The Squares of the City (20 page)

Yet, somehow, two more days of illusory calm slipped by. I spent most of them in the traffic department, trying to force some sort of order on a chaotic lot of computer figures, struggling to reduce abstract flow patterns to terms of what José and Lola would see, hear, think as they passed on their way. I contrived nearly to forget a lot of things—among them, the suit that Sigueiras was bringing against the traffic department.

But on Wednesday morning Angers warned me that the legal resources of his side were drying up. Lucas had secured one adjournment and had taken advantage of the time to organize his case against Sam Francis—but then, there was no question of the outcome of that trial.

I shuffled some papers together, lit a cigarette, and sat back to look at Angers, rearranging my thinking. I said, “So you mean that subpoena you gave me may have to be used?”

“So Lucas warns me,” said Angers.

“Now there’s a point,” I said. “I don’t get one or two things about this legal setup here. This Lucas seems to have fingers in a hell of a lot of different pies. I thought it was practically universal for lawyers to stick to either the criminal law or the civil law. Yet this guy Lucas keeps cropping up in both civil and criminal cases. Why?”

“You ask some complicated questions,” sighed Angers. “I suppose the short answer is that it’s part of the Mayor theory of government. Mayor has influenced Vados a hell of a lot, you know. And among his other principles is one to the effect that all contraventions of justice are the business of the state. So in Vados itself—although not yet in the rest of the country, I believe—there’s no real distinction between civil and criminal. A private citizen who can’t afford to litigate against someone he thinks has injured him can apply for the state to prosecute on his behalf, for example. And that kind of case actually occurs every now and then.

“But in Lucas’s case, it’s rather different. Actually, he is a criminal lawyer. It’s just that his position as legal adviser to the Citizens’ Party involves him in a good many associated cases. And, of course, having helped to draft the charter of incorporation for the city, he also gets called in when a case like this one of Sigueiras’s comes up.”

“He sounds like a busy man.”

“He is.”

“Didn’t you tell me to expect a subpoena from Fats Brown as well, by the way?” I recalled. “What happened? I never got it.”

“Things haven’t been going too well for Brown,” said Angers rather smugly. “I’m told that when he heard we were going to call you, he discarded the idea. Lucas says he’s been floundering a bit in court, too. Apparently he’s upset by what this fellow Dominguez did the other day.”

“Brown doesn’t strike me as the kind of man that upsets easily,” I said. “What did Dominguez do?”

“Oh, didn’t you hear? Well, there was a disgraceful article by Cristoforo Mendoza in
Tiempo
last weekend, in which he gratuitously defended Dominguez against what Judge Romero had said about him—and Dominguez wrote to them and to
Liberdad
saying he didn’t welcome assistance from the organ of a party whose leaders were given to committing murder in broad daylight.”

“And
Tiempo
published the letter?”

“No, of course not. But
Liberdad
did.”

I nodded slowly. “So he’s transferred his allegiance to the party that commits its murders stealthily by night, I suppose?”

“What exactly do you mean by that, Hakluyt?” said Angers, his tone implying that I ought not to mean anything at all.

“Nothing,” I said peaceably. “Nothing. I’m neutral, remember? So I suppose it’s my duty to regard both political parties as equally repugnant.”

“There’s a difference between the Citizens of Vados and the National Party,” said Angers stiffly; before he could get going on the nature of that difference, I apologized and told him to finish what he was saying about Dominguez.

“There isn’t any more,” he said shortly. “Except that, of course, Judge Romero is sharpening a knife for Brown. Brown is supposed to have put Dominguez up to it—did you know?”

“Up to writing to
Liberdad?”

“Oh, come now!” said Angers in a tone of irritation. “Of course not! I don’t quite see what you’re playing at, Hakluyt, but you seem to be deliberately obtuse today.”

“I’ve got a head full of data,” I said. “These political machinations make a hell of a lot less sense to me than the stuff spewed out by a computer. When am I supposed to show up in court?”

“Possibly this afternoon. I’ll let you know before lunch.”

They told me to be on hand at two-thirty. I shouldn’t have bothered to be punctual; I spent the afternoon kicking my heels in an anteroom before the usher came to tell me the court was rising for the day. I used up a few well-chosen words on the subject of the law’s delays and was going out past the door of the courtroom when it slammed open and shut and Fats Brown stormed down the corridor ahead of me. When he was some distance away, he must have recognized the glimpse he had had of me in passing; he stopped in his tracks and turned to wait for me.

“Evenin’, Hakluyt,” he said. “Warn you, I’m gonna make mincemeat outa you when Lucas brings you on. I like expert witnesses—lunch off ’em every day. They take themselves too seriously. Let’s go have a drink. Unorthodox for the plaintiff’s lawyer to drink with the defendant’s witnesses—probably get hell for attempted bribery if Lucas hears about it. Hell with it all. C’mon.”

It made no difference to me whom I drank with, after wasting the entire afternoon. I went with him to the same small bar we had gone to after Guerrero’s death. Brown ordered one of his appalling local soft drinks; I had an aguardiente. We clinked glasses.

“No good askin’ you what you’re gonna say in the box,” Fats ruminated after his first sip. “You’d go all high-hat an’ say you’ll answer the questions put to you. Better at improvisin’ my attacks on expert witnesses; find their weak spots an’ enlarge on them. Hope I’m not worryin’ you.”

“Not much,” I said.

“Won’t talk shop anymore,” he went on. “Um—hear about Mig?”

“Dissociating himself from that article in
Tiempo
the other day? Angers just told me about it.”

“Ah-hah. Guess Mig an’ I were the only two guys in Vados who knew about it beforehand. Clever! Wish I’d thought of it!”

“You what?”

He gave me a faintly surprised look. His eyes nearly disappeared in rolls of fat as he wheezed into an enormous laugh. “You thought it was a run-out? Oh-ho-ho-ho! Hakluyt, you’re dumber’n a Vadeano when you try! That was strictly for the—hey, of course! It was strictly for the boids, and here’s a Boyd who swallowed it. Heh-heh-heh-heh!”

I waited for him to finish chortling. “Since you think it was so clever,” I suggested, “suppose you tell me why.”

“Pipeline for the scandal of the legal world, that’s me. Sure I’ll tell you. Mig was in a pretty sticky position. Romero had smeared him ’bout as thorough as he could. He had to get himself out of it in the eyes of the reputable citizens of Vados, get? So up he stan’s an’ makes this dignified an’ lawyerlike statement—all hogwash, but like I said, Vadeanos are dumb once you get out of the gutter, where they’re sly as foxes. Anyway, people give him another look an’ say, ‘Not such a bad guy! That’s pretty good!’ Result—swing of public opinion. Romero’s wondering if he’ll stay around long enough to finish what he started on Tezol. Didya know it was Romero tried that case? No? Trust the old coot to grab himself anything where the National Party’s involved. Hates their guts.”

“So I gathered,” I agreed. “But how do you mean—finish what he started on Tezol? Did he pay his fine?”

“Romero gave him time to find the cash. Prob’ly thought he’d make him squirm a bit. Anyway, here’s Romero, he says to himself, right, this guy Dominguez is chickening out, won’t have the guts to push through what he started against me. So what does Romero do? He goes on TV—one of this bastard Rioco’s little programs, sat around for days while he was tryin’ to make up his mind. I got advance word of it from a pal at the studios—they’re finally going to shove it out. Tonight. He’s goin’ to lambaste Tezol an’ take a swipe or two at Cris Mendoza for good measure, an’ say what he’s gonna do when that fine’s not paid.” Brown sipped his drink. “Think he’d have learned his lesson by now, wouldn’t you? They make out he’s a fine respectable upholder of justice an’ all that crap. Well, figure for yourself what’ll happen when Mig shows him up as an ol’ blowhard who don’t even know what evidence means!”

“You mean when this case against Guerrero’s chauffeur is tried again?” I said.

Brown finished his drink and nodded; his cheeks shook. I finished mine also and called for a repeat.

“Confusion to you in the witness box!” Brown said with a big grin, and lifted the glass.

“Down with lawyers,” I replied.

The television set at the end of the bar came on; it was six o’clock. I saw the familiar face of Francisco Córdoban smiling down at me. I deliberately turned my back. Whether or not the picture they interspersed with the programs by subliminal perception were a fair representation of the state of things, I preferred to form my own judgments.

I had a sudden vision of Maria Posador, perched on the bench in the concrete shed where she had shown me those pictures, her long slim legs swinging, her lovely face drawn and serious.

“Well, see you tomorrow,” Brown said after a pause, gulping the contents of his glass. The CO
₂
in the drink came back in an unashamed burp. “Make a mess of you—promise. ’Night.”

I stayed only a few minutes longer myself and then went back to my hotel, intending to have dinner there. First, though, I went upstairs to clean up and change my shirt—the day was hot and sticky, and even the air-conditioned court building had wilted the one I was wearing.

There was a man sitting in my room reading one of my textbooks.

I stopped with one hand still on my key, in the act of withdrawing it from the lock, and said in an incredulous voice, “Who in hell’s name are you?”

Unconcernedly, he shut the book. Then he rose very leisurely to his feet. “Good evening, Señor Hakluyt,” he said. “Please come in. Close the door, if you don’t mind.”

I took a good look at him. He was six feet two and broad-shouldered. He had big hands, which held the fat textbook as though it were a paperback. He had dark brown skin, darker than sun-tan, and his hair was inclined to be nappy. He wore a gray suit, a real silk shirt, expensive hand-lasted shoes. Diamond cuff links. Platinum watch. Wealthy.

He outweighed me by about forty pounds; he outreached me by inches in every direction. Obviously, I couldn’t throw him out. Well, either he was here for some good reason—in which case I had better hear what he had to say—or he wasn’t. And if he wasn’t, maybe I still ought to hear what he had to say. I shut the door.

“Thank you,” he said. He spoke good English with a I vanishing trace of a local accent. “I should apologize for the intrusion, but it was necessary, I assure you. Kindly be seated.”

With a generous gesture he offered me the chair he had been sitting in. I shook my head.

“Well, our talk may take some time, but if you prefer to stand, let us not argue.” His eyes twinkled. “My name, señor, is José Dalban, and I have come to discuss with you the subject of your presence in Ciudad de Vados.”

“I’m here,” I said shortly. “What else is there to say?”

“Oh, very much! Very much indeed! Such as why you are here, and what you are doing. Now please”—he raised one hand; the broad palm was very bright pink—”do not try to be elusive and say you are only here because you signed a contract and you are doing only what that contract calls for. What I wish to make clear to you is what your contract implies—what misery and deprivation for how many human beings.”

“Señor Dalban,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I’ve probably heard all this before. I know quite well that if I do what I came here to do, a lot of people are going to be made temporarily homeless. I can’t see, though, that anything could be much worse than the so-called homes they have at the moment. Sooner or later the government is going to have to face the problem squarely; till then, what I do isn’t going to be as important as you seem to claim.”

“I represent,” he said, not answering me directly—he sounded as if he were launching into a prepared speech—“a group of private individuals who are afraid that if the government’s plans are put into effect, there will be civil war in Aguazul, and that soon. I have come to suggest to you that you might consider changing your mind. You would not, of course, lose by doing so. You might even profit.”

“Out of the question,” I said. “For one thing, I’m a freelance expert. I’ve worked for years to build up my reputation. If I quit this job, it wouldn’t just be a contract I’d broken; it would be a setback to my professional status.”

“Señor Hakluyt,” said Dalban, blinking rapidly, “we are businessmen, we for whom I speak. We are not poor. If it were necessary, we would guarantee your earnings for life—outside Aguazul.”

“The
hell
with money!” I snapped. “I do this work because it’s the work I want to do! And let me tell you this. Getting rid of me would solve nothing. Nothing at all. If I don’t do the job, since the government seems determined to have it done by somebody, Angers and his crowd in the city traffic department will probably be turned loose on it. They’re not competent. The result will be a botched makeshift worse than what you’ve got already.”