Silver Bullets (4 page)

Cavalry charge. His secretary Angelita gave him the news that Attorney Canizales had been at work at Social Security on Thursday from eight in the morning until six in the evening without breaking for lunch. Could he have been plotting something against the union? Those guys also find time to rub people out.

He went back to the father, who immediately offered him another drink. Mendieta could see the aura of sadness through the fumes from the alcohol and the cigarillo. He worked in construction, that was why he had guns. Now with the crisis everything has ground to a halt, for example, I couldn't pay for my daughter to do a graduate degree in Spain, if I'd had the cash for that maybe this wouldn't have happened; she probably would have been able to withstand Canizales dumping her; I never understood the man, imagine daring to leave a girl of that caliber. Señor Rodríguez, there are more stupid people than we think. He was fifty-two and in his youth he'd made it as a midfielder with Chivas in Guadalajara, but he missed his family too much and after three months he quit. His office was in the tenth lot, just this side of Piggyback.

Thirty-eight minutes later, Montaño called from the room next door. Positive result, Lefty my man, I'll take a sample with me and write up the record in case you need it; we also found gunpowder on her right hand; listen, what perfection, eh? I've been asking myself where she could have been hiding that I never met her. Thank you, Doctor, see you later; Señor Rodríguez, the forensic doctor is finished, I've got to get going, the technicians will analyze the pistol and when you bring me the permit I'll return it to you. Mendieta preferred tequila, but he had no problem saying “your health” again, it was a way of consoling the
afflicted father. What do you think of Smith & Wessons, Señor Rodríguez? Fine, but I'm loyal to Sergeant Pietro Beretta. They said good-bye.

At a seafood stand, he ate fish ceviche and shrimp with octopus and had a tamarind juice before going on to headquarters.

Gringo, you work for me, you have no business carrying out my daughter's caprices, let this be the last time you eliminate someone without my consent, especially when it has nothing to do with the business; if I asked you to threaten him a couple of times that means nothing and you ought to know that; I am on good terms with his father and it is going to hurt me if he finds out that one of my men was behind the murder of his son. They were in a small and stuffy office at the back of the residence, crowded with a tiny desk, a couple of chairs, a bar-fridge, and a safe that rarely held any money. Marcelo Valdés always put things where they belonged. But Don Marcelo. Shut up, he threw a paperweight at him, and it struck him in the chest, the one in charge around here is me, the one who does the talking is me, the one who gives the orders is me; I know you brought Tany Contreras in for the job, so send him back to Nogales and tell him to stay put until I give the order, what kind of stupidity is that to use silver bullets? What, the guy was a vampire? Because his family is unimpeachable. I didn't know. . . . Shut your mouth I'm telling you, he threw a statuette at him. Actually we haven't paid Tany. You figure that out, I don't plan to give you a single
peso. Ernesto Ponce, the Gringo: forty-two years old, tall, strong, with white skin and blue eyes, a gold bracelet on each wrist and four diamond rings; he wore a blue silk shirt and classic Levi's, ostrich-leather cowboy boots. Change the guards, this morning I saw them sitting on the log chewing the fat while who knows what could have been happening outside, they're of no use to me, I need people with eagle eyes and the bodies of sharks. A knock. Who is it? My love, they're calling you from Mexico City. He made a sign to the Gringo to open the door and get lost, his wife handed him a cordless telephone. Hello? He listened for a few moments. Tell the honorable minister that I will not invest in that, I am not interested in the soft-drink industry, and if he continues harassing me I will take my money out of the country and put it in Costa Rica or wherever, we'll see who loses more, good night, he hung up; that idiot, what's going on? They give him a post and he thinks the Virgin speaks to him, I spent years greasing his palm and now he wants to lean on me; what he is he owes to me and he hasn't a clue how money is made. My life, my love, don't get upset, remember what the doctor said, there was a brief silence. I want to disappear, go away someplace where nobody knows me, what, do they want to see me dead? Well, they're the ones who'll be fucked. Calm down, my love, tomorrow I'll go pray to Malverde and I'll take him our donation, but calm down, would you like to have supper now? He closed his eyes, I'd like a steak with a nice guacamole and a cold beer, he leaned back in his easy chair. That's not good for you, my king, wait until you're better and I'll make it just the way you like it; oh, yes, two ladies from El Potrero de los Rivas came by. Yeah? A village near my mother's home. What did they want? Could you bring in electric lights and could we help restore the church, it's falling down. You take care of that, get the electricity put in right away, and fix up the school too. You are a saint, my love. Mmm.

Cavalry charge. He was driving down Zapata Boulevard toward his office listening to a news flash from the journalist Quiroz: “Found dead this morning, murdered at his home in this city's Guadalupe neighborhood, was Attorney Bruno Canizales, nominee for professional of the year and eldest son of Engineer Hildegardo Canizales, minister of agriculture in the government of Alonso Trujillo. He had a bullet hole in his head, and an empty 9-mm shell was found; the police, this station has learned, are chasing down two clues that are certain to lead them to the murderers. For
Eyes on the Night
this is Daniel Quiroz reporting.” Mendieta, he barked. What a delight to hear your voice, kiddo. Who's talking? What do you mean who's talking, I thought you'd be jumping for joy. Look, I'm in Cinépolis in the middle of a shoot-out, call me in three hours. Right, I won't curse your mother because we have the same one. Enrique? I haven't heard that you've got another brother, asshole, unless our mother rose from the dead and our father finally turned up after forty years, is it true about the shoot-out? Because I can't hear shit. An old trick. Well, you've got good aim, how are you? Rolling in glory, and you? Same as always, up to my ears in work but I'm good,
his brother had gone away after his lover had died and for twelve years he had been living in Oregon, how are my hometown girls? Culiacán girls are great, you know they're our pride and our perdition. You can't imagine how much I think about them. So, come back, what are you doing over there? Do you remember the son of Doña Librada, that nutcase who was your buddy? How could I not remember my pal Teo? Well, he said to hell with everything on the other side of the border, he bought a rig, and he's driving around the country; he takes loads from Tijuana to Veracruz, from Culiacán to Laredo, and all over. Well, one of these days I'll do something like that, how's the Col Pop? Better than ever. Can you still score weed on the corner? Sure. Okay, I just called to see how you were, since you're incapable of doing it. I appreciate it, truly. And what about your love life, kiddo? I'll tell you about that some other time. That means you're cold; don't get stuck, remember love is renewable, any nail will pull out a tack. I'm all right, you'll see when I tell you about it, do you think the Culiacán girls would let somebody like me be alone for long? No, that's true, they must be tearing each other's hair out over your bones. More or less. What about the blonde? Later, I tell you, how's Isabel? We're fine, going to fat but nothing else; okay, kiddo, say hello to the bros and take care of yourself.

Briseño's cubicle had his name printed on an acrylic strip glued to the door. Lefty went in. The chief, an overweight thirty-six-year-old, was drinking coffee and smoking unfiltered cigarettes. Family connections more than smarts or accomplishments had landed him the job. The detective sat down and waited for him to finish speaking on the telephone with his wife; he was giving her a recipe for fish wrapped in tinfoil he had found on the Internet. Photographs and certificates on the walls. Desk covered in documents and the computer turned on. No, my
love, he shouted, not mustard, no, do it the way I said, and he hung up.

What's up, Mendieta, how is it going with the Bruno Canizales case? We're interrogating those involved, and as good luck would have it Paola Rodríguez, the principal suspect, committed suicide. Don't forget who he is the son of, this is your chance. Chance for what? Don't you want a promotion? No. What about this fine parchment? He threw a bulging brown envelope onto the desk. That I would like, they smiled, the detective put it in his pants pocket. Then he gave a quick overview of the day's events. What's your theory, Lefty? As of now none, given how tidy it all was, it doesn't appear to be a crime of passion. Me, I'm inclined toward vengeance, the commander said; you know, straightening things up could just be a cover; his father is dreaming about the big chair in the presidential palace and that brings enemies out of the woodwork, the silver bullet might indicate the social standing of the killer. I'll keep that in mind, too bad we couldn't go over the crime scene carefully, remember you ordered us out. Lefty, don't go all rhetorical on me, I'm sure you saw enough; besides Rodríguez, who else have you turned up? He told him. No doubt about it, you are a lucky man, you detest the narcos and the biggest of them all drops onto your chest; don't hesitate, go get Marcelo Valdés and get his daughter too, and if they're off traveling, go wherever you have to. Briseño's cell phone rang, he saw it was his home number. How does it look? Perfect, now keep it on low for forty-four minutes, the detective stood up, Mendieta, he insisted covering the mouthpiece, this is your opportunity, don't blow it, and he continued the conversation with his wife, no, my love, you don't make sweet corn soup that way, what sort of mother did you have?

He called Zelda Toledo into his tiny office. On the shamelessly peeling wall hung three diplomas that Angelita dusted with devotion and a Coppel department store calendar from the previous year. He brought her up to date: his chat with Laura Frías, Paula's suicide, the silver bullet. She'd never heard of anyone being killed with a silver bullet. Haven't you ever seen a vampire movie? No. Well, you ought to, he gave her Paola Rodríguez's cell phone, find out who she called the day before she died, and if Ortega doesn't get a move on you'll have to get Canizales's back from him, maybe it still has a record of the outgoing and incoming calls; find Frank Aldana, and we also have to interview Samantha Valdés, Mariana Kelly, and Marcelo Valdés. They fell silent, voices drifted in from the hallway. They're everywhere, aren't they? Mendieta nodded, and you have to interrogate them. Me, why me? That's an order and orders are not to be discussed, Agent Toledo, get them for tomorrow because no doubt they're celebrating now, they're always celebrating. You're leaving the worst to me, will you go to Canizales's funeral? They ordered me not to.

Then he called Dr. Parra. Is there something new? No, I just wanted to thank you. It's nice to hear that. I got buried in work and last night I slept pretty well. Just don't get too drunk because it'll go crosswise with your pills. So why do you drink so much? I'm the doctor here and don't you forget it. All right, if I fall off the rails I'll look for you. For the time being continue using the tranquillizer I prescribed and stand firm, you are a prisoner of yourself and it should be the other way around. They hung up. He fought back a sudden memory, and once it was dark he decided to return to the scene of the crime. Two officers on guard in a patrol car greeted him.

They killed him at night, I want to see what it looks like in the dark. In he went. He saw the light switch glowing but did not
turn it on. He stood still in the living room, allowing his senses to take the measure of the place. Darkness. He walked slowly down the hall, sniffing, imagining, listening. He pushed the door of the study with his foot and turned on the light: everything in order. Thick-spined books on a set of shelves. A desk with its high-backed chair. Books on the surface. A new computer boxed up in a corner. Pistachio-green carpet. Laura was right about that: He was a serious fellow if the tidiness was anything to go by. He stood still for a moment and then retraced his steps. The guest room smelled stuffy. Nothing there to stimulate him. The door to Canizales's bedroom was open. He turned on the light. The fragrance. That fragrance, which in the morning had licked at his brain, again ravaged his senses, though now it was fainter. The sheets on the easy chair. He sniffed them without touching, nodded. Behind the door he found a wastebasket with a Kleenex, he picked it up with the end of his pistol. It smelled the same as the sheets but stronger. He pulled a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket and dropped the Kleenex inside. As I always say: Every place is one big word and a lot of small ones, he sniffed the barrel of his weapon, the key is in the small ones. He imagined the man seated across from his victim, Canizales surprised by that redolent presence in the easy chair or on the bed. Maybe he was watching television. Did he like Channel 22? He saw him on his feet begging not to be killed, then the murderer laying him down. Why did he mess up the sheets? Could it be he was sleeping? And suppose they were more than one?

He turned out the light.

He experienced the peace of the defeated and left.

At home he watched television until midnight, took the tranquillizer, and slept fitfully. He awoke with the image of Bardominos the priest hounding his eyes. Fucking life.

That morning the kid with the bike attended the funeral of Bruno Canizales. He drove the twenty-two miles from Culiacán to Navolato in a green pickup his brother-in-law lent him. His two-wheeler stayed in the parking lot of the company where the brother-in-law was the manager. And there he was, standing beside Dania Estrada and Laura Frías, listening to the wails and eyeing the signs of grief. No one knows what he's got till it's gone, he thought just to think it. The kid was thin, strong, he wore Levi's and a black T-shirt with a picture of Robbie Williams. Engineer Canizales chose not to speak, in his place his son thanked the mourners for their solidarity and their presence. Clear as a cloud. The kid with the bike listened attentively. He watched people from the summits of politics and agriculture gathered around the parents at the pink marble family crypt. A man in a sombrero offered him tequila, and he drank a long guzzle straight from the bottle. The girls said they did not drink. The members of the USB wore white, and their svelte appearance contrasted with that of the people from the countryside. The place was filled with flowers to help the soul of the deceased find its way. Figueroa and
Dr. Ripalda, near the open casket, mumbled a prayer. Figueroa kept his eyes on the heavens, avoiding the cadaver, which the relatives were viewing for the last time.

The interloper saw that the hated Bruno Canizales was indeed truly dead. You moved on, asshole, and for sure these stupid girls are crying because you dumped them too, dude. As far as I'm concerned she killed him, said Laura Frías, who undoubtedly needed to let that out, I keep turning things over and over and I just don't see anyone else, Paola made good on her threat. The police will investigate and justice will be done, Dania reassured her, in any case he is already judged in the eyes of God. The kid with the bike knew what they were talking about, he gave them a disparaging glance and walked away: My queen offed the jerk? Stupid old women, they talk just because they have mouths, they'll get what they deserve for making false accusations; what I still can't figure is why you sacrificed yourself for a guy who put you down every chance he got, he didn't deserve you, I mean, did you never see the way he carried on with these chicks? So why?

As my grandfather used to say, women were not born to be understood by dummies like me.

He left the cemetery, the parking lot swollen with official cars and powerful people. Paola's funeral in Culiacán was three hours off. He'd have plenty of time for a ceviche in Altata and still make the Mass at the funeral home. I'm your most stricken widower, my queen, the most afflicted, the one who doesn't know what to do. I'd like to take you up on what you said you saw in that French movie, when the guy's sweetheart dies and he tells another babe: What do you say, kid, shall we? Here's my proposal: As a homage to the guy that's gone, we do it like those nutty missionaries. But I've got the world upside down, my queen, of course I'm no good even for that.