The Black Minutes

Part IV


18
Testimony of Rodrigo Montoya, Undercover Agent

Of course I know Paracuán. That’s where the biggest criminal case of my career started. It was when I was helping my uncle out, before I found my destiny and was shot off into infinity.
I was at the ripe old age of twenty-two . . . or it could be a little less, because at the time I was still looking for myself, and I was going to say, I only found myself because of my uncle. He was the chief of police in Paracuán, a tropical port that had problems with smuggling and drug dealers. Like Juan Gabriel said, Pero, ?qué necesidad? Why does it have to be this way? The first time I found out about this crap was at a Christmas dinner. My uncle was never really into all these family things, but his wife, who’s my mom’s sister, made him spend the holidays with us. So we’re all stuffed in there, all the relatives together. I decided I wasn’t going down to eat dinner because all that stuff is such a drag, especially because they wanted me to put on a suit and tie, so I locked myself up in my room. I should probably be clearer: I didn’t live with my parents anymore, I lived in the Distrito Federal, and I only went back to see them at Christmas or for Holy Week. That night I was thinking I’d just pretend I went to sleep early, but since I had to go to the dinner, I took a hit from La Clandestina, a special pipe that doesn’t leave any smell in the air, put a couple drops in my eyes, and went downstairs, prepared to deal with my folks. I was especially sensitive, you can probably imagine, so I went and sat down on the carpet in the living room, ready to listen to it all.
My dad took advantage of the fact that my uncle had gone off on one of his long, never-ending tangents and asked him to tell the story about the Chinese mafia, a shoot-out in the port that was so insane it made the papers. And wham! My uncle told a story he never would’ve told if he were sober. Even though his wife and kids tried to shut him up, he started to tell them the story: they had to take on about two hundred Orientals. And the a*shole said it like it was funny, like if he was saying how many ants he had stepped on, just cracking up. Everything started when two agents that patrolled the Laguna del Carpintero detained a very respected old man from the Oriental community. If the rumors about the patrolmen were true, they probably stopped him because they didn’t like him or because he refused to give them a bribe; but of course, my uncle didn’t say that. He hadn’t drunk that much. The problem was the old man turned out to be a respected martial arts professor at the Instituto Kong, a respected older man who knew all the Chinese in the port by name, so a sizable portion of the Oriental community organized a protest outside the police headquarters, from seven in the morning till noon. Since they didn’t release him, the situation got more and more tense, and my uncle ordered them to keep on f*cking with them until they left. But two police officers who passed by there decided to start yelling at a Chinese girl and flirting with her. Their catcalling got louder and louder, and her boyfriend came out to defend her. Despite what the elders recommended, the boyfriend challenged the policemen to a fight right there, in front of everyone. Since the officer thought he looked skinny, he said why not and took off his shirt: an inexcusable mistake, because the skinny guy sucker-punched him like a boxing champion. He kicked him twice and broke his face in, and each time the officer tried to get up, the Chinese guy sat him back down with another punch. He didn’t even sweat when the officer tried to hit him with his belt. The bad thing is that in the meantime the officer’s partner called for backup from the department. In a few minutes, all the available officers in the area had closed the avenue on both sides. Arrogant and cocky, they stepped out of their cars with rifles in their hands and the standard-issue semiautomatic pistols clipped to the front of their pants. They wanted to grab the guy, but the community made a barrier, and since they wouldn’t let them get through, they started to massacre them in the middle of the street, as the Orientals retreated toward the entrance to the police headquarters. At first, the older men called for order, but when they saw that the cops had no code of honor, and that they were beating the young men with their nightsticks, the elders got into the fight, too. So the police fired off smoke grenades and under cover of all the chaos, they started to shoot. The Chinese didn’t know where all the bullets were coming from and they ran toward the police headquarters and started to go in through the door and the windows. You know how the cops are, always waiting for a chance to shoot, so just imagine, as soon as they saw people running in they thought the worst and boom! They reacted according to the logic of “Shoot first, ask questions later.” I was transfixed by my uncle’s story, among other reasons, because I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I imagined everything he was saying in complete detail, so that instead of everything happening over there in the port, the Chinese were actually coming into my house, through the windows with Ninja swords, Bruce Lee style. The hit I took from the pipe had knocked me out. The truth was, my uncle wasn’t the best conversationalist, and even less so when drunk, but that night he was the only one who could tell the story of what happened in the police department, and he had us all listening—until my dad said to my uncle, “Oh, yeah? Well, in your public statements you said something else,” and my uncle turned white in the face. It even killed his buzz.
But me, I just said to him, Right on, and started to sketch out a plan. I knew right then what I was going to do for my final project at the Ibero. As we were carving the turkey, I was thinking about how to find my place in the world, and more than anything else I was thinking about New Journalism. I’d found out about it on a recent trip to New York, and I remember a talk that Monsiváis gave at a conference at college about how all of us communicologists had to get busy, and then all of a sudden it hit me. There was a lot of movement at the table, the cups of red wine and whiskey came and went, but I was completely calm, because I saw the truth. With each slice of turkey my mom cut, certain dark clouds that had prevented my growth as a human being simply disappeared, each slice she took off the turkey was like another obstacle she took out of my path, and suddenly I saw my future so clearly it scared me. That night, I decided I would be an undercover agent working on behalf of the New Journalism. I was going to write a book about Paracuán. So as soon as I could, I went to the port to look for my research subject. I got there on the first morning bus, took a taxi to my aunt’s house, and said hi to her. What’s up, Tía? I just got here, didn’t my mom let you know? Of course no one had called, but that was part of the plan. In a few minutes, I had her convinced that we had talked about it at the New Year’s dinner and that her husband had said yes. My aunt made a face like she was going to get upset with her husband for not telling her anything, then she went into the living room and called his office on the phone. Her husband hadn’t gotten there yet, so while we killed time, she made me breakfast: scrambled eggs, orange juice, and coffee. I took the opportunity to get up to speed on the news from the port in the last few days, and she told me that her husband was really worried about a problem with a drug dealer that had just shown up on the radar screen. Like always, my aunt started complaining about the newspapers, about how the reporters were always twisting everything around, especially that Johnny Guerrero. Of course, I thought, if they only read Tom Wolfe. . . . There was a busy signal at police headquarters, and my aunt recommended I go look for my uncle in his office, so as not to lose time. I left the house, walking with my own special style—laid back but steady, cool and calm, no problems—and I took a cab downtown.
Are you familiar with the police headquarters in Paracuán? It’s that old white building, just two floors, that’s right off the plaza. I got there in a few minutes. I was a very efficient agent. I have an incredible ease with directions; they could drop me off in the middle of the Kalahari, and I would always find my way home.
The secretary told me that the chief was about to head out to the state capital, but that she would try to reach him, and since I was his nephew I could wait for him in his office. There wasn’t that much to see, and the majority of the drawers were locked, so I started to spy through the window. But all of a sudden I felt really worried, out of place, uncomfortable, like my uncle’s office was full of bad vibes or like the place was sliced through by all kinds of dark energy currents—just like what happens in The Exorcist when Max von Sydow goes into the girl’s house for the first time. Who knows what kind of stuff was going through there, but the officers looked like they were used to it and didn’t even notice. But I did. And every time some officer stuck his head in looking for the boss, they’d give me some weird look, like I was a suspect or they didn’t like how I looked. Since I have never been able to deal with pressure, I waited until the coast was clear and then took a toke off my pipe. I needed to have everything in good working order; I didn’t know what I was up against. Intelligent men like us need to have an open mind, a heightened sensibility, and a body ready to react.
Since no one arrived, I opened my backpack and started to read a Moebius comic. I was totally getting into one of the characters, DogHead, when my uncle came in with one of his detectives. It was Rangel, the biggest badass in the secret service. The first impression I had was that the character from the comic had come alive and that Rangel also had a dog’s head and the look of a canine: sharp teeth, rabid, ferocious. But a Super Agent of New Journalism can’t get carried away by his impressions. I said, Good to meet you, man! And I shook his hand.
Rangel was well-known as my uncle’s best officer, a goddamn bloodhound. He was a decent man, an honest and determined officer, so he didn’t get along well with his coworkers. As soon as he came in, Rangel puckered up his nose and sniffed at the air. I thought, He caught me. I know he was going to ask me what I was smoking, but right then my uncle explained to me that I had come at a bad time, because the governor had given him an ultimatum: he had to arrest a murderer in forty-eight hours, and, as if that weren’t enough, he also had to go to a meeting in the state capital. Oh, shit, I thought, a murderer? That could be a great idea for my final project at college, the subject for my book. A crazy man who killed three girls, my uncle explained. Two titles came into my head: M: The Vampire of Düsseldorf, and, of course, Hitchcock’s Psycho.
I was too young for Woodstock and too little for Avándaro, I said to myself. The Beatles split up, Janis Joplin died, they killed Che, Bob Marley disappeared. The only utopia left is New Journalism, and I’m going to focus on that.
I convinced my uncle to let me stay, and he asked Rangel to be my escort. The bad part is that they sent me off to shave and to get a hair cut. Yeah, man, just like that. I was wearing bell-bottoms, an open shirt showing half my chest, several necklaces, and I had sideburns and an afro. Rangel and another agent they called the Blind Man told me that if I didn’t want to be noticed, I’d have to change my look. You’re in the secret police, goddamnit, not in the Atayde Brothers Circus. I was really into my look, and I hated the idea. Even so, I understood that I was now an agent in the service of New Journalism, so I went to a barber and—snip, snip, snip—I said good-bye to all of it.
While I was getting my hair cut, the Blind Man was messing with me. As soon as I was done, I said I’d like a Colt Cobra .38 or, if possible, a .357 Magnum. What’s up? You guys aren’t gonna give me a gun? The officer didn’t say anything. He was a decent guy but just real serious.
So I looked in the mirror: shaved, hair cut, and with no chains hanging from my neck, I looked like a different person. And I asked myself if the port was ready for a detective like yours truly.
From the beginning, I showed a remarkable talent for doing this kind of work. I found relationships between concepts that other people weren’t aware of. If I had stayed in the port, and above all after my conversation with Dr. Quiroz Cuarón, criminology would’ve evolved millions of years in a matter of minutes. I would have developed a way to detect murderers before they decided to kill their victims, like in that Lars von Trier movie, The Element of Crime.
But just as I was starting my mission, I realized that Rangel was trying to shake me; the Blind Man insisted that I go for a walk with him; Vicente was going to the airport to pick up a specialist who had come to teach a course for the officers. Can I go? No, man, there’s no reason for you to go. You’d get bored. What’s the course about? Criminology, with Dr. Quiroz Cuarón. Dr. Quiroz Cuarón, the great detective? Hey, I said, now that’s what I’m talking about! Dr. Cuarón was a leading figure on an international level. Time magazine referred to him as “the Mexican Sherlock Holmes,” because he had captured literally hundreds of criminals, beginning in the forties: feared murderers like the lunatic Higinio Sobera de la Flor, who killed on a whim, picking his victims at random, or Gregorio Cárdenas, the Tacubaya Strangler. He also apprehended Shelly Hernández, the most wanted con man in Venezuela, a real chameleon of a man, and Enrico Sampietro, an amazing counterfeiter who worked for Al Capone and decided to establish himself in Mexico. Sampietro was so good, he could counterfeit himself. In addition to a lot of other police units, Interpol and the FBI were after him, but the only one who was able to bag him was Dr. Quiroz Cuarón. As if this weren’t enough, the doctor also had the honor of clearing up the true identity of Jacques Mornard, the man who killed Leon Trotsky. Do I wanna see him? Damn yes, I told him, sure as hell I do.
OK. The Blind Man scratched his head. We’ll let you go to the meeting, but you have to keep quiet. If you don’t, I’ll send you back where you came from. Whoa, I said, no way, but I accepted. I was the epitome of an irreproachable agent.
Even though I considered myself more prepared than most to take advantage of this course, above all because I was already an undercover agent in the service of New Journalism, I was willing to keep my mouth shut, and I went. I had hardly sat down when Rangel stuck his head in and called for me. He said that I could not attend the meeting, because my presence would bother the agents. He explained to me that none of the police officers had finished middle school, and they would be inhibited if a young man like me, with such advanced education and of such obvious cultural stature, were to ask intelligent and elaborate questions. If you want to meet the doctor, I’ll introduce you later. In the meantime, he wanted me to go with the Blind Man to patrol the tourist area on the docks to help him to look for a supposed drug dealer, but since I had already made that trip in reverse when I was looking for stuff to smoke in my pipe, I refused: I was risking the chance that one of my hookups would say hi to me or, even worse, that he’d think I was ratting on him. Besides, this guy trying to keep me from entering the course was violating my fundamental human rights. Obviously, a Super Agent like me couldn’t be duped that easily, so I told him sure and I asked the Blind Man to wait for me in the street, but as soon as I could, I went right back and went into the meeting. Of course, before I did, I took not one but two tokes off my pipe, just to be ready for whatever.
Listening to Dr. Quiroz Cuarón’s talk in that condition was an amazing experience. At first, for obvious reasons, it was hard for me to understand what he was saying on a syntactical level, but I did something better: spurred on by the initial effect of the pipe, I was able to meander between the doctor’s words, in the space that he left between one word and another, and begin to dive down deep into their meaning. The detective seemed like an ancient Oriental musician who had come to delight us with his lute. Each time the doctor spoke, his words were like the strumming of its strings. Those interwoven sounds glided through the air, like wisps of smoke filling up the room. My consciousness dove through the spaces, literally submerging itself in different spots, in order to discover hidden associations. It was a good talk: refined, fluid, with the consistency of water.
To begin, the doctor drew an incomprehensible equation on the board. Gentlemen, he said, you all know that in order to solve a murder you have to answer the seven golden questions of the criminal equation: what happened, where, when, how, who, why, and with what instrument? In the case of the two girls, we are faced with a crime with no apparent motive, with no witnesses or leads, and that after a certain period of time was repeated with identical violence on another individual. I had read in some magazine that the doctor was attempting to develop a formula to study serial murderers and, if possible, to catch them: a mathematical equation. So I took note of it.
I had to try really hard, but for a long time I could only latch onto incomplete ideas: “We are facing a creature who lives in the borderlands between insanity and sanity. . . . Despite erasing his tracks impeccably, the butchering of the bodies had an obviously offensive meaning and he carried it out irrationally....
“Despite having been able to hide successfully, every killer leaves almost imperceptible evidence behind, which can lead us to him. Even the most impeccable killer commits unconscious mistakes that expose him, small oversights that reveal his identity. These combine to form the killer’s signature and they are the first variable of my equation.
“Imagine a solitary being that appears to lead a normal life. He is normally quiet and shuns the spotlight. He prefers to stay away from the world and avoids talking about himself, because, what could he say? That he has fantasies in which he tortures his acquaintances to get revenge on them? He lives alone or with some relative who takes care of the practical things.
“He only studied through middle school, if that. He has never had any kind of relationship as a couple and is sexually frustrated.
“He can’t bear people humiliating him. Generally, he has brain damage in the frontal lobe, which is where moral feelings are located, as is our capacity for recognizing other people as individuals. That damage could have been inflicted at birth or as a child, causing him never to be able to identify his victims as people, but rather as animated dolls he can manipulate at will.
“Psychopaths like the one we are looking for begin with their fantasies, then they commit sadistic acts against animals, and finally they attack people. When they assault, they feel neither mercy nor pity. For the killer, his victims are less than human, with no right to live. As he attacks them, he considers himself the master of the other person’s body. Before killing, he normally feels very anxious. He kills in order to avoid that uneasiness. Afterward he relaxes, his mood improves and he can even sleep without remorse.
“In order to resolve these cases, you must put yourself in the shoes of the guilty person and reason like him. You must think like the murderer, this is the right way, but it’s also the riskiest. Unfortunately, not everyone can do it.”
When I noticed it, the doctor’s face was a few inches from my own. I had to make a huge effort to understand his questions; those sentences came from so far away that they produced a kind of echo.
“Let’s see, Mr.—”
“Montoya.”
“Mr. Montoya, very well. Tell me, what do these faces have in common?”
He paused and showed the girls’ pictures, Karla Cevallos and Julia Concepción González, taken in front of their respective classrooms. One was dressed like a rich girl; the other was wearing a modest public school uniform.
“What do you see here? At first glance, there would seem to be no connection between the two of them: they live in two different parts of the city.”
He took the pictures of the two girls and covered the background so that only their faces were visible. Then he covered their uniforms and the González girl’s braids. The result was alarming: they looked alike, the two girls looked the same!
“Impressive,” said Dr. Ridaura, who was in the room.
“There is a logic to all this. This subject chooses his victims; the Tacubaya Strangler acted the same way. He chooses girls who seem to be around ten years old, no more than about three feet high, white skin, black hair, a straight nose, and braids. This is the type of victim he prefers. In his strange way of thinking, he wants to punish them. He deceives them as he attracts them and then kills them with a serrated knife.”
I agreed with him: Right on, I said, and I gave him the thumbs-up sign. He was quite the expert.
Then the doctor looked at his watch and picked up the pictures. “When a homicide like this occurs, it affects us all. Society clamors for quick justice. Justice in a case like this must be backed up by a responsible and scientific investigation. Men, go and do your duty.”
When the session ended, the lackey signaled to me and then came over. “Rangel had to leave,” he said. “He ordered us to take the doctor wherever he wants.”
“Right on,” I said, “that’s awesome! Spending time with one of the best detectives in the world is a huge privilege.”
The Blind Man drove toward the richest neighborhoods in the city and passed in front of a mansion that occupied the longest block, a mansion with incredibly white walls.
“What are we doing here?” asked the doctor.
“I thought you’d be interested to know where the main suspect lives,” said the Blind Man.
“Look,” answered the detective, “I have asked for no such thing. The only thing I want is to be returned to my hotel.”
It was obvious that he couldn’t stand talking to the Blind Man, who you could tell from a mile away was a fan of his.
So we took the old man back, and on the way the Blind Man was so angry that I decided to keep quiet. We dropped the doctor off and before I realized it, the Blind Man had returned to the main suspect’s house. There were a lot of cars parked on the nearby blocks.
“It looks like there’s a party,” he said. “A lot of security, too.” There were two bodyguards at each entrance. “Just think,” he said, “while the people are scared to death, the guy inside there is having a party.”
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Who, the suspect? Williams, John Williams, some people call him Jack.”
As the Blind Man drove, I said to myself: Williams, John Williams, I know that name. “Hey, Romero,” I asked, “is John Williams a tall guy, Jewish, like twenty years old? Because I know him. Is that who you’re talking about?” Romero looked at me, shocked by the news, and I explained to him that the summer before I had met Jack at boarding school in New York, and the two of us had gone partying. We were drunk for three days, but who knows if he remembered me; they were some hectic days, if you know what I mean.
At that moment, our patrol car stopped in front of the main entrance. “What’s up, Romero, why are you stopping?”
“I have no idea,” said the Blind Man, “the engine stopped.”
“Well, start it up, idiot.”
“I’m trying,” he said, “but the engine isn’t starting.” An incredibly tall bodyguard was watching us distrustfully. He elbowed his buddies and they stared at us, too, just watching to see what would happen. A minute later, they came up to us, accompanied by a gringo more than six feet tall, who looked like a soldier.
“Damn,” said the Blind Man, “now we’re f*cked, first they’re gonna beat us up, then they’re gonna report us to the chief. What am I gonna tell Rangel?”
The situation was making me nervous. I wanted to take a hit from my pipe, but the bodyguard was already on his way. So I leaned back in the seat and came up with a foolproof plan.
When the guard stuck his head in through the window, I said, “Good evening, I’ve come to the party.”
“What is your name, sir?”
“Rodrigo Montoya.”
“I’m going to check the list.”
“I won’t be there,” I explained, “I’m just back from a trip; tell Jack I showed up unexpectedly.”
“Wait,” he said, and took out a walkie-talkie.
The guard had a response in a few minutes; he looked me over again and said I could go in.
“That’s it, dude,” I said to Romero, “I’ll tell you later how it went.” The Blind Man couldn’t believe my luck. He grabbed my arm and said, “Find out if that a*shole is right- or left-handed. The most important thing is the weapon; look for the murder weapon. Don’t forget: it has to be a serrated knife. If you find it, we’re halfway there.” It was clear to me that I was on a special mission.
I had to be really tough to head straight into the belly of the beast, but, no problem, I said to myself, I’m a warrior, I can handle this.
As soon as I got out of the car, the car started. “What a coincidence,” the Blind Man said.
“It’s not a coincidence,” I said, “it’s a cosmic sign, I’m used to it.” I was now carrying the weight of the investigation on my shoulders.
There was a huge blow-out party, the kind that make history. Jack came up to welcome me. “What’s happening, Rodrigo? What’re you doing here in the port?”
“I’m on vacation,” I said; I wasn’t going to reveal my mission just like that. And we drank a few whiskeys, in memory of our time together in New York.
Jack asked me what I’d been doing the last couple months, and I told him about studying in the Ibero, about the art house theaters I was going to—films by Fellini and Antonioni—and about how my vision of things was evolving. “Listen,” he insisted, “what’s missing in this port is a person like you, with your experience and your knowledge of art. Why don’t you stick around and work here? My dad wants to invest in a cultural project, he wants to fund a kind of museum and expo center, I think because he wants to get around paying taxes, you know? It would be awesome if you were the director.” In short, he insisted that I accept. I said to myself that I could stay on in Paracuán; in any case, my dad’s businesses were never really interesting to me, but being twenty years old and directing a cultural center, that sure did seem like a cool job. Although, of course, a warrior like me couldn’t succumb to temptation just like that. I thought for a second that Jack knew why I was crashing his party and was trying to bribe me, but he wasn’t going to get off that easy. I was going to identify the perpetrator.
From where we were standing, I could see the kitchen, and I said to him, “I’ll be right back. I was planning to look for the serrated knife, but Jack grabbed me by the arm.
“Come with me, I want to introduce you to some girls,” and he dragged me off to the actual party.
In this mixed-up world, if you don’t get trashed, you get smashed. When Carlos Castaneda figured out the enemies of a man of knowledge, he forgot to mention alcohol and women. Jack introduced me to three girls. “Where are you from?” I asked.
The blonde said, “From California.”
“That’s Carolina—Iowa—and this is Claudette,” said Jack, motioning to the redhead. “She’s from Canada.” The three of them were out of this world.
The mansion had two visible buildings; the bigger one was the main house and the smaller one was the guest house. Between them, there was a huge garden and in the center of the garden they had set up a dance floor with lights and everything. The girls and the other guests were gathered around the drinks, talking. The guys responsible for putting on the CDs were none other than the legendary Freaky Villarreal and René Sánchez Galindo, both total experts. They played soul, blues, and disco and the place was getting hot.
Jack wanted to dance but he didn’t; at heart, he was a shy guy.
“Do you know how to dance to this?” he asked.
“For sure,” I said, “it’s totally easy: you point one hand down, then up into the sky, and you move your hips. What’s the deal, dude? Tough guys don’t dance, or what?” Jack was upset because his girl had broken up with him, the prettiest güerita in the port. “They say that I’m the Jackal; that goddamn rumor is messing up my life.”
I was an upstanding agent, but I also had feelings, and I said that it was really wrong for her to break up with him so quick.
That’s when I had a revelation, a real vision that hit me all of a sudden: these folks were going to die without ever having lived, life was going to f*ck them up, just like my family does to the Christmas turkey, slice by slice, and they were going to die without finding out why or for what they had come into the world. It was enough just to see how they were all standing there, staring at the empty dance floor. I was overcome by an overwhelming sense of sadness.
Right then, they put on “Bring It On Home,” but nobody had it in them to dance, the people were fired up, shaking their feet, there were even a few people moving in their seats, but nobody would start dancing. Then they put on “I Can’t Leave You Alone” by George McRae, and I realized that my mission on earth was something more dangerous than writing a thesis. I said to myself, This is a dangerous mission, but someone’s gotta do it. It takes a real warrior to deal with this situation.
I went out to the center of the dance floor and started to dance in a ritualistic kind of way; I don’t know if you understand that. They shouted at me; “What’s wrong with you, dude? You’re acting stupid,” but I told myself, Who cares? I just danced, totally focused on that song; I showed them how it’s done. I danced like it was my last night on earth; like I’d had to travel all around the country to figure out that stuff about the turkey. I danced with my whole body, and suddenly what do you think happened? Everybody started to get up and dance with me; not one or two or three girls, everybody in there stood up all of a sudden, they joined me, and we danced like the primitive cavemen must have danced in the caverns in Altamira; the girls would come up in front of me, one by one, then they’d move on and leave their place to the next girl; I was so moved watching them, I had tears in my eyes, but I didn’t miss a disco beat, one hand down, one hand raised, pointing up into the infinite sky. Can’t leave you! No! Can’t leave you alone. Can’t leave you! No! Can’t leave you alone.
And then, can you dig it? The prettiest girl in the party came up and stopped in front of me, that incredible redhead, goddamn, I mean really incredible, the redhead from Canada; I guessed she was like seventeen years old but I wasn’t really sure. The girl came and smiled at me like no one had ever smiled at me before, and the volume of the music went down a little, enough for me to ask her, “What’s up, girl, where’d you come from?” And her eyes sparkled. I moved closer, it was an intuition, bro, the first intuition of my life, and I moved closer.
We were in the middle of that when El Freaky decided to put on a slow song, and everybody booed. Everyone fled the dance floor and the girl signaled to me to follow her. Like I already said, there were guest rooms, and she took me in that direction. She gave me a long, wet kiss, as we held each other just inside the door; then she went into the room.
Damn, I said to myself, what do I do now? I knew I had to investigate the case, that I had a really important mission, but what could I do? I tried to resist with all my strength, I even grabbed the doorframe, but she kept calling me and I just said over and over again: No, I shouldn’t, I’m a warrior, not just the puppet of my desires. My brain controls my body, not my pelvis. So she did something I didn’t expect: she started to take off her clothes without looking at me and walked toward the bed.
From my point of view, I saw her walk away from me, showing me her back, as she tied up her hair. When she got beside the bed, she turned—she had the most delicious breasts—and smiled. So I closed the door and pulled the curtains shut. As I took off my clothes, I understood that I wasn’t going to be the one to resolve this case, because already my consciousness was being submerged in nirvana, and my identity and my name were dissolving into infinity. That was the last of the undercover agent.