Don't Send Flowers

by Martin Solares

  La Gordis picked up right away.

  “Boss? How are you?”

  “Don’t say my name, and be discreet with your answers. What’s going on over there?”

  “Why didn’t you pick up? You had us worried.”

  “You’re shitting me, right? I saw you less than an hour and a half ago.”

  “No, sir. We haven’t heard from you in twenty-four hours.”

  “What?”

  La Gordis hesitated.

  “You took the pills, didn’t you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Yesterday was the twenty-fourth of August. Today’s the twenty-fifth. I dropped you off yesterday at five thirty, and now it’s after seven … a day later.”

  The chief couldn’t believe his ears. He checked his cell phone, and there it was: a little 25 in the corner of the screen, instead of a 24.

  “When you didn’t pick up, I called the paramedics and they said if you’d overdone it even a little, you could be out for up to a day. And that’s what happened, I guess. I was just on my way to get you. I was worried sick.”

  Son of a bitch, he thought. Now I’m really screwed: the girl, the ransom … La Muda’s nerves must be totally shot, and I’m sure they’ve run out of provisions and sleeping pills for the girl … Goddamn it. Gotta get moving.

  “The medicine knocked me out,” he apologized. “I hadn’t expected that.”

  “Listen,” Roberta interrupted him. “It’s not safe for you to be calling the office like this. I’ll call you back in two minutes.” Then she explained how she’d just bought a cell phone for the sole purpose of communicating with him and that there was no way they’d been able to tap it yet. Two minutes later she called him from a new number.

  “What’s up?”

  “The most urgent thing is that you need to talk to the mayor. He’s called three times asking about you. I told him you’re fine, that you’re recuperating, but he said if you don’t call back he’s going to have you replaced tonight.”

  The chief weighed the various risks he faced.

  “Get me a line through to him, but first I want a rundown of what’s been going on.”

  “You don’t want me to come pick you up? It’s kind of a long list.”

  “No, just give me a quick rundown. There’s something I have to do before going to the office.”

  “Yes, sir. So, you haven’t been watching the news? The port’s been turned upside down. They’re burning vehicles outside Los Coquitos and Colonia Sierra too.”

  He wasn’t surprised. Two of the warring capos lived and worked in those neighborhoods. His godson and the head of Los Nuevos, respectively. As usual, they’d sent someone to burn a few cars as a threat and a way of marking territory.

  “The army’s checkpoints are still in place, but word has it there were armed men going around to the hospitals last night, looking for you.”

  “El Flaco’s all right?”

  “Yes, sir. The army’s been with him. They even stationed an armored Jeep in the parking lot.”

  “And did we get an ID on the dead gunmen? Were they local?”

  “I found them. Know where? In the files Interpol left for you. They were from Guatemala. They crossed the border in Chiapas eight days ago.”

  “Got it. I’ll call you back in ten.”

  He hung up and walked over to the window. The water was calm in the distance, but closer to where the chief was, huge waves were forming on either side of the bay and coming together with a thunderous crash in the middle, as if an enormous child were squatting over it, gleefully slamming the masses of water together with his hands. Was he imagining things, or was there a black pickup parked near the beach?

  He took one look at his clothes and realized he needed to change. His shirt and the front of his pants were splattered with blood. I wouldn’t make it to the corner in these rags. I’d draw too much attention. He went back to the master bedroom and swung open the closet door. Goddamn! I hit the fucking jackpot. At least three dozen crisply ironed designer shirts hung above nine drawers full of pretty much anything his heart could desire: pants, pajamas, ties, boxers, T-shirts, socks. When he pulled out the last and biggest drawer, he gave a low whistle of admiration: it contained an impressive collection of sneakers, Top-Siders, loafers, and dress shoes in every color imaginable, even white. He grabbed what he thought was the most attractive pair (crocodile leather with a gold buckle) and noticed with a smile that he and the owner of the place had lots in common: they both wore a size large in clothing and a nine in shoes. Did this asshole wear boots? He opened one of the lower drawers and found half a dozen pairs in different styles, none of them too elaborate. This closet’s unbelievable. It’s like something out of Aladdin’s lamp. All right, he thought. One problem solved.

  He looked out the window. The same two kids were heading out to play basketball again. As he was about to leave, he grabbed an understated guayabera that seemed a little more worn than the rest; he had a hard time finding an old pair of pants, though. Come on, he thought. This guy doesn’t own normal clothes? After finally finding a threadbare pair in white cotton that wouldn’t be missed, he gave Roberta a call.

  “What else?”

  “Another important thing, sir: the gas truck driver was shot point-blank.”

  “He was killed by his own crew?”

  “The man in black was in the passenger seat. Before getting out to join the ambush, he executed him with one shot to the temple.”

  The chief remembered how the man in black hadn’t hesitated for a second as he came at him with his weapon drawn. A real professional.

  “I’m guessing the driver was unarmed, right?”

  “We didn’t find anything on him.”

  Roberta had confirmed his hunch: they’d hired guys from outside to do the job, guys who’d be disposable, and sent a coordinator along with them to cover their tracks if anything went wrong.

  “Here’s how it went down: they stole the tanker truck from the refinery that morning. They must’ve known there’d be hardly anyone there at that hour. They caught them just as they were opening; then one of them cracked the driver with the butt of his gun and they made off with the truck. They blocked the street just as you were passing, and then the rest of the crew pulled up. Oh, and one more thing: the tanker was empty. Our minute’s up. Over and out.”

  As he thought back on the ambush, his head began to ache. It had taken him a while to recognize that whoever planned the ambush was a skilled strategist. There had been at least one moment during the firefight when he’d thought twice about shooting at his attackers, afraid the tanker might blow.

  It felt as if someone was trying to rip his head off, and a furious buzzing filled his ears. He rubbed his neck and headed for the television to make sure it was still turned off, but he didn’t get that far: the sound was coming from the nearest window. A swarm of bees, probably African, was making a hive out there. Just then, he remembered another possible avenue of investigation and called Roberta.

  “At the ready, sir.”

  “Have you been to the gas company? Did you get composite sketches?”

  “We tried, but the crew had their faces covered. They showed up the morning of the attack, held the workers at gunpoint as they were on their way to fill up the tankers, then took one of the trucks that was still empty. Looks like they’d been studying the workers’ routines.”

  That must have taken at least a week, Margarito thought. They must have contacts in the city.

  “Find out who the gas company belongs to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are the doctors saying about El Flaco?”

  “He’s still in intensive care. They tell us the same thing every time we call.” Roberta swallowed hard before continuing. “That he’s in critical but stable condition.”

  “And the bastard I hit in the leg?” he asked, referring to the man in black.

  “El Chino found the escape vehicle abandoned on a hill
nearby. Before he got out he shot the driver, and that was where we lost him. We’ve visited both hospitals and even checked with local veterinarians, but none of them treated a bullet wound last night, and none of them were missing antibiotics or morphine, not counting the guy from the ambulance.”

  Son of a bitch, the chief sighed. The man in black really wanted to vanish into thin air.

  “We’re still looking for the attackers, but no one’s answered the APBs we put out. There’s no trace of the black pickup; it seems like the earth swallowed them whole. No one knows where they are. Your wife called several times, as well. She wants to talk to you, but she says her calls aren’t going through.”

  “Tell her I’ll get hold of her. She shouldn’t call me. Did you give her my message?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s been at the funeral home since last night. There are two army Jeeps there with her.”

  “Over and out.”

  The chief was silent for as long as it took a few waves to crash on the shore. The bitch named Sorrow, again. He was surprised when La Gordis called a moment later.

  “Are you feeling any better, Chief?”

  “I feel dizzy and like a fucking idiot. Those pills knocked me on my ass.”

  “And your arm?”

  “It’s all right. Getting there.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all for now. What time … Did Dr. Antonelli tell you what time—”

  “Yes, sir. The funeral will be today at three, in the Spanish cemetery. Your wife wasn’t doing too well after what happened and decided to have it sooner.”

  Margarito took a deep breath, and the bitch named Sorrow sat down beside him: he wasn’t even going to be able to say good-bye to his son.

  “And someone’s come for La Tonina and El Dorado?”

  “Yes, boss. I called their widows. Well, La Tonina’s widow. El Dorado lived alone. She was pretty broken up. She came with their kid to claim the body. She cried and cried, spent the whole night going back and forth between headquarters and the morgue until they finally gave her the body. El Carcamán brought him back to their house, where they’ll be mourning him.”

  Poor Tonina, he thought. You never got those dollars coming to you from the kidnapping. If everything worked out, he should probably make sure to give the widow a little something.

  Before hanging up, he asked, “How’s the team?” What he should have said was: How’s what’s left of my team? Roberta sighed.

  “Nervous, sir. They don’t know where any of this is coming from. What’s going to happen. They’re scared. And there’s something else, sir”—Roberta cleared her throat—“I hate to gossip, but some people around the precinct are saying that you planned the whole thing. That you put Ricardo in the Suburban because you knew it wasn’t armored.”

  “Those motherfuckers. Who’s saying that?”

  “Bracamontes.”

  “As far as I know, the only one who has an armored vehicle is him, when he’s out running errands for the mayor.”

  “And what should I tell General Rovirosa? He calls every twenty minutes.”

  Margarito decided it was too risky to call him from his own phone.

  “Find him and patch me through. I’ll call you in a bit,” he said and hung up.

  Man, he thought. It was too risky to make calls from there, where they could locate him and come after him at any moment.

  Margarito’s mind turned to Bracamontes and his accusations. What is that bastard up to? The next time he saw him, that asshole was going to eat his words.

  Then his thoughts wandered back to the girl, and he suddenly got nervous. He needed to call La Muda. The girl’s father would be worried, too, but even though he knew the number by heart, he couldn’t call it from his cell phone. That would mean incriminating himself, and he couldn’t call from the house where he was staying, because the consul would track him with his little toys. He had to get the hell out of there and go find her, or La Muda was going to drop dead from the stress. His accomplice’s only shortcoming was that she had no stomach for being alone: she worried about everything, couldn’t handle the pressure. But first he wanted to go back over the attack, starting with the death threat. He was still so dizzy, though. Those pills had really done a number on him.

  He had a rash on his forehead. He’d been scratching it unconsciously all night. Of all his different pains—his whole body hurt—the stabbing sensation in his left arm was the worst. Luckily it didn’t seem as swollen as the medic had predicted: sure, his muscles were softer, weaker up by his shoulder, but he could still move his elbow, wrist, and fingers. He wouldn’t be able to react as quickly as usual if his instincts sent him a telegram, but at least he could shoot or drive with that arm if he needed to. His only worry was that the unbearable pain would come back, now that the drugs were wearing off. Or the bitch named Sorrow, of course.

  A drowsy voice inside his head told him to eat something before calling Roberta back, especially if he was thinking about taking more pills, so he grabbed the plastic bag of provisions.

  He needed to assemble a team he could trust. I need an armored vehicle and a team with weapons. Get the general’s help. Pressure that asshole until he agrees.

  He knew that every time he picked up the phone he ran the risk of being located by his attackers, so he told himself he’d answer only if it was Roberta calling. And even then he’d think twice about it.

  He couldn’t stand the rash on his forehead one more minute, so he went into the bathroom to take a look in the mirror: his hair and face were still covered in shards of glass. He ran his hand through his hair and showered the sink with crystalline splinters.

  He went back to the closet in the master bedroom and found everything there a gentleman could need to take a shower: not just shampoos and soaps, but also aromatic bath oils—luxuries he’d never allowed himself. In one drawer, he found shaving creams, lotions, a variety of razors, aftershaves, so he placed his weapon on the counter, opened the taps in the sink and the shower, and started to shave before the water even got warm.

  While the bathroom filled with steam, he turned on the television he’d found in the next room and changed the channel to his favorite news program. Much to his dismay, he could tune in only to the arts and culture channel. It was still ten minutes before they went through the headlines, so he needed to wait out the talk show currently on the air, which featured a group of local writers discussing the words used most often in La Eternidad. Well, shit, he thought.

  “I propose we shift the focus of this program a bit,” said one of the panelists. “Why don’t we talk about the words people use least in this city? Like the word ethics, or justice. It seems to me these terms are fading from sight like boats cut from their moorings, drifting out to sea.”

  Caught up in the debate, Margarito shaved off a significant chunk of his mustache; if he evened out the other side, he’d look like a 1950s cholo. He figured it probably wasn’t a bad idea to change his look a bit, so he got rid of the whole thing and his sideburns, too.

  The panelist was right about one thing: when he was a kid, all it would take was one policeman walking into his neighborhood, and people would stand at attention as if they were watching a lion pass. You’d hear the neighborhood parents say, “Look, son. That’s Captain Elijah, one of the boys in blue. Let him and his men through. Don’t give them any trouble.” People could sense that strange aura, the weight, the mystery, and the danger those officers represented. After so many years on the job, Margarito had come to the conclusion that when he and his colleagues were working or when they were on their way home, they didn’t move through space the way other people did: there was something different about their walk, their gaze. In those fleeting moments, they transmitted the gravitas of the law, as if people understood what it meant for a guy dressed in blue to be carrying an automatic pistol in his holster. All they had to do was knock on the door of any house and ask for someone by name, and everyone within earshot knew something
serious was going down. It only used to take one cop, just one, to make an arrest: the perp would simply accept that the game was up and it was time to submit to a power greater than himself. Of course, as you got older and started hearing more accurate stories about the policemen’s motives for visiting the neighborhood, you came to understand that justice and the police force don’t always go hand in hand in this country. In a perfect world they’d be joined at the hip, but here—as in many other countries—justice and the police acknowledge one another from afar with a little nod, but they ultimately live separate lives.

  “We need to stop there, unfortunately, as we’ve run out of time. Our program tonight was brought to you by funding from the state. Up next, Agapito Fernández’s Ballet Folklórico has prepared a special performance for us.”

  The three little dipshits, thought Margarito as he turned off the television. He’d listened to enough stupidity for a while, so he went in to take a shower.

  When he’d dried himself off, he put on some deodorant and one of the homeowner’s aftershave lotions. He reminded himself to ask Panda whose place it was. Before leaving the bathroom, he took a look at his reflection. Clean-shaven with short hair, a white guayabera, and cotton pants, the chief barely recognized himself. Carajo, it must be twenty years since I saw myself without a mustache. He tucked his pistol into his belt, outside his shirt, and headed downstairs.

  Conversation in the dark

  “Did you hear?”

  “What? Did they find him?”

  “Not yet. But it won’t be long. The port’s not that big, and there’s no way he got past the checkpoints. It’s just a matter of time. And then he’s gonna pay. Hell yes you will, you son of a bitch.”

  “The say the devil himself watches over him. That’s why the bullets never hit their mark. Did you see the video?”