The Black Minutes

6

After the announcement of the reward, everyone ran out to look for suspects. Everyone except Rangel. He was disappointed by the investigation and didn’t know what to think.
He parked next to a food stand selling tacos de barbacoa, hidden behind a mass of customers. While he was there, in front of a Jesuit school, he noticed that the Parents’ Association had organized a group to supervise as students entered the Instituto Cultural de Paracuán. Half a dozen adults in neon-yellow shirts were stopping traffic and helping kids cross the avenue. Looking at a metallic-blue pickup truck, he recognized Mr. Guillén, a businessman who had become very popular because of his idea to offer “humanitarian credit.” Rangel had bought a record player from him on an easy monthly payment plan. Mr. Guillén stopped his truck, let out his seven kids, and watched them cross the avenue. As he waved to someone he knew, Mr. Guillén lifted his jacket and showed off a pistol stuck in his belt.
“What’s up Mr. Guillén, you hunting?”
“Just to be safe. He better not show up around here, because I’ll get justice myself.”
“Oh, Dad,” his daughter Paloma chided as she said good-bye.
Ah, what a drag, Rangel said to himself, we’re going to have to organize a campaign to disarm the city; we can’t have so many guys running around packing guns.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened in the half hour the parent watch group was on duty, except for a Cola Drinks truck, going too fast, that almost ran over the people in charge of stopping traffic. The parents spoke to the driver with as much courtesy as they could muster as they made him stop; once the row of students had crossed the street they let him go as they showered him with insults. Goddamn drivers, Rangel thought, screw them. He had thought it would be impossible to watch all the girls who arrived alone, but the whole city had come together to support them. When a girl traveled alone, the buses or taxis stopped right in front of the door to her building, even if they were stopping traffic, and carefully let out their precious cargo. A yellow bus parked in front of the school, a few feet away from Vicente, and let out twenty tiny little girls, the majority of them carrying metal lunchboxes.
Rangel watched one girl with big eyes, who must have done her hair by herself because she had one ponytail higher than the other, but smoothed down with a lot of gel. Another boy about five years old had pulled his pants up to his armpits and was showing his friends how he could reach over his shoulder and stick his hand into his back pocket.
When the bell rang at 8:00 on the dot, a few students were still running up, and an orange Caribe just managed to slip through as they were closing the gates. The driver, Dr. Solares Téllez, a well-known pediatrician with a bushy mustache, let his three kids out: “Hurry up now, I don’t know why you kids like to get here late. Run, run, you’re gonna get in trouble.” The Jesuits told the kids to get into rows in front of their classrooms. Another day of strict discipline was beginning. Rangel was just about to leave when he noticed a shadowy figure pointing a video camera at him from behind some curtains on the second floor. Goddamnit, they’re filming me, he said to himself, and got out of his car to investigate. When he lifted up his badge toward the window, the video camera pointed in another direction and a hand waved to him. False alarm, he thought; it must be a teacher.
Rangel’s lack of sleep from the night before was starting to affect him. It made sense to get some breakfast before going to work, so he headed to the Jewish guy’s restaurant two blocks away from police headquarters. There was a newsstand right in the doorway to Klein’s, and he stopped to look at an issue of Notitas Musicales with Rigo Tovar on the cover. The headline said, TRIUMPHANT TOUR FOR SINGER AND LAS JAIBAS DEL VALLE. Judging by the cover, Rigo had grown his hair out long in the last few months and was wearing electric-colored shirts.
“Hey, hey! Wait up!”
The person yelling was the owner of Klein’s, Don Isaac in person. Rangel turned just in time to see the shape of a man turning the corner. Because of his lack of sleep, he didn’t react quickly.
“Did he steal something?”
“No, what could he steal? He already paid. But the guy was in such a hurry, he left his change.”
The old man showed him a twenty peso bill, then shrugged and stuffed it into his pocket.
How strange, thought Vicente, that guy was flying out of here. At the table where the guy was sitting was a copy of El Mercurio with the photos La Chilanga had taken of him. F*ck, he thought, mulling it over; then it dawned on him. Was that guy trying to avoid me? He stood up to investigate, but when he got to the corner, two buses were pulling away in opposite directions. Whoever it was had a lot of luck. He probably had a criminal record.
There wasn’t anyone in Klein’s at that hour, except for the manager and the waiter, who was mopping, leaving a strong pine disinfectant smell behind him.
“I saw you in El Mercurio,” said the waiter, but Rangel wasn’t in the mood to talk.
They brought him some chilaquiles rojos, which he didn’t even touch; the image of the dead girl was haunting him. Goddamnit, he said to himself, this f*cking case is causing me a shitload of problems. If I had known, I never would’ve gotten involved. In less than twelve hours, he’d fought with El Travolta and El Chaneque, photographers had taken tons of pictures of him, and the burning feeling in his hands was back.
As they served him a cola drink, Rangel had to admit he was bewildered. The chief had never acted like that before; he even got nervous when Rangel suggested they call Junior in. And he couldn’t explain why he would have put El Travolta in charge of the investigation. F*cking chief, he thought, I bet they already bought him out. If he wants us to play stupid, that’s up to him, but I’m going to investigate other things. The burglary at the electric company, for example. During the four years he’d spent in the port, Rangel had heard all the rumors about Jack Williams, and he wanted to get his statement. Like all spoiled brats, Williams was used to mistreating people and had an infinitely large ego. They said he organized private bacchanals, that he had orgies at his house in the country, that he handed out all kinds of stuff, from morphine to caffeine-aspirin combos, that he took all kinds of drugs.
When Rangel touched the cola bottle, he felt a burning pain in his hands and he thought about putting cream on, since no one was nearby. Cream? His uncle would have asked. You putting cream on? Goddamnit, Vicente are you a fag now or what? Rangel took the medicine out of his pant pocket and put it on anyway. The medicine worked so well that he took another squirt, spread it around on his palms, and enjoyed the cream’s soothing effect.
The owner of Klein’s turned on the ceiling fans and a cool breeze swept through the restaurant. Man, he said to himself, if only I could sleep a little while. But he had to get back to work if he wanted to get his check on Friday. I hope I don’t run into El Travolta. Just thinking about him spurred on another wave of itching, and he thought about putting on more cream, but the doctor had warned him about overdoing it: Don’t use too much, he told him, or the medicine will wind up being worse than the disease.
He was about to put on a third layer anyway when he thought he saw a ghost. There, by the front door, he spotted La Chilanga’s blue eyes, half-open blouse, and large rounded breasts headed toward him. Rangel imagined a lot of things as the woman came in: he imagined that he was with her, embracing her on a beach like Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity or with her hair braided, like Bo Derek in 10, and suddenly he got nervous because the girl wasn’t just looking back at him, she was walking right at him.
“Mr. Rangel?” She looked confused. “You wanted to see me?”
“I’m sorry?” Vicente was surprised.
“Oh . . . then it wasn’t you?” The girl bit her tongue, and then asked, “Did you see the pictures?” It was obvious she was changing the topic.
Rangel nodded. “Yeah, I saw them. They’re gonna fire me because of you.”
“What? You looked good in them! They even picked those pictures up in Mexico City!”
“Well, yeah, like I was saying. We’re not allowed to talk to the press.”
La Chilanga smiled, and Rangel looked her over without saying a word. Even though he couldn’t be sure, he thought that even though the words were hostile, a current of friendliness ran underneath them, an almost tangible charge that floated in the air. The detective and the girl would have exchanged looks for several minutes more, but someone interrupted them.
“What’s up, boss? We made you famous; you were in Proceso.”
And Rangel noticed that Jackson Five was behind her, looking at him derisively. This guy, he thought, where’d he come from?
Seeing his obvious surprise, La Chilanga introduced them. “Mr. Vicente Rangel, I’d like you to meet my colleague, John Guerrero.”
“Nice to meet you, lieutenant. Mariana says you’re the only honest officer on the force.”
“Oh,” Rangel said, “so you’re Johnny Guerrero.” And he pulled his hand back. “From Chihuahua, right?”
“Yeah, from Chihuahua, that’s right.” He didn’t see the tongue-lashing coming.
“Don’t you have any sense of professional ethics? Why are you putting all our business on the streets? How can we arrest the murderer with you telling everyone about our investigations?”
“People have a right to information,” the journalist smiled.
“Of course they do,” Rangel replied, “as long as the information doesn’t damage society at large.”
“That’s a fascist argument,” Johnny said.
“Not at all,” said Rangel, “not at all. I’d like to see you two in my place; every time you publish something, the chances of us catching this killer go down.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” said the reporter, “but instead of getting angry, you should work with us. Mariana says you’re the only honorable officer on the force. What did you think of being in Proceso? Mariana was the one who made the contact.”
Even though he wasn’t the most informed guy, Rangel knew that Proceso was one of the few media outlets, or maybe the only one, that criticized the corruption in Mexico. Johnny took advantage of Rangel’s momentary doubt to ask, “Can we take a seat?” And they sat down with him.
Rangel thought about leaving, but right then he saw the girl smiling at him for the second time. She had a pretty smile and golden tanned skin. Besides, the girl was leaning against the table, and her breasts were squeezed into a more rounded shape, her cleavage about to explode.
He was focused on these noble thoughts when Mr. Klein interrupted him. “What would you like to order?”
La Chilanga barely looked at the menu.
“I’d like a fruit cocktail, or—what time is it? We can eat lunch right now. You don’t have soy, spinach, wheat germ?”
“No, miss. We have beans, meat, and tortillas. The special of the day is chilaquiles con cecina.”
“Do you have anything with no meat? A salad?”
“I have a ceviche, if you’d like that.”
“Is it the same one from last month? That fish was really tough, man, it seemed like you shot it or something,” Johnny said. “That must be why it wouldn’t come apart.”
“So, you don’t have any salads?”
“No, we don’t,” and Isaac Klein stormed off.
Johnny gave the girl a hard time. “What’s going on, girl? You’ve been here a month and you still haven’t figured this out? I don’t know what the most important words are to this tribe, but nobody can mess with their food. Criticize whatever you want: their government, the weather, the potholes, the lack of movie theaters, the tar on the beach, how ugly the city is. Right, but not the food. Don’t even think about criticizing what they eat. In this town, turning down a bowl of pozole or a plate of zacahuil, even if it’s the umpteenth time they’ve offered it, can get you in big trouble. I’ve known families that stopped talking to each other over an enchilada. The people here tolerate all the local nastiness: bad weather, mosquitoes, the government, but when one of them comes to eat, what they want is delicious food, and plenty of it, and if possible in huge portions. Strong flavors and a generous serving. How is the manager not going to get upset when you ask him for an alfalfa salad? You insulted him in the core of his being, his way of understanding the world. Right, lieutenant?”
What an a*shole, Vicente thought, and he didn’t say a word. Safe behind his dark glasses, he preferred to admire the girl in front of him.
“Look, Johnny,” La Chilanga interrupted him. “There go the guys from ?Alarma!”
The two men swung around just in time to see a van with the logo of the most insidious newspaper in the country drive by. “Damn,” said Rangel, “?Alarma! is in town!”
“Did you know they pay their witnesses?” Johnny asked. “They give a hundred dollars for each solid piece of information to get people to spill everything about their tragedies. What happened, when, how, where. And details.”
“A hundred bucks for every piece of information?” The girl leaned forward on the table.
“They’ve got that kind of money. They sell a million papers a week. What do you think?” Johnny said to the detective. “Come on, boss, do your town a favor and work with the objective press. My colleague here is Julio Scherer’s niece and published in Proceso.”
“Hey, I don’t think so. What are you insinuating? They publish me because my pictures are good, not because of who I’m related to.” Her eyes were shimmering.
Right then, Rangel felt a knee leaning against his own, and when he looked at the girl, he noticed that she was looking at him, too. Ah, caray, is she doing that on purpose? Johnny tried to make conversation, but Rangel gave one-word answers, staring at the girl, whose smile was getting bigger and bigger. The situation was starting to improve when the journalist stood up.
“Let’s go, Mariana, this isn’t the guy. They stood you up.”
Then he got it all. No shit, he thought, they came to meet with their informant.
“Who were you going to meet with?” he asked them.
“We can’t tell you, it’s a trade secret,” Johnny replied.
“You don’t know?” he asked the girl.
Before he could push her, Johnny burst out, “I’m really sorry, but a reporter doesn’t reveal his sources.”
There was no way to get them to say anything. Since Vicente was still staring at the girl, she said to him, “Man, look here: we’re trying to do activist journalism, work that produces a social consciousness. Didn’t you see the pictures from Vietnam, from My Lai? The photograph is a weapon of social struggle.”
She said she was part of the Revolutionary Dissident Group of Reporters “Vamos Cuba”; McLuhan this, that, and the other; that the photograph had a social function; that we have to raise the people’s consciousness so the public learns about the people’s poverty and capitalist exploitation.
“You’re the right-hand man of the capitalists,” said Johnny.
“What the hell,” Rangel joked, “I’m not the Federal Security Administration.” He wanted to point out to the girl that he was just working as a police officer while he found himself, that this job was temporary, he didn’t take it seriously, but instead of saying it, he just repeated, “What the hell,” and walked away, steaming.
As he was leaving, he looked at the girl, totally disappointed. Damnit, girl, I was gonna take you to the beach.