“You don’t know anything about my wife! She wouldn’t touch the money!” Athena had reached the door and Fortunato suddenly couldn’t bear to see her abandon him. “You saw how we lived! Even when they found her cancer she wouldn’t accept a trip to a specialist in the United States! That’s how good she was.” Athena had stopped now, amazed at his confession. He began to falter. “Because she thought it better to die than to accept …” He ran out of words then, lost in the open recognition of what he had never allowed himself to fully admit: that Marcela knew how he was and what he did, that she had tried both to absolve and to punish him with her death, and that her only way of reconciling her love for him with her condemnation was to close her eyes like the beautiful blindfolded figure above the doorway of the 17 Stone Angels.
Athena had halted near the entry, arrested by the exhausted wonder shining in his face. He spoke softly, as if surprised to hear his own words. “I spent all my life stuffing money in a wardrobe and hiding it from my wife, playing the Good One. And she knew all the time. It’s incredible, no?” He had lost all caution, gave in to the compulsion to fill in the silence over which Athena gazed at him. “I never even cared about the money.”
“Then why, Miguel? Why?”
He shook his head. He’d always answered that question internally with the rationale that it was simply how the law was in Argentina, that doing a little wrong enabled him to do some good. Now that justification dropped away to reveal something far simpler. “To see if I could. And so my colleagues would think well of me. Like a schoolboy. Trying to impress other schoolboys.”
He had finally made it clear to her. This was the emptiness of the Joseph Carvers and the Pablo Moyas and the fine men in suits who had made the rules that ruined Argentina. Their defective dreams of grandeur were at root no different from those of the battered man before her, except that their wealth had bought them a chorus of like-minded people to validate their exploits while Miguel Fortunato had only an apprehended child-killer, a foiled kidnapping, a yellowed citation from the mayor.
Fortunato slumped back down into his chair and looked out the window. She took the seat across from him. Despite everything she knew, she couldn’t bring herself to leave him.
“And now what?” she asked after a few minutes.
He answered slowly. “You can go to the INCORP and ruin me. Call up the boys from Pagina/12 and give them the story. They’ll destroy me by the end of the week. I don’t care anymore. In that case, tranquilly, I’ll go home and put a bullet in my head. What does it matter?”
“But what do you want, Miguel? Really.”
A long silence went by, then he shrugged. “Perhaps at this late stage of my life I’m taking an interest in justice.” He composed himself a bit, and she saw the old competent Comisario Fortunato return. He took out a cigarette, lit it. “There are a few inquiries I still need to make. But I think tomorrow it will be clearer.”
“Miguel, I have to tell the truth about what’s happened. That might make problems for you.”
He gave the fatalistic sneer of the Porteño, but underlaid by a deep melancholy. “It already is, daughter. It already is. There will be no happy finale for Fortunato.”
He dropped her off a few blocks from the Sheraton and looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. His cell phone rang and he picked it up. Cacho’s voice came through.
“We have a package for you, Comiso.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
It was a turnkey capacho, with the former urban guerrilla supplying everything. He procured a woman from the furthest outskirts of the city and floated her into the Cyclone with Hugo, who would point out Vasquez in the crowd. The dance music came crashing over everything like an incessant wave that made conversation impossible at less than a shout, but the woman found ways to get his attention. An hour later they were stumbling out the door, Vasquez congratulating himself on his charm and the returns he could get on his merca. They walked around the corner and down one of the shady side streets. “My apartment is this way,” the woman said, and she seemed as surprised as Vasquez himself when the three men closed in quickly and calmly from the shadows.
“Christian, que tal?” Cacho said, extending his hand. “How are things going in Mataderos?” Hugo closed in from behind as Vasquez tried to sort out the sudden change of signals going through his brain. In the initial seconds, he was still trying to get rid of Cacho so he could go on to claim the girl, but as he felt things closing in he held on to Cacho’s reassuring smile. Hugo chambered a round in his semi-automatic, Chispa pointed his weapon at the victim’s groin. “Tranquilo, Christian. We don’t want an accident.” “Dios mio!” the girl gasped, then clicked off down the street in an ungainly trot.
“They sent you to cut me, didn’t they?”
“It’s not for so much, Christian,” Cacho said as he removed the .32 revolver from Vasquez’s belt. “It’s just to chat a little, to ask a few questions. Then you can go back to chasing the mina.” They had him cuffed and in the car in seconds, went gliding through the streets with the windows rolled up and a tape of the Rolling Stones punched into the cassette. The great Mick Jagger was singing “Gimme Shelter’, while the chords of the guitar strayed over Vasquez’s sullen frown.
It reminded Cacho of when they’d grabbed General Lopez. That time they’d had to kill the bodyguards, had lost a man in the shootout. Vincente something: a student of biochemistry from the university. It was a good commando, but all dead by 1975, the poor stiffs. Victory or Death for Argentina. Not just a few lucas and a favor for the police. They’d named each commando in honor of some fallen comrade. His first one had been the Commando Antonio Fernandez, then the Commando Heroes de Trelew, the Commando Jose Luis Baxter. Then all these years of nameless commandos forged from delinquents with no ideas of a better world or a just society. And this one? The Commando Ricardo Berenski? No. Not really. A time arrived when the only dignity left lay in not lying to oneself.
By the time the Comisario reached his house Vasquez was already cuffed to a chair. He had slumped his lanky body as deeply into the heavy wooden chair as he could, his legs akimbo. At Fortunato’s entrance Vasquez instinctively drew his knees together, then replaced his momentary expression of dread with a smug grin. “Comisario Fortunato! Here we are!”
“Here we are, Christian. How is your foot? Recovering well?”
“Yes. I can be in perfect shape when you dump me out of the trunk of your car.”
“Christian! I’m sorry you have such a low opinion of me. Such things aren’t necessary if you don’t make them so.” Fortunato signaled to Cacho that he wanted to be alone with the prisoner and then he pulled a chair up a meter in front of Vasquez, the way he did at his police interrogations. He could see from Vasquez’s brilliant eyes that the cocaine and the alcohol were still lending him a sense of immortality.
“Let me guess,” the criminal said, exposing a little crescent of yellowed teeth. “You’re trying to solve the Waterbury murder. Looking for Enrique Boguso’s accomplices.”
Fortunato stood up. “You have a lively sense of humor for a man tied to a chair.” He hit him hard across the face. The criminal flinched away from the open hand and Fortunato caught him across the ear, a blow that almost burst his ear-drum. A strange sensation for Fortunato: he’d never beaten a bound man before. That was the job of the Bad Cops. He usually came in afterward, to coax out a confession with mate and promises. The bureaucrat. The guardian angel. Now he was pleased to see the ear turn bright pink, thought of that old tango about the man who beat his unfaithful wife to death: And the bifés rained down like applause at the Teatro Colón. He could understand the man in the tango, a working stiff sick of the lies and the broken promises. A man deceived by everyone.
Vasquez grasped immediately the new game and dropped into a sullen silence.
“I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to sing. Are we clear?”
“Just kill me,” Vasquez said. “That’s what you were sent to d
o.”
Fortunato recognized it as the criminal’s first bargaining position. He was begging Fortunato to make an offer. “And who would send me to do that? Who would want to cut you?”
“Don’t treat me like an adolescent.”
Fortunato stood and took off his jacket, draping it across the back of the chair. Something he’d seen a hundred times, coming into a room and spying the jackets hung over the chairs. No one wanted to ruin a good suit. Vasquez recognized the symbolism also.
“What are you looking for, Comiso? You already have all the answers.”
Fortunato stepped up and backhanded him across the face. “What “Comiso!” To you I’m Comisario Fortunato. Understood?” He took out his nine millimeter and Vasquez’s eyes were sucked in by its black gravity. The criminal had a small trickle of blood welling up in his split lip.
“I understand.”
“Say it!”
“I understand, Comisario Fortunato.”
“Fine, Christian. Now we’ll chat a bit.” Fortunato became the Good Cop again, his face beaming compassionately at a benign distance from human failure. Cacho had heard the sound of the blows and was standing at the doorway, watching. Fortunato could tell that he was nervous about the gun being out.
“Mirá. I have no interest in judging you, muchacho. I just need a few answers so that we can both leave here and go back to our own things. But amigo Christian”—he looked almost sorrowful as he tapped his gun on Vasquez’s leg—“if you don’t help me, it’s going to come out badly.”
Cacho spoke quickly. “Tell him, boludo. The Comisario is talking seriously.”
“What can I know that you don’t?” Vasquez tried to reason with him. “You were there from beginning to end.” His arrogant slum-voice had lost much of its force and Fortunato was pleased to see the improvement in his attitude.
“Listen well, Christian. I know that the gringo’s death wasn’t an accident. I know that someone else ordered it. I want to hear your version of that history.”
“I don’t know what—”
Fortunato swung the barrel of the Browning up and around and caught Vasquez across the jaw with it. A fleshy little pop came as the criminal yelped and rocked to the side. “What’s happening with you, Christian? This is how you treated the gringo! It was fun then, wasn’t it? Isn’t it fun now?” He backhanded him with the gun from the other side, catching him on the nose. Vasquez cried out with pain.
Cacho was yelling at him from the door. “Enough, Miguel! We didn’t agree on this!”
“He won’t talk.”
“Put the gun away,” he told the Comisario. Fortunato stuck the gun in his waistband while the former guerrilla fetched a tissue and dabbed at the slime under Vasquez’s nose, held a glass of water to his mouth. “El Comisario esta loco, Christian,” he muttered anxiously. “Tell him what he wants to know, or he’s going to kill you.”
Fortunato liked the introduction. Or he’s going to kill you. He wished Waterbury were around to see this, to see that his murder was being redressed. I am writing your ending for you, Waterbury. One sentence at a time. The night had assumed its own logic now, and Fortunato found himself drawn along its strangely joyful lineaments.
Vasquez had slumped down in his chair and was staring silently at the floor, and the Comisario put his face a few inches from the criminal’s, adopting his most sympathetic tone. “It was Domingo, wasn’t it? Domingo used you for something you never intended.” The detective reached over and touched Vasquez gently on the shoulder. “It’s fine, Christian. I understand. Tell me now who it was, we can pass you by and take up the matter with the proper person. You will return to how you were before, with my gratitude and excellent relations with the Institution. Because it seems that Domingo betrayed his compañeros in the Force.”
Vasquez didn’t reply, and Fortunato developed the theme. “This concerns Domingo, not you. Domingo went beyond his authority. You only did what you thought you were supposed to. You were tricked. As I was. Domingo played you. That’s why you’re sitting here right now, and he’s at home with his wife drinking red wine and watching Boca versus Almirante Brown.”
Vasquez began to break. “The whore! I knew I shouldn’t get involved with the cops.”
“Clearly. But there he is, in front of the television figuring out how he’ll cut you. And you, Christian, are here with me.” He pulled the chair closer. “So why don’t you make it easy and tell what you know. Then we can be done with this mess and go home.”
“If Domingo finds out I talked, he’ll kill me.”
Fortunato gave a rich chuckle. “He intends to kill you anyway, Christian. I know, because he asked me to help. But if you’re clean with me, Domingo will be taken care of long before he thinks to look for Christian Vasquez. It’s simple. I confirm who is responsible, my people take care of the situation, and the whole matter disappears. We’re very close to that, Christian. You only need to confirm the last pieces.”
The criminal reconstituted himself as best he could with his puffy mouth and swollen nose. He spoke with a slight lisp. “It was all Domingo. Domingo said someone wanted the Northamerican dead. There was an extra three thousand for me if he ended up dead.”
Fortunato sensed the presence of the truth, though how whole or plain he wasn’t sure. “Go on.”
“Domingo wanted me to fire the first shots so you wouldn’t know he was behind it. He said you thought it was only a squeeze.”
“Who? Who wanted him dead?” He leaned in. “Give me a name, Christian.”
“I don’t know who, but that night, before we grabbed the gringo, I heard Domingo report to someone on his cellular. He had a gringo name, that’s why I remembered it. Renssaelaer. Something like that. Señor Renssaelaer.”
Fortunato went silent. So La Francesa had been right. William Renssaelaer had been spying on Pelegrini for RapidMail and AmiBank and he’d had Waterbury cut to protect his arrangement. And he, Fortunato, had been played, played badly, made into an accessory to an innocent man’s murder. He felt his anger rising again. “What others were in on it?”
“I know nothing more! I swear!”
“Comisario Bianco?” he said sharply.
“I don’t know!”
“And Fabian Diaz?”
“I told you everything!”
He stepped back from the prisoner and walked in a tight aimless circle. His gaze ended up on Cacho. “You see!” he growled. “You see! I didn’t kill him! They played me! They played me, the hijos de puta!” He crossed quickly to Vasquez and shouted at him. “You played me!”
“It was Domingo-”
“What, Domingo! Don’t put it on Domingo! You beat the gringo! You terrorized him! You shot him to start everything!”
“Tranquilo, Miguel,” Cacho warned. “You already have your information. You need to get out of here and settle accounts somewhere else.”
The enraged policeman clenched his fists. “Shut up, Cacho! He played me!”
Cacho’s black eyes started to blaze. “Get out!”
“But they played me!”
Cacho’s protection made Vasquez swell up again. “So they played you,” the criminal sneered. “What’s it matter? You’re as dirty as the rest of them, you son of a bitch!”
Fortunato whipped out his gun and raised it, blanking Vasquez’ features with surprise and fear. In the corner of his mind he heard Cacho shout “Noooo!” and then the Browning exploded in his hand, and Vasquez’s body lunged backward in its chair and then slumped down, an angry red stain blossoming over his heart. The fist in which Fortunato held the pistol seemed far away from him, as if it was floating out there, attached to someone else’s body. The savory smell of the gun’s exhaust filled the room, and he became aware that Cacho was still screaming at him. “Hijo de puta! Are you crazy? Are you crazy?” The words faded again as he saw Vasquez twitch a few more times. Slowly, he lowered the gun and turned his face to Cacho. The criminal had his pistol out and was holding it with both hands in fr
ont of him, pointing it at the side of Fortunato’s head as he screamed a torrent of swear words. “Drop it! Drop it!” Two of Cacho’s gang were standing at the door with their weapons drawn on him. He lowered his gun slowly, dazed, and put it into his holster.
Cacho was screaming. “Look what you did, you son of a bitch! This is your shit! Not my shit! Now what am I supposed to do with him? You take him away!”
The bloodstain had spread down to Vasquez” waist now, reddening the tops of his blue jeans. Fortunato looked at Cacho, spoke in an even voice. “Vasquez killed Waterbury. He had to die.”
Cacho didn’t lower the gun, but he seemed to relax into a wary disbelief. “Estás loco, hombre! You’re crazy. Chiflado! I should kill you for dragging me into this.” He nodded towards the door. “Get out and take this piece of shit with you!”
They dragged the body out to the courtyard and slumped it into the trunk of Fortunato’s car. Cacho kept his pistol in his hand the whole time, pointing the gun at the Comisario. He didn’t relax as Fortunato climbed in and started the engine.
Fortunato put the car in gear and then glanced up at the former subversive. For a moment Cacho’s anger dropped away and a softer expression came over his face.
“What are you going to do, Miguel?”
Fortunato looked straight through the windshield and then back at Cacho. “A wrong has been committed. One has to rectify the situation.”
Cacho stared at him silently, finally speaking in a gentle voice. “You poor idiot.” He leaned down towards the open window. “Welcome to the Revolution.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The truth was, Hell felt curiously invigorating. He drove down the dark blighted street, with Vasquez riding along in the trunk like a piece of evidence sequestered for an investigation in which all the answers were already known. He was guilty, guilty of everything and yet innocent in some peculiar way.
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