City (15 page)

“Fuck.”

“Right. Except that Mondini said Thanks a million, another time.”

“No!”

“Yes. He says that first Larry has to have one more fight.”

“Is he crazy?”

“It's not clear what he has in mind. All he says is that first Larry has to have another fight, and then they'll see.”

“But Benson is a shortcut to the championship, if Larry beats him . . .”

“Nothing to do about it, Mondini's deaf in that ear.”

“He's gone mad, the old man.”

“No, he's got something in mind. The other night, Larry went to him directly and said Maestro, you owe me an answer. Mondini looked at him and then he said: After the next fight, Larry, and I'm going to choose it.”

“Come on . . .”

“Then Larry put on a smile and said All right, OK, whatever you like, Maestro, who am I supposed to take out?”

“Right, who the hell is he supposed to take out?”

“Now comes the best part.”

“Which is?”

“Mondini is a weird guy, it's hard to tell what he has in mind.”

“What on earth do you mean, Gould?”

“With all the fighters to choose from, it's odd, really, incomprehensible . . .”

“So who the hell did he choose?”

“You'd never guess.”

“So, come on . . .”

Gould turned for a second to look at Shatzy, over there with Prof. Bandini. Then he said softly:

“Poreda.”

“Who?”

“Poreda.”

“
Stanley
Poreda?”

“Yes.”

“Poreda the one with the broken arms?”

“That's the one.”

“What the hell's going on?”

“I said you wouldn't believe it.”

“Poreda?”

“Stanley Hooker Poreda.”

“That son of a bitch.”

“You can say that again.”

“Poreda . . . fuck.”

“Poreda.”

POOMERANG: Stanley Poreda had retired two years earlier. To be exact, he had had to retire. He had sold a fight, only things had gone wrong. His opponent was a guy related to a boss in Belem. His form was good, but in terms of power he was a disaster, he couldn't have beaten a drunk. Poreda was an artist in simulating the KO, but in the first four rounds he didn't take a single hit that bore the slightest resemblance to a real blow. He would have liked to go down and head home. But there was no way to get a decent punch out of that worthless wimp. So, just to do something, at the end of the fourth round he went in with a jab and doubled it with a hook. Nothing special. But the wimp went down. Saved by the bell. When Poreda returned to his corner, a very well dressed guy appeared, with a gold-filtered cigarette in his mouth. He didn't even take it out of his mouth when he leaned over and whispered: You worm, try that again and you're fucked. He only took it out when, a second later, he spat into the water bottle and said to the corner: Give the boy something to drink, he's thirsty. Poreda was, in his way, a professional. He grabbed the bottle and took a drink without turning a hair. Then the bell sounded. The wimp got up, staggering a little, but, when he got to the center of the ring, he had the strength to say to Poreda: let's get this over with, you creep. Right, Poreda thought. He opened his defense with a couple of jabs, then went in with an uppercut and ended with a right hook. The wimp flew backwards like a puppet. When he landed he looked like someone who had fallen from a tenth-floor window. Poreda took off his mouthpiece, went straight to the wimp's corner, and said: Give the boy something to drink, he's thirsty. Ten days later, two thugs with guns came to his house. They broke both his arms, crushing them, one after the other, in the door. End of the line, Poreda thought.

DIESEL: He had started out with Mondini. Two or three fights, then the Maestro had caught him going down on a ridiculous punch, and had understood. It's a profession like any other, Poreda had said to him. It's not mine, Mondini had said. And he had thrown him out of the gym. Mondini had continued to follow his progress, from a distance. He wasn't a great fighter, Poreda, but he was like an animal that has found in the ring its habitat. He knew all the tricks, he had even invented a few, and some he executed with indisputable perfection. Above all: he was strong. He was strong like almost no other active fighters. It was a skill. When he decided to, he was capable of unloading in a single punch all hundred and eighty pounds of himself, it was as if for one instant every ounce of his body went into that glove. Even his butt, Mondini said. He had a kind of admiration for him. So, when this business of Larry and the world championship started up, that was who came to mind: with all the other fighters around: him.

POOMERANG: It wasn't a stupid idea. Apart from the real champions, Poreda was the dirtiest, toughest, strongest, and most skillful opponent he could find for Larry. He was boxing after you took away the poetry. He was combat reduced to the bone. Only, he had to be persuaded to return to the ring. Mondini put on his good overcoat, went to the bank, withdrew some of his savings, and went to find Poreda in the gym where he was a trainer. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but the slaughterhouse was nearby.

“That's some money,” Poreda noted, weighing the stack of bills. “Too much to buy a fighter who stopped selling fights two years ago.”

Mondini didn't blink.

“You don't understand, Poreda. I'll pay you if you win.”

“If I win?”

“Exactly.”

“You're crazy. That kid has talent, you've got a real treasure there, and you're paying someone to beat him.”

“I have my reasons, Poreda.”

“No, no, I don't want to know about that stuff any more, I'm finished with betting, I don't have any other arms to break, I've had enough.”

“Betting doesn't enter into it, I swear to you.”

“Then what is it, now you're training people to see them lose?”

“It happens.”

“You're crazy.”

“Maybe. You'll do it?”

Poreda couldn't believe it. It was the first time he had ever been paid a bribe to win.

“Mondini, let's not kid around, that Gorman is quite a little talent, but you know, if I want to, I'll figure out a way to get him.”

“I know. That's why I'm here.”

“There's a risk you'll lose your money.”

“I know.”

“Mondini . . .”

“What?”

“What's behind this?”

“Nothing. I want to see if the kid can still dance once I soak him in shit. You're the shit.”

Poreda smiled. He had an ex-wife who was after him for alimony, a girlfriend who was fifteen years younger than he, and a taxman who was taking a thousand dollars a month to forget his name. So he smiled. Then he spat on the ground. It had always been his way of signing a contract.

“She coughed.”

“What?”

“Shatzy . . . coughed.”

“We're at the good part.”

“He's mad about her, he'll sell it to her, positively he'll sell it to her.”

“Is the button open?”

“You can't see from here.”

“It must be open.”

“I don't think it will be enough.”

“Ten that he does it,” Poomerang didn't say, and took a greasy bill out of his pocket.

“Done. And another twenty on Poreda.”

“No bets on Poreda, guys, Mondini swore to him.”

“What does that have to do with it, we always bet.”

“Not this time, this time it's serious.”

“The other times weren't?”

“This is more serious.”

“OK, but it's still boxing, isn't it?”

“Mondini swore to him.”

“Mondini, not me, I never swore I wouldn't bet . . .”

“It's the same thing.”

“It is not the same thing.”

Right at that moment, Prof. Bandini said to Shatzy:

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

Shatzy smiled.

“Another time, Professor.”

She held out her hand and Prof. Bandini shook it.

“Another time, then.”

“Yes.”

Shatzy turned and went back down the stone path. Just before she reached the garage, she rebuttoned the button, the one over her breasts. When she stopped in front of Gould her expression was serious.

“His wife left him. For a woman.”

“Splendid.”

“You could have told me.”

“I didn't know.”

“Isn't he your professor?”

“He doesn't lecture about his marriage.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

She turned. The professor was still there. He waved to her. She waved back.

“He's a nice guy.”

“Yes.”

“He didn't deserve a yellow trailer. Sometimes people punish themselves for reasons they don't even understand, so, just for the taste of punishment . . . they decide . . . to punish themselves.”

“Shatzy . . .”

“Yes?”

“WILL YOU PLEASE TELL ME IF YOU RIPPED OFF THAT BLASTED TRAILER, YES OR NO?”

“Gould?”

“Yes.”

“Don't shout.”

“OK.”

“You want to know if I managed to buy a '71 yellow Pagoda trailer for almost nothing?”

“Yes.”

“GOD DAMN YOU CHICKEN BASTARD, OF COURSE I DID.”

She shouted so loud that she popped the button over her tits. Gould, Diesel and Poomerang were dumbstruck, their eyes looked like eggs in gelatin. Not because of the button, because of the trailer. It had never crossed their minds that it would really happen. They looked at Shatzy as if at the reincarnation of Mami Jane, returned to cut off the balls of Franz Forte, the business manager of CRB. God damn you chicken bastard, she had done it.

Two days later, a tow truck brought the trailer to Gould's house. They parked it in the yard. They washed it carefully, even the tires, the windows, everything. It was very yellow. It was like a toy house, something made for children. Neighbors passing by stopped to look at it. Someone once said to Shatzy that it wouldn't be bad to have a porch on the front, a plastic porch, like the ones sold at the supermarket. They even came in yellow.

“No porch,” said Shatzy.

18

Pitt Clark's body was found after a four-day search, buried under two feet of dirt, near the river. Doc examined it and said that Pitt had died of suffocation, probably he had been buried alive. He had bruises on his arms, his neck and his back. Before he was buried, he had been raped. Pitt was eleven years old.

Now listen to a strange story, Shatzy said.

The same day Pitt was found, an Indian everyone called Bear disappeared from the Clark ranch. Someone saw him leave town, on horseback, heading for the mountains. Bear was Pitt's friend. Pitt always listened to him. They often went swimming together, down at the river. And they hunted snakes. They'd keep them alive for a while, feeding them mice. Then they killed them. Bear must have been about twenty. They called him that because he was odd. With people, he was odd. Under his cot they found a tin can and in the can a bracelet that Pitt always wore on his right wrist. It was made of snakeskin.

Shatzy said that many people volunteered to go after the Indian. It was intoxicating, to hunt a man. But the sheriff said: I'm going. Alone. His name was Wister, and he was a fine man. He didn't like hangings and he believed in trials. He knew Pitt, every so often he'd taken him fishing, and he had also promised him that when he was fourteen he would teach him to shoot—to hit a bottle, at ten paces, with his eyes closed. He said: Bear is my business.

He left in the morning, while the wind raised whirlpools of dust under the grill of a burning sun.

Now pay attention, Shatzy said. A manhunt is pure geometry. Points, lines, distances. Draw it on a map: an intoxicated but implacable geometry. It can last hours or weeks. One flees, the other follows. Every minute takes them farther from the land that brought them forth and that, if questioned, would recognize them. Soon they become two points in a void where the good can no longer be distinguished from the bad. Then even if they wanted to they would be unable to change anything. They are objective trajectories, geometries calculated by destiny starting from a wrong. They will wind down only in a final result, written as a footnote to life, in blood-red ink. Music.

Shatzy did the music, with her mouth closed, something like a big orchestra, violins and trumpets, it was done well. Then she asked you: Everything clear?

More or less.

You'll see, it's not hard.

All right.

Shall we go?

Let's go.

Sheriff Wister heads for the mountains. He takes the trail for Pinter Pass. He goes up through a forest, looks for Bear's tracks and figures he must have half a day's advantage. When the trees thin out he stops to rest his horse. Then he starts off again. He goes along the mountain ridge, slowly, studying the hoofprints on the trail. It takes a while but finally he is able to recognize those of Bear's horse. He imagines that the Indian, if he wanted, could have made them vanish. The boy must be sure of himself, and relaxed. Maybe he believes he can reach the border. Maybe he doesn't think he's being followed. He spurs his horse and goes up towards Pinter Pass. By the time he arrives it's evening. He looks down, at the narrow valley that descends to the desert. Far away, he seems to see a tiny wake of dust rising in the midst of the emptiness. He goes down a few hundred yards, finds a cave, stops the horse. He is tired. He spends the night there.

On the second day, Sheriff Wister wakes at dawn. He takes his binoculars and looks down into the valley. He sees a small dark patch along the trail. Bear. He gets on his horse, carefully makes his way down the steep mountain ledges. When he gets to the valley floor he spurs his horse to a gallop. He rides for an hour, without a break. Then he stops. He can see Bear with his naked eye, a mile or so ahead. He seems to have stopped. Wister gets off his horse. He shelters under a big tree and rests. When he starts off again, the sun is at its zenith. His horse goes at an easy pace, and not for a second does he take his eyes off Bear's silhouette, small and dark ahead of him. He still appears not to be moving. Why doesn't he flee? thinks Sheriff Wister. He rides for half an hour, then stops. Bear is no more than five hundred yards away. He is motionless, sitting in the saddle of a dappled horse. He could be a statue. Sheriff Wister loads his rifle and checks his pistols. He looks at the sun. It's about to go behind him. You're finished, kid. He takes off at a gallop. A hundred yards, then another hundred, he rides without a pause, finally he sees Bear move, leave the trail and head to the right. Where are you going, kid, that way is the desert, he plants his spurs in the side of his horse, leaves the trail and follows him. Bear turns to the east, then west again, and again east. Where are you going, kid? thinks Sheriff Wister. He slows down, Bear stays five hundred yards ahead, after a while he stops, Wister sees this and urges his horse to a gallop, Bear takes off, turns to the east again, the colors fade, and suddenly night falls. Wister stops. OK, kid. I'm not in a hurry. He dismounts, makes camp, lights a fire. Before he goes to sleep, he sees in the darkness the light of Bear's campfire, five hundred yards ahead. Good night, kid.

On the third day, Sheriff Wister wakes before dawn. He stirs up the fire, heats the coffee. He sees no lights in the darkness. He waits. At daybreak, he sees Bear in the distance, standing motionless beside his dappled bay. He takes the binoculars. The boy doesn't have a rifle. Maybe a pistol. Sheriff Wister sits down on the ground. The first move is yours, kid. They stay like that for hours. Sun burning the emptiness all around. Every half hour Sheriff Wister takes a swallow of water and one of whiskey. The light is blinding. Suddenly he sees Pitt again, laughing, running. Then he sees him shout, shout, shout. He looks at his hands and they are trembling. Die, you son of a bitch, die you Indian bastard. He gets up. He feels his head spinning. He takes the reins in his hand and begins to walk, leading the horse. He walks slowly, but he realizes that Bear is getting closer. The boy isn't moving. He doesn't get on his horse, doesn't run away. Three hundred yards. Two hundred. Sheriff Wister stops. He shouts: End it, Bear. He says softly: Get yourself killed, like a good boy. And again shouting: Bear, don't be a fool. The boy remains motionless. Wister checks rifle and pistols. Then he climbs into the saddle. He takes off at a gallop. He sees Bear mount his horse and go. They ride for half an hour, like that. No more than two hundred yards separates them. A pueblo appears on the horizon, forgotten in the emptiness. Bear heads for it, Wister follows. Ten minutes later Bear enters the pueblo at a gallop and disappears. Sheriff Wister slows down and gets off his horse. He draws his gun before reaching the first houses. Not a living soul. He walks slowly, keeping close to the walls, alert to the slightest sound. He looks in every window, reads every shadow. He feels his heart pounding in his ears. Stay calm, he thinks. Probably he's not even armed. All you have to do is find him and get rid of him. He's just a kid. He sees an old woman standing in the doorway of a
posada.
He approaches. He asks her in Spanish if she's seen an Indian, on a dappled horse. She nods yes, with her head, and points towards the other end of the village, where the trail goes on into the emptiness. Wister aims the rifle at her head. Don't lie, he says in Spanish. She makes the sign of the cross, and again points to the far end of the village. Do you have anything to drink? The woman goes into the
posada
and comes out with some whiskey. Sheriff Wister drinks. Did he take water, the Indian? The woman nods yes. You know who he is? Then the woman says: yes.
Es un chico que va detras de un asesino.
Sheriff Wister stares at her. Did he tell you that? Yes. Sheriff Wister takes another swallow of whiskey. You're dead, kid, he thinks. He gets on his horse, tosses a coin to the old woman, puts the whiskey in his pack, and proceeds, slowly, to the edge of the village. When he passes the last house he looks ahead. Nothing. He turns right. He sees Bear motionless in the saddle, no more than two hundred yards away.
Es un chico que va detras de un asesino.
Sheriff Wister quickly grabs the gun from the saddle, aims, and shoots. Twice. Bear doesn't move. The echo of the shots disappears slowly in the air. Sheriff Wister throws away the cartridge. Stay calm, he thinks. Don't you see he's too far away? Stay calm. He watches Bear. He wants to shout something at him, but doesn't know what. He turns his horse, goes back to the first house, and dismounts. He spends the night there. But he can't sleep. A gun, always, in his hand.

On the fourth day, Sheriff Wister leaves the pueblo and sees Bear in the distance, on the trail that leads to the desert. He gets on his horse and follows him, slowly. He lets the horse carry him. Every so often he falls asleep: from the heat, the exhaustion. After three hours he stops at a spring. The Indian might have poisoned it, he thinks. He refills his canteens and sets off. I mustn't let him reach the desert, he thinks. We'll both die there. He has a swallow of whiskey. He waits until the sun is lower on the horizon. Then he takes off at a gallop. Bear doesn't seem to be aware of him. He keeps going, slowly, without turning. Perhaps he's sleeping. He's mine, thinks Sheriff Wister. Three hundred yards. Two hundred yards. A hundred yards. Sheriff Wister draws his gun. Fifty yards. Bear turns, he has a rifle in his hand, aims and shoots. One shot. Wister's horse swerves to the right, then collapses on its front legs. The animal is lying on its side. It lifts its head, tries to stand up. Wister manages to slide out from under it. He feels a burning pain in his shoulder. Then he hears a second shot enter the animal's flesh. He raises his head, and, leaning against the horse's body, fires three shots, one after the other. Bear's horse rears up on its hind legs and rolls over on its back, legs in the air, kicking. Sheriff Wister grabs his rifle from the saddle. Bear regains control of his horse and gallops off, trying to escape. Wister aims and fires two shots. It seems to him that he sees Bear fold over the animal's neck. Then he sees the horse break its stride, stagger, move another twenty yards, and collapse. He sees Bear's body flung in the dust. Adios, kid, he thinks. He loads the gun, takes aim. Bear is trying to get up. Wister fires. He sees a swirl of dust, twenty yards in front of Bear's body. Shit, he says. He fires again. The second bullet hits beside the first. Bear has gotten up. He retrieves his gun. With the other hand he unhooks the saddlebags from the saddle. He stands there, staring at Wister. Eighty yards between them. A gunshot. Something more. Sheriff Wister looks at the sun. Still a couple of hours before dark, he thinks. His shoulder hurts, he can't move the arm without feeling a sharp pain.
Muy bien,
kid. He unhooks his saddlebags and throws them over his good shoulder. He loads his gun. And starts walking. Bear sees him, turns, and heads off, also walking, slowly. Sheriff Wister thinks that running would be absurd. He imagines the scene as viewed from above, two men running in a void, and thinks: we are two condemned men. Then for an instant he sees Pitt running, and running, and trying to flee, along the river, running, fleeing. God damn it, he thinks. I'll kill you, kid. He reaches Bear's horse. It's still breathing. Wister empties the gun into its head. I'll kill you, kid. Then he starts walking again. When evening comes, he sees Bear disappear in the darkness. He stops. He's crazy with the pain in his shoulder. He lies down on the ground. He grasps the gun in his hand. He tries not to fall asleep. I haven't slept for two days, he thinks.

On the fifth day Sheriff Wister feels the fever clouding his sight and making his heart race. Doesn't that bastard ever sleep? He sees him up ahead, seemingly as far away as the day before, but Wister's eyes are burning, and there are no shadows in the morning light. He starts off. He tries to remember where the trail leads, and how many miles they've covered since the pueblo. Bear, in front of him, walks without stopping. Every so often he turns. Then he keeps going. It's the way to Salina. He can't let him get that far. He can't get to Salina. He stops. He bends down. He picks up a clot of dust. Blood and dust. He looks at Bear. So I got you, kid. You didn't want to tell me, eh? He straightens. He takes a few steps. Another bloodstain.
Muy bien,
you bastard. He no longer feels the fever. He starts walking. Three hours later Bear abandons the trail and turns east. Sheriff Wister stops. He's mad, he thinks. He's going into the desert. He's mad. He takes his gun and shoots into the air. Bear stops, turns. Wister lets his saddlebags fall to the ground. Then he throws down his rifle. He opens his arms wide. Bear doesn't move. Wister walks towards him, slowly. Bear doesn't move. Wister keeps walking, lowers his arms and moves his hands to his guns. He is fifty yards from the Indian. He stops. End it, kid, he shouts. Bear doesn't move. That's the desert over there, you want to die like a fool? he cries. Bear takes a few steps towards him. Then stops. They stand there, facing each other, two black squiggles in the desert. The sun beats down. It's a world without shadows. The silence is so terrible that Sheriff Wister hears Pitt screaming inside him. He tries to remember the boy's face but he can't, he only hears that cry, so loud. He tries to focus on Bear. But the cry will not leave him in peace. You have to do your job, he says to himself. Forget the rest. Do your job. He realizes that he is staring at the ground. He lifts his head suddenly. He gazes at Bear. He sees two absent eyes. Invincible, he thinks. Then, like a lightning bolt, fear strikes him, and his legs crumple. He has held it off for days. It arrives now, like a silent explosion. He drops to his knees. He falls forwards, with his hands on the ground. They are trembling. He can't breathe, the blood is beating in his temples. With a huge effort he looks up. Bear is still standing there. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. There are no birds in the sky, nor snakes in the dust, nor wind to riffle the grasses, no horizon, nothing. The world has disappeared. Sheriff Wister murmurs softly: go to hell, kid. He gets to his feet, casts a last glance at Bear, then turns—turns—and stumbling reaches his rifle. He grabs it. He takes a few more steps. He picks up his saddlebag and throws it over his good shoulder. Without a glance back he walks on, watching his steps. He doesn't stop until dark. He falls to the ground. He sleeps. In the middle of the night he wakes up. He starts walking again, following the faint traces of the trail. He falls to the ground again. He closes his eyes. He dreams.