by Pablo Poveda
The conflict of interest was taking over me. I could take advantage of the situation, pass by the office and wake up the city the following day. I could write an article that would shake up the whole Police Department, which made the political class uncomfortable and got everybody out on the street. But I also could stay where I was, thinking about what to do to make Patricia come back to bed without begging. None of the options were the correct one. Betraying everybody or betraying myself.
I began to feel the alcohol flowing through my veins, quickly thanks to an empty stomach. I dialed Hidalgo’s number. Voicemail.
“I’m sorry” I said aloud.
I started the laptop and placed it on the table. Then I lit a cigarette and opened a blank Word document. The spell seemed to have taken control of me. I knew I had the skill to write fiction, although unfortunately I was about to write a story based on true events. A little bit of creativity here and there, some sensationalism, and I’d have my article by midnight. I had to hurry since I only had a few hours to modify the final draft and include the bombshell.
I got a taxi, reached the office and greeted the clerk, who had fallen asleep watching adult TV. As I entered, I checked to make sure nobody was there. I switched on my computer. There was no going back. The clerk had seen me. I had logged in and that would be registered, too. There was nobody else to blame as there would only be one person responsible... or one hero.
I plugged the pen drive into the USB, opened the document and copied the article.
“Ortiz, you owe me one” I said with drunk pride. My boss would never forget the cover of this edition.
I clicked the save button and sent the document to the printer. The rotary press would start soon. In a few hours, the kiosks would talking about the most macabre story to hit the news in the last twenty years.
AFTER A LONG TIME, the sun hit my face and I didn’t feel dizzy. It was a sunny Saturday, ten in the morning and a slight bitterness danced in my mouth due to the excess of the previous night. My disappointment arrived when I turned in bed and Patricia wasn’t there to hold. It hadn’t been a dream. She was gone. Wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt and boxers, I got up and went straight to the bathroom when the phone rang from the bedside table.
“Oh, no...” I said, remembering what I had done. A strange sensation crept through my body. I didn’t know who was at the other end of that phone call; and I feared the words that would come out. Excitement? Rage? Normally, it’s our conscience, that thing living in our heart that sends us the sign, one way or another, to distinguish danger from safety. In my case, I couldn’t read the signals because I wasn’t sure if what I had done was right or wrong.
I walked to where the phone was. An unknown number was flashing on the screen.
“Hello?” I said.
“Turn on the TV” Detective Botella said with a serious voice. “Now. Channel 9”.
I switched it on. A reporter was live at the university hall entrance, commenting about the article that has been published.
“Shit.”
“Why did you do that?” he asked rhetorically. He didn’t want to know the answer. “I told you... I can’t talk now, they’re going to begin proceedings against me. I’ll get you for this, Caballero.” He hung up.
A hole opened on the ground. I threw the phone on the couch and watched the news. The phone rang again. I grabbed it with fear and saw Hidalgo’s name on the screen.
“Finally, Antonio” I answered, concerned. “You won’t believe what’s happened...”
“Are you out of your mind?” He asked nervously. “What the fuck did you do, Gabriel? That’s a lie! I want a public apology, now!”
“Antonio, wait...”
“And you’re my friend? I told you to stay away! Shit!”
“But, Antonio... there’s something you have to tell me...”
“Don’t you ever call me again” he replied, “I don’t want to see you for a long long time.” The call ended with a click.
I could feel the heat from hell caressing my legs. The phone rang a third time. I sensed it was going to be the longest Saturday ever. I looked at the screen. It was from the office. I would finally stand before my greatest enemy: Ortiz.
“Ortiz, look, I can explain...”
“Are you insane?” he asked, waiting for an excuse. “That article had better be true, idiot. Otherwise, you’re fucked. We both are!”
The line went dead again. I fell back on the couch, without hope of someone to catch me. Nobody would, there was no one on my side. I had been a goddamned fool. The phone rang again, although by then I had decided to ignore the calls. Once again, I dragged myself to the street in search of answers.
12
I FELT RIPPED OFF, like a neophyte dragged down by my own immaturity and raw pride. Unknown phone numbers flashed on my cell phone display. Unfortunately, none of them belonged to Patricia. I hadn’t been able to get her attention, not even to remind me of how pathetic I was.
My days at the newspaper were numbered. I must admit, I couldn’t blame what I did on the alcohol; it came from within me. I can say that today, but it took me years to accept it. The alcohol was just fuel for an engine waiting to be started. And I got carried away, like that day the news was published and the walls of my apartment became bleachers in the stadium. I grabbed the keys, ran downstairs and melted into the neighborhood, to loose myself in the dark bars and their intriguing company. There I was, before the sunset, wandering in Labradores St., looking for friendship and laughter. Desden Bar was always a good place to get drunk without being questioned about it. The modern waiters served drinks and only asked if you had change. It had been ages since Alicante’s scene had become a musical brothel where rock and roll had since fallen out of fashion and talk of politics had once again become trendy. I left the beers and went to the Mono Bar, a dark and diverse hole, both because of its music and the way people dressed. There were mostly men who seemed to have seen everything. The cradle of rock, of bad boys who weren’t that bad anymore. The Barrio was a trench where I could hide when I didn’t want Castaños’ damsels to see me.
The evening connected with the night and drinks were served as my wallet spit out bills. Drunk and with a heavy head, I decided to take a walk towards the port. I crossed over Explanada Promenade and headed for the dock that took me to the night clubs by the navy port and to Alicant’s Mediterranean Casino, a house of horrors with colorful lights that reminded of an old-fashioned brothel district. When I reached the entrance, I got rid of a few flier distributers who accosted me without success and walked to a burger joint that had been there for ages, feeding university students on their way home from a night out.
I bought a burger with a fried egg, bacon and fries and a can of Mahou and I sat down at one of the metal tables on the terrace. It smelled like fried oil, stale salty air and tar coming off the ships.
People watched me, the night had just started, although it looked as if it was over for me. I felt like one of those tourists from the north with changed schedules and distorted ideas. I’d had a bad day and feared someone might recognize me, but that wasn’t a good reason to be judged and looked down upon like the people around there did.
Then, a girl approached me. She was cute; at least that’s what I thought under the influence of the bubbles. The night illuminated her golden night dress.
“Hi. How’s it going?” she asked with the tone usually reserved for flier distributers; boredom, automatic words that came out like weak bullets. “Look, here’s a two for one voucher at Coyote’s Bar, if you feel like it...”
Suddenly, something came to my mind.
“Hey” I said, glancing at her from my seat. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, but if it’s about the drinks...”
“Tell me something” I interrupted. “If you were having sex with two guys, how would you get rid of one of them?”
“Why would I do that?” the girl asked with curiosity.
“I don’t kn
ow... Spite?”
“I would have to be piqued, wouldn’t I?” She replied. “But, in that case, I don’t know... I’d tell him I’m seeing someone else, you know? It’s my life.”
“Yeah, that’s what I expected” I said. “And if it was all around?”
“You mean a man and two women?”
“No, I mean, imagine you are one of the men.”
The girl laughed. “Well, I don’t know then...” She replied. “You’re the man, aren’t you? You should know what to do.”
“I need a girl’s opinion.”
“I see.” she said. “I think I’d get him back, out of spite. Women are like that... You’re either with me or you’re not.” She laughed again.
“Wow, I didn’t expect that from you.” I said. “Your name was...?
“See?” she said both astonished and disappointed. “I knew it was one of those pickup lines. Well, I’m sorry...”
“Don’t be. You were the one coming to talk to me.”
“It’s my job and I have to carry on.” The girl turned around and vanished.
The interaction hadn’t told me much. She didn’t seem to have bad intentions and yet, that would have been the reason her answer didn’t match my supposition. But then, spite was something that had been overlooked during those days. Hidalgo had avoided me, he didn’t want to talk about Llopis, so I began to build a love triangle between him, Llopis and Maciá. I knew the easy way was tangled up. I was left without knowing the owner of the DNA found in her body. On the other hand, I didn’t have to think hard to realize that it probably belonged to Hidalgo. It made sense: Llopis and Hidalgo had a good relationship up until Maciá and his arrogant ways arrived at the university. The forbidden romance —although a public secret— would be truncated by Llopis ambition, which would end up seduced by Maciá’s dialectical illusionism. Llopis and Maciá would sleep together, something that would make the dean-to-be very excited, although not enough to leave Hidalgo. That could be the reason why Llopis kept her personal and professional life separated with great caution. Llopis would live in a love triangle, alternating encounters with her lovers until there was an oversight. Finally, Hidalgo would find out she was sleeping with another man and wouldn’t take it very well. Or maybe, it was Maciá who found out.
Hidalgo would run for the elections to get his lover back, like poetic justice, attacking where it hurt the most. But maybe it was Maciá who looked to get rid of her after finding out Llopis and Hidalgo were together, and his money which would end up financing one of them or even both.
My head was spinning and the first signs of hangover began to appear with uncomfortable shaking, but my theory made sense.
I walked home, going up the endless hill that led to the bullring. The night breeze was fresh and helped me endure my drunkenness. As I was walking near the market, I heard a car starting behind me. At first, I thought it would be someone coming back from partying. Then, I glanced at the reflection in a window and saw the lights weren’t on. The street was narrow and the bars were closed at that time. It was a big car, although I couldn’t see who was driving. The vehicle sped up and so did I. Suddenly, it accelerated to run me over, but I was fast enough to slip away in the dumpsters. The car hit one of the green containers and stopped. As drunk as I was, I began to run, leaving my chest on the road, walking through endless alley ways. I felt my heart beating in my throat like an orange. The crash attracted the attention of some bystanders and the scumbag in the driver’s seat stopped following me. When I got home, my stomach hurt so much I couldn’t help throwing up the burger and the alcohol in the toilet.
My head burned. Everything had happened so fast it was difficult to remember. Still in shock, I undressed and got in the shower. My legs were shaking. I was scared.
Minutes later, a bit more relaxed, in a moment of clarity under the hot water, I convinced myself one of them had poisoned Monica Llopis with arsenic and I was going to find out who. No matter how hard they tried to scare me, I wasn’t going to back down. Maciá had the resources to do it, although I had to speak with him first and understand who I was dealing with. Hidalgo, on the other hand, fit the part of the secondary character, a man of humanities, intelligent but incapable of understanding the mechanism of an atom.
The perfect argument to be the perfect murderer.
I had to tell Detective Botella.
ON SUNDAY MORNING I woke up on the couch with the TV remote control in my hand. I didn’t know how I had gotten there. Vomiting everything before going to sleep stopped the day from being a truly horrible one.
I cleared my mind with cold water, headed out, crossed over Alcoy Avenue and went down to a bar near the bullring to read the newspaper and have a coffee. The bar was busy like on a local holiday; the usual morning clients, girlfriends having a coffee and those who start snack time early.
It smelled like toast with olive oil, coffee machine smoke and freshly cut ham. I sat down on a stool next to the bar and opened the Informacion journal while the waiter served my coffee graciously.
“This is getting crazy” the waiter said when looking at the cover. Detective Botella’s face was there, in color. The officer had been suspended, now off-duty due to his faults and to investigating a closed case on his own. But that wasn’t all. Antonio Hidalgo had gone public to announce his official candidacy for the new dean elections. After what had happened, the University of Alicante hadn’t said anything about the investiture process. They weren’t interested. They hoped a smokescreen made everybody forget Llopis. However, Hidalgo couldn’t wait and, in an attempt to gain some exposure, he had sold the exclusive to the competition.
“Son of a bitch” I muttered.
“You snooze, you lose” said a man with a moustache, aviator sunglasses, the shirt open and a cross hanging off his neck. Then he laughed at his own joke. The waiter, a few years younger, made a gesture and continued with his work.
Ortiz hadn’t taken the time to publish anything related to the matter, mostly because he had nothing to publish. I imagined the office would be closer to hell: Ortiz groaning and the interns choking in their rage.
I averted my gaze from the bold headlines that kept grabbing my attention and went to the forgotten columns. Several pieces mentioned the biology and science department. The institution was in good health. One of the most important research projects of the last few years was showing promise. The tests began to be positive. The labs had found a method to weaken cancer stem cells.
“Let me tell you something” the waiter said, coming closer. “This is just the beginning. Universities are screwed, corrupted by the political class in this country. And they don’t want people to know that. Whoever wrote that fake article can lose no sleep... He opened a can of worms and they’re gonna get them all, you’ll see... You’ll see! They’re all a bunch of selfish idiots. I don’t care what side they’re on. That’s the truth...”
The man continued with his Sunday morning speech, but I had already disengaged, looking at the label on a bottle of Magno Brandy and how similar it was to the company Antonio Maciá ran.
“Please, do me a favor” I said, interrupting him. “Could I have a carajillo?”
The man opened his eyes and swallowed his words. Then, he prepared a black coffee.
“Here you are” he said and placed it on the bar. He grabbed the bottle of brandy and poured some in the cup. “And now some happiness”.
I looked at the cup from above, horizontally. A black stain shaped like a pupil. A slot machine had hit the Jackpot at the bottom of the bar. The bitterness of the coffee and the trace of alcohol going down my throat activated my senses. Something told me to hurry up. The police would soon search Monica Llopis’ apartment, if they hadn’t done so already, and later her workplace. With that procedure, the evidence would disappear.
I promised to myself that I wouldn’t mess up this time. I couldn’t follow into the confusion nor get carried away by emotions.
Botella’s face flashed in my mi
nd. He was the only one who could help me get my life back and get to the bottom of all this. I was the only one who could help him get his career back as a detective. But first, I had to pay someone a visit.
Antonio Maciá, the pharmaceutical entrepreneur, wouldn’t be happy to see me.
13
LEANING ON THE HOOD of the SEAT Ibiza, I lit a cigarette as I faced the facade of Fharma S.A., a two story building of functional architecture and glass walls. Fharma was a company run by the well-known Antonio Maciá. I had driven from the city to the industrial estate in Torrellano, a parish that belonged to Elche, the neighboring city. The industrial estate sheltered old and new companies that struggle to make their way in big cities like Barcelona or Madrid, or through the Internet. Companies specialized in shoes, brands that distributed their products to the big multinationals of Spanish clothing. A Silicon Valley of homemade products without much glory and a few coffee shops in the lower floor of the buildings.
Next to a promenade full of palm trees, I decided to arrive at Fharma’s offices before its manager did. It is known bosses are never on time. It’s a matter of principle, of status. A boss always comes in later and leaves early. The envy of an employee towards his boss is what creates the ambition to keep growing in the company.
“You’ll have to earn your wings, if you want to fly”, Ortiz used to say.
The ignorance of the present due to the fear of the unknown. That was the great trauma of a generation before mine. The world had stopped working as it did in the last fifty years. The technological revolution had made it possible. Many people like Ortiz didn’t know that, in the near future there will be no bosses, no stable jobs and no offices. We were about to suffer a great hit. It was just a matter of time.
The morning unfolded and the sun began to burn on my back, so I decided to go the only bar open and wait for the office to open. I ordered a coffee and sat on the terrace. The waiter didn’t take long to serve it.