Crocodile Tears

by mercedes Rosende

  “Whose van is this, Diego?”

  Her voice sounds harsh and metallic. Diego doesn’t react or barely reacts, scarcely opening his eyes, blinking, apparently unable to fully return to reality.

  “Can you hear me, Diego?”

  “Yes.” A monosyllable. Is that all this man can say, after he’s just robbed an armoured truck and made off with millions? She shakes her head in annoyance.

  “I’m asking you a simple question, Diego, I’m not asking you to trace the Amazon back to its source. I just want you to answer me.”

  Silence.

  You can’t ask people anything; sometimes she suspects she loathes humanity. She wants to arrive, to be under cover, to be far from the streets and the cars and the crowds, far from the stupidity of men.

  She is starting to see how to solve some of her problems.

  It doesn’t matter that Diego is asleep or unconscious; she knows what to do. Could it be later than she thinks? She’s lost all sense of time, and she looks at her watch. No. It’s early and everything’s fine.

  She sees the bus approach, trying to overtake, sees the shrinking distance between the wheeled behemoth and her own vehicle, honks the horn to warn the driver of the danger but, as if deaf, the driver only gets closer. She yanks the steering wheel, just managing to dodge the bumper of the colossus before it smashes into the door of her van, then turns away from the bus – running the risk of hitting the Chevrolet on her right – and slams on the brakes, hardly able to breathe, her heart racing. Just then, to her left, she hears the sound of a collision between two vehicles. The driver of the bus stops and tries to explain himself through the window. A line of cars is soon backed up, their occupants shouting and arguing, looking for someone to blame, flinging doors open and slamming them shut. Ursula puts her foot on the accelerator and makes her getaway, she speeds up and tries to reach the next set of lights before they change, before a policeman or a traffic inspector appears, or anyone else who might take down the Toyota’s registration number.

  Now she needs to calm down. She escaped by a whisker, but she escaped. She needs to stop for a moment, to breathe. But she can’t: she sees another police car, this time parked on the other side of the avenue.

  9.42 a.m.

  Antinucci has ducked under the yellow tape and left the restricted area, and now there is not the slightest trace of the smile he was displaying thirty seconds ago. He punches a number into his phone, walks over to his car, lights a cigarette before he gets in and smokes it in a hurry, leaning against the side of the vehicle.

  “Did you find the Toyota? Are you following it? Keep going until it stops and then do what we agreed: approach with whatever pretext seems plausible and get a look at whoever’s taken the cash. No, I told you I didn’t see what happened; the smoke hid everything. I just saw the woman I described: after that, nothing. Keep me informed, don’t arrest them and don’t make a fuss, there’s a lot of dough and people might get suspicious. And then they’ll want a piece of the action. Don’t lose sight of her; I’m heading your way. Oh, one more thing. We need to deal with Ricardo, the Hobo. He’s got a bullet wound, poor prospects from what I saw. But he’s alive and no doubt they’ll take him to hospital at some point. Someone needs to ferry him across the Styx… I’m telling you to kill him, you moron.”

  He puts the phone in his jacket pocket.

  Antinucci, from a distance and surrounded by cigarette smoke and mist, seems almost mysterious. From close up, though, there is something contrived, something ridiculous in his stiffness, in the pompous sweep of his arm as he raises the cigarette to his mouth.

  He thinks for the thousandth time about the last thing he observed through the telescopic sight of the grenade launcher, he thinks about that woman who shot the Hobo, thinks about Diego lying on the ground. And, as far as he could see, there was no trace of the Toyota loaded with money at the scene of the crime. Yes, those two made off with the cash; the woman shot Ricardo, and they both fled with the loot. Or did she get rid of Diego, too? Maybe she killed him and his body hasn’t been found yet? Antinucci doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t like it when he doesn’t understand. His informants still haven’t been able to tell him if there is another person in the van. It doesn’t matter; the only thing that matters is to follow the Toyota and the money, keep it in sight, wait for the moment to pounce. He regrets firing at the other van, the Nissan, but these grenade launchers aren’t very accurate; they’d tried to tell him, but he hadn’t listened.

  Antinucci thinks about the cash and his lips curl slightly upwards, tracing what could be a smile. He inhales a couple more times before throwing down the cigarette butt. The rain doesn’t bother him; it’ll let up in a few minutes, the sky is already looking clearer. Once again, he throws the butt carefully into the angle formed between the street and the edge of the kerb. Then he climbs into his Audi, puts on Vivaldi’s “Miserere”, turns the key and allows the engine to warm up for a moment before he drives off.

  The lawyer thinks about Ricardo, dead or wounded, thinks about the Toyota van driving around the city with his money inside, thinks that his plan has just changed. No, he mustn’t lose his nerve, he’ll have his money back before the morning’s over. His lips tighten. He turns up the volume.

  He wonders whether, in all conscience, he should confess his sins to Father Ismael, who – as always – will grant him the absolution he requests on his knees in the confessional.

  It’s not easy to keep oneself unblemished, but He understands and forgives, always.

  Antinucci receives a call and he puts it on speakerphone.

  “Down 8 de Octubre towards the centre? And you don’t know how many people are inside? Okay. They couldn’t see, all they can say is that there’s a woman at the wheel. Right. Tell them not to lose sight of her. Yes, as soon as we catch them we’ll share out the cash, like we agreed. What? Are you accusing me of inefficiency? How is it my fault if some crazy woman shows up and — Yes, yes, cool it. I’m heading straight over. I’ll get the money back. Don’t worry, we’ve got the van under observation; wherever it goes, there’s no escape. Yes, I promise you’ll have all your money tonight.”

  He puts the car into first but this time he takes no pleasure in the purring engine, in the silky-smooth motion. The only thing that makes him happy is the possibility of leaving this miserable barrio, with its poor tumbledown houses; he wants to get out of this depressing poverty-stricken place. He tries to concentrate on the “Miserere”, as the phone call has set his nerves on edge. The same questions go round and round in his head. Who is this woman? Where did she come from? He barely even saw her face, the features blurred by the poorly focused telescopic sight. Blonde, a bit plump, around forty, a woman like so many others. There’s no point coming up with hypotheses just now. It’s time for action.

  Things could hardly have turned out worse, but at least he can congratulate himself on having attached a GPS to the chassis of the Toyota.

  9.43 a.m.

  She goes through several sets of lights, all green, managing to keep up a constant speed despite the heavy traffic. She sees a van with official markings, the inspectors checking licence plates against a list; Ursula assumes that whoever uses a van to rob a cash truck will make sure their vehicle tax is up to date. This assumption is correct, we think, because nobody signals to her to slow down and she continues on her way. She finally halts at a red light; three police cars approach slowly from the opposite direction, their occupants looking from side to side as if searching for something. Ursula turns sharply to the right, confident they haven’t seen her, and drives down a cobbled street. The van rattles and bumps; it’s overloaded with all the money. She stops and parks.

  “Diego.”

  Diego doesn’t answer. She can’t keep driving around with these bags of money with the transport company logo; somebody might stop them and see. At the very least, she needs to cover them up. Ursula gets out and looks on the back seat, on the floor, finds a yello
w tarpaulin and covers the bags as best she can.

  She drives four or five blocks along the street parallel to the avenue, then turns back onto 8 de Octubre. There’s a traffic jam on the overpass due to maintenance work, and a single lane for traffic in both directions. There’s a long slow-moving queue of vehicles.

  Diego wakes up. “Why have we stopped?”

  “There’s a jam on the overpass, roadworks or something. There’s only one lane open.”

  Ursula joins the queue. She wants night to fall, wants the cover of darkness, but she’s not afraid, oh no, she just wants to be at peace and to enjoy the respite of some well-earned rest, her and her millions. As she thinks about her money she smiles, but the smile disappears when she sees another police car waiting at the mouth of the tunnel. It can’t be a coincidence. Without thinking twice, she mounts the sidewalk, turns into a driveway, makes a U-turn, travels ten yards against the traffic and leaves the avenue at full speed. Her tyres squealing, she turns, then turns again, until she reaches Boulevard Artigas, heading for the waterfront and, along the shore, to the Old Town.

  Too many police cars, she thinks.

  The clouds have dispersed and the day is bright and sunny; people emerge from their caves and walk, run, exercise their dogs. Ursula – who has been thinking about her millions, her houses, her cars, her holidays at the beach – looks from one side to the other, senses she is being watched, notices a green car, a woman with huge glasses, some kids in school uniform: a good cover to follow her and go unnoticed. She accelerates in an attempt to shake off the spies, but a few minutes later the woman in huge glasses is back on her right; they have both stopped at the lights. Ursula stares at her but the woman appears not to realize and looks into the distance. Bitch, I’m sure she’s following me, she thinks. When the lights change, Ursula puts her foot down, the engine roars and the Toyota van shoots off; in its wake it leaves tyre marks on the road and an acrid smell in the air, and the woman who was spying on her is left behind. She puts her foot down, goes even faster, flings back her head and laughs. She’s thrown off her enemies for now, but she’ll have to be careful.

  As we were saying, the day has turned bright and sunny, and Ursula lowers the window a little to feel the mild air. Diego, huddled by her side, appears not to know if it’s hot or cold, and, as far as she can see, is hardly breathing. At least he’s stopped crying.

  The police van is parked on the corner, hidden by a garbage bin, and by the time she sees them it’s already too late. She reduces her speed sharply, and the vehicle squeals in complaint. The officer signals to her to stop.

  She looks at Diego. “Get ready.”

  Diego emerges from who knows what dream. He opens his eyes but doesn’t look at her. To judge by his expression, he seems to have been enjoying a moment of delicious self-pity: she knows all about that, and regrets having to drag him back to reality.

  “Okay, Diego. Time to wake up.”

  “What?”

  “Wake up.”

  She brings the car to a gentle halt, skilfully, and parks with painstaking precision. The policeman approaches from behind: blue uniform, shades, cap.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, officer.”

  “Driving licence, registration documents, vehicle insurance.”

  Ursula takes out her licence and looks for the papers in the usual place: behind the rear-view mirror. She finds them and quickly scans them before handing them over: the vehicle is owned by some business out in the back of beyond.

  She gives the documents to the police officer. He reads them, front and back. Then he takes a look inside the van; the money sacks must stick out like a bunch of porn photos at Disneyland. The policeman hands back the papers and smiles.

  “Is your companion okay?”

  “Yes, he’s just got a bit of a headache. Migraine.”

  “I see.”

  She puts away the documents, avoids eye contact, gets ready to drive off.

  “What have you got in those bags?”

  From the port comes a whiff of damp sea air, tinged with fuel oil.

  “Clothes, bedding. We’re moving house. I’m taking some things to the new place.”

  “I can sympathize! That’s stressful.” The policeman smiles.

  “Absolutely. That’s why my husband’s got a headache.”

  “I hope it goes okay.”

  “Thanks, officer.”

  The policeman moves off. He stops another vehicle.

  Ursula looks at Diego, who now seems a little less dead, observes him straightening his sleeves, surreptitiously stealing a glance at the back seat.

  “Wakey-wakey! We need to see this through.”

  “I don’t feel good. I’m still dizzy.”

  Ursula shakes her head.

  “We all have reserves of pain or anger to draw on when we need them, Diego. Look for your anger. And wake up.”

  He looks at her and turns on the radio, concentrating on the music or the streetscape.

  “Where are we taking all this, Ursula?”

  “To the garage where I keep my car.”

  “In your building?”

  “No, I live in an old place; it doesn’t have space for cars. I rent a garage in a house on Treinta y Tres; it’s close by – and cheap. Don’t worry, the owner’s never there at this time of day, he works in a bookshop on the same block.”

  “Is it safe? Can we leave the bags there?”

  “It’s as safe as houses. The kid’s trustworthy, he owes me a few favours. But if you’ve got a better idea, be my guest.”

  “I can’t think of anything, Ursula.”

  She’s beginning to relax, feels they’re near to the end. The wind has picked up, a wind that blows in from the sea and leaves a salty tang in her mouth. Ursula runs her tongue over her lips, bites them nervously. She covers the final stretch at thirty, the window down, the breeze in her face.

  10.15 a.m.

  When a dead man appears in the street, the police should ask: Who is he? Where did he come from? What was he doing here? That’s what Captain Leonilda Lima asks herself as she tries to get to grips with this bloodbath in which there appear to be not one but several dead bodies, almost all of them badly damaged – in pieces, to tell the truth, although some might shrink from such lack of respect for the solemnity of death – with the exception of the body spotted by Antinucci, which appears to be whole, or at least with all its limbs correctly attached. This body must belong to one of the men who attacked the armoured truck: it isn’t wearing the uniform of the transport company. The other corpses will be those of the men who were guarding the truck, and perhaps of other assailants. Witness statements will have to be taken from local residents to establish whether there were more vehicles and how many people were involved. Presumably the guards, or whatever remains of them, will have identification documents. This won’t help catch the perpetrators; another way of identifying the one who’s intact will have to be found. An ambulance arrived a few moments ago and a medic is examining the body.

  Leonilda knows she can’t touch anything, that when the experts finish checking, listing, photographing, filming, documenting every inch of the space, the bodies – the pieces, she thinks to herself – will be classified and wrapped up and taken off for forensic examination, and all the items found at the crime scene, every scrap of metal and glass and plastic, will be bagged up and labelled and inspected and analysed.

  “Captain Lima.”

  Crouching next to the body, the medic turns his head and calls to her. She hurries over, almost running.

  “This man is still alive. He’s in a bad way, but alive. He has a bullet wound close to the stomach; his liver, spleen and pancreas could be compromised. We’ll need to be careful when we turn him over.”

  The nurses place a sheet under the body, which is lying face down, and flip it over in one simple manoeuvre. Leonilda sees the face, recognizes it immediately; she’s seen it in the photos from the Candyman case, and in t
he file on the murder of that woman, Ursula. It’s Ricardo Prieto, alias the Hobo. She already knew he was involved; the information the Skinflint gave her wasn’t wrong.

  “Quick, get him into the ambulance and take him to hospital.”

  Leonilda wonders if she should call Inspector Clemen again; he said he’d come right away, and that was half an hour ago. She decides against it, decides to bring him up to date in person. When he shows up.

  Skinflint kept his word; late, it’s true, but he called her as soon as he could escape Ricardo’s attentions, and he gave her the coordinates. He’ll have to be paid, of course; he didn’t do it for the love of it. He also told her to send the money and the bike via a brother, that he was going to disappear for a while. The nurses carry the patient – body, corpse, patient: the words follow each other in dizzying succession – and transfer him to the ambulance, lift him, intubate him, inject him.

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “Out of the question. He’s in systemic shock: internal bleeding caused by the projectile.”

  Leonilda knows she’ll have to wait. She remembers Antinucci and frowns. What was he doing here? How did he locate Ricardo Prieto so easily when the man was in hiding? And, most important of all, how did he know her name and rank? Leonilda isn’t wearing any identification; she left it in her locker this morning.

  She cheers up when she sees Inspector Clemen arrive. But then she sees Leonardo Borda get out of the vehicle too. And her smile disappears.

  10.25 a.m.