The Black Minutes

by Martin Solares

  He crossed the river in a colectivo boat and locked himself in so no one else could enter. Despite the pressure he was under, his time with La Chilanga had relaxed him. But then he remembered the accountant’s warning and considered the danger again. Damn, he said to himself. I’ll probably have to move. He didn’t have neighbors or anyone to ask for help in case he needed it, because there were no telephone lines on his side of the river. Anyone could force open the front door; it was only locked on the inside with a symbolic lock and, as if that weren’t enough, the windows were made out of plastic sheeting, which was simple enough to cut through. Come to think of it, it’s a miracle they haven’t gotten me yet.

  He should move somewhere else, but it would be a shame to go. He loved that place. On one side of him, there was a mango tree, delicious fruits that woke him up when they fell on the roof. A cooling breeze came off the river and scared away the mosquitoes. On the other hand, if he left any food outside the refrigerator, pests would immediately devour it. He once bought a poison powder to stop a plague of army ants that were threatening to invade. Another time he killed a tarantula as big as his hand. What can you do? he thought to himself. Soon, once he had time to think it through more calmly, he’d have to decide if it was time for him to move. But before then, I’m going to get this motherfucker and throw him in jail.

  The rest of the afternoon he oiled and checked out his uncle’s pistol. After that, he took out his shoulder holster and tried it on: he didn’t remember it fit him so big.

  At night, before going to bed, he split a melon in two pieces and absentmindedly left half of it above the sink in the kitchen, right next to the window. Vicente was completely worn out, but he couldn’t fall asleep. The conversation with Práxedes might have put him on edge. Every time he was about to drift off, some nearby noise would wake him up, noises that he couldn’t identify. What the fuck was that? It wasn’t the sound of a mango falling or the rumbling of the water heater, it was something different and repetitive, almost like Chinese water torture. As soon as he was about to get to sleep, there would be a new sound that he couldn’t identify, and on more than one occasion he thought he saw a person standing up next to his bed. The umpteenth time he woke up, his nerves destroyed, he went out to look for where the noise was coming from, furious, his twenty-two in hand. He wasn’t prepared for what he found.

  Outside the window in the kitchen was a family of raccoons, two big ones and five babies. The biggest had been able to cut through the plastic sheeting and reach in his window. Between his hands—because they were hands—was the other half of the melon.

  When the raccoon saw Rangel, he let out an amusing little scream, and the babies crowded around the mother. The detective recoiled and observed their handiwork. One by one, the five babies headed into the forest, preceded by their mother. When the father understood that Rangel wasn’t going to follow, he stood up on two legs and sniffed in his direction. He’s thanking me, Rangel thought. Then he dragged the part of the melon that was his with one hand, like a person would do, and disappeared into the brush.

  The policeman settled down on the terrace and drank two beers, one after another, with the lights out. A cool breeze started at eleven at night. I’m never leaving. If those motherfuckers want to come, let them come. I’ll be waiting.

  14

  On Thursday, the twentieth of March, at seven in the morning, Rangel parked his Chevy Nova in front of the chief’s house. The chief’s wife, Doña Dolores Rosas de García, asked him to wait in the living room, where he found the latest edition of El Mercurio: NO TRACE OF THE HERNÁNDEZ GIRL. FALSE LEADS MULTIPLY. The article added that, according to rumors, a brave officer in the Paracuán police force, a detective who had contributed several revealing pieces of evidence in the Jackal case, was about to quit “because his investigation was being stymied.” Guerrero not only summarized the previous day’s meeting at City Hall but also quoted the leader of the Professors’ Union, who took the opportunity to bash Mr. Barbosa from the state capital: PROFESSOR EDELMIRO CRITICIZES THE GOVERNMENT OF MADERA. Goddamnit, he said to himself, who told Johnny Guerrero about that meeting? And poor Barbosa, they’ve really got it in for him.

  Then, since no one had come to get him, he skipped to page thirteen:

  CONFERENCE ABOUT UFOS PROVOKES UPROAR: This evening, in the city of Searchlight, Nevada, researcher Cormac McCormick will read an excerpt from his forthcoming book, The Truth about UFOs. The popular columnist’s editors assure us that the book, fruit of more than twenty years of work, will be the most important in his field, as is clear from the interest shown in McCormick’s articles. They also confirmed that important revelations will be made during his talk.

  “Oh, Rangel, come on in.” The chief was out of the shower, recently shaved, and smelling of aftershave lotion. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “Don’t be rude,” he heard his wife’s voice.

  As a response, the chief grunted. “Did you already eat breakfast?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come drink a cup of coffee. Do you take milk?”

  “Please,” he said to the chief’s wife.

  “You can’t go out without your breakfast.” She was referring to the chief. “You’re not twenty years old anymore.”

  “Right.”

  As the chief spread butter on his bread, the telephone rang in the kitchen. Doña Dolores answered the call and passed it to her husband.

  “Churruca.”

  Even though he could have used the phone that his wife offered him, the old man went to take the call in the living room.

  Rangel and Doña Dolores listened without blinking.

  “What happened, Juan José? Yes . . . yes, the doctor is coming to the port, but it wasn’t his idea; we sent for him. . . . No, why would there be problems? He’s independent, but I know him very well. He was my teacher years ago. . . . No, it’s impossible to cancel: I’m about to pick him up at the airport. . . . Huh? Repeat that again.” The chief had put both hands on his stomach. As the conversation progressed, his discomfort worsened. Soon he was forced to rock forward and backward with his belly in his hands, as if he were cradling an infant. “Tell him I’m at his service. . . . Whatever he wants. . . . Oh, very well. . . . Affirmative.”

  After hanging up, the old man stayed seated a few seconds, swallowing the last sharp pain. The whole time, his stomach’s grumbling was as loud as his voice had been.

  “Mijo, do you feel all right?”

  “Rangel, take me to headquarters,” the old man answered. “I’m going to the state capital. I have a hearing in two hours.”

  “You can’t drive anywhere on your own,” his wife insisted. “Remember what the gastroenterologist told you.” She spoke to Vicente. “You can’t take him?”

  “Of course I can. Whatever you say.”

  “No,” said the chief, “Salim will take me. You go pick up Dr. Quiroz Cuarón and take care of him. Explain that I was called away. Lolita has all the allowances for the hotel and meals. If he needs something else, let her know. Remember, the doctor’s very particular. I’m leaving him under your care.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Let’s go. Before hitting the road, I need to go by the office for some papers.”

  “Do you know what time you’ll be back?” his wife asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  The old man slammed the door shut. He hadn’t even tasted his coffee.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Bedouin bounded down the main stairs of police headquarters, eager to serve as chauffeur. A few feet away, the chief was getting ready for his trip to the state capital.

  “That motherfucker Churruca, he could have let me know yesterday. . . . Taboada hasn’t come in yet?”

  “No, sir,” El Chicote responded.

  “That lazy fat-ass, who does he think he is?”

  As he was going out the door, Lolita caught up to García and told him he had a call from his wife: “She says it’s an emergency.
” The chief reluctantly headed back and ordered them to forward the call to the first telephone he found. The chief’s mood was getting worse, if that was possible; he shouted into the phone. “What? Are you sure?” A few seconds later, he said, “And what did you tell him?” He listened in silence. “Well, it seems like complete idiocy to me. How do you come up with these things, woman?” He hung up and asked the secretary, “He’s already here, right?”

  “He’s waiting for you in his office.”

  “Well, go entertain him, Lolita. You know no one can go in if I’m not there already.”

  As the secretary went up, the chief gestured to Rangel to follow him into the hallway. “Rangel, besides what I already asked you to do, I need you to take care of another equally important item of business. One which requires complete discretion.”

  This was disconcerting to Vicente, because even though the chief was giving him signs that he had begun to trust him since he got involved in the investigation of the girls, it was obvious that he preferred to work with El Travolta or Cruz Treviño.

  “It’s a very delicate matter.”

  He explained that his son-in-law, who was the state attorney general, had wanted to do an audit on him since Christmas. He was sending an agent who pretended to be on a different assignment but in reality meant to do him harm. The agent had put one over on them; as soon as the chief left for the office, he appeared at the chief’s home and began to investigate. Since Doña Dolores didn’t suspect anything, she not only gave him information about certain activities “which could be misunder-stood,” but she also sent him directly to the office. Immediately, Rangel thought about the envelopes that came in every month from grateful politicians and businesspeople, and the special assignments that Chief García took on for those individuals. The chief asked him to keep the visitor occupied for a while, preferably outside the office.

  “We can’t bribe him or scare him and, what’s more, we can’t mistreat him because of one reason: he’s my nephew. Since it’s an assignment that requires tact, I’d like you to take care of this one.”

  Shit, thought Rangel, how am I going to manage with two visitors?

  “Oh, I almost forgot! His alibi is that he came to write an article. Play along and do everything he asks unless it goes against my instructions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s go on up. I’ll introduce you.”

  As they approached the chief’s office, Rangel noticed that a young man was sitting on the edge of the desk, reading a comic book with a psychedelic cover: L’Incal by Moebius and Jodorowsky. That’s the agent he’s so scared of? Rangel guessed he was sixteen years old, seventeen at most.

  “Rangel,” the chief said, “this is Rodrigo Montoya, my nephew.” The boy stood up to say hello. He was a young guy with long hair, dark glasses, an easy generous smile, and a mustache that in reality was just the intention of having a mustache; it grew down around the corners of his mouth and onto his cheeks. He shook hands with unexpected enthusiasm, and the chief made his apologies and left.

  Shit, Rangel said to himself, what do I do now? As if the problem with the girls weren’t enough, now he was in charge of the doctor and had to deal with this youngster: a pain in the neck. He asked the visitor to wait for him a minute and ran to talk with the Blind Man, who was mopping a hallway.

  “Romero, leave that be and come give me a hand.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  15

  He was supposed to arrive on the first flight, but he couldn’t be found anywhere. Dr. Quiroz Cuarón, the most famous detective in Latin America, couldn’t be one of the guys in cowboy hats with piteado boots and jeans or one of the oil workers in dark sunglasses or one of the bronze-tanned businesspeople in short sleeves waiting to claim their baggage.

  From the moment Dr. Quiroz Cuarón agreed to assist them, Chief García’s office was stirred with unusual energy. They had let Torres Sabinas know, so that he would authorize the expenses, and Lolita had reserved a plane ticket for the first flight in on Thursday. The doctor was to arrive around eight o’clock. He had to go through the neighboring city of Tampico, a few minutes north of Paracuán.

  When there were only a half dozen travelers left in the reception area, Vicente noticed an elderly man drinking a cup of coffee at a bar nearby. The elderly man waved him over.

  “Are you Lieutenant Rivera’s nephew?”

  “I was on the first flight,” he said, “it’s strange you didn’t see me arrive.” He was wearing a double-breasted blue suit and an impeccable white shirt, and he smelled of lotion from six feet away. He was carrying a small leather suitcase and a medium-sized wooden trunk with labels from a recent trip through Portugal and Turkey. “Careful with that. The contents are very fragile.”

  He must have been about seventy years old, but he didn’t look it. Rangel noticed he wasn’t carrying a gun, and he asked himself if he might be accustomed to having bodyguards, like some very important officials. He carried a book in his hand: The Psychology of Crime by David Abrahamsen.

  As they went outside to the car, a wave of heat assaulted them. Rangel explained the chief’s reasons for not being able to welcome him, and he thanked him for agreeing to come. The doctor nodded. “Poor García, those idiots are always ordering him around.” After he settled down inside the patrol car, he didn’t say another word.

  The city seemed to be a huge mirage. It was hot, and the air coming through the windows did nothing to cool them down. As they got onto the main avenue, by the Hotel Posada del Rey, they passed a considerable crowd waiting for the bus. The detective glanced briefly in the rearview mirror: they were carrying picket signs. When they came to the Beneficencia Española, they ran into another large group. They must be members of the PRI, he thought, marching in support of President Echavarreta.

  As they passed in front of the normal school, they saw a third crowd, which was getting ready to march with a loudspeaker and signs. As he turned down a steep street, he strained to hear what they were saying. Where the street ended, they could see the Río Pánico and its loading and unloading area.

  They went in through the back door and walked up to the second floor, where the doctor settled into the chief’s office.

  “To start,” said the specialist, “I’d like to read the report.”

  Lolita handed him a photocopy. As soon as Rangel was sure that the secretary was attending to the visitor, he ran to see what the chief’s nephew was doing. He found Romero reading the Treatise on Criminology by Dr. Quiroz Cuarón in an armchair next to the coffeemaker.

  “What’s up, Vicente? What time does the conference start?”

  “I’ll let you know. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got everything I need right here.”

  Rangel had promised to invite Rodrigo to the meetings with the doctor, as long as he didn’t insist on going to the airport.

  “All right,” the nephew had said. “In the meantime, I’m gonna get ready, I’m gonna read his complete works.”

  As he turned away, Rangel wrinkled his nose. For a moment, just for a moment, he could swear he smelled a sickly-sweet smell around the kid, a smell he had gotten a whiff of before, during previous investigations, a tobacco scent . . . or Cannabis indica. But no, that’s not possible, he told himself, it’s the chief’s nephew—and we’re at police headquarters.

  “I’ll wait here,” said the boy, and concentrated on his reading.

  When he got back, Quiroz Cuarón’s suitcase and trunk were on one side of the table, but he couldn’t see the criminologist anywhere.

  “And the doctor?”

  The secretary motioned toward the door at the end of the hallway, and Rangel went to look for the expert.

  He was quite active for someone over seventy years old. As Rangel was checking in with the nephew, the doctor had underlined the first few pages of the photocopies. Rangel hurried to review them. The doctor had made notes with a color pencil. On first impression, the
inscriptions seemed to trace out a diagram—or, rather, a drawing of an equation. Sometimes he crossed out a line with an X, sometimes he put a check next to a sentence or marked it with a square root sign. And in one place he had drawn a circle around a word, with a line from it down to the bottom of the page, where he had written a number of indecipherable symbols, of which Rangel could only recognize the question marks. He had drawn a map by hand of the city’s principal avenues, indicating the two schools and the locations where they found the two bodies with arrows. He doesn’t waste any time, Rangel said to himself, and went to look for him in Ramírez’s office.

  As soon as he entered, a smell like the chemicals used to clean pools filled his nose. The tiny size of the cubicle, ten by sixteen feet, was evidence of the chief’s lack of interest in the analysis of evidence. Ramírez moved around very nervously as he pulled together the materials requested by Quiroz Cuarón. The doctor asked if he could examine the evidence collected around the bodies. The forensic expert held out a plastic bag, sealed with Scotch tape.

  “How large was the perimeter you studied?”

  “About six feet, at the most ten feet, doctor.”

  The old man poured the contents out onto a white sheet of paper and began to separate them with tweezers. There was grass, cigarette butts, wads of gum, popsicle wrappers, bags with leftover fried food, and other wrappers from candy sold in front of schools. For a few minutes, the doctor worked in silence. When he lifted his head, he acknowledged Rangel.

  “This is complete chaos. We have to hurry, I don’t have a lot of time. Two days, at the most. I can’t be here any longer.”

  Before Rangel could respond, loud noises rose up from the street, growing louder by the second. Rangel looked out the window at a violent crowd carrying picket signs.