The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘You a funny guy. You make a joke with Mamacita? Oh you so cruel, pretty boy. But mess with Mamacita and you gonna get hurt.’

  Guzmán looked at Mamacita, the cigarette hung from his lips, a wisp of smoke rising slowly. Peralta realised Mamacita had just done something incredibly stupid: she had threatened Guzmán. Even in fun, it was a big mistake and with a drunken Guzmán, it could end very badly. Peralta saw Guzmán’s right fist clench, ready.

  ‘Say something, big boy? Why you here? Why you come to Mamacita if you going to be bad like that? You so rude, chico. Why you here? You on business?’ The ruined face creased into another hideous smile. ‘You want business? You want girls, right? Yeah, that’s what you want. ‘C’mon, big boy what’s your business?’

  Guzmán stared at the frightful face confronting him. Peralta placed a hand on his arm. Guzmán tensed.

  ‘Come on, Leo,’ Peralta said with exaggerated bonhomie, ‘relax and enjoy yourself. We don’t want this lady calling the police on our account now, do we?’

  Guzmán shrugged, recognising the teniente’s effort to defuse the tension – which was just as well, Peralta thought, since otherwise it could have turned very nasty for him.

  ‘We’ve been on a long trip,’ Peralta said, gushing with improvised jollity. ‘We just want to have some fun. My friend’s a bit tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Bit tired.’ Guzmán echoed, relaxing his fists.

  ‘A bottle of house red please, señora.’ Peralta smiled.

  The fat woman shrugged. ‘OK, gents, I thought maybe you were being a bit rude and I don’t like that. But paying customers…’ she gave them an evil grin, ‘I like them.’

  As she waddled away, Guzmán turned to Peralta.

  ‘Nice work there, Peralta. I was getting steamed up seeing that fat hag. Makes me squeamish. I never understand why men like that do it.’

  ‘Men?’ Peralta said.

  ‘Ever the choirboy eh? Penny dropped now?’

  Peralta nodded uncertainly. ‘Christ.’

  Mamacita returned with a bottle and two glasses. Guzmán watched as she poured it.

  ‘Is that an Albanian red, señora?’

  ‘Albania? This is from Burgos. Albanians are all cowards and goat herders,’ Mamacita said, evidently well informed on small Balkan countries.

  ‘You’re not from Burgos by any chance, señora?’ Guzmán was laying on the charm now, Peralta noted with sudden unease. Guzmán being superficially pleasant was a disturbing experience.

  Mamacita quivered. ‘No, no, big boy. No, Mamacita comes from the Dominican Republic. An island of dreams, long beaches, palm trees. Long, long time I been here, since the war.’

  Guzmán took a drink. Peralta noticed his face twitch momentarily and then took a swig himself. The wine was like a badly kept vinegar.

  ‘Where in the Republic exactly?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘Say, you not a copper, big boy? You not a bad old policeman come to shut Mamacita down? Vaya, that would be just too bad.’ She clutched at her bosom, and then, finding the padding in the front of the dress had shifted, vigorously rearranged it. ‘Mamacita from Puerto Plata. Nice place. Bad people. People don’t like Mamacita. Mamacita can’t be Mamacita there, know what I mean, big boy?’

  ‘Do we really look like police?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘I guess not. What do you two boys do?’

  ‘Salesmen.’ Guzmán looked at Peralta and the teniente nodded quickly in agreement.

  ‘You sell stuff, big boy? And you, pretty boy…’ she beamed raggedly at Peralta, ‘you gonna sell me something? Cos I got things I can sell you, handsome.’

  Much to Guzmán’s amusement, Peralta was lost for words.

  ‘We’ll see about that later.’ Guzmán said. ‘I’m worn out, señora, we’re going to go and take a seat.’ He indicated an empty table near the stage.

  ‘You go on over, boys.’ Mamacita smiled. ‘Just keep on spending. You want to buy more fun, I can help there too.’

  ‘She means whores,’ Peralta said, as they sat down at the filthy table. The ashtray was overflowing and after a moment’s thought, Guzmán emptied it onto the floor.

  ‘Whores, eh? You surprise me, Teniente.’

  ‘Better not use my rank.’ Peralta leaned forwards across the table.

  Guzmán nodded. ‘Good thinking, Francisco.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. Francisco.’

  ‘You’re overdoing it now.’

  ‘I think since we’re such good chums, I think I’ll call you Paco. Paquito.’

  ‘My wife does.’

  ‘That’s not what she’ll call you if she finds out you were in here.’ Guzmán chuckled.

  The Bar Dominicana was getting busy. The clientele seemed largely to be from the neighbourhood – and therefore a bunch of losers, Guzmán noted. Peralta, with the experience of his training in police college, argued they were typical criminal types, going on the evidence of their physical condition and degenerate bearing. The argument ended as did so many of their arguments, with Guzmán ordering the teniente to get another round of drinks. Peralta doubted he could stomach more of the house wine and opted for a bottle of brandy – much to Mamacita’s delight as she blatantly overcharged him. Guzmán also reacted favourably when he saw it.

  ‘Excellent, Paco. Sit down and pour, the stripper’s just coming on.’

  As soon as the first dancer appeared, Peralta regretted sitting so near to the stage. Thin, undernourished and wan, the girl wore a dress that looked as if it were about to fall apart. Not that it did, since within a few moments of the fat sweating pianist beginning his heavy-handed accompaniment, she was taking it off. Or would have if she had been able to undo the zip at the rear. Panic-stricken, she struggled with the zip, beset by an avalanche of cat calls and insulting comments about what she would look like when she finally got the dress off. Some of the loudest of these came from Guzmán.

  Peralta squirmed in helpless embarrassment as the girl finally removed her dress and began to take off her grimy underwear. He looked away. Across the room, he saw a familiar face.

  ‘Shit.’ Peralta sat lower in his seat, trying not to make eye contact.

  Guzmán tensed. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Tomás Capuchón,’ Peralta said. ‘One of my informers at the policía armada.’

  ‘Has he seen you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s over there with a couple of blokes. No one I know.’

  ‘Try and get him alone,’ Guzmán said. ‘If he comes here he may know our greasy friends. I think you should have a little chat.’

  ‘I’ll wait till he goes to the toilet,’ Peralta said, ‘and then grab him.’

  ‘Well, remember to grab him by the arm.’ Guzmán smirked.

  The girl was naked now apart from her tattered shoes and was attempting an awkward, uncoordinated dance to the accompaniment of a barrage of obscenities. Peralta felt degraded. When he got home he would have to scrub the smell of this place from his skin. At one point, he looked at the girl on stage and she met his eye. Peralta shrivelled into his seat, ashamed. Confession would be even more lengthy than usual this week.

  ‘This is a disgrace,’ he yelled into Guzmán’s ear.

  ‘You’re right, she’s ugly as sin,’ Guzmán said through a cloud of brandy fumes before starting to barrack the stripper again.

  ‘There he goes.’ Guzmán nudged Peralta, nodding towards Tomás Capuchón as he went through the door at the side of the bar. Peralta got up and followed him.

  The corridor leading to the toilets was as grim as the rest of the Bar Dominicana, although the lighting was worse. A single filthy bulb swung from a wire running haphazardly across the ceiling and down one of the mildewed walls. From the bar Peralta heard the muffled braying of the crowd. He followed the corridor and turned a corner. On either side was a battered toilet door. Peralta pushed open the door marked Caballeros. The smell hit him at once; it came from a cubical where the cracked toilet
brimmed with a fetid growth of shit and newspaper. Capuchón was pissing into a battered urinal. Peralta stood behind him.

  ‘Won’t be a minute,’ Capuchón said without looking round.

  ‘Take all the time you want, Tomás,’ Peralta said, ‘I’m only here for a chat.’

  The man turned his head. ‘Oh, it’s you, Sargento Peralta.’

  ‘It’s teniente now, Capuchón.’ The man’s thin face and protruding front teeth gave him the look of a rat, Peralta thought.

  ‘Still at the same comisaría, Teniente?’

  ‘No, I transferred. I’m at Calle de Robles now.’

  The address had an immediate effect. Capuchón turned. He looked worried.

  ‘The Brigada Especial? They’re a rough lot, Teniente. You keep bad company, I must say.’

  Peralta moved closer. ‘Never mind your opinion of the forces of law and order, amigo, I think you can help me. In fact, Tomás, you’d better help me or you may find yourself paying us a visit at Calle de Robles. Then you can tell my friends there just what bad company they are.’

  Peralta saw concern in Capuchón’s face. Not the level of concern Guzmán might inspire, but at least he was making an impact.

  ‘No need for that, Teniente. Just tell me what you want and I’ll be glad to help you. You know me, always willing to help the police. I fought against the Reds in the war you know, I’m one of you lot really.’

  ‘That’s a real comfort to us, I’m sure, Tomasito. But I want to know about some Dominicans. They’ve come to Madrid with a trade delegation. Or so they say.’

  Capuchón went pale. His eyes flickered from Peralta to the door. ‘Sorry. Can’t help.’

  The words spluttered out as he tried to push past Peralta. Peralta slammed his hand against the man’s chest, pushing him back. For a second Capuchón looked as if he would fall into the urinal but he managed to steady himself by clutching the filthy washbasin. Panting, he stood at bay, darting frantic glances at the door. He was sweating.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Peralta snapped. ‘Christ, they’re a only bunch of foreign hoodlums.’

  ‘Yeah? Well that’s fine for you to say, Teniente, but I don’t know anything about them. So I can’t help you. Would if I could but I can’t. I’d better go.’ His voice cracked as he tried once more to push past Peralta to the door. Once more Peralta stopped him in his tracks, this time with a sharp punch to Capuchón’s midriff.

  Capuchón sank to his knees. ‘Let me go. You don’t know what you’re messing with.’

  ‘I’m going to mess with you, Tomás. Or rather my jefe is. Comandante Guzmán. Ever heard of him? I thought so. He’s got an interest in these Dominicans and unfortunately for you, he lacks my patience. Come on, let’s be having you.’

  Capuchón started babbling. ‘Bueno, I’ll do it. But these people are dangerous, I mean really dangerous, Teniente. I’ll help you, but if I do, I’ll need your help to get away from Madrid.’

  ‘That’s easily done, Tomás. But I need to know more about what they’re doing here. You help me, I help you. That’s how it works, you know that. Now, let’s take the air for a minute.’

  Peralta guided Capuchón out into the corridor. A fire exit opened onto a courtyard strewn with abandoned boxes and machinery. What light there was came through the dirty windows of the apartments above.

  Peralta reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, surprised to find he had none. ‘Got a smoke for me, Tommy?’

  Capuchón held out the carton and Peralta took a cigarette and lit it.

  ‘American cigarettes, Tomás? Ducados not good enough for you now?’ Peralta inhaled deeply

  ‘They’re not hard to find, Teniente. You can get anything on the black market.’

  ‘I want information,’ Peralta said, ‘and they don’t have that for sale on el estraperlo, so tell me about the Dominicans.’

  Capuchón shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Bueno. They’re setting up some sort of business.’

  ‘Business?’

  ‘I don’t know what, Teniente – honest. They’ve bought some properties and they’re buying up people as well – putting them on the payroll. Pimps, whores, pickpockets, fences. They offer money up front to work for them.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Whatever they say. These are hard guys, Teniente. They don’t mess about. If they buy you, they buy you. One bloke down the road, he crossed them. They cut him up bad.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Dead. That bad. They say it was nasty.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘People on the street. The Dominicans took him to the old bodega near the church of San Rafael. It’s been abandoned since the war. They gave him a hard time and then…’ He drew his hand across his throat.

  ‘How long since this happened?’ Peralta asked.

  ‘Tres dias. Far as I know he’s still there.’

  Peralta took out his notebook.

  ‘You said they were buying property. Give me some addresses.’

  Capuchón reeled off a list of bars, cafés and brothels, pausing to allow Peralta to catch up. Finally, the teniente put away his pencil.

  ‘This is helpful, Tomás. Comandante Guzmán will be impressed.’

  ‘All I want is to be helpful, Teniente.’

  Peralta held out a hundred peseta note. Capuchón pocketed the bill quickly.

  ‘One more thing,’ Capuchón said, looking around the darkened courtyard. ‘This place is theirs. It’s the first place they bought. They threatened Mamacita into selling and then hired her to run it for them. You be careful.’

  ‘Oh? And why would that be?’

  ‘They’ll know you’re here. And if they know you’re poli, things could get nasty.’

  Peralta thought of Guzmán’s big Browning and his desire to use it on the Dominicans.

  ‘They could indeed, Tomás. Are they here tonight?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Make yourself scarce then.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mess with them, Teniente. Seriously.’

  ‘Let us worry about that. But I want you to call in to the comisaría in a few days and update me with anything you’ve heard. And make sure you do, Tommy, won’t you? You don’t want Comandante Guzmán having to come and fetch you. You really don’t. Now, vete. Y buenas noches.’

  ‘Muy buenas, Teniente.’ Capuchón moved stealthily across the courtyard and disappeared into the murk of an alley on the far side.

  Returning to the bar, Peralta felt the smoky warmth sweep over him as he came through the door. The air was drenched with the scent of unwashed bodies. There were fewer people than before, although the noise was just as intense. Guzmán was loudly heckling a juggler, succeeding spectacularly in putting the man off. The clubs crashed to the stage floor and the glowering juggler hurriedly left the stage. Peralta noticed the sarge nursing a drink at a table nearby, a picture of dissolution, indistinguishable from the bar’s regulars.

  ‘Complete rubbish.’ Guzmán indicated the departing juggler. ‘I could do better.’

  ‘I’ve got some news,’ Peralta announced, pleased to be able to return to the job in hand. His idea of a good night out didn’t involve strippers, transvestite barmaids or jugglers.

  Five minutes later, Peralta and the sarge were struggling to keep up with Guzmán as he hurried down the frozen street.

  ‘Jefe, slow down a minute.’ The sarge was gasping noisily for breath.

  Guzmán slowed slightly.

  ‘Unfit, Sargento, that’s you. Too much time with the whores. What’s your excuse, Teniente?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Peralta said, turning his collar up against the cold. ‘Although it might be easier to take a taxi.’

  ‘Find one and we’ll take it,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘We need to have a look at that bodega. Any evidence on those hijos de puta and we can take them, American trade delegation or no.’

  ‘The bloke there is dead, jefe,’ the sarge moaned, ‘he’ll keep for a fe
w more minutes, we don’t have to run there.’

  ‘Keen as ever,’ Guzmán growled. ‘Just keep up, man.’

  ‘There’s a taxi.’ Peralta raised his arm as a cab spluttered towards them.

  ‘Gracias blessed Virgin for answering my prayer,’ the sarge wheezed.

  ‘You couldn’t spell God, Sargento, let alone pray to his mother.’ Guzmán laughed.

  MADRID 1953, PLAZA DE SAN RAFAEL

  The church of San Rafael loomed across the silent cobbled square, the spire of the church skeletal and menacing, etched black against the faint city light.

  ‘That’s it.’ Peralta pointed to a decrepit storefront on one side of the church. It was clearly abandoned: peeling walls, boarded up windows, the sign faded from years of neglect.

  Guzmán led the way, hugging the shadows as he moved towards the bodega.

  The sarge rattled a rusty padlock on the barred doorway. ‘All locked up at the front.’

  ‘There’s an alleyway down the side,’ Peralta said. ‘We can try round the back.’

  The alley was no more than the space between the bodega and the next building. They entered it in single file. Guzmán led the way, his pistol extended before him. They emerged into a small yard littered with debris and bordered with piles of shattered bricks and masonry. Guzmán walked to the rear of the bodega and used his lighter to examine one of the windows. The wooden slats nailed over the window were askew and when Guzmán pulled one, it came away in his hand. Quickly, he stripped away the remaining slats to reveal the gaping window, its glass long gone.

  ‘Someone’s been here, all right,’ Guzmán said, holstering his pistol. ‘In you go, Sarge. Teniente, give the sargento a leg up.’

  Peralta crouched, bracing himself as the sarge placed a foot in his cupped hands and then the teniente lifted him unsteadily, struggling to support his weight. The sargento grabbed hold of the window ledge and with some difficulty pulled himself in. A dull thud was followed by a few obscenities before the sarge reappeared and beckoned them to follow. Guzmán hauled himself up and then pulled Peralta up after him. Dusty and panting from the sudden exertion, they found themselves in the wreckage of a large storeroom, shelves filled with ancient bottles, the labels now obscured by dust.