Fortunato knocked on the metal door, loud enough to be heard but retaining a shade of politeness. Not pounding, like a cop. After that he put his hands out to the sides, making it obvious that they were empty without holding them up in the air. “Ché, Cacho. It’s I, Fortunato.”
The locks clattered and the door swung open. Cacho stood there in blue jeans and a sweatshirt, looking at him with his usual expectant hostility, waiting for him to speak. “It seems we have a mutual friend,” Fortunato said.
“Who?”
“The famous gringa.”
“Who?”
Dismissing the feigned ignorance. “Stop swelling my balls and let me in! We already know! She came two days ago, in the morning. It’s not a big thing!”
The criminal seemed to be considering whether to keep denying everything or to let him in and find out what he knew. He finally stood aside and Fortunato came in.
The windows facing the street still languished behind steel shutters, but those facing the courtyard let in the pleasant afternoon sun. The oily smell of pan-fried meat from a late lunch hung in the air. “You fitted it out well there. A clear field of fire out that side all the way to the street, you can escape from that side door without being exposed. The little tower in the front . . . ” He nodded. “You didn’t waste your time in Cuba. And inside,” nodding approvingly at the expensive furniture, “very nice. It’s best to steal quality.”
Cacho said nothing.
Fortunato looked him over. He didn’t have a gun within reach. He could kill him now. It wouldn’t be a murder profoundly investigated. A bold man would do that, a man who had confidence and resolve. But was he that type of man? Like, for example, Domingo, or Bianco? And what type of man was that, finally?
“Are you following her?” the thief asked.
“I’m her custodian. Assisting her in the investigation.”
Cacho gave an acrid little smile. “Yes, it’s neat business all around.” Fortunato nodded noncommittally, kept circling the room and looking at the paintings and the music collection. Argentine rock, foreign rock, a few tangos sprinkled in. “Tangos Bajos, by Melingo. I heard he’s good.”
“I would make you a recording, but that would be a violation of . the artist’s rights, no?”
“Cacho, Cacho.” Fortunato shook his head wearily. “She’s an interesting girl, La Doctora. She’s obsessed with these issues of Truth and Corruption and all of that. Typical Northamerican. Such a good eye for all the immorality beyond their borders.”
Cacho reacted impatiently. “Look, Miguel, to cut it short, I banked you. I didn’t claim to know you personally, of course, but by reputation you are an impenetrable fortress of integrity.” He flicked his head to the side. “Bien, perhaps not impenetrable, because she’s not so stupid. But at least only semi-penetrated.”
“Thank you for your generous assessment.” Fortunato saw from Cacho’s reflection in the window behind him that he had a pistol stuck into his pant waist after all.
“One doesn’t sacrifice an associate of so many years.” Cacho scratched his chest. “They gave you the hide to eat on that one, amigo. I knew that when you told me Domingo and Vasquez were coming with you. Then you killed the boludo as if you were some adolescent with a rented gun.” Cacho twisted his features in distaste. “An innocent with a daughter!”
“You, Cacho? Is that you? Who administered The People’s Justice to General Lopez so long ago?” The detective kept circling, filing away the details of the room. “How many innocents did you kill? Boludos who took a policeman’s job for the pension, who couldn’t even spell the word Capitalism. Very few know your history, Cacho, but I do. I’ve even read about you in books! Under your old name, of course. But as you say, one doesn’t sacrifice an associate of many years.” Assault rifle, gun ports in the walls. Probably an arsenal hidden here somewhere. A door leading out to a courtyard, a stairway from the kitchen to the second floor. “You’re right. It’s lamentable, the accident. But it was Domingo’s fault. He brought Vasquez. Vasquez went crazy. If you had come with us when I asked you it would have happened differently.”
“Don’t put me in your whorehouse, Miguel. Killing some idiot writer—”
“I didn’t kill him!” Fortunato heard the weakness in his own voice. “It was Domingo and Vasquez! It wasn’t me!” Cacho’s silence goaded Fortunato on. “What’s Vasquez saying? Is he going around singing to the whole world?”
“I don’t mix with Vasquez.”
Fortunato’s voice was getting louder. “But what do you hear? What are your muchachos saying? Because I tell you: I didn’t kill the gringo!”
At that moment a pot clanked in the kitchen and Fortunato took a few steps towards it. A woman wearing nothing but a T-shirt was holding a mate in one hand and kettle in the other. She ducked out of sight up the stairs. Cacho’s hand had moved to his back hip.
“It’s time to go,” the criminal said. “You’re upsetting my guest.” He opened the door and stood next to it.
Fortunato moved to the opening and stepped into the afternoon sunlight. The flat neutrality of Cacho’s voice offered little comfort. “I didn’t say anything to the gringa. That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about. Of Vasquez, I can’t guarantee anything. This is your matter, Miguel. You created it. If you need to settle accounts with Vasquez and Domingo, that’s your business. I’m clean in this one.”
Fortunato thought he saw in Cacho’s hard black eyes the faint disgust that the innocent have for the guilty. “No, hombre. You are very far from clean.” He gave Cacho his back.
“Miguel!”
He turned around.
“I’m sorry about your wife.”
He couldn’t tell if the criminal was mocking him or if he was trying to offer genuine consolation for an old associate. He raised his hand in a tired wave and walked away.