Thirteen Heavens
Page 17
Ernesto, resisting the desire to put his arm over the policeman’s shoulder, not out of any affection, but to be sure he didn’t get away, veer off in another direction, or decide his family lunch was more important than helping a higher-ranking member of the municipal police, instead Ernesto kept an eye on him, trying not to be obvious but interested in the man’s comportment, a bearing befitting a young officer of the Policía Municipal, Ernesto and the policeman entering Modelorama, and Ernesto Cisneros, nothing too strong, we’re on duty tonight, the policeman nodding his head, and the policeman, if you want to keep your head clear after a couple of beers, this is a good choice, only 4% alcohol, Ernesto taking the man’s advice, deciding on two six-packs of Victoria, and a Negra Modelo for the policeman, Ernesto paying, carrying the two six-packs, the policeman by his side, an open bottle in his hand, and together, rounding the corner and walking down Río Papagayo, and Ernesto Cisneros, you’ll walk me to my door, my wife’ll be glad to meet you, and my colleagues, you might recognize a few faces, compañero, it isn’t a barbeque but there’ll be something to eat—I know you’ve got to get home for lunch—just shake a few hands, it’ll do you good, your career, too, you never know, and without breaking his stride or speech, Ernesto looking at the pistol in the policeman’s holster, wracking his brains, remembering the pictures of handguns he’d seen in a catalogue, Ernesto patting his empty holster, making a show of it, and Ernesto Cisneros, you always wear your pistol? I check mine in, I’m off duty, rules are rules, but from where I stand, it’s a Glock, a Jericho 941, a Heckler & Koch USP, or a classic Parkerized .45 ACP M1911, but I won’t put a peso on it seeing that I can’t make a solid survey while we’re walking, the policeman slowing down, hearing the words but not believing them, a superior officer with a pair of really sharp eyes, but Ernesto urging him on, a hand at the elbow of the arm holding the beer, the policeman taking another swallow from the bottle, wiping his chin with the back of his hand, then smiling in admiration and high regard at the estimable Ernesto, and the policeman, it’s a Glock, sir, and you’re right, you’ve got your guns straight, what I’m carrying is thanks to a friend I’ve got in the Policía Federal, not a classic .45, they don’t carry them, he gave me a good price, sold it at a discount, a real friend, Ernesto nodding, but looking straight ahead at a tree standing alone in the middle of the sidewalk, concentrating focusing keeping his mind on its leafy branches reaching over part of number 10 Río Papagayo, a single-story washed-out yellowish-beige house, and extending more than halfway across the deserted street like an open umbrella, and Ernesto Cisneros, self-defense’s an indispensable part of our line of work, colega, and when they got to the shade beneath the tree, the policeman turned to look at him, a wide grin on his face, Ernesto, holding the two six-packs cradled low in his left arm as ballast, swung around with all his weight and hit him with a strong right, right on the nose, coldcocking the man whose legs were giving way beneath him, eyes open but seeing nothing, his body wobbling, Ernesto catching the Negra Modelo in midair with his free hand before the bottle hit the ground, and ignoring the fact that the policeman slobbered all over the mouth of the bottle, Ernesto took a swig, nearly finishing the dark-style lager, then setting his two six-packs on the ground in order to drag the policeman into a sitting position, leaning him against the yellowish-beige wall of the house, looking up and down the street, finding nobody and nothing watching him, a sigh, Ernesto shaking his head, surprised at himself, or at the strength he could muster in his fist, and a well-aimed sock on the nose, with the help of the two six-packs to improve his stability, Ernesto, without a sound, not speaking but thinking, and Ernesto Cisneros, with pain and pleasure limits defined, and the juxtaposition formulae set up, it’s fairly easy to predict what people will think in a thousand years or as long as the formulae remain in operation, Ernesto giggling to himself, undisciplined thoughts accompanying savage actions, and Ernesto Cisneros, adding, El hombre invisible, where are you now? I was just doing a little target practice, a private joke, not mine, out of Lady From Shanghai, and now to work, he fumbled with the policeman’s belt, drew the Glock out of the holster, the policeman’s unconscious body tipping sideways, Ernesto straightening it with his boot, then lifting the sweat-stained cap off the policeman’s head, examining the inner band of the cap, gripping it between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing off the man’s perspiration, wiping his fingers on the front of the policeman’s shirt, he put the cap on his own head, slipped the Glock into his holster, fixed the strap, tapping the butt of the pistol with the heel of his hand, caressing it with the tips of four fingers, and he took the time to look down at the policeman whose eyes were closed, a smile on his face, and a little saliva or beer at the corners of his mouth.
Ernesto standing there, and Ernesto Cisneros, this has gone too far, but it hasn’t gone far enough, maybe I’ll kill him, unsnapping the strap that kept the pistol in place, weighing the Glock in his hand, and Ernesto Cisneros, no, he’s got a family so I won’t kill him, one thought in another thought out, drive-in arguments, so he put the Glock back in the holster, snapped the strap in place, turned around and started walking back in the direction of Modelorama, leaving the two six-packs and a nearly empty brown bottle of Negra Modelo next to the senseless body of the policeman, asleep without dreams, one two three four five six steps away, he turned back, stopping in front of the policeman still sitting upright against the wall, and Ernesto Cisneros, a few words from the poet Tecayehuatzin, Lord of Huexotzinco, offering an interpretation of the nature of poetics, and speaking of another poet, Ayocuan of Tecamachalco, a prince:
Como esmeraldas y plumas finas,
llueven tus palabras.
Así habla también Ayocuan
Cuetzpaltzin,
que ciertamente conoce al Dador de la Vida.
Así vino a hacerlo también
aquel famoso señor
que con ajorcas de quetzal y con perfumes
deleitaba a nuestro Dios.
Like emeralds and fine plumes,
your words rain.
Thus also Ayocuan Cuetzpaltzin speaks,
who surely knows the Giver of Life.
Thus he also came to do it,
that famous lord,
who with quetzal bracelets and perfumes,
delighted the only God.
Ernesto, ignoring that “flowers and songs” might be a language for speaking with the Giver of Life, the only memory of humanity that will remain on earth, perhaps enduring in the beyond, “the dream of a word,” the holiness of life, Ernesto started kicking the policeman, swinging his leg connected to a well-oiled pivot in his hip, repeatedly striking the knocked-out policeman with the toe of his boot, hearing ribs break, internal organs trying to avoid the blows, look out look out, and Ernesto Cisneros, what’s right and what isn’t? there isn’t any poetry in what I’m doing, or maybe there is, and each kick is a line in a stanza, but the question he asked himself, like the question of whether or not the searing sunlight was taking the wind out of his sails, floated for a second, then quickly became a part of the zone of the forgotten.
It was the first gathering of members of the Policía Municipal that impressed him as big enough to serve the purpose, constituting more than two and less than five men, a group of three men, a couple of cigarettes, not off duty but taking a break, a squad car parked a few feet away in an illegal spot, not illegal for them, but for any other citizen of Iguala, a gathering big enough for Ernesto to consider as interesting since he’d started walking from Modelorama the entire length of Avenida Adolfo Ruíz Cortines to Juan Aldama, then Diagonal Juan Aldama, past Privada Bandera Nacional to Avenida Bandera Nacional and the Estrella de Oro station, it could’ve been the station at Calle de Salazar and Calle Hermenegildo Galeana, or the Estrella Blanca station, it didn’t matter, any connection to the buses of Iguala and the missing students and Coyuco was good enough for him, it was the police he was looking for, Ernesto couldn’t resist the beauty of such a gathering assembled and ready
for harvest in front of him, and behind the bus station itself, a small but efficient group, suiting his purpose like a pile of shit suits a fly, but he wasn’t a flying insect of a large order characterized by a single pair of transparent wings and sucking, often piercing mouthparts, a vector of disease, even death, and right before his eyes, the image of a slow debilitating crippling paralyzing disease befalling the policemen of Iguala, not a select few but handfuls, by the dozen, hundreds, it’d be a plague of disease-carrying flies if he had a say in it, an almost but not quite fitting convenient tailor-made execution, except for the fact that he wasn’t a fly but the carrier of a naturally unnatural death by shooting, and Ernesto Cisneros, but a disabling disease, not a bad way to go, worth the wait, a long-drawn-out suffering, not for me, but for the rest of them, the municipal police, the federal police, the ministerial police—maybe I should branch out, throw on a whole different kind of uniform? the army, the 27th Battalion, after all, it’s variety that counts, keeps the mind fresh, the clothes pressed, the hair combed, tidy neat well-groomed—an invasion, an epidemic, only if I could watch observe take notes, I’d publish a medical memoire of satisfaction and distribute myself to anyone interested in the product of untreated unprocessed raw natural and crude justice in the form of reprisal, handwritten notes! a copy for you, you, and you, I’m all those flies, you can’t count them on a hundred hands, a large order of insects comprising the two-winged or true flies, their hind wings reduced to form balancing organs, including many biting forms, such as mosquitoes and tsetse flies, holy vectors of disease, and that’s me, Ernesto Cisneros Fuentes! named after the football midfielder, if you divide and multiply me, a convergence of man and fly, intersected infected living things, and it’s these three guys, here and now, members of the municipal police, a relaxed smoke before the execution, they’re going to get bitten by a savage insect, and they don’t even know it, and it’s best that way, a surprise, a revelation, and because it isn’t the station at Salazar and Hermenegildo Galeana, or the Estrella Blanca station, they aren’t paying attention to what’s going on around them, where’s the hot spot, hazardous, perilous, high-risk, don’t touch it, you’ll burn yourself, don’t look, turn your head away or your eyes’ll melt in their sockets, they won’t know what hit them, as long as they don’t survive, a forensic scientist communicating with the dead could tell them, it’ll put the federal police, the ministerial police, the 27th Battalion on their toes, and the Mayor of Mayors, and his coldblooded reptile wife, a lot of toes in laced-up boots, except the Reptile, she’ll be wearing heels, the authorities, government, administration, establishment, police, losing a few of their own, more than a few if I’ve got anything to say, it’s a start that’ll put them in the picture, if they’re listening, that they ought to strip off the corruption double-dealing murder greed and solve the mystery of the missing normalistas, Ernesto approaching the three policemen, not close enough to fire, pulling the brim of his cap down, the cap was a size too big for him, a detail working to his advantage in the striking daylight, a cap protecting his head, the brim creating a little shade for his eyes, concealing them and the upper part of his face, while his anger and despair wrapped around his body like a living thing, a snake squeezing him, taking his breath away, or he was holding his breath, keeping it in his lungs, anticipating, and the tightness he made for himself in his chest forced him forward, motivating him, the two policemen facing him were smoking, leaning against a wall, the third had his back to him, sitting on the hood of the patrol car, and Ernesto Cisneros, to himself, ten to one he’s eating, head down with his chin on his chest, maybe a snack, cuerno de azucar, with refined sugar spilling on the front of his uniform, a bag of rosquitas con miel, or simple rosquitas souflee with sugar, Ernesto’s mouth watering at the thought of sugary fried rosquitas, flavored with vanilla, Ernesto, without taking a breath or exhaling, nothing keeping him from breathing, really, he was making himself ready for use, a convergence of man and disease-carrying fly, drawing the pistol, lightweight in his hand, extending his arm, readying himself without knowing what he was doing, he’d never fired a gun before, not trembling, or he was trembling but couldn’t see it, standing a couple of feet from the policemen, arm outstretched like he was pointing at them, but it was a Glock and not a finger, the two policemen astonished, each with a cigarette pinched between thumb and second finger, staring at him, and the third policeman swung around, pivoting his upper body, shirtfront covered in refined sugar and holding what was left of a doughnut in his hand, a grin on his face, granulated sugar caught in his moustache, and perfect white teeth, Ernesto pulled the trigger without centering his finger on it, and nothing, no sound, no kick, the external integrated trigger safety, a trigger with a spring-loaded lever in its lower half, preventing him from firing, or the magazine was empty, or there wasn’t a magazine, one of the policemen threw his cigarette away, took a couple of steps toward him, nothing pressing in his movement, reaching for the pistol in Ernesto’s hand, not taking it away from him but covering the top of it with the flat of his hand, lowering the pistol for Ernesto, whose arm followed the downward pressure the officer put on it, Ernesto’s eyes searching for fear in their faces, but there wasn’t anything like it, twinkling bright eyes, opened wide, and an abrupt snort coming from one of them, the sudden forcing of breath through his nose, Ernesto wasn’t sure if he was expressing indignation, derision, or incredulity, and the officer with the sugary doughnut in his hand, still chewing, popped the rest of it in his mouth, then swallowed, clearing his throat before speaking, and policeman No. 1, what do you think you’re playing at, cabrón? and now that the Glock was pointing at the ground, Ernesto’s arm at his side, the policeman who’d lowered his arm for him, taking another step toward Ernesto, putting his hand on Ernesto’s shoulder, and policeman No. 2, take it easy with the kidding, mister, nice weapon, where’d you get it? we aren’t issued anything like it, a .38 Special, that’s our brand, colega, but I’ve heard there are 9mms circulating, replacing these worn out .38s, have you heard anything about it? is the word spreading? are we getting new weapons finally positively once and for all and at last? Ernesto, effortlessly putting the pistol in the holster, no embarrassment on his face, and Ernesto Cisneros, to himself, I won’t show them anything owing nothing to my intelligence or practice but to the fact that I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t want them to know it, and Ernesto Cisneros, I got it from a friend in the Policía Federal, maybe you know him, or you’ve heard of him, his nickname’s El Lápiz, tall, skinny, and all muscle, Inspector Jefe Calderón Hinojosa, two stars, carrying a Heckler & Koch, un hombre imponente, an imposing man, the three policemen listening intently to the description of a man they didn’t know, and the officer with granulated sugar in his moustache, policeman No. 1, let’s drink to it, I’ve got a bottle behind the seat of my Toyota, the four of them moving together down the street toward a second vehicle, a pickup, Ernesto hadn’t noticed it, he’d been concentrating on the promise of killing three members of the Policía Municipal, a triple play for a start, not the same as a defensive play when three runners are put out, impeccable timing, in accordance with the highest standards of artistry, and accurate throws, like flinging knives at a human target spinning round on a wheel, Ernesto on the offensive, a powerful throwing arm, his vision sharp, accepted now by the three policemen who were fooled by a fine homemade uniform, Ernesto sewing like a seamstress after fifty years on the job, they were tricked, by his worthy bearing, too, an actor’s skill even if he’d never performed for anyone but himself in front of the bathroom mirror, clowning around when he had the spirit to play the fool, long before what’d happened to Coyuco, and now, Ernesto feeling a gust of hyena laughter building up in his lungs waiting to come out, his body, led by an anguished brain, out of control after the emotional wound he’d suffered, a long-drawn-out illness of his own, impairing his brain’s usefulness and normal function, and before he could swallow it the laughter broke out, a crazy laughter bursting from his throat, the l
ungs had pushed with all their might and there was no stopping the laughter, and the four of them standing next to the Toyota, the passenger door open, the officer with granulated sugar in his moustache didn’t have any sugar there now, he’d wiped his mouth with the smooth skin of his arm after taking a swig of tequila, a hand as big as a baseball mitt wrapped around the bottle, and policeman No. 1, not the best quality, but on our pay, 10,000 a month, pesos not dollars, what do you expect, eh? shoving one of the two others, officer No. 2, making him stumble backward while he was reaching for the bottle the other was holding out to him, officer No. 2 catching the neck of the bottle with his fingers, getting his balance along with a firm grip on the bottle, taking a swallow, wiping his chin, then swallowing another mouthful of tequila, chiming in with a wise crack, and policeman No. 2, not including the 7,000 pesos a month you’d get working with a gang, Los Pelones, Los Rojos, Los Metros, or Los Tequileros in Tierra Caliente, for example, and I’m not talking about the song by Los Tigres del Norte or Los Alegres de Terán, and then there’s CJNG, Los Caballeros Templarios and Guerreros Unidos, the cartels, and the big time, more money than you’d see in dream, and policeman No. 1, or it’s death and a funeral, if you’re lucky, ’mano, or no funeral at all ’cause they’d never find the body, and policeman No. 2, I swear I haven’t touched a centavo ¡claro! no matter who’s pushing what in my hands because if I did, and I don’t know anybody who hasn’t been tempted, I’d turn into a flesh-and-blood paradox, and then I break out in a rash, exanthema, urticaria, that’s just the way I am in a world of give-me-this-I’ll-give-you-that—officer No. 3, who hadn’t said a word, interrupting him, and policeman No. 3, you’re one of the few, seeing as I’ve met plenty with their hands open, then closed tight on a nice handful of cash every month, but ’mano, give me that bottle, I’m thirsty, and knock off the yackety-yak about Los Caballeros Templarios, Guerreros Unidos, shakedowns, palmgreasing graft, it’s a way of life, we’ve had plenty of trouble here, and it’s just the beginning, officer No. 2 still holding the bottle, and policeman No. 2, let me think, he shut his eyes in order to see the list that unfolded before him, officer No. 2 feeling his colleagues’ impatience, officer No. 3 trying to pry the bottle from his fingers, without luck, and policeman No. 2, hang on, just give me a minute, then opening his eyes, a wide smile and another set of perfect teeth, and policeman No. 2, yes, that’s right, now I’ve got it, Guerreros Unidos, first it was El Tilde, after the business with La Barredora, then El Sapo Guapo, and his brother, El Chino, but definitely Gonzalo Martín Souza Neves, Benjamín Mondragón in Morelos, and now El Chaky, I think it’s El Chaky who’s the boss, Ernesto saying nothing, just listening, officer No. 1, the policeman who didn’t have sugar in his moustache, extending his arm, his fingers wiggling, beckoning the bottle, ignoring officer No. 3’s turn at the tequila, and policeman No. 1, the sugar-free policeman, hand it over, ’mano, your reciting another litany always makes me thirsty, a real fountain of facts, that’s what you are, come on come on, give it to me, but the bottle passed to the third policeman, so he reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes, lighting one, taking a long haul on it, and policeman No. 1, El Chaky, whoever the fuck that is, and even if I do know who he is I don’t want to know, if you know what I mean, and policeman No. 2, you know and I know it’s Arturo Hernández, known as El Chaky when he was a lieutenant in the late-but-not-great Amado Carrillo Fuentes’ cartel in Chihuahua, Amado Carrillo, El Señor de los Cielos, Lord of the Skies, on account of his jets, dying fresh off the operating table after trying on a new face, but since we’re talking about Guerreros Unidos, let’s talk about Arturo Hernández, a real family man, El Chaky, devoted to family and home, a man who’s got a wife and one or more children, you can count them on one hand, at least as far as I know, because I can tell you a story, two stories, and it isn’t the tequila talking, it was in the papers, maybe you read it, maybe you didn’t, or it came your way by word of mouth, El Chaky’s son, Emmanuel Hernández Tarín, known as El Pepino, “The Cucumber,” driving drunk in his gray Nissan Pathfinder, plate number 194WDA—I’ve got a memory like a steel trap and a passion for lists, that’s me—and El Pepino, finding his way into the offices of the Policía Ministerial, walking right in, on purpose? who knows, but blasted trashed stinko and completely impaired, getting himself killed in January 2009, not ancient history but not so long ago, right here in the Free and Sovereign State of Guerrero, and then El Chaky’s other son, Christian Arturo Hernández Tarín, El Chris, head of La Barredora, the Policía Federal caught him 2011, and he’s in jail stir the big house the penitentiary—they drop like flies or end up in prison, you need a scorecard to keep track of them—El Chris doing time in La Palma, or Almoloya, in the municipality of Almoloya de Juárez, around fifteen miles from Toluca, officer No. 1 dropping his cigarette, crushing it with his boot, then police officer No. 3 passed the bottle to Ernesto, who lifted it to his lips, swallowing three mouthfuls, no need to wipe his chin with his sleeve, and at last, a few words from Ernesto, and Ernesto Cisneros, mi colegas, in the pertinent words of a Nahua poet, relative to the matter at hand: