The Black Minutes (27 page)

The salsa was still rattling the speakers, and a second girl moved a few steps forward to meet the first girl. She fell to her knees and lifted up her hands.

“Fucking bitches, what are you smoking?” screamed the bar girl.

Cruz Treviño finished off his drink suddenly and the redhead prepared him another one. Rangel asked himself why the chief was trying to distract him. It seemed unthinkable that the old man would protect the murderer, not because of professional ethics but because that kind of thing is always found out, and there was still a chance of his being removed from his post. That’s not the answer, he decided. The chief wasn’t stupid; he wasn’t going to risk his job. In his opinion, it could only be due to one or two reasons, Rangel decided; either someone very powerful had ordered him to freeze the investigation or—more likely—he was trying to get the reward for himself.

In the distance, Rangel made out a person in a white shirt and glasses who was doing his best to get around El Watusi and Juan Pachanga. It’s over, Rangel thought, here comes this idiot. The
character finally got to the dance floor, looked around, and came to sit down with him: it was the Blind Man, the guy who wanted to be his gofer.

“Hey, boss, I just came to say thanks for the envelope.”

“Don’t call me boss.”

“Call me master, for so I am
. John thirteen, verse thirteen,” said the Evangelist.

“Sit down. And you, fucking fanatic, go evangelize the neighborhoods on the North Side.”

“Do you want a drink?” the bar girl asked. “Cruz is paying.”

Rangel thought about leaving, but he heard a sudden pattering on the roof, growing louder. A violent rain shower had started, like a creature with a thousand fists slamming into the corrugated sheet metal. Fuck, he said to himself, I can’t leave now.

“What?” He had to scream at the Blind Man.

“I asked if you’re interested in getting the reward, Mr. Rangel. It’s four years’ salary. Four years! Imagine everything you could buy with that money.”

Rangel didn’t answer. To the left of the bar girl, Wong nodded off on the table.

When the dancers passed by, Rangel, already loosened up by the drink, decided they looked pretty good. The majority looked better when they weren’t fooling around with that modern stuff. Damn, I’m already drunk, he said to himself, fucking cheap rum. Why am I drinking this stuff?

One of the dancers at the bar walked up and came on to him, and since his anger was starting to diminish, he let himself play a little with her. Rangel brandished his evil side: even though he saw how much she wanted to have a drink, he didn’t invite her to sit down.

“Come on, get me a drink. I have to support my dad and my seven little brothers and sisters.”

“Damn, why that many? Are you Snow White’s daughter?”

“Come on. If you don’t get me a drink, I’m going to have to go to that table, where that guy is waving at me. But I’d rather stay here with you.”

And the girl leaned forward, grazing Vicente’s arm with her breasts as if by mistake. Then she stretched out her arms and pretended to dance, shaking her shoulders frenetically.

“What’s up,
mi rey?
Deal or no deal?”

“Sorry, no deal.” And he regretted it as soon as he sent her away.

Even though the majority of the girls were really good-looking and had voluptuous figures, Rangel wasn’t interested in the blonde or the Chinese girl or the redhead. He was only interested in a thin girl with short black hair in braids who was smoking at the bar with some girlfriends. Goddamn, he said to himself, that one’s really hot. The girl had a long, thin nose and white skin. He was admiring her legs when the girl noticed that he was watching her. She shot him a sharp look, like a cat discovering a rat, and Rangel lowered his eyes. Fucking bitch, for sure she’s trying to figure out how much she can get out of me. All of ’em are whores, total whores, just like the bloodsucker next to me.

As soon as the dancers got to the bar, the men closed in to buy them drinks. A really fat guy took the redhead by the hand. Two guys fought over the Chinese girl. In less than ten minutes, three assholes moved in close, one by one, and took the ones who were left. Only the girl with the little braids off to the side rejected two admirers. How strange, Rangel thought, she must be charging a lot. Meanwhile, her girlfriends, legs crossed, kept on
talking at the bar. Rangel was serving himself another drink when he noticed that the girl with the little braids was staring at him. Is she looking at me? He even looked behind him, but no one was there. What an idiot, he said to himself, I’m leaning against a column. Rangel turned red for the first time in a long time and the girl started laughing. Fucking bitch, I’m gonna make you pay for that.

Rangel served himself another drink and the girl with the little braids came over to his table.

“Excuse me, aren’t you Rigo’s guitarist?”

“Huh?” Rangel was shocked.

“With Rigo Tovar. Didn’t you play with him?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“You were the guitarist, the one from Las Jaibas del Valle.”

“No, you’ve got me mixed up.”

“Don’t lie! Tell me it was you.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I was in his fan club.”

“Really? Rigo Tovar had a fan club?” Rangel was flattered, but he didn’t want to admit it was him. “Yeah, they say the guitarist was good.”

“No way! He was the best! Who knows why he retired?”

“All right, well, thanks. The guitarist would be happy to hear that.”

The girl sat down on the chair next to him, subtly pushed by the redhead. “So, really, are you him or not?”

She had huge blue eyes that stood out when she laughed. They must be contact lenses, he said to himself, everything here is fake. He was about to make his getaway, but the girl moved in closer to him. Damn, Vicente said to himself. For a moment, the girl’s
laughter reminded him of someone else. Suddenly, it was as if something from the woman who was
not
there reappeared in the face of the dancer who was, only diluted and changed. Instead of paying attention to the girl, which is what he should have done, Rangel remembered other days and other nights, from more than six years ago, when he was a musician and lived with his lady, Yesenia, the one with the perfect curly black hair, his girlfriend since high school, the most beautiful girl ever, famous in musical circles for her angelic smile.

And he thought of other afternoons with Yesenia by his side, as he tried to write the arrangements for the group leader.
Look, Rigo, what do you think of this deal?
The tune’s far out, brother, what’s it about?
It’s the story of a mermaid, or really about a guy who falls for a mermaid
. Ah, damn, don’t go getting all cultural on me, Rangel. Are there mermaids in your pueblo?
Don’t be a jerkoff, Rigo, that’s why you’re not hitting it big. You’re never gonna take any risks?
In Vicente’s opinion, Rigo was getting stubborn and overbearing. If he didn’t come up with the idea for a song, that meant the deal wasn’t worth anything. He was becoming a star and he didn’t accept anyone else’s point of view. I’ve got to watch out, brother, a lot of people want to put an end to my career. Rangel insisted for a few days, but Rigo wouldn’t give in. The song was almost finished, especially the music. Then, one night, after a concert, Rigo and his group, Las Jaibas del Valle, went to a bar to finish getting wasted. Rigo, his fans, and his agent were on one side of the place. Yesenia, the keyboardist, and Rangel, stroking his guitar, were on the other side. All of a sudden, Rigo, who was already pretty drunk, lifted up his head and looked toward the back of the club, like he was scanning for smoke signals, and as his fans drank the last drops from the vodka bottle, he stood up real slow, with his drink and everything and walked over to Vicente. What’s
up, Chente? Is that song yours?
It’s the one I told you about, friggin Rigo, the one about the mermaid, I’m just wrapping up the lyrics
. It sounds good, Vicente. Let’s see, who’s got some paper?

They worked on the song for the rest of the night. Rangel played, Rigo nodded his head in agreement or shook it to say no, but always very authoritatively, and between the two of them, they put the song together. There was a moment when the song finally straightened out and Rigo burst out: That’s it, we’re done, we’ve got it. But one line was missing—Damn, Vicente, we just need that one fucking line—and Rangel, by this time very inspired, suggested they go back to the original idea:
It doesn’t make sense for them to have normal kids, Rigo; if they’re gonna procreate, it’d be better if they had mermaids
. Wait, wait, what do you mean?
Okay, look: Where it says: We had six little angels, tra la la, tra la la, it’d be better as: We had a little mermaid
. Damn, Vicente! That’s really good, lemme see: what next?
As the fruit of our love
. No shit, Vicente, that’s really corny; that’s like fifth-grade stuff.
Oh, all right, what, you’re really high-class now?
Go on, go on, don’t slow down.
OK: We had a little mermaid
. And what else?
Like a year after being married
. You’re doing well, Vicente, and then what?
With the face of a little angel, but the tail of a fish
. Damn, man, now you broke the record,
pinche
Vicente; we’ve got a new songwriter.

The euphoria was gone three days later, when, after getting back from touring around Montemorelos, Vicente opened the door to his apartment and caught her wrapped in the singer’s arms, her hot pants thrown in the corner of the room. Fucking assholes: you,
cabrón
, I thought you were my friend; you ain’t shit. And you, fucking bitch, you’re really faithful, huh? What about you being totally open and honest and all that bullshit? What a joke! Go fuck yourselves, I don’t want anything to do with this band; I’m out of the group. And don’t even try to play that song.

The girl’s eyes reminded him of Yesenia. Rangel, the only person in the world who hated Rigo Tovar’s biggest hit, looked intensely at the girl and said, “No, I’m not him.”

She covered her face with both hands and pulled her cheeks down, like someone putting on a fake mustache; then she turned around and walked away. The Blind Man watched her, his mouth hanging open.

“She was really into it. Why’d you let her go, boss?”

“Because I don’t have enough money.”

The Blind Man grabbed the envelope he had in his pants as if his tip was in danger and said, “But that girl is one of the ones that doesn’t charge. . . . But it doesn’t matter, when we get the Jackal, you’re gonna have thirty of them.”

Rangel pushed his drink away, fucking worthless Bacardi, and the Blind Man’s words reverberated in his head for the rest of the night.

It’s four years worth of pay, boss
.

Four years
.

Imagine what you could do with four years’ pay
.

You could buy a house
.

You could even retire
.

Two drinks later, when they asked him what was going on, Rangel was able to murmur, “The Chief supports El Travolta more than me.”

“Fucking idiot,” the Blind Man said to him. “Even though the Chief doesn’t want to face it, everyone says you’re the good one and you’re gonna get him. Why don’t we work together, boss? Two heads think better than one.”

Rangel just looked at him and didn’t say no, but he didn’t say yes either. Damn, he thought, what a messed-up situation. All I wanted was to relax.

Celia Cruz sang “El Berimbau,” and Cruz Treviño fell asleep on the table. After everybody was nodding off, Rangel waved to the fan with the little braids. Hey, you, you want a drink? The girl said yes and he prepared her a gigantic Cuba libre that never ran out, and they drank it the rest of the night. Damn, this woman is so supportive. He looked at the girl and then at the vampire on the rum label; another drink and another look at the girl. One more drink and the girl started to look irresistible.

His vision blurred and the next thing he saw was an immense, grassy plain, somewhere in the country. He was asking himself where he was when suddenly he saw the silhouette of a mountain, perhaps the Cerro del Nagual, and he realized that an old-fashioned UFO was floating at the summit, one of those interplanetary space ships in black-and-white movies that looked like two soup bowls stuck together. Then he realized he was standing on the peak of the mountain. There were a lot of journalists all around him, the ones he had run into that morning, and six TV cameras. An announcer said,
We are witnessing the first contact between a human being and the people of Mars. Mr. Vicente Rangel, police officer from the port, has been chosen to receive this great honor, this grand distinction
. And there was a round of applause.

Deeply moved, Rangel watched as the Martian ship descended. Judging by its dimensions, he reasoned that it was the mother ship, landing and opening its double doors. The king of the Martians came out on a long bridge, joined by ten ministers and a legion of secretaries. These women were straight out of a Mexican science-fiction movie: they were wearing silver mini-skirts, sixties-style beehive hairdos, and long fake eyelashes. One of them, a long-legged good-looking blonde, placed a medal on Rangel and he began to whisper softly,
Thank you so much, but I do not deserve this. There are many more competent people
.