‘Aren’t you scared of being raided?’
Robinson bursts out laughing.
‘Alma, my past is my protection. I was so rich that the doors of this church inspire respect in every kind of police. The police respect wealth. I can help Raúl. I think we have common enemies. But what can I do for the three of you?’
Silverstein doesn’t wait for the other two.
‘Have you ever thought of investing in the theatre?’
‘No, it had never occurred to me.’
‘Well think about it while you’re helping us save Raúl. It’s an old story. Half of yesterday’s Argentina is after him, and half of today’s Argentina has joined in.’
‘What do you mean by save?’
Now it’s Carvalho’s turn to intervene.
‘Don’t go all metaphysical on us, friend. Saving means you don’t get killed before it’s your turn to die.’
‘Leonardo. Fine lingerie’. If Carvalho ran an underwear business, what would he call it? ‘Carvalho. Fine lingerie’. No: ‘fine lingerie’ was definitely out. He’d probably put an image, something that conjured up the female skin, his fascination with women’s petticoats, slips they were called in his childhood, by the women who came to his mother’s for fittings and whom he caught furtive glimpses of through a crack in the door of her tiny workshop.
Night falling in a nondescript street lined with stores and small industrial units, with the roar of traffic from the Panamerican highway nearby. Carvalho is waiting for the staff to leave, he glances at several and dismisses them, then concentrates on one slender woman about thirty years old; her legs are even more slender as they run comically after a bus that doesn’t want to wait. Carvalho makes sure she misses it.
‘Doña Esperanza Goñi?’
The woman takes a step back before eventually admitting that is her name, at the same time realizing she is not going to catch the bus. Carvalho flashes her a badge that seems to impress her.
‘Detective Carvalho. Don’t be frightened. I’m investigating the disappearance of Don Octavio. It’s quite routine, for the insurance companies – but I don’t need tell you, do I, you are such an efficient secretary’
Esperanza walks on sadly, allowing Carvalho to fall in beside her.
‘I used to be a secretary. But not any more. I used to work for Don Octavio, but now his father’s put me in the filing division. He’s downgraded me, because he thinks I knew about his son’s double life, and didn’t warn him.’
‘A boss is always a boss. But I’m sure you were just being loyal to your own boss, Don Octavio; that was your duty, after all.’
‘More than my duty, it’s what I believe in.’
‘As you should. You must know who your boss’s companion was. You’ll understand my situation too. My company is on the verge of bankruptcy, and there’s no filing division to send me to. Either I solve this case or...’
Carvalho makes a slicing gesture across his throat, and stares penetratingly at Esperanza, who is suddenly on his side.
‘Help me. I have to find that no-good woman.’
‘A no-good woman? But she was charming!’
‘Better still. But I have to talk to her. Perhaps you know how I can find her.’
The secret is too much for Esperanza to keep, and Carvalho is sure she’ll let it slip before they reach the stop to wait for the next bus.
‘We used to speak on the phone. Marta and I. Your no-good woman is called Marta, and has a married woman’s surname.’
‘Is she married then?’
‘She was. To an Aerolineas Argentinas pilot. I’m sorry, I must catch this bus.’
Esperanza’s thin legs scuttle off, while Carvalho recalls that Beatriz Maluendas was also married to an Aerolineas Argentinas pilot, and that it is either the same woman or the statistics very much favour Aerolineas Argentinas pilots.
‘Don Vito, get over to Ezeiza as quick as you can, and ask for a pilot by the name of Fanchelli. He’s our no-good woman’s husband.’
The least agile or most exhibitionist passengers have clambered wearily from the plane, wanting to be the last off so that the ones who preceded them will have to wait in the airport bus; the pilots and air hostesses make for the van reserved for the crew. As they get out in front of the main terminal building at Ezeiza, an employee whispers something into the ear of the pilot leading the way. He nods. He is a heavily built, athletic-looking man. He bounds along, bag in hand, to a small office where Don Vito is smiling broadly to welcome him. Taking the initiative, Don Vito grasps his hand and presents him with his card, while explaining out loud: ‘Altofini & Carvalho. Partners in Crime.’
The pilot drops his bag on the floor. He holds the card in his right hand, waiting for Don Vito to add something more.
‘Señor Fanchelli, it’s vitally important for us to find Señora Fanchelli as soon as possible.’
‘Who did you say?’
‘Your wife, Señora... ’
He does not have time to finish the name. The pilot lands him a left hook to the jaw that knocks Don Vito to the ground. Then he drops the business card on top of his prone body. Picks up his bag and leaves the office calmly, even smugly.
Back in the office of Altofini & Carvalho, Partners in Crime, Carvalho and Alma try to restore Don Vito’s aching chin.
‘He was left-handed.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he hit me with a left without letting go of the card in his right hand. What are you laughing at, Alma? I don’t understand why women always think it’s funny when a man is humiliated. Careful! Aagh, don’t grab it like that Carvalho, remember who it belongs to. I’ll look after it – it’s part of me, after all. But when you touch it, Alma, it does help.’
Carvalho gives up his attempts at being a medicine man, and apologizes for not having warned Don Vito that Marta, the no-good woman, sometimes calls herself Fanchelli, but has not been married to the pilot for several years now.
‘She is from Spain, but began her career in Argentina with Fanchelli and got married to him here. After Fanchelli, she married an importer of luxury shoes. She nibbled at a few other fortunes. Went back to Spain. She tried to make it in the film world, in Spain and Argentina.’
‘Did she succeed?’
‘No, only a few ermine capes, the odd mink stole, never a whole outfit.’
‘It must be her destiny. A no-good woman with an ermine coat. Life is tango. If you knew all that, why didn’t you tell me? Where can we find her?’
‘In the Bahamas, Santo Domingo, Miami, Las Vegas, New Orleans, always in the best hotels – in the Fontainebleau in Miami, for example. Her latest beau is Pacho Escámez. She’s in Buenos Aires, and this evening they’re having dinner at Chez Patron.’
‘Pacho Escámez? The one on the television?’
‘The very same.’
‘It’s unbelievable. In Spain she hooked a TV producer, now here she’s going out with a presenter. She’s incredible. She even repeats the same deal and the same situation.’
Carvalho picks up the phone and dials.
‘Don Leonardo? We ought to dine together tonight in Puerto Madero. What about Chez Patron? No, it’s not simply a whim. It’s highly likely you’ll see Señora Fanchelli there in person. We can get together a convincing table. You supply the credit card, and I’ll do the rest.’
Alma wants to know: ‘What’s a convincing table?’
‘You, Don Vito, me and Don Leonardo.’
Alma sweeps out of the office without so much as a backward glance, and shouts over her shoulder: ‘Count me out. I’ve got my own ideas about what convincing means.’
‘But it’s Chez Patron. Are you going to miss it? A table without a woman isn’t convincing. What if I brought a cousin along?’
Out in the front doorway, Alma looks at her watch. She looks impatiently fo
r a taxi. One appears suspiciously quickly.
‘To the university, as fast as you can. I’ll be late.’
Alma stares out of the window at flashes of cars and people as they speed by. The taxi sets off towards the university campus, but all of a sudden Alma realizes they are taking a very long route, then she sees they are going down a road she does not recognize. Alma taps on the glass separating her and the driver.
‘Are you sure this is the way? I told you, I’m late.’
The driver does not even bother to turn round. Alma decides not to worry, but cannot help it. Then she discovers that the doors are locked and she cannot open them. By now she is not only worried, she is frightened. She starts beating at the car windows, trying to attract the attention of the rare passers-by in this out of the way spot. The taxi speeds on down streets she has never seen before, but which she imagines must be in the Quilmes neighbourhood. It seems an eternity until the car has left the city behind, and is travelling through scrubby woodland. It turns down a track into the leafy darkness. Alma’s terror does not prevent her from seeing the driver click a button to release the doors. She pushes open the right-hand side one, and leaps out – only to find herself confronted by two motorcyclists, who seize her by the arms, and stun her with a punch to the jaw.
When she comes to, she can see the tops of the trees and the cloudy sky, but also four motorcyclists and the fat man staring down at her. She has been tied to the ground, legs and arms apart, with four stakes. The fat man starts giving her gentle kicks in her sex with the tip of his shoe. Alma screams with fear or pain. The fat man leans over her. His face looms close to hers.
‘Do you know what this is?’
He shows her a cut-throat razor.
‘What would you like me to cut off first? Your nipples? Your clitoris? Or perhaps you prefer this.’
A gloved hand thrusts a slimy bundle at her.
‘Here, eat this shit. It’s cleaner than the shit that comes out of your mouth. It’s my shit. Fresh this morning.’
Alma shakes her head desperately and clenches her teeth, but cannot prevent the slimy stuff dropping on to her mouth, her nostrils.
‘This is your last warning. Be careful what you say to your students. Be careful with your brainwashing.’
The fat man vanishes. Once again, the tops of the trees. The sky. Alma’s tears rolling down her bespattered face, Alma retching, as tears and her stomach refuse to let her vomit.
Pascuali’s eyes will not let him believe what they see on the ground. Behind him, Vladimiro is trying not to throw up, and another two policemen await their orders, paralysed by compassion and shame. Alma opens her eyes to let the terror out. Pascuali overcomes his paralysis and kneels down to pull out the stakes and release the woman. His colleagues rush to help him. One of them brings a water can from their car, and Pascuali wets his handkerchief to clean off Alma’s face, but there is not enough water or cloth for the job, until Alma herself snatches the can and pours it over her face and head. She is standing sobbing under the streams of water, and instinctively seeks comfort in Pascuali’s arms. He does not refuse, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in silent dismay as she sobs disconsolately against his chest. All at once Alma realizes where she is and pulls brusquely away, as though she were clinging on to something repellent. Her face and Pascuali’s confront each other, suspicious and distant once more.
‘Who was it?’
‘You mean you don’t know? Ah, of course...you were just out for a stroll in the woods and found me by pure chance. Is this your favourite wood?’
‘We got a phone call. Did you recognize anyone?’
‘Use your imagination. Do I really have to tell you who would have the nerve to do something like this? Who still enjoys complete impunity?’
‘In today’s Argentina, nobody’
Alma screams hysterically: ‘Nobody? You’re telling me nobody enjoys impunity? Well I’m telling you I saw that fat man, that bastard who is the Captain’s sidekick. And those others who are always on motorbikes. Are you going to arrest him? Shall I come with you?’
Pascuali persuades her to get into the patrol car. Sits with her in the back. Vladimiro is driving, and looks in the rear-view mirror at Alma refusing to say another word and Pascuali equally silent, until Alma suddenly says: ‘Drop me off at home, would you?’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t take you straight home.’
‘I’m in no mood to make a statement.’
‘You’ll have to make one at some point. But there’s something else too.’
Alma has to endure another lengthy trip across Buenos Aires, which finally takes shape when she recognizes the surroundings near Robinson’s mansion. Pascuali’s car passes through the open garden gate, and pulls up alongside other police cars and an ambulance. Alma’s defiled, weary, astonished face peers out of the car window. She is told to get out and follow Pascuali. He walks quickly, far too quickly for her exhausted body, up the pink marble staircase to the first floor, along a corridor to a spacious bedroom, in it a huge double bed, and on the bloody sheets the half-naked body of Robinson. His throat has been slit from ear to ear. The llama is grazing in a far corner. The parrot on its perch calls out now and again: ‘I love gays. I love gays.’ Alma turns away from the bloody mess, struggling to prevent herself laughing at the parrot’s stupid refrain.
‘Was it really necessary to bring me here, in the state I’m in?’
‘You knew each other. You were here a few days ago – you, your Spaniard and that Jewish clown.’
‘What do you so dislike about Norman: the fact that he’s a clown, or a Jew?’
Pascuali does not respond, and Alma starts to pace up and down the room.
‘Is he the only victim?’
‘How many do you want?’
‘What about Friday?’
‘Friday? Ah yes, Robinson and Man Friday. No, he’s not here. D’you think it could be a crime of passion? A black homosexual servant slits the throat of his white homosexual master, who just happens to be Robinson Crusoe.’
The parrot appears to favour Pascuali’s theory.
‘I love gays. I love gays.’
‘Was Raúl here when you came?’
‘No. I swear he wasn’t. But Robinson, or whatever his name was...’
‘His name was Joaquín Gálvez Rocco, and I’m sure that means something to you. He was a member of the oligarchy that you and your friends blackmailed, reviled and sometimes kidnapped, ambushed and murdered, executed or submitted to revolutionary justice – what was the phrase you used?’
Alma stares down at the body as if recognizing it for the first time.
‘Gálvez Rocco.’
‘Who would benefit from his death?’ Pascuali wants to know.
‘Mankind as a whole. Gálvez Rocco was one of the oligarchy who supported the military junta, like Ostiz or Pandurgo or Mastrinardi. So don’t waste too much time on him. What about me though? Are you going to pick up the fat man?’
‘We won’t be able to find him. He won’t be so foolish as to wait at home for us to come calling. And anyway, we don’t know where he lives.’
‘What about raiding the Captain’s place?’
Pascuali hesitates.
‘You don’t know where he lives either?’
‘That’s confidential information, at least as far as I’m concerned. Nobody knows where the Captain lives, no one is sure what his real name is, and that makes it all the more difficult to find the fat man.’
The brass knuckles beating the fat man’s face to a pulp seem to be enjoying the cracks, tears, bumps and bruises they have been creating. His mouth is bleeding; he lifts a hand to it and pulls out a smashed tooth. Like a whipped dog, he looks up in fear and apprehension at his assailant, but is rewarded only with two more blows, one to the spleen, the other to the pit of his stomach. He groans and co
llapses. Crumpled on the floor, his eyes beg for mercy. It’s the Captain who is standing over him. Ice-cool. He kicks at the fallen man, then lifts him by his lapels and in spite of his enormous bulk, pushes him up against a wall, and knees him in the groin.
‘Boss, please... !’
‘Who asked you to get mixed up in this? Who asked you to kidnap the professor? Who asked you to kill that joker?’
‘I didn’t kill anyone, I swear to you, boss.’
He’s a bloody mess slumped against the wall. He even looks thinner. He takes advantage of the pause in the beating.
‘I admit I went too far with the woman, because I was worried about the harm she could do the kid. But I didn’t kill anyone, ask them over there.’
The group of motorcyclists stand silently in the dark.
‘Who has been killed, boss?’
The Captain starts the video. The screen shows Robinson’s body with his throat cut, on the bed.
‘It took an expert to do that.’
‘But it wasn’t me, boss, I swear. I know who it could be. It’s well done. But it’s not my handiwork. I just wanted to protect the girl.’
‘Perhaps this murder will protect me more than her. But then again, if I’m protected, so is she.’
Carvalho restrains the impulse to grab Pascuali by the lapels. Pascuali had been expecting it anyway, and one of his fists has tightened to white knuckles.
‘You’re the perfect cop, aren’t you? This woman has been kidnapped and beaten up, and you keep her here for hours without any reason.’
‘She’s been looked at. Our medical team has examined her. They’ve also given her some tablets, and if she’s still here, it’s for the same reason that you are. You were the last identifiable people to see Robinson and Friday alive.’
The Buenos Aires Quintet Page 20