want it to say. With the same handwriting and everything. I haven’t been in this business for eleven years for nothing.”

  “What was that bit about the Spanish monarchy?” asked Héctor.

  “Listen, I couldn’t give two farts in hell for the Spanish monarchy. I’m a Socialist. But the zarzuela, now there’s a thing of real beauty. As a matter of fact, this collection includes—”

  “Don’t say another word. You’ve made your sale,” said the detective.

  Héctor had him sign the photograph, “To Gilberto Gómez Letras, from his good friend, John Travolta.” The whole thing cost him 645 pesos. When the door shut behind the little man, it occurred to Héctor that he’d never heard a zarzuela in his life.

  ***

  He ate in a grimy café around the corner from his apartment. When he was finished, he wiped the last bits of rice pudding from his lips, took a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket, and went over the list:

  1. Señorita S

  2. Captain Freshie

  3. Subway police?

  4. Death of Zorak, details?

  He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. The afternoon sported a big, warm sun that filled the windows and the sky with orange-tinged rays of light.

  He had a plan, he was hungry for a fight, and he had his loaded .45. He was ready to go after them.

  He bought the afternoon papers on Insurgentes. On page three he found a story with the first reports of the morning’s gun battle. Judicial Police Commander Silva (that name again, what was the connection?), who has been placed in charge of the investigation, would comment only that the two men killed in this morning’s exchange were members of the subway police force, and that they had been gunned down by a single shooter (they’d left El Gallo out of it). Not one of the hundreds of eyewitnesses has come forward with a description of the unknown gunman.

  The story failed to mention that the two subway cops had fired first. It concluded with some speculation about revenge killings, and the settling of accounts among drug dealers.

  He walked as he read, banging his head first against a low tree branch, then a ladder sticking out the back of a telephone repair truck. Insurgentes was heavy with traffic. Passengers hung like bunches of fruit from passing buses. Everywhere cars braked loudly and clouds of dust mingled with thick exhaust. Noise, everywhere noise. He walked hurriedly along the avenue, and turned right onto San Luis Potosí. Were they following him? He took the next right, then ducked into a building that housed the offices of a construction company. He kept his back to the street and watched the passersby reflected in the glass that covered the tenant directory. After a couple of minutes, he gave up and went back out, walking briskly, half running. Back when he was married, his wife had tired of complaining to Héctor about the way he walked: he was impossible to keep up with, he never wanted to stop and window-shop, he took everything in on the fly, always with that same short, quick step. Now he looked alternately at the ground and up at the sky, driven to experience as much of the afternoon as possible before it faded into evening.

  Finally, he found the building he was looking for and went up to the fifth floor, to the offices of a talent agency where they owed him a favor. He went in, headed straight for the assistant director’s office, and without knocking or checking with the secretary, went in.

  “Hello, detective.”

  “How’re you doing, Yolanda?”

  The woman held one telephone in her left hand and balanced another one on her right shoulder. She made a gesture for him to wait, and continued her conversation.

  Héctor looked around the walls, the newspaper clippings, photographs, and diplomas.

  Yolanda hung up both telephones at once.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Detective, reporter, and prostitute; they were perhaps the only jobs that required keeping a list of hundreds of pseudofriends and superficial acquaintances.

  “I need to find the wife of a guy who used to call himself Zorak. She used the stage name of Señorita S, or something like that…”

  “Zorak, the daredevil, the one who fell out of the helicopter?”

  “You win the prize.”

  “That’s a tough one. She’s not in the business anymore, as far as I know. What does she do?”

  “From what I can tell, she worked as a model before she hooked up with Zorak. I hear she—”

  “Wait a minute! A cross-eyed girl?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’ve never actually seen her.”

  “Márgara Duran! Now I remember. She does some modeling for an agency in the Zona Rosa.”

  Yolanda opened a drawer and took out a bottle of cognac.

  “Care for a drink, detective?”

  She was about forty, very striking, blonde, lots of makeup, full of energy and good cheer. Two years ago her lover had tried to throw acid into her face and Héctor had intervened, breaking two of the guy’s ribs with a heavy brass ashtray. It had all happened in the middle of another case, completely unconnected.

  “No thanks. Alcohol kills.”

  “So does sobriety.”

  “Details, Yolanda, details. Do you know anything about a stripper named Melina, who works in a club called La Fuente de Venus, on San Juan de Letran?”

  “I’ve never heard of the club. I’ve heard a little about Melina, though. She’s from Ciudad Juárez, a nobody, a stripper and a showgirl. Used to go out with some politician or other.”

  “So what else is new?” said Héctor, and he stood up to go.

  ***

  His brother, Carlos, lay on the floor, reading. Marina opened the door for him. She had a couple of pieces from a jigsaw puzzle in her hand, and, after greeting the detective with a kiss, she went back to the table to fit one of them in place. The tiny rooftop apartment was packed, that was the only word he could think to describe it: books everywhere, a table, four chairs squeezed between table and walls, a kitchen the size of a closet, barely big enough to hold a stove and a refrigerator.

  He stepped across to the table, with its nearly completed jigsaw puzzle of a Paul Klee painting.

  “How’s it going, brother?” asked Carlos from the floor. Héctor shrugged.

  “Do you have a phone book?” he asked.

  “How about a soda to go with it?” said Marina, leaving her puzzle to pull the phone book out from underneath one of the chairs, and crossing over into the kitchen.

  The telephone was on the table. Héctor dialed.

  “Mendiola please…Hey, you never told me the other day all the details about how Zorak died. His name keeps turning up all over the place…Can you put some clips together for me? I’d appreciate it…I’ll be by tomorrow morning. Thanks, buddy.”

  Héctor hung up. Marina was looking at him.

  “Carlos, wasn’t Zorak that guy who fell out of the helicopter four or five years ago?”

  “Six,” said Héctor.

  “The one everybody said trained the Halcones,” said Carlos, sitting up.

  “The Halcones?” asked Héctor.

  “Where have you been living all these years?” asked Carlos.

  “Right here, in Mexico,” answered the detective.

  Marina handed him a bottle of orange soda.

  Chapter Eight

  The Halcones

  If anyone is suspect in this country, it’s the police.

  —Luis González de Alba

  This shadowy, violent organization had shown evidence of its existence before. The first time was during the Ayotla Textile strike, when a paramilitary group appeared out of nowhere, shooting and
beating the picketers before the laughing gaze of the police. Later on there were hints of what was to come during the demonstrations at the Politécnico leading up to the tenth of June, 1970. But to the innocent eye of the student left, these warning signs appeared as nothing more than a further indication of the continued growth of the right-wing student gangs in the dreary days since the debacle of 1968. None of it seemed to go much beyond the small gangs that then held sway on campus, dealing drugs and financed by the university administration itself. Gangs of eight, ten, fifteen lowlifes who would get drunk and run wild, mugging, raping, hazing—and then justified their existence by doubling as a glee club during football games. So when the decision was made to take to the streets again on the tenth of June, nobody expected to have to face more than the standard, sullen-eyed riot police, the dark blue stain, bolstered now by the purchase of six new Molotov cocktail-proof armored vehicles, to which campus mythology attributed any number of extraordinary powers and advanced weaponry: tear gas, rubber bullets, machine guns, water hoses, deafening sirens, infrared night vision, plus, in a more exotic vein, the ability to spray paint, play the national anthem, and even fart, not to mention the obvious capacity to run down anybody stupid enough to get in their way.

  And sure enough, there they were, painted a dull grayish blue, taking up positions around the Politécnico campus at the Casco de Santo Tomás. And backed by two battalions of riot police, revitalized over the last three years (after the massive desertions of ’68) with new recruits from the countryside: landless peasants from Puebla, Tlaxcala, Oaxaca, who had survived the brutality of training camp and were just beginning to enjoy the petty powers, the impunity, conferred on them by their uniform. They’d been indoctrinated to see themselves as the last bulwark of the fatherland, arrayed against the godless, communistic students, who, so they were told, hated the Virgin of Guadalupe and sought to destroy Mexico itself. They hid their fear behind our own.