The Black Minutes

13

Instead of going home, Vicente went to get a cup of coffee at El Visir, a well-known café in front of the Plaza de Armas. An idea had obsessed him all morning. He checked his wallet discreetly to make sure that he had enough money for what he would need to buy. At exactly twelve noon, he headed to the historic center of the city. He was circling around El Mercurio when finally, on the umpteenth pass, he recognized the photographer coming out. Perfect, he said to himself, and drove over to her.
La Chilanga was walking unhurriedly along the Avenida Central. She looked odd without her usual camera slung over her shoulder; she didn’t even have her backpack with all the equipment she needed for her job. Rangel pulled up to the curb.
“Want a ride?”
Much later, Marianna turned over in bed and started to talk. “Johnny Guerrero says that Fidel betrayed Che Guevara; can you believe it? He says he sent Che into the Sierra Maestra hoping he wouldn’t come back and, since he had the power, he didn’t give him enough reinforcements, because it wasn’t to his benefit to bring him back. What are the Cubans going to do without Che, the lion, the warrior always out front, the brain for everybody? Who knows if Fidel can recover from the loss? Do you think he’ll try again in Bolivia?”
Rangel turned on the radio. He wanted to find English rock to cheer the girl up, and it wasn’t till then that he realized they had substituted Freaky’s show for one with música tropical: This is for you, Benny Moré, and next: Chico Che y la Crisis! Goddamnit, he said to himself. No shit, I didn’t even notice when this station went downhill.
“Hey, Mariana, are you Mr. Sherer’s niece?”
“Johnny made that up.”
A thunderclap signaled a coming storm.
“No hard feelings?” the young woman asked.
“Everything’s fine.”
“Good.” She got out of the bed, her hips swaying.
Rangel couldn’t get over how strange it was that all this had happened so quickly and easily. If he weren’t so hurt by what Yesenia did to him, he told himself, he could even marry a woman like this....
At six in the evening, the girl said she was hungry, and Vicente proposed going to La Rivera to eat seafood. As they took a quick shower, Vicente asked if they’d see each other after dinner.
“I’m supposed to get together with a girlfriend,” she explained, “but I’ll try.”
“I’d love to see you,” the detective insisted.
They didn’t have to wait for the ferry take them over, and they crossed the street with their arms around each other. They were going toward the Chevy Nova when a horn began honking repeatedly; someone was trying to get Vicente’s attention. From the other side of the avenue, a white pickup was coming over to him. It was Práxedes, the accountant. His uncle had introduced them several years ago.
“Get in,” Rangel said to the girl, and he held out the keys to his car. The girl took them without asking for an explanation, and Rangel cautiously went over to say hello to the accountant through his window.
According to what Práxedes himself had said, because of his high status and his criminal record, they were always trying to pin crimes on him, but he was innocent. Rangel didn’t know exactly how he made his living, but he knew it bordered on the illegal. Today he seemed to be in a hurry.
“Quiubo, Práxedes.”
“Quiubo, cabrón. Who’d you get in a fight with?”
“Aw, shit, what do you mean, who’d I get in a fight with?”
“Some a*shole on the docks. He was looking for someone to kill you.”
F*ck, thought Rangel. “He asked you?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess you didn’t accept.”
“What do you think?”
“Who was it?”
“I didn’t know him.”
“Goddamnit, Práxedes!”
“I swear I’ve never seen him before.”
“Could it be one of the guys from work?”
“No, it was a short guy. I think he was there for somebody else.”
“Was it Chávez?”
“No, I know Chávez. The guy who came to see me looked indigenous.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
He thought about it a minute. “All right, thanks.”
“Put a double lock on your door. If they keep asking around, someone’s gonna take the job.”
“Let me know,” he told him, and hit the side of the truck two times, saying good-bye. The accountant left immediately.
“Who was that?” Mariana asked. The fun and games were over.
“Someone I know. Where should I take you?”
“Drop me off downtown. If I leave my girlfriend early and want to go back to your house, how do I get in?”
“Here. I have another set in the office.” Rangel gave her his keys, and a huge smile lit up the girl’s face.
Before going back to his house, he stopped at Parcero’s store and asked for a thirty-eight-caliber bullets. It was time to take out the big guns. Afterward he went to the Modelo Superstore, where he bought food for two people, a bottle of whiskey, and a six-pack of beer.
He crossed the river in a colectivo boat and locked himself in so no one else could enter. Despite the pressure he was under, his time with La Chilanga had relaxed him. But then he remembered the accountant’s warning and considered the danger again. Damn, he said to himself. I’ll probably have to move. He didn’t have neighbors or anyone to ask for help in case he needed it, because there were no telephone lines on his side of the river. Anyone could force open the front door; it was only locked on the inside with a symbolic lock and, as if that weren’t enough, the windows were made out of plastic sheeting, which was simple enough to cut through. Come to think of it, it’s a miracle they haven’t gotten me yet.
He should move somewhere else, but it would be a shame to go. He loved that place. On one side of him, there was a mango tree, delicious fruits that woke him up when they fell on the roof. A cooling breeze came off the river and scared away the mosquitoes. On the other hand, if he left any food outside the refrigerator, pests would immediately devour it. He once bought a poison powder to stop a plague of army ants that were threatening to invade. Another time he killed a tarantula as big as his hand. What can you do? he thought to himself. Soon, once he had time to think it through more calmly, he’d have to decide if it was time for him to move. But before then, I’m going to get this motherf*cker and throw him in jail.
The rest of the afternoon he oiled and checked out his uncle’s pistol. After that, he took out his shoulder holster and tried it on: he didn’t remember it fit him so big.
At night, before going to bed, he split a melon in two pieces and absentmindedly left half of it above the sink in the kitchen, right next to the window. Vicente was completely worn out, but he couldn’t fall asleep. The conversation with Práxedes might have put him on edge. Every time he was about to drift off, some nearby noise would wake him up, noises that he couldn’t identify. What the f*ck was that? It wasn’t the sound of a mango falling or the rumbling of the water heater, it was something different and repetitive, almost like Chinese water torture. As soon as he was about to get to sleep, there would be a new sound that he couldn’t identify, and on more than one occasion he thought he saw a person standing up next to his bed. The umpteenth time he woke up, his nerves destroyed, he went out to look for where the noise was coming from, furious, his twenty-two in hand. He wasn’t prepared for what he found.
Outside the window in the kitchen was a family of raccoons, two big ones and five babies. The biggest had been able to cut through the plastic sheeting and reach in his window. Between his hands—because they were hands—was the other half of the melon.
When the raccoon saw Rangel, he let out an amusing little scream, and the babies crowded around the mother. The detective recoiled and observed their handiwork. One by one, the five babies headed into the forest, preceded by their mother. When the father understood that Rangel wasn’t going to follow, he stood up on two legs and sniffed in his direction. He’s thanking me, Rangel thought. Then he dragged the part of the melon that was his with one hand, like a person would do, and disappeared into the brush.
The policeman settled down on the terrace and drank two beers, one after another, with the lights out. A cool breeze started at eleven at night. I’m never leaving. If those motherf*ckers want to come, let them come. I’ll be waiting.