by Jerry
He wanted to welcome them with some ironic comment to keep his reputation up, but they didn’t even let him open his mouth. Mendoza smacked him with the pistol butt on the jaw and sent him right down to kiss the floor.
“Son of a big bitch. . . . What did you do to Veronica? I’m gonna to kill you!”
That was the voice of Salinas, who was usually the more reasonable one. Padovani made an effort to move his jaw again so he could say something in his defense before they did him in.
“I didn’t do it. I just got here.”
The two police officers had by then picked him up, grabbing him by his arms, and got ready to kick the shit out of him, when a light went on in the Indian’s head.
“It was Ruggeri!”
Salinas slapped him on the face and asked, “Who’s that?”
Mendoza added, “Answer,” and slapped him again.
“Sink-Tooth’s lawyer, the one with the suspenders. I saw him leave the room right when I arrived.”
The policemen dropped him on the ground, just in case he wanted to kiss it again. He lay curled up, his senses alert. He’d told the truth, but if they didn’t believe him, they’d forget all about their old friendship. He’d try to bite one of their ankles and kick the others in the balls. Although it didn’t seem like they were going to attack him at that moment. Mendoza and Salinas looked at each other with an expression filled if not with intelligence, then at least with malice.
“That spaghetti faggot. . . . We passed him.”
“And he seemed nervous. I think droopy here is telling the truth.”
“You’ll find out when Willy J does. But why did he do it?”
“He’ll want us to blame it on the Indian.” Mendoza looked down. “I might like that.”
“Get a grip. Lets not fuck up everything.”
Droopy, thought the Indian. It seemed that during his absence they’d changed his nickname. Assholes.
“Can I go now?” he asked.
The police officers laughed. At least they didn’t hit him again.
XI
He had to admit that the crime scene looked good: lying beside a girl whose throat had just been slashed, and the police about to enter. Ruggeri had prepared it for him, but Padovani doubted he was the only director of the show. The synchronization of the lawyer with the person or people who had prepared his exchange had been almost perfect. The “almost” was what had let him live to tell about it.
As far as he knew, only FarmaCom or Europol could have made him return. So Ruggeri had to be related to one or both of these organizations. What did Sink-Tooth have to do with this? He guessed that, now that he was locked in the same jail as his former partner, he was going to find out traumatically.
His previous history was enough to condemn him to death—or, from the perspective of the previous regime, to merit a medal—without needing to add Veronica’s murder. While he was in preventive detention awaiting trial, the days passed with the blessing of solitude. After the trial, they sent him to a jail as dirty and overcrowded as in any other country, but it was obvious that this one hadn’t been chosen at random.
It wasn’t like the FarmaCom nursery. They bathed once a week, organized by decks, in a room with tiles halfway up the walls and in which there were a couple of showerheads spewing freezing cold water. The experienced pariahs hung together in the corners and tried not to call attention to themselves. But there was always someone who was still learning.
“I’m innocent!”
A short, bow-legged half-breed kept blabbering on. From the moment they entered the showers, it was the same song. Padovani looked at the poor bastard. He tried to guess how long until someone got tired of him and smashed his head.
And while he did that, he let down his guard. Someone came up to him from behind. He didn’t realize it until he heard a voice whispering in his ear.
“Go to Sink-Tooth’s cell at four o’clock.”
The hair on the back of his neck stood up. The Indian felt the order like a punch in the kidneys. He could only study the back of the boy who had transmitted the message. He wore a muscle shirt and low-hanging jeans. Padovani hadn’t seen him come. I’m a foolish old man, he thought, worse than this screaming half-breed. In any case, it was a good sign that Sink-Tooth wanted to talk to him. He wouldn’t kill him in his own cell. If that had to happen, it would be somewhere else. Probably in the showers.
At two minutes before four, he entered the cell of Gonzalito Mendieta, alias Sink-Tooth. “Because if he sinks his teeth into you, he doesn’t let go,” Padovani recalled, the explanation given many years ago, almost a millennium. It was best not to make him wait. He sat on the cot that faced the one occupied by his former boss, comrade, partner, and during some brief time, maybe six or seven days during thirty years, friend.
Sink-Tooth smiled, and the Indian almost choked to see a gold tooth. He had thought about the best way to greet Mendieta, but in his surprise, he forgot about that completely.
“Buddy . . . more sunk in than ever, Sink-Tooth.”
“What?”
“You bit a gold brick.”
“A tooth fell out. Age is unforgiving. They’ve told me the same about you, that there’s no danger anymore about little Indians being born into this world.”
Sink-Tooth’s laugh showed the gold tooth again. Padovani had no urge to laugh or to beat around the bush.
“What do you want from me?”
“What do I want, sucker? They told me you were looking for me, that you wanted to chat about something.”
“That’s a lie.”
Sink-Tooth shook his head.
“Look, Indian . . . I know you were hoping I’d take the first step, and I understand.”
Padovani wanted to interrupt, but Sink-Tooth waved his hand.
“No, it’s okay, let me talk. I deserve it. That big asshole Ruggeri told me all sorts of tall tales about you. He wanted me to order you liquidated so he could run the organization without anyone fighting him while I rotted in here. I know what happened at the hotel. Ruggeri must have contacts in the Agency, that’s the only explanation. He found out what was going to happen and wanted to try to make sure you didn’t get to jail alive and couldn’t talk to me. But his bet didn’t work out, and he’s going to pay for it. Willy J was halfway in love with the dead whore.”
Padovani shook his head. Willy J had been on the CIA payroll since paramilitary times, and he didn’t bother to hide it. Up to a certain point it was logical that Europol had collaborated, bringing him back. It was also more than probable that Ruggeri had tried to take advantage of the opportunity to get him out of the way. What Padovani didn’t understand was why he was thinking about all this inside Sink-Tooth’s cell.
“The boy with the white muscle shirt and the falling-down pants,” he said. “Do you know him?”
“They all dress like that here, old man. No sense of style.”
“He told me you wanted to see me at four o’clock.”
Sink-Tooth snorted.
“I don’t know anything about that. But I’m happy you’ve come.”
Padovani didn’t understand anything, and that was very dangerous. He fidgeted on the cot, and as he did so, his had touched something hard under the blanket.
“What’s this?”
“What’s what?”
He put his hand under the blanket and took it out. It was an enormous knife. Sink-Tooth scooted back on his mattress until his back was against the wall.
“Son of a bitch.”
Padovani dropped the knife onto the cot.
“Listen . . . I didn’t. . . .”
He didn’t finish the sentence. The buzzing wouldn’t let him speak. He rubbed his eyes, and when he looked again, it was night. He was sitting at a table in a restaurant. The tablecloth had wine stains and the remains of a dinner for two. There was a lit candle. Soft violin music. Sitting on the other side of the table, Ringo was checking the time on his watch. Then he smiled.
“I thi
nk it’s you now. Isn’t that right, old man?”
Padovani opened his mouth, but he couldn’t speak when he saw his hands. He raised them to get a better look. He had very slim fingers . . . and polished fingernails.
XII
As Ringo spoke, he passed his fingers over the tablecloth, rounding up stray crumbs. Padovani, the Indian, had to make a big effort to concentrate on his words and ignore the rest of the stimuli and sensations that clamored for his attention. Such as the rub of the brassiere on his skin. The cup had to be a size too small, and it was squeezing his tits. His own tits. This was demented. He also felt a little drunk. There were wine glasses on the table, emptied to the dregs. He interrupted Ringo with a gesture to clear up a question.
“This is . . . Leidi’s body?”
His tongue stumbled on alcohol.
“Yes it is, old man,” Ringo said. “I’ve gotten to know it very well these days.”
His laughter caught the attention of the next table. Padovani missed his fists. He could have smashed his face. He tried to forget what he was feeling and focus on the explanation he was getting. Things went more or less like this:
Leidi’s client, a tourist named Abramov who wanted to pass his vacation in the body of a Venezuelan mulatta, was the director of the European Agency of Medical Evaluation. The same Agency that—among many other things that affected every bit of FarmaCom’s business—regulated the use of the vacating pills for exchanges.
The owners of the multinational corporation liked to organize pleasure trips and invite their friends and collaborators. These trips were common knowledge, but they were organized so discretely that anyone, including the best-known politicians of Brussels, could indulge any fantasy without leaks. It involved an “exchange of favors” that was hardly ethical, if not openly corrupt and criminal. Anti-corporate groups, Eurosceptics, and civil rights groups that fought to re-establish neutrality on the Internet . . . they would have been delighted to leak those bribes to the public with proof in hand.
And what better proof than Leidi herself, speaking from the body of Abramov.
“But FarmaCom reacted right away. When they found out we’d escaped, they sent one of their own to occupy Abramov’s body. It was funny. They didn’t use a vacating pill. They’re not stupid enough to believe their own lies. We thought that as long as we held the director hostage, they wouldn’t dare force the exchange. We were wrong about that.”
“I saw what happened in Retiro. The fat man almost killed you.”
“I thought you’d return for the jacket. The only clue you’d given me about how to find Terry was that you’d need money.”
“A friend told me that you two were network police for sure or from some other Europol department. But that’s absurd or you wouldn’t have fought. You can’t both be in the same side.”
“Terry thought that? I’m not surprised. They say he’s paranoid.”
“Now I think that if the other side was FarmaCom, you must be the cop.”
Ringo smiled but said nothing.
“Why did you want to give Terry the information about Abramov?”
“For the same reason that anything happens in Brussels. Someone decided that the little fat man shouldn’t run in his party’s primary. It was also to get FarmaCom’s attention. Terry would have managed to distribute the information. The anti-capitalists know how to do it without using the Internet because they don’t have any choice now. But FarmaCom would have known it was us.”
“Because they already knew what your job was in the center and who you were working for.”
“Let’s say they suspected.”
“Can I ask a personal question?”
Ringo looked at his watch.
“Go ahead.”
“Do you have a IPv12 implant?”
“Of course not. They’re too insecure.”
There wasn’t the slightest hint of irony in his answer. Ringo stopped playing with the crumbs and shook his hands clean. Then he glanced at his watch again.
“I have to admit that I was plenty scared when I saw the body in Terry’s office. They hadn’t warned me about that exchange, the order came from high up. At first I thought it was you, old man.”
I’m glad I saved you from that unpleasantness, Padovani thought. His eyelids were drooping. Leidi had drunk too much. He dug the polished nails into the palm of his hand to wake up. He broke them all.
“How did you find the dentist’s office?”
“I already told you. The only clue I had was that you needed some money. It’s always worked for us to follow the money.”
Nanoscopic locators. In every one of the bills. Padovani had made a beginner’s mistake, and it wouldn’t have been that hard to get twenty euros some other way. At least he had the consolation that his pursuers thought he was smarter than he was because he hadn’t even gotten rid of the clothing they’d given him.
“You found the florist.”
“Yes, after losing a lot of time with the money that the Africans had. It took less time to get that little man in the store to tell me where they’d taken you.”
“You tortured him. . . .”
“Please, don’t offend me. Those things only happen in your country. We don’t need that. We have all the information . . . at least all of it that circulates on the Net, of course. That’s why Terry got away from us. But almost nobody resists one hundred percent. Did you know that the florist, even with how bad business is for him, keeps his family and a lover?” Ringo raised his hands. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not judging him. I know he’s a responsible father who brought his kids up right. The oldest, Sara, almost never gets into trouble.”
“I get it.”
“That was just one example, old man. Normally we don’t even have to hint at it. The anti-capitalists, people with records, they know what’s what. They don’t bother to hide anything from us.”
Padovani cleared his throat.
“What can I say?” He spoke slowly to pronounce his words correctly. “It’s a good story. But that doesn’t explain why I’ve grown breasts.”
That provoked a coughing fit from Ringo that, without benevolence, could have been taken for barking laughter. He put his hands on the tablecloth and sneaked another look at his watch.
“Some friends wanted to take advantage of the situation of having you in jail with your IPv12 almost like new to send a message to Sink-Tooth. Leidi is giving it to him right now.”
He looked at his watch again. Padovani rubbed his eyes.
“What friends?”
Ringo shook his head.
“The kind that returns favors.”
They did you a big favor bringing Leidi to Europe, the Indian thought. Ringo had bright eyes, as if he had drunk too much wine. He didn’t stop looking at his watch.
“Is it a very long message? It seems like Leidi is entertaining herself.”
The expression on Ringo’s face got hard. He took out a mobile phone and put it on the table.
“Don’t worry. They’ll let me know soon.”
They fell silent. Padovani looked at the telephone. It seemed to be the same one that the Northern Group driver had given Ringo. He remembered that scene, and he had a question.
“Do you still have the papers that the director signed for you? The file for Abramov and his exchange with Leidi. That was a good move. I’m sure they’re worth a lot of money.”
Ringo looked away briefly before answering.
“I don’t have them any more. Why? I delivered them a while ago.”
Another lesson that the Indian would have given his children was this: If an honest and sincere conversation goes on long enough, it will always end with a lie.
A tall young woman got up from a neighboring table and passed them on the way to the rest rooms with a little bag in her hand. She wore a very short evening dress, and both men couldn’t help following her legs with their eyes. Padovani pushed back his chair, dragging its feet, and stood up.
�
��I’m going to pee, too,” he said loud enough to be heard by at the tables around them.
He had trouble keeping his balance. He adjusted the bra to see if it would help keep him from falling. Ringo wanted to take his hand, but he pulled it away.
“You can’t go where I need to go.”
He winked, and Ringo shrugged as if it weren’t important.
“It’s okay.” He caressed the telephone. “You’ll ‘return’ anytime now.”
Padovani didn’t even try to walk straight on high heels and followed the girl with the nice legs as fast as he could, considering that with his first step he’d twisted both ankles. He entered the women’s room with a smile and went to a sink to splash cold water on his face. In the mirror he saw that his makeup had run. He dried his face with a paper towel and waited until the girl finished in the stall to talk to her.
He said that he was sick, which was obvious, and asked to borrow her phone to call someone to take him home. The girl hesitated but finally rummaged through her little purse and took out a mobile. The Indian thanked her and punched in the number for the director of the nursery. He still remembered it.
It wasn’t hard to explain the situation. He was in a restaurant dining with a man who could ruin Abramov’s career, FarmaCom’s good friend in the European Agency. The director showed again that she was pragmatic: it didn’t take them long to reach an agreement that benefitted both sides. Now the Indian wondered how to enjoy it.
“Ringo is waiting for a call. I’m not sure, but I suppose it would help me if he couldn’t get it.”
“That’s easy. Tell me where you are.”
Padovani hesitated a second, but he had no other option. He had to do his part and hope. He asked the girl in the short dress the address of the restaurant. The owner of the telephone looked as if she hadn’t understood anything. She was slow to react, but finally she gave the information. Padovani thought that she’d get scared soon, so he quickly passed on the information and hung up. He returned the telephone to the girl, who ran out of the restroom without waiting for him to thank her for saving his life.