The Black Minutes

14

On Thursday, the twentieth of March, at seven in the morning, Rangel parked his Chevy Nova in front of the chief’s house. The chief’s wife, Do?a Dolores Rosas de García, asked him to wait in the living room, where he found the latest edition of El Mercurio: NO TRACE OF THE HERNáNDEZ GIRL. FALSE LEADS MULTIPLY. The article added that, according to rumors, a brave officer in the Paracuán police force, a detective who had contributed several revealing pieces of evidence in the Jackal case, was about to quit “because his investigation was being stymied.” Guerrero not only summarized the previous day’s meeting at City Hall but also quoted the leader of the Professors’ Union, who took the opportunity to bash Mr. Barbosa from the state capital: PROFESSOR EDELMIRO CRITICIZES THE GOVERNMENT OF MADERA. Goddamnit, he said to himself, who told Johnny Guerrero about that meeting? And poor Barbosa, they’ve really got it in for him.
Then, since no one had come to get him, he skipped to page thirteen:
CONFERENCE ABOUT UFOS PROVOKES UPROAR: This evening, in the city of Searchlight, Nevada, researcher Cormac McCormick will read an excerpt from his forthcoming book, The Truth about UFOs. The popular columnist’s editors assure us that the book, fruit of more than twenty years of work, will be the most important in his field, as is clear from the interest shown in McCormick’s articles. They also confirmed that important revelations will be made during his talk.
“Oh, Rangel, come on in.” The chief was out of the shower, recently shaved, and smelling of aftershave lotion. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Don’t be rude,” he heard his wife’s voice.
As a response, the chief grunted. “Did you already eat breakfast?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come drink a cup of coffee. Do you take milk?”
“Please,” he said to the chief’s wife.
“You can’t go out without your breakfast.” She was referring to the chief. “You’re not twenty years old anymore.”
“Right.”
As the chief spread butter on his bread, the telephone rang in the kitchen. Do?a Dolores answered the call and passed it to her husband.
“Churruca.”
Even though he could have used the phone that his wife offered him, the old man went to take the call in the living room.
Rangel and Do?a Dolores listened without blinking.
“What happened, Juan José? Yes . . . yes, the doctor is coming to the port, but it wasn’t his idea; we sent for him. . . . No, why would there be problems? He’s independent, but I know him very well. He was my teacher years ago. . . . No, it’s impossible to cancel: I’m about to pick him up at the airport. . . . Huh? Repeat that again.” The chief had put both hands on his stomach. As the conversation progressed, his discomfort worsened. Soon he was forced to rock forward and backward with his belly in his hands, as if he were cradling an infant. “Tell him I’m at his service. . . . Whatever he wants. . . . Oh, very well. . . . Affirmative.”
After hanging up, the old man stayed seated a few seconds, swallowing the last sharp pain. The whole time, his stomach’s grumbling was as loud as his voice had been.
“Mijo, do you feel all right?”
“Rangel, take me to headquarters,” the old man answered. “I’m going to the state capital. I have a hearing in two hours.”
“You can’t drive anywhere on your own,” his wife insisted. “Remember what the gastroenterologist told you.” She spoke to Vicente. “You can’t take him?”
“Of course I can. Whatever you say.”
“No,” said the chief, “Salim will take me. You go pick up Dr. Quiroz Cuarón and take care of him. Explain that I was called away. Lolita has all the allowances for the hotel and meals. If he needs something else, let her know. Remember, the doctor’s very particular. I’m leaving him under your care.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Let’s go. Before hitting the road, I need to go by the office for some papers.”
“Do you know what time you’ll be back?” his wife asked.
“I have no idea.”
The old man slammed the door shut. He hadn’t even tasted his coffee.
Fifteen minutes later, the Bedouin bounded down the main stairs of police headquarters, eager to serve as chauffeur. A few feet away, the chief was getting ready for his trip to the state capital.
“That motherf*cker Churruca, he could have let me know yesterday. . . . Taboada hasn’t come in yet?”
“No, sir,” El Chicote responded.
“That lazy fat-ass, who does he think he is?”
As he was going out the door, Lolita caught up to García and told him he had a call from his wife: “She says it’s an emergency.” The chief reluctantly headed back and ordered them to forward the call to the first telephone he found. The chief’s mood was getting worse, if that was possible; he shouted into the phone. “What? Are you sure?” A few seconds later, he said, “And what did you tell him?” He listened in silence. “Well, it seems like complete idiocy to me. How do you come up with these things, woman?” He hung up and asked the secretary, “He’s already here, right?”
“He’s waiting for you in his office.”
“Well, go entertain him, Lolita. You know no one can go in if I’m not there already.”
As the secretary went up, the chief gestured to Rangel to follow him into the hallway. “Rangel, besides what I already asked you to do, I need you to take care of another equally important item of business. One which requires complete discretion.”
This was disconcerting to Vicente, because even though the chief was giving him signs that he had begun to trust him since he got involved in the investigation of the girls, it was obvious that he preferred to work with El Travolta or Cruz Trevi?o.
“It’s a very delicate matter.”
He explained that his son-in-law, who was the state attorney general, had wanted to do an audit on him since Christmas. He was sending an agent who pretended to be on a different assignment but in reality meant to do him harm. The agent had put one over on them; as soon as the chief left for the office, he appeared at the chief’s home and began to investigate. Since Do?a Dolores didn’t suspect anything, she not only gave him information about certain activities “which could be misunder-stood,” but she also sent him directly to the office. Immediately, Rangel thought about the envelopes that came in every month from grateful politicians and businesspeople, and the special assignments that Chief García took on for those individuals. The chief asked him to keep the visitor occupied for a while, preferably outside the office.
“We can’t bribe him or scare him and, what’s more, we can’t mistreat him because of one reason: he’s my nephew. Since it’s an assignment that requires tact, I’d like you to take care of this one.”
Shit, thought Rangel, how am I going to manage with two visitors?
“Oh, I almost forgot! His alibi is that he came to write an article. Play along and do everything he asks unless it goes against my instructions.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go on up. I’ll introduce you.”
As they approached the chief’s office, Rangel noticed that a young man was sitting on the edge of the desk, reading a comic book with a psychedelic cover: L’Incal by Moebius and Jodorowsky. That’s the agent he’s so scared of? Rangel guessed he was sixteen years old, seventeen at most.
“Rangel,” the chief said, “this is Rodrigo Montoya, my nephew.” The boy stood up to say hello. He was a young guy with long hair, dark glasses, an easy generous smile, and a mustache that in reality was just the intention of having a mustache; it grew down around the corners of his mouth and onto his cheeks. He shook hands with unexpected enthusiasm, and the chief made his apologies and left.
Shit, Rangel said to himself, what do I do now? As if the problem with the girls weren’t enough, now he was in charge of the doctor and had to deal with this youngster: a pain in the neck. He asked the visitor to wait for him a minute and ran to talk with the Blind Man, who was mopping a hallway.
“Romero, leave that be and come give me a hand.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”