The Black Minutes

by Martin Solares

  “Drop whatever you’re doing and look into the deceased on Calle Palma for me.”

  He was referring to the journalist who’d been found dead the morning before. Sunday afternoon, some hours after the body was reported, Agent Chávez had managed to detain El Chincualillo in a lightning operation, with enough evidence to lock him up for fifteen years. To Chávez’s mind, the guilty party had acted alone and the motive was robbery. But Chief Taboada wasn’t satisfied.

  “I’m missing information: find out what the journalist was doing over his last few days. Where he was, who he saw, what they said to him. If he was writing something, I want to read it. I need to know what was he up to.”

  Cabrera knew El Chincualillo was a dealer for the Paracuán cartel, and so his chief’s request raised a problem of professional ethics. “Why doesn’t Chávez do it?”

  “I’d rather you took charge.”

  Cabrera hesitated. “I have a lot of work.”

  “Let the new guys help you.”

  Cabrera said no, that wouldn’t be necessary, he could do it himself. He couldn’t abide the new guys.

  “One more thing,” the chief added. “Go see the deceased’s father, Don Rubén Blanco, and stand in for me at the funeral. It’s essential for you to report to him, and for him to know you’re going on my behalf, and for you to keep on the lookout until everything’s over. It’s at the Gulf Funeral Parlor, but hurry up; they’ll be burying him at twelve. Don’t you have a suit coat?”

  “Not here.”

  “Have them lend you one. Don’t show up like that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes: discretion. Don’t let anybody know what you’re up to.”

  Cabrera went back to his desk and asked the social service girls to hunt up the autopsy report. The girls, who didn’t have that much work to do, squabbled over who would take it to him. Who brought it was Rosa Isela, a girl in her twenties with emerald-green eyes, who leaned on the desk and, after handing over the report, didn’t take her eyes off him. Cabrera smiled, flattered, until she remarked that he reminded her of her father. When she observed the detective’s discomfort, the girl became all smiles.

  “I brought you a present.” It was a ruled notebook.

  “What’s this for?”

  “So you can get rid of the other one.”

  She meant the notebook he was using at the time. Cabrera’s notebook was so full by now that he sometimes wrote over pages he had already filled at least twice before, a real palimpsest, as it’s called in legalese. And it’s true that he had had a lot of work the last few days.

  “Gracias, amiga. Could you get me some coffee?”

  Isela fulfilled his darkest desires and left the beverage on his desk. It should be noted that he brought his own coffee to brew at work, since he found the headquarters pot disgusting. Ten minutes later Camarena, one of the new guys, came in to chat with the social service girls. Camarena was a tall, cheerful young guy, successful with the ladies. That day he was flaunting at least three lipstick marks around his mouth: one of them could be Rosa Isela’s. Camarena made himself some decaf and went to his desk. Cabrera wondered how anybody with half a brain could possibly like coffee without any coffee in it.

  It was a hot, muggy day. He tried to study the report but couldn’t concentrate and was reading through it unattentively when another rookie interrupted him.

  “Hey, where’s the concrete room?” He was wearing dark glasses in the office. These new guys know zip about the venerable institution of dark glasses, Cabrera grumbled to himself. Wearing them in the presence of a superior shows a lack of respect, and Cabrera’s tone of voice was a reproach.

  “What’d you lose in there?”

  “Nothing.” The young man lowered his glasses. “I was sent to look for mops. Your coffeemaker is leaking.”

  “Take the one in the closet, at the end of the hall; there’s nothing for you to do in the concrete room, understood?”

  His car leaked oil, the coffeemaker leaked water, what was next? Was he going to have prostate trouble, as his doctor had warned him? Perhaps, at his age, he should drink less coffee and more plain water. But could he live without coffee? After some depressing thoughts (a vision of a world without caffeine, the world as a long and boring blank space), he finally managed to concentrate on the text.

  The report indicated that they’d sliced the journalist’s throat from ear to ear, collapsing the jugular, and then extracted his tongue through the orifice. In other words, he told himself, they’d given him a Colombian necktie, so there’d be no doubt about who had committed the crime. Ever since the people of the port had been associating with the Colombian cartel, these things were happening more and more often. . . . He was thinking this over when, as he began to reread the report, he felt a burning sensation in his gut. Damn it, he said to himself, what did I get myself into?

  When he was almost through reading the report, his stomach growled again and he told himself it was a sign that he shouldn’t take the case. But his sense of duty was stronger than he was, and he went out to look for Ramírez.

  In the entire headquarters there was only a single person who could have lent him a suit coat in his size, and that was the forensic expert, Ramírez. Not that Cabrera was fat, it was just that he was very broad-shouldered. As for Ramírez. . . .

  In the port city that we’re discussing, when people get upward of forty they face a dilemma: either they find something interesting to do or they take up eating, with the universally acknowledged outcome. The expert Ramírez belonged to the second category. He had not a double but a triple chin, and his belly spilled out over his belt. Cabrera went in to say hello and noticed a young man wearing glasses typing on a computer at the desk in the back.

  “So who’s that?”

  “My assistant, Rodrigo Columba.”

  Ramírez had no idea what they wanted from him. In the journalist’s house not a manuscript was found, no drafts, nothing. Only a notebook, of no real interest.

  “Let me see it.”

  “Handle with care. . . .”

  “Yes, I know.” They had found Cabrera’s fingerprints at a crime scene once, and since then no one let him off without a good ribbing.

  Ramírez handed him the evidence and Cabrera examined it with gloves and tweezers, so as not to worry his colleagues. It was a black notebook: a journal, which at first glance revealed nothing of importance: two or three dates, a poem about Xilitla, and a name, Vicente Rangel. . . . Cabrera felt his gastritis flare up again. Son of a bitch, this can’t be happening. He read the poem, which he thought terrible, but found no other written mark. How strange, he thought at last. He couldn’t imagine a journalist who took no notes . . . a journalist who didn’t write. And that name, Vicente Rangel. He said nothing to the forensic expert, but taking advantage as he looked away, Cabrera tore that page from the notebook and put it in his pocket, under the astounded eyes of the young agent. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to “erase” a little evidence. Cabrera completely ignored the young man’s look and spoke to fat Ramírez.

  “Did he have a computer?”

  “Did he have a computer? Strictly speaking, yes, he owned one, but we can’t access it. It requests a password, and there’s no way of guessing it.”

  “Get a technician.”

  “That’s what my colleague Columba here is doing; he’s the next generation of policemen—not like you, Macetón, still using a typewriter.”

  The young man in glasses smiled at Cabrera, who looked away.

  “And cassettes? Did you find any?”

  “Audio cassettes? No, we didn’t.”

  “No, not audio cassettes but, like, cassettes to save information.”

  “They’re called diskettes,” Ramírez said, “or CDs.”

  The specialist bent over the evidence, pulled a diskette from a plastic bag and in one sweeping motion handed it over, more gracefully than Cabrera would have expected.

  “This is what we fou
nd. Let Columba help you.”

  The young man in the glasses inserted the diskette in the computer. On the screen an empty window appeared. “It’s blank.”

  “Let’s see it.” Cabrera looked at the blank image. Yes, the diskette had nothing on it.

  “Or maybe it’s not formatted for a PC. I’d have to look it over on my Mac. If you want, I’ll examine it later, with another operating system.”

  Cabrera answered with a growl. “Give me a photocopy of that notebook, butthead,” he ordered the kid. “And wear gloves.”

  “Hey”—it suddenly dawned on Ramírez—“why are you working on the journalist? Wasn’t this El Chaneque’s case?”

  Cabrera motioned for him to lower his voice. They went out to the hallway, and Cabrera said, “Chief’s orders.”

  Ramírez heaved a deep sigh. “If I were you, I’d get out of it; this smells very weird.”

  “Why? Or what? What did you hear?”

  “Haven’t you ever wondered if the chief is just using you?”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  At that moment another colleague came in to ask for a report and Ramírez took the opportunity to end the conversation. “I’ll hunt down what you asked me for later, OK? Right now I’ve got a lot of work.”

  3

  Before he got into his car, he noticed that he had a flat tire and his head hurt. He didn’t know if the tire caused the headache or if the headache caused the tire, but it was clear that if he stopped to change it he was going to miss the funeral. Besides, he’d end up sopping because at that time of day the sun was broiling.

  Fortunately, there was a tire-repair place two blocks from headquarters; Cabrera went to see the manager and gave him the keys. Since there weren’t any taxis in sight, he stood waiting for one in the middle of the street, deliberating whether it might not be better to walk—the funeral parlor wasn’t very far—but he had other things on his mind, a couple of ideas he couldn’t quite make sense of.

  Minutes later, he saw a rickety old boat of a taxi approaching, a disco ball dangling from its rearview mirror. He told the driver to take him to the dead man’s house, the house fronting on the lagoon, where he thought he’d find more information. Cabrera was a methodical man; now that he’d reviewed the autopsy, he wanted to see the scene of the crime. The driver had on dark glasses and he’d purposefully greased down his hair with Vaseline. He was wearing a green shirt, military style. For quite some while now, Cabrera said to himself, everybody’s been wearing military-style clothing.

  At first the address—No. 10 Calle Palma—meant nothing to him but as soon as he saw it he remembered. Look at this, who would’ve thought a crime would take place here? A long time ago, some twenty years ago at least, 10 Calle Palma was one of the few buildings in that neighborhood. At first, the good drainage system was bad and the electricity would go off; on the whole block there were only two or three houses, and the asphalt ended a few hundred yards farther down. Cabrera had always liked driving, to go tooling around, and when he was young he used to park nearby at nightfall, facing the lagoon, sometimes by himself, sometimes with one of his girlfriends from back then. He had a fleeting moment of happiness, remembering the things that happened there with his girls. How long has it been since I was here last? he wondered. The area had become an exclusive neighborhood, full of fancy houses, and because of the new buildings it wasn’t as easy to see the lagoon. If I weren’t here on an investigation, he thought, there’d be nothing for me to do around here.

  The crime scene was an unpretentious house. It stood between two lavish mansions, but that wasn’t what most drew his attention. On the façade of the house, bands of police tape blocked access to the front door; beneath it, toward the entry, they’d drawn the outline of the body. Something was off and Cabrera’s expert eye caught it immediately.

  He asked the cabdriver to wait and got out of the car. Examining the bloodstains confirmed his worst fears; the carelessness with which the journalist’s outline had been drawn didn’t hold out much hope for a solution to the case. It looked as if he’d been finished off inside and then dragged out here, though the report didn’t say that. Holy shit, he thought, what did I get myself into? Do I tell the chief or not? He kicked at a flowerpot, insistently, until he shattered it. The cabdriver asked if he was ready to leave. Cabrera yelled back to him, “Wait for me here!” and walked around behind the house to see if he could get in through the back.

  At the far end of the garden, where the lagoon began, sat a huge bulldozer. No trace remained of the yard’s trees, and in their place one of those mammoth gas pipelines had been installed. At the very back, an Oil Workers’ Union sign warned caution. Do not dig, and topping it all off was a big skull and crossbones.

  Three impatient honks of the horn brought him back to earth. “I’m coming, motherfucker!” he yelled to the cabdriver. “What’s the hurry, man, if I’m gonna be paying you?” The driver didn’t answer him and tuned the radio to Classics of Tropical Music.

  At the mansion next door, an indigenous maid was scrubbing at the stream of blood that had drained all the way over there. The maid, who was attempting to wash away the stain with soap and a brush, got unnerved when she saw him come up. He wanted to ask if she or her employer had seen anything suspicious, but the maid thought he was going to assault her, and from the way she gathered up her things he guessed she meant to run away. Cabrera showed her his badge, but the girl was so alarmed it was impossible to get a word out of her. So he told her good-bye and got back into the boat.

  As the cab pulled away, the maid went back to scrubbing at the young man’s blood. Soon there wouldn’t be a trace left of him. Cabrera looked back at the crime scene, and the wind blew the police tape.

  4

  “Where to, boss?”

  Cabrera looked at his watch and told the driver to take him to Gulf Funeral Parlor.

  “The small branch or the big one?”

  “The big one, and step on it; I’m really late.”

  The driver took the avenue downtown. Around the military hospital, after a brief contest for dominance, the taxi passed a pickup with polarized windows, which was taking up two lanes simultaneously.

  “Hey,” the driver said to him, “that was the dead man’s house, right? That’s where the journalist they killed lived.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are the rumors true?”

  “What rumors?”

  “That he was running with the dealers, that he was friends with El Chato Rambal.”

  He was about to reply, but before they reached the light the pickup cut them off. The cabdriver slammed on the brakes and stopped in the middle of the street. The first thing they saw when the pickup door opened was a leather boot with metallic studs. Cabrera imagined a six-foot-tall rancher, nasty and riled up, but instead the pickup spat out a five-foot-tall kid. Even that height was largely thanks to his boots. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, but he already sauntered with drug-runner arrogance. He had on a sleek leather jacket and his gun was in sight.

  At first Cabrera didn’t understand, because the youngster was talking too fast, but soon he realized that he was angry with the cabdriver for passing him.

  “Are you in a hurry, asshole? What’s the rush?” He talked straight at the driver. “You won’t be in a hurry when I’m done with you, you fucking dickhead.” Then he realized the driver wasn’t alone. “And you, asshole? Someone talking to you?”

  In this city, if you don’t know how to keep your mouth shut you don’t last long. Luckily, Cabrera was a pacifist and responded with a friendly smile.

  “It’s no big deal,” he said calmly. “I’m on my way to a funeral.”

  “Well, you can walk,” the kid provoked him. “Get out of the car.” He lifted his jacket to show his gun.

  Of all the cars on the road, the detective said to himself, this kid had to pick me to tangle with, an honest citizen just doing his duty. As Cabrera was getting out of the car, the
kid slapped the cabdriver. Shaking his head, Cabrera turned the tables on him. One slap knocked the kid’s face to the side.

  “Hey, asshole! Fuck off!”

  “You fuck off. Act right or I’ll make you.”

  When Cabrera saw the kid was about to pull his gun, he twisted the kid’s arm with one hand and grabbed the pistol with the other. Then he raised it to look at it closely. It was top of the line and sported in gold plating the initials C. O. Since the kid kept on jumping around and wasn’t listening to reason, Cabrera slapped him again.

  “I said stuff it, asshole. Do you have a carry permit?”

  “No,” the kid answered, “but it’s not mine. It’s my dad’s.”

  “If you don’t have the permit on you, I’ll have to confiscate this. Tell your dad to pick it up at the police station.”

  The kid just laughed. “My dad is a friend of the chief.”

  “Well, when he drops in to say hi to his friend, he can stop by my desk and pick up the gun. Now get out of here, you fucking punk. If you keep messing with me I’ll tell your father on you.”

  The kid was red in the face, he was so angry, but he faked politeness. “Yes, sir. And who might you be?”

  “Agent Ramón Cabrera, at your service.” As soon as he said it, he knew he’d said too much.

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “And now, get a move on.” He tucked the gun into his pants.

  The kid stepped on the accelerator, his tires squealing, and pulled in to the curb a couple hundred feet farther down.

  “Oh, God,” said the driver, “he’s waiting for us.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve seen him coming out of the clubs. I think he’s El Cochiloco’s son.”

  Cabrera thought it over for a moment and finally said, “Could be.”

  He tried to persuade the cabdriver to follow the kid, but the driver was entirely freaked out. “Give me a break, sir. Let me just take you to the funeral home. I don’t want the kid to get mad; these guys’ll shoot you for less than that.”