This is as far as we can go then with the description of a typical summer’s day in Malihuel twenty years ago, peppered with the appearances of the figure of Darío Ezcurra, which the keen observer will have been able to spot amidst the anonymous swarming of his fellow townsmen. It is as well not to overlook those instants because, though they may seem habitual, they are nevertheless precious. Tomorrow the observer who wants to trace Darío Ezcurra’s trail from noon to dawn, in the complex weave of Malihuel’s inhabitants’, will search in vain.
Chapter Three
“I WAS IN THE FORCE che but it ain’t the same thing as being a cop though. It’s common knowledge my old man was the one as got me into the force, I couldn’t kick up a fuss about it could I. You’re from Buenos Aires, maybe you don’t know what it’s like here. A son follows in his father’s footsteps, part out of obedience, part out of need. If he don’t like it he’s got to leave. If the father’s got a business the son inherits it, if he’s got a farm the land, if he’s got a council job he tries to get his son a job there. Correct me if I’m wrong Don Guido.”
“You aren’t,” he replies laconically.
“That was my case. They give up a lot for me and sent me to the Virasoro Academy, a policeman’s salary’s barely enough to get by on as I’m sure you know and there were eight of us, my five sisters and me the only boy, I couldn’t very well refuse. A policeman all his life my old man was and proud of it. You wore the badge with honour in them days, not like nowadays when people see a cop and think ‘criminal’, and they ain’t far wrong, let’s face it the only difference between a thief and a cop these days is the uniform. I expected something different when I signed up, thought they’d all be like my old man. Never forget his face I won’t the first day he saw me dressed in blue, chest bursting with the pride of … But anyway, that’s not what you called me here for is it. To tell you about my life. Ask me whatever you like, I might be able to give you something useful.”
We’re sitting at our usual table in Los Tocayos. Nene Larrieu’s already poured the first round of drinks: vermouth for Iturraspe and Licho, gin on the rocks for Guido, Argentinian Scotch for me and Legui caña for Carmen Sayago, the elusive ex-policeman who’s finally deigned to grace us with his presence and is willing and able to talk. He doesn’t look too intimidating; just the opposite in fact—a squat Indian-looking type with submissive manners and shifty eyes, uncombably tangled hair, dressed in a brown pullover with stripy sleeves and trousers washed to some colour beyond the spectrum, who, with a timid, caried smile, asks: “They’re on you ain’t they Don? ’Cause me like, if I can’t land the odd odd job I can’t afford to eat. If I’d of carried on in the police I’d of made sergeant by now at least, not a fortune but enough to make ends meet. Still I don’t regret my decision. When Greco got promoted to chief I knew my days in the force was numbered. One of the old guard Superintendent Neri was—good fellas like my old man, who could never adapt. Had Greco under his wing, grooming him to take his place. That’s what usually happens, ’specially when the retiring Superintendent’s thinking of staying in the area—puts his man in the headquarters and stays a part of things … But of course while Greco was going yes sir no sir three bags full sir he was looking for somewhere to stick the knife in, lots of games of chess with that whatsisface but if you play chess with a cheat …”
He finishes his glass instead of the sentence, smacks his lips and puts it down with an insinuating thwack. Nene Larrieu arches his eyebrows and I give him the go-ahead. Sayago gazes with glee at the honey-coloured liquor filling his glass and running thickly over the edge into the saucer beneath.
“Ah, that’s better, my soul’s returned to my body. Shivering all day long I been, just couldn’t get warm.”
“There’s a lot of flu about,” opines Licho, sipping his vermouth.
“And I’ve got the best remedy here,” replies Sayago, putting his lips to the brimming glass to take a sip. “Where was I?”
“Greco. Neri,” supplies Iturraspe.
“Right. Everything Superintendent Neri did Greco undid. Gang of thugs, that’s what he turned the county police into. Didn’t give a toss about law and order Greco didn’t, or guerrillas for that matter, the only thing he was interested in was lining his pockets. Mortgaged his old folks’ house to pay for his promotion and his assignment can you believe? Everything in his headquarters was arranged with money. Kept a pad of accounts on his desk he did—so much from bookies, so much from tarts, so much from dealers, so much from truck-hijackers, which in this area—”
“They call us the Bermuda Triangle around these parts,” Guido interrupts. “We once had a whole truckful of merchandise vanish into thin air. Driver and all.”
“Oh, no wonder we had spaghetti at headquarters two months running. Only joking Don Guido, no need to look at me like that. As I was telling you Don, Greco ended up buying one of them pocket calculators that’d just come out—big square one with little red numbers I remember it was—at it all day he was with his little gadget. Only thing that mattered to him about the police stations in the area was that they came up with the readies between the first and the fifth, he’d pocket his share and send the rest to the big pricks in Rosario, and not so much as a thank you to the men on the beat who sweat and stick their necks out to get it for him. Got land all over the area Greco has, and several nightclubs, and a security firm in Toro Mocho, but if an ex-policeman who’s risked his life for him goes and asks him for a job you think he gets any help? Treated like a dog he is. A man who doesn’t know what loyalty is can’t be a policeman I say but that’s how it is—so I left. Wasn’t going to sully the uniform my old man give me you can be sure of that. Ah well, can’t complain. Short but all the sweeter for it innit,” he innovates, tilting his glass for some time so that the last drop oozes thickly down from the bottom, and then excuses himself to go to the bathroom dragging his feet, his upper body in advance of his hips in the convex bulge of the chronic alcoholic.
“What did they kick him out for che?” I ask the others out of no particular interest.
“Used to pocket the pay-offs,” Licho declares. “And someone went and tipped off Greco. Can you imagine. They gave him his marching orders and a real going-over. Split his head open apparently, serious it was. He says he started hitting the bottle after that, and it must be true ’cause he ain’t stopped since has he.”
“Didn’t want to know him any more,” Iturraspe adds meditatively, “his old man didn’t after he was dismissed. Kicked him out of the house and from then on every time their paths crossed—several times a day in a town like this—he’d look the other way. Moved to Casilda when he retired, with his wife and single daughters; Carmen and the two married daughters stayed here. It’s thanks to them he’s still alive. Che it’s bloody cold in here isn’t it. If you can’t turn the burner or the gas fire up Nene, why don’t you set fire to a couple of chairs? We’re freezing our arses off in here.”
“THINGS REALLY STARTED warming up around then I can tell you, the heat was vicious and didn’t let up even at night and what between that and the waiting everybody was worn out and bad-tempered, waking up before dawn in the hope of some cool air or the news that it was all over. Lots of people didn’t care how by that stage, you know like when a loved one’s suffering and there’s no hope left and the only thing you ask is for the suffering to stop once and for all. And now with the weekend approaching there was also the eagerly awaited Friday show, none other than Sandro in person was going to perform there you know where yes at the island hotel and then the scaremongers some saying that he’s not coming and others that he is but the storm’ll keep him away. And most people thought don’t know why but they were all convinced the Ezcurra business would be put off till the next weekend, as if it’d be suspended because of rain, it got mixed up in their minds with the show,” El Turquito Majul had told me the afternoon we did some circuits together in the gym—I haven’t felt like returning since.
“AND ONE FINE mor
ning I remember it was dead hot and the day starts with more hustle Subsuperintendent Greco’s in and out of the Super’s office and calls are coming in from Rosario and word starts going the rounds from office to office—it’s today. But only then in all the toing and froing does the Super answer someone as stops him with a blink and this is it, confirmed from one end of headquarters to the other, particularly when he calls in Sergeant Chacón and says to him Sergeant he says to him put a couple of officers on Ezcurra’s tail if he takes a dump I want to know about it and by noon that day which was well never mind a … wait gimme a second Wednesday no Thursday—”
“Friday,” intervenes Nene Larrieu from his post behind the bar.
“Friday, that’s it. Don’t miss a trick you don’t do you eh Nene? Had to be a Friday or Saturday ’cause of the show at the lagoon. Bet you don’t know who was on that night? If you don’t believe me ask them. Know who was on? Tell him Nene.”
“He already knows,” the memorious waiter clarifies.
“Sandro, that’s who. The Gypsy Man in person. Just picture what this town was like in them days, I don’t mean like Buenos Aires but just picture it. So anyroad as I was telling you by noon Friday the news had spread and the whole town knew didn’t they. The dog’s day’d come.”
“HE WAITED LIKE THAT TOO,” Nene Larrieu said to me a few days ago, when, bored of my daytime zapping in Guido and Leticia’s kitchen and not feeling like going over to the factory to borrow their creaking computer for a while, I wandered over to Los Tocayos in the hope someone would turn up, ‘that dog’s day’ as they call it, for his mates Los Jaimitos to come. They’d already stood him up at the lagoon and he came in early to see why. Maybe something’s happened to one of them? he said to me at one point and I couldn’t stand it any longer and I said, I said to myself, I’ve got to tell him and God’s will be done, when I see a patrol car going past behind him without him noticing, crawling along like this past all three doors and through the last one Chacón the one who now owns the kiosk next door and was sitting in the back puts a finger to his lips. Ezcurra didn’t notice a thing. Sat there waiting for quite a while but word must’ve got around that he was here ’cause not a soul came in the bar and it must’ve been around eight I reckon he said I’m off home for a shower before the show, let the lads know if they’re looking for me and he left through that door over there. And that was the last time I saw him.”
“SHEER COINCIDENCE,” exhaled Jaimito, Sacamata junior soon after arriving, feigning a bodily relaxation belied by the cold gleam in his eyes and the rictus of his mouth. “Bermejo was away on business in Rosario that day, I had my old man down with otitis I think it was and had to look after the store, and my friend Beto here … What was it you had on?”
“Had to take Mamá to the specialist in Toro Mocho. She was in a really bad way by then,” and he added unnecessarily in a barely audible voice: “Died a year later.”
“You see?” boomed Sacamata in confirmation. “We liked a good time it’s true, but we weren’t kids either. Bermejo was pushing forty, you and me were going on for thirty, and Ezcurrita was around …”
“Thirty-four,” I beat the infallible Nene Larrieu to it.
“Didn’t I tell you Beto? If he carries on like this our friend Fefe here’ll end up knowing Ezcurrita better than any of us. That’s what I’m saying, we weren’t kids, we all had responsibilities. Not Ezcurra of course, he was our very own Isidoro Cañones, he could afford not to. But the rest of us had work obligations or family obligations, like Beto with his late Mamá. I mean the razz is the razz and graft’s graft right? That’s something Ezcurrita could never grasp.”
“I couldn’t say anything to you in front of Batata ’cause he still goes crazy nowadays if anyone dares to insinuate,” Iturraspe whispered when we were alone, “but what you’re thinking’s the truth. We did everything we could not to run into Ezcurrita all day. It wasn’t ’cause we were scared—least not in my case—it was ’cause we were embarrassed. If I hadn’t told him anything by then how would I find the face to tell him now? He’d never forgive me for not warning him earlier. What if nothing happened and I’d burnt my boats with him over nothing? I clung on to that hope, it was my last card … There were so many reasons to be hopeful. I don’t think Neri thought about it beforehand, too Machiavellian for a cop’s brain, but paradoxically enough the result of his enquiries was to convince everybody that he wouldn’t do anything in the end see? His bark’s worse than his bite people were saying, so we inadvertently gave him the go-ahead …”
“You were his friends,” I opined.
Iturraspe automatically opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. All his vanished eloquence rose to his eyes. I changed the subject as a mark of gratitude for his silence.
“IF ANYONE sent him a letter as they say …”—the pharmacist Don Mauro Mendonca had seemed to hesitate—“it wasn’t me. I phoned him. He answered and I quickly outlined the situation for him and suggested that the best thing he could do was to leave town for a while, and the province too to be on the safe side. Then I hung up.”
“You didn’t tell him who you were?” I couldn’t help asking, knowing full well the answer would be:
“Are you mad? Knowing what a blabbermouth Ezcurra was the first thing he’d do would be to tell the whole town I’d told him. I did what morally I had to and warned him that’s all. The others didn’t even do that.”
“LOOK HERE KIDDO,” says the last Jaimito, Bermejo, a fifty-something mahogany-dyed Pappo clone in black leather jacket and dark glasses to match the daytime half-light of his locked, empty nightclub. Through the black-painted windows comes the busy sound of traffic and pedestrians with which the not-quite-town of Fuguet does its best to drown the memory of the days when the Agrofé farm machinery and equipment factory was open and they vied with Malihuel for its administrative supremacy of the county. “I agreed to see you ’cause Beto Iturraspe, who’s a friend of mine, asked me to, but to be honest the less you remind me of the better. If there’s one thing I don’t regret in my life it’s leaving for good, don’t know how I stood the place for nearly fifteen years. This may not be New York but at least they let you work, and live as well, which is a luxury in itself. I’m a believer,” he says, tugging at a thick silver chain and disentangling a little medallion of the Virgin Mary from the others—a swastika, a yin-yang and a Megadeath skull nestling in the fuzz of his chest—then kissing it, “but I couldn’t set foot inside the church there without being a dartboard for Father Raneri’s sermons,” he says and I stifle a remark about his pitted cheeks being proof of the current Malihuel priest’s excellent aim. “So as you might’ve guessed I don’t find the idea of this little chat very exciting, nothing personal I can assure you but still … What do you wanna know?”
I tell him. He shakes a crumpled pack of black Particulares under my nose until a reluctant cigarette pokes out. I decline. He lights up.
“Ezcurra was a burnt offering,” he exhales, “and anyone as tried to save him was going to drown with him,” he continues, his composure apparently immune from the almost physical way his metaphors cancelled each other out. “’Specially me. Superintendent Neri wanted to run me out of town so he’d get the holier-than-thou female vote. Twice the pigs raided my place with people inside, trumped up one charge for drugs they did and another for underage drinking, it sucked up the month’s profits to pay off a shyster and get myself off the hook. Not to mention the money for the first to the fifth.”
“I thought Neri didn’t take bungs in Malihuel.”
Bermejo laughs hoarsely, coughing smoke. I’m a tad disappointed none of his stained teeth are gold.
“That story still doing the rounds is it? What a shower.” He adjusts the bridge of his glasses with a jab of his index finger. “He’d go easy on butchers and grocers and tighten the screw on me and the Mochica and the bookies. It’s easy for some. Singled me out he did. It got so bad I started winding myself up about how they’d do me in in a blind
alley, that’s why I’ve taken the precaution of carrying a piece ever since,” he says flashing the butt of a revolver under his jacket. “In the end Ezcurra was the one as copped it, but it could just as easily’ve been me. He had me in his sights I tell you. With Greco it was all a lot easier. If you coughed up on time he left you alone; if you didn’t you’d had yer chips. Everything clear as daylight. Even used to stop by the premises and have a few drinks with the good fellas. Straight up and down he was. Back there they say he ditched them in the flood. Good for him’s what I say. I’d’ve burnt down anything sticking out of the water. What?”
I repeat the question, a bit louder the second time.
“I was over here trying to close a deal on some premises. Wanted to get out of there at all costs. And if I’d’ve been at Ezcurra’s side when they grabbed him you know what”—he dramatised with index finger and thumb at right angles—“Two birds with one stone. Look, with the pigs you don’t have to use tongues but you do have to learn to live together. In my line of business you can’t afford to have them breathing down yer neck. Bad for business. The fuzz are people just like you and me when you come down to it, and over the years they lay down certain ground rules that both sides learn to respect. And incidentally my good friend Ezcurra conned me over that Expotencia deal as well, never saw a red cent of that dough again I can assure you. Short reckonings make long friends as they say. Well they didn’t in this case.”
An Open Secret Page 11