The Black Minutes

17

They were there for three hours. The whole time, Romero referred to his partner, and when Cabrera asked the partner’s name, the blind man said, “Vicente Rangel.”
Cabrera felt a chill surge up his spine, and he asked to meet Rangel as soon as possible.
“That’s impossible. He disappeared; nobody knows what happened to him.” Romero filled his jacket pockets with free sugar packets and said he had to go, but first he asked for a second pack of smokes.
“What about the murderer?”
“That’ll cost you. I have to make something out of this, chingá. I’m not doing it for love of country.”
Cabrera handed him practically all the money he had on him. In exchange, Romero called to the little girl, “Conchita: give the piece of paper to the gentleman,” and she handed him a wrinkled piece of newspaper from the section with local society news. There, two men in ties and jackets, surrounded by bodyguards, looked at the photographer intently.
“The murderer is the one in dark glasses.”
As he left, Romero said, “Wait a while before leaving. If we are being followed, it’s best if we don’t step out together.”
Cabrera waited for as long as he could. When it seemed like he’d waited long enough, he asked for the check and went out. Romero was still there, waiting for the bus on the other side of the street. The little girl noticed him, and, so as not to cause them concern, he went to waste some time on the beach.
What Romero had told him was a real bombshell. ?Carajo! What should I do now? He was close to the refinery, and the wind had the rotten smell of sulfur.
To calm himself down, he spent a little while contemplating the barrier made of pine and palm trees that signaled the end of the beach. But despite the roiling sea of thoughts in his head, he suddenly remembered the gun. Yeah, I did: I forgot to return the gun. If he wanted to stay out of any more trouble, he would have to go pick it up at the office.