Silver Bullets (21 page)

In the hotel parking lot he called Ortega. I'm so glad you called. Spill it or I won't give you your lunch money. Last night they found a bright red car in the Rosales Canal and inside was a new model Smith & Wesson, I'll test it to see if it's the weapon we're looking for. Did they find any papers? Nothing, the car was a gypsy, yet another, as if the traffic weren't atrocious enough, neither did we find any prints. Hey, don't you know the case is closed? No kidding, and here I am stuck on it. So it hasn't ended for you either. When a case isn't over there's a certain inertia, we exist inside it; is there news, Lefty? Since you didn't call just to say hello, I know you inside out. A year ago Klaus Timmerman Acevedo got killed, probably with a silver bullet, do you remember that? A year ago I spent three weeks in Vancouver taking a macramé course, what about you? I was taking crochet in Tijuana. That was when it all happened with the girl, right? He ignored that but recalled that it had happened three months later. If they assigned it to us, Sánchez must know something, I'll have to visit him in the country. Leave him alone, I'll look in the archives, a year ago you say? A year ago last week. I'll call you in a little while, listen, thanks for helping Memo, he got a ten on the exam and he's even reading
The Burning Plain
, he says with that novel he'll have read the complete works of Rulfo. He told you it was a novel? No, why? They're short stories. Isn't that the same thing? You aren't any stupider because you aren't any older. Go fuck a duck. What's the name of those rare butterflies you found on Canizales's car? Guasachiatas. See you. He hung up.

Ernestina de Villegas greeted them effusively, offered them coffee, and told them the story of the silver bullets left by her late husband. For a long time they sat in a glass case in the country until my son René took them from the new addition that indeed Señor Abelardo Rodríguez built for us, poor man, I heard that a daughter of his committed suicide. Did your husband like to shoot silver bullets? Never, he kept them to show off to his friends, and at Christmas he would give them as gifts, he bought bullets of different brands and calibers. Then your son shot them. Why would you think that, he's a gentle soul, he must have them at his house and for sure he does the same as Federico, may God hold him in his holy glory. Where could I find him? Right here, he lives in Los Angeles but he came to bring me back and to pick up his wife; he must be at his house in Guadalupe, he lives on Río Presidio, would you like me to call him? No, señora, we have no reason to bother him. You can see him in that picture from his wedding, the biggest one, next to ours. Mendieta glanced at the family photo gallery but showed no interest. Someone was killed with a silver bullet, my compadre Carlos told me. Two, señora. God Almighty, I hope they catch the murderer, what a mess we're in with all these gangsta-wraps. All right, Señora Villegas, thank you for the information. In reality he felt exasperated, the case was closed and they were wasting their time; he had done it for Zelda, who he could see
was really antsy; however, he reminded himself, he should not be making this sort of concession, what was he playing at? They stood up. He was at the end of his rope, and Parra had taught him to recognize that feeling of helplessness and to control it, so would it not be better to take a tranquillizer and go back to reading
News from the Empire
? By now he was totally caught up in the book. Whatever I can do for you, señores, I am pleased to be of service. On the way out he paused a long moment before the photograph of René and his wife: two long-haired young people, smiling, ready to take on the world.

Before he was out the door, his cell phone rang.

There you are, Ortega exclaimed, Timmerman was killed with a silver bullet, and to make you even more happy with a Smith & Wesson, one year ago, they found him in the living room of his house with a bullet in the head. Did he live alone? At the time his family was on vacation in Germany. Was Sánchez in charge? No, it was Ernesto Ponce's last case, your great friend the Gringo. Do you believe it was the same pistol they used to kill Canizales? It's the same type, the models don't change much, are you still stuck on that, my child? Is there any record of the investigation or detainees? They interrogated his family, two brothers, father and mother, three neighbors, and four times Alexis Valenzuela, with whom he had a romantic relationship, according to what's in here, and also René Villegas, a friend of the victim. He hung up.

He was seized by a sudden feeling of dread and pulled the car over. They were on Valadés Parkway beside the Chapultepec Golf Club. He got out and walked the pavement, unable to speak. He stopped. He took a step. He stopped again. Zelda, at a prudent distance, understood that something inside him was falling to pieces.

For three minutes he remained in that state. At last he took a long look up at the sky and went over to his partner: Agent Toledo, do you believe in the power of hugs? She muttered yes. Well, give me your biggest because I'm going to hell in a handbasket.

The only good cop is a dead cop, he declared once they were under way again, if the Mexican police were honest I wouldn't make the grade. They fell silent until they had René Villegas's house in sight, a residence the detective had seen many times before. Muted lighting. Garden. Garage. An almond tree by the curb. Inside the garage, a midsize sedan. Zelda was all wound up, she wanted to know but could not bring herself to ask, who was Loca Adams?

I am going to begin with the flowers, the detective said at last without taking his eyes off the two-story home. He told her about meeting up with Goga, the backstory, their recent time together, and the husband's telephone call. He finished with the text message, which he showed her, Zelda read it and remained silent, she was trying to put it all together without asking questions. So who killed Bruno Canizales? I don't know, and the truth is I don't care. And so it was: His intuition was telling him he was facing a menace that had more to do with him than anything else; there was the business of the silver bullets and the murder of Timmerman, but that was not enough. He was not certain of anything, and that was what hit hardest: appreciating
his own insignificance when faced with the impossible. He did not feel like explaining it. He could not anyway; he did not know how. Nothing is true, nothing is false. What he hoped, now that the moment had arrived, was that her spatial intelligence would help his feet find the ground. They live in the States, he mumbled. What does that mean? Did you see René's wedding picture? I took a quick look. The bride is Goga.

During the next three minutes neither one of them said a thing.

Who is Loca Adams? No idea.

Mendieta thought about
Hamlet
, about maybe having a seventeen-year-old son, about how hard it is to love; even Bardominos came to mind. In reality love is the search for an other who does not exist yet has cunningly polluted our identity.

The cell phone beeped an incoming message. It was from Goga. He glanced down and handed it to Zelda: Open it. Zelda read it and gave it back: Better if you read it. “Forgive me, luv u, want to c u.” Mendieta was again plunged into himself. What sort of person have I been in love with? Could this be a trap? Are they watching? Goga Fox: you do not exist, I never knew you, never made love to you, never saw you walk to the bathroom. He turned to his partner: Zelda. Shall I call for reinforcements? No, you'll have to let me go in alone, as you can tell, this is personal and I wouldn't want anything to happen to you. Boss, I'm your partner. I know, but this is so complicated that it'd be better for you not to get involved. Don't do this to me, if I stay here, I'll go crazy, I swear; if I get the feeling I shouldn't be there, I'll take off, I promise. He took his pistol out of the glove compartment, she took hers out of her bag, they opened the doors. May it be as God wishes.

Knock, knock, knock.

They could hear soft music. Villegas opened the door. Waft of a familiar scent. Mendieta recalled him from the only time he had seen him in Altata the first time he met Goga and also from a few days earlier when he visited the Canizales compound: he was the man with the girls and the brother. His attire was neat and stylish. René Villegas, we are from the police, hands up, you are accused of the murders of Bruno Canizales, Klaus Timmerman, and at least two more in San Bernadino, California. René smiled, he had what looked like a rum and Coke in his hand, Zelda Toledo had her gun trained on him. How are you planning to prove that, you scum? Yes, how do you plan to prove it? mocked Goga, coming into view behind her husband wearing her loose skirt, her flowered blouse, and a sarcastic smile. The Mexican police are nothing but shit, a bunch of idiots, rotten and corrupt, Villegas added without losing his ironic tone. Mendieta smacked him across the head three times and gave him a kick in the groin. That's how, asshole, our infallible method. Don't hit him, shrieked Goga, furious and threatening Mendieta with her nails. You won't even be able to take me in, continued the husband, catching his breath, blood was trickling from one ear, my friends won't let that happen, and believe me I've got them all the way to the top, besides you don't have any proof; you know what you've got in your head? Shit; he took a swig from a bottle of rum he had at hand, you stupid son of a bitch. And who told you we need any proof to bust your ass, eh? He kicked him again and smacked him on the neck. Zelda kept her gun on the couple, who ignored her. Villegas reeled, and Goga stepped between them: Leave him alone, you Neanderthal. You, get over there, he shoved her hard, a lamp and several porcelain knickknacks tumbled, didn't you want to see me, Loca Adams? Her face fell. I like that nickname, it sends me, it incites me. Zelda took her by the arm; Goga pushed her away: Let go, you bitch, she looked
at Mendieta, her eyes out of orbit, I was dying to see you, don't you feel it? Don't my pheromones excite you? And look, imbecile, apart from your brutality you have nothing on René, what is all this about him killing Klaus Timmerman? Admit it, your rival is much smarter than you, more astute, better looking, and he has you beaten, she was livid and Villegas was smiling, the rum spilling out of the bottle. It's true, I don't know if it was you or him that murdered Canizales. Don't make me laugh, how are you going to prove that? By your Indian perfume, “So You Won't Forget Me.” Goga stopped smiling. It was the fragrance she was giving off at that very moment, the same one the detective smelled when he opened the door. You dolt, she howled, and she leaped at him, but Zelda, who thought in images, did crossword puzzles, and played chess with Rodo, laid her out cleanly, handcuffed her, and then cuffed the husband, who was weaving, a bit seasick. You still won't find anything to pin on us, you idiot, you won't get me to confess, it's your word against mine. Zelda, call Ortega, tell him to bring the sweeper. Then he called Gori Hortigosa, the specialist in problematic confessions. My man Gori, how's the fuse? I'm fine, my man Lefty, here celebrating my daughter's fifteenth birthday. Could you do a job? Is it urgent? More or less. You know it is my vocation. I'll meet you at the Cathedral in an hour. He turned to Villegas: In the Cathedral everyone confesses, to date no one has kept any secrets from Gori Hortigosa, you decide. The husband smiled: We beat you, Lefty Mendieta, admit it. Goga glared at him unblinking: You are a second-rate detective and a novice in bed. She had had enough of you, the husband added, a guy who doesn't know how to make love, doesn't know how to do anything, after Canizales you were her worst student. Is that why you waited for him that Thursday, to kill him? That's why and because he didn't want to dress up as a girl, he claimed he didn't have the clothes with him,
he also resisted something else that he considered a humiliation, something you submitted to like a lamb, we didn't even need our perfume's narcotic spell, except that today you were fated to die, are you recording this? Because I don't care. Mendieta held in check his urge to crush him. We killed him together, Goga said proudly. Of course, sweetheart, although I arranged the sheets myself, I am not blaming you, and nothing is going to happen to us, in a couple of hours we'll get out of this and we'll go far away, on the other side we'll find someone to play with; well, perhaps we'll leave a souvenir for that guy Quiroz, who has been an utter pain in the ass; the other night you only escaped by a miracle. Forgive me for falling asleep, Goga said with a smile, and this idiot believed you were calling from the airport.

How long did you wait for Canizales? Three hours, the asshole had gone to Mazatlán to see Isadora. At first we had other plans, to have a good time and all, but he took so long and waiting is always aggravating. He remembered the kid with the bike. We have a witness who saw you coming out. It doesn't matter, you can't beat us, we have enough money to buy the Supreme Court if we need to. Not even his call at Christmas was enough for you to forgive him. Forgiveness is for weaklings and retards, not us. What about the Smith & Wesson? It's in my closet with the bullets I have left, we satisfied Bruno's wish, right, my love? Goga did not answer.

A car pulled up.

The detectives thought it was Guillermo Ortega, but no, it was Samantha Valdés and Mariana Kelly. Oh, no, Mendieta, you again? Sheesh, don't you ever get tired of bothering me? Now what? Mariana understood immediately; she grabbed Samantha by the arm: I think we should leave right now, Sam, please, I'm begging you. They killed Bruno Canizales, the detective said. Samantha's jaw dropped. Is it true? Her eyes were blazing. Fuck.
It was a lamentable accident, Sam, that's all. Were you involved with him? Not at all, why get excited? You didn't love him either, Goga pointed out scornfully. Mariana pulled her toward the door: Sam, please, for me. What a shitty thing to do, fucking Goga, I didn't love him, but my son did. Don't be ridiculous, the husband intervened, stop talking crap and call your muscle so this Neanderthal will leave us alone. You are mistaken, you fucking slummy faggot, you must have shit for brains if you think I'm going to let this lie, she was trembling with rage; I suspected you had something to do with Bruno, but I didn't believe you had it in you. Don't exaggerate, it's no big deal. Samantha pressed her lips together: You don't say, would you like to tell me what is important? You must live on the fucking moon; Mendieta, do me a favor, I don't like you one bit, that you know, but in good faith leave them to me, the case is closed, you said so yourself, and if Bruno's death pains my son, then it pains me too, shit, also because of all the things I told you about; let the water flow, Mendieta, let the fur fly. Mariana stiffened. Zelda fixed her with a glare.

Goga was the first to change her tune: Don't do it, Edgar, do your duty and let the courts try us, the twenty or thirty years they give us we'll manage to get through somehow. I think that would be best, the husband echoed her, listen, all the stuff I said I was just kidding, you really are a wonderful policeman, would you like to know about the silver bullets? Besides the fact that he wanted it, contrary to Timmerman, it was a game. Samantha slapped him: Shut up, asshole, you and your little games, she turned to the detective, so? Hang on a minute, how many more did you kill in San Bernadino? Mendieta, don't get pushy, buddy, besides what good would it do you?

Take off their handcuffs, he ordered his partner. Edgar, I beg you, I truly did want to see you, make love to you, talk to you, do
that little sashay, don't you see how I'm dressed? Zelda, deeply upset, went ahead. Samantha called her bodyguards, Goga continued begging for forgiveness, two unfamiliar faces came in, they looked sunburned, one was carrying an AK. I'll get the blankets, the other grumbled as he climbed the stairs to the second floor where the bedroom had to be, the one with the rifle covered their mouths with packing tape and tied their hands behind them.

They left.

While he was calling Ortega he watched them take the couple out and put them in the bodyguards' black Hummer. Where are you? Close by, at Obregón and Zapata. Forget it, there's nothing. Lefty, what happened? Jack the Ripper, he did it again. Aha, and you couldn't find any better entertainment than to call me? Right, but I don't want any trouble with Sarita. Shall I confess something? In reality I couldn't go, Pineda asked for a hand in Piggyback, who do you think got whacked? No idea. Your friend the Gringo, along with a girl and two triggermen. Well, let's hope he makes good use of you, see you later. He hung up. He watched the women get into the green Hummer and pull out, the black one close behind, heading toward the coast highway. At that moment he was telling Gori Hortigosa to stay home with his guests.

Boss, Zelda gave him back his handcuffs, did we do the right thing? I doubt it, shall we go? They got into the Jetta.

The following day the city was shaken by the notoriety and beauty of the gangsta-wraps as well as by the savagery with which they had been massacred. There were statements from their friends, promises by the authorities to end the violence, and a march demanding that the crime be solved.
Eyes on the Night
doubled its rating, and its star reporter became a serious
candidate for journalist of the year. Gringo Ponce and the rest did not merit a mention.

As soon as he was alone, Mendieta broke down and wept. He did not want to, but nothing convinced him otherwise. He cursed life, love, and short-haired women. He cursed himself. On Dr. Parra's advice, he spent a few days in Mazatlán, where he met a brown-skinned woman who had one green eye and the other the color of honey; she was also a lefty, but that is another tale.