“Hi there, sir!” Benjamin, Sonia and Berenice greeted me in joyful unison.
They were pleased to see me, though they were pretending the opposite. When they are pleased with me, they call me daddy; when they are upset, they call me sir. I’ve never had the slightest doubt that it’s Gloria who tells them which way to greet me.
After handing over presents and money, after reassuring disbelieving eyes that I would be having dinner there again the next evening, I was daddy once more, I was my love, daddydaddydaddy.
Gloria is a gorgeous woman from Puebla. She is twenty-nine, with fine white skin, auburn hair and huge hazel eyes that are quick to show when she’s happy or sad. Her main difference with Lourdes is that sometimes she gives off such a sense of happiness that her face and body positively shine. Lourdes is beautiful too, but she’s more edgy and sharp. Her hysterical character is starting to bring wrinkles of disappointment to her face, and she hardly ever laughs spontaneously.
After we had lunch, a chat around the table and then a very satisfactory siesta, at twenty past five in the afternoon I explained to Gloria we had been robbed of a thousand dollars. I led her to the phone and dialled the money exchange number.
“This is Carolina Esparza,” she told them, without batting an eyelid. “A cousin of Maria de los Angeles. Is she there?
“I know she doesn’t work there any more,” she said, all smiles, “but Angeles told me she would be in the office this afternoon sorting out some loose ends. So, well, I don’t know . . .
“Yes, I understand,” she said, eyes gleaming, squeezing my knee. “Yes, yes . . . No. Don’t go to the trouble. I’ll get in touch with her myself. Yes, very kind, goodbye.”
“They’re expecting Rosenthal,” she told me. “They said Angeles might possibly be with him.”
I called the office. The irony and curtness in Maribel’s voice were deliberate. None of the men we can usually call on for a special mission were there. The only males around were Silver Bullet and the Commander. I asked to speak to the boy.
“Listen, but don’t speak,” I told him. “There’s two hundred dollars in it for you. I need you to come with me on an easy job. I’ll be waiting for you in twenty minutes on the corner of Reforma and Estocolmo, on the west side. Now get off the phone, but don’t hang up. Tell Mirabel I want to speak to the boss. And you, set off to meet me.”
“Which is the west side?” asked Silver Bullet.
I explained and repeated how urgent it was. Maribel was playing dumb, giving herself airs and trying to make me feel inferior. I had to be short and sharp to get her to put me through to the Commander.
“For the good of both of us, I hope you’re in luck, Officer.” The Commander’s voice was gloomy and ambiguous, and that “good for both of us” sounded ominous.
*
Silver Bullet dresses as if he were his own father and stuffs his nineteen years into a body typical of someone who gets no exercise and eats nothing but tacos. He has a round face, round eyes and a rat’s tail moustache. I could tell he was really excited, because he had his hands out of his pockets.
As he got into my Atlantic, I explained:
“We’re going to get some dollars they’re trying to steal from the Commander in a money exchange.”
“Where are my two hundred?” Silver Bullet demanded.
“We’ll also get my commission and your two hundred.”
He looked at me doubtfully.
“You’re one of us,” I said, squeezing his shoulder to make my point. “DO. One hundred per cent Mexican. I specially asked you to come with me because I can recognize a man of action. You can’t go on forever spinning cobwebs as a junior.”
“As soon as we get out I want my two hundred,” insisted Silver Bullet.
Before I left the car in the parking lot I handed him a Beretta .22 and made it clear it was only to scare people with, not to use. We walked about two hundred feet to the polarized front windows of CAMBIMEX. The door was shut, but I knew there were people working in the offices inside. I rang the bell, and a big guy I had seen there before appeared. Someone they use as a guard when the morning cop goes off duty. I gestured to him in a friendly way through the glass, and he came closer to get a better look. I made more friendly gestures, with the result that he twisted his mouth and used a bunch of keys to turn the lock. He opened the door eight inches, showing he was a novice at this game and was frightened of showing he was worried.
“What is it?” he asked, frowning.
“I’ve come to see Perez Blanco, the accountant,” I said, still smiling. I always make sure I smile in cases like this. I flashed him my card.
“I’ll go and find out if he can see you,” the big guy said, trying to shut the door again. He leaned forward and was slightly off balance, giving me the chance to push hard on the door. It flew open and smashed into his face somewhere between mouth and nose. He put his hands up and stumbled back groaning. I pushed him aside and grabbed his revolver from his belt. Silver Bullet showed his ID to a couple and two other men who were passing by the agency. “Police! Move on!” he shouted, then followed me inside.
Two women and four men froze at their desks when we appeared.
In another office I could see Red Rosenthal and another man I took to be Perez Blanco. I walked over to them, checking out an empty cubicle on the way.
“Keep this lot covered!” I shouted to Silver Bullet. “If they cause any trouble, shoot them in the head!”
I don’t like being messed about; I get annoyed when I have to go from pillar to post, doing overtime just to get what’s mine by right; I hate being made to look a fool. I was furious as I strode into the office. Red got up to come towards me. He was saying something, and waving his arms in the air. I hit him in the face with my gun, and he fell back into his chair. He tried to stand up again, his arm raised in entreaty. I gave him a good kick in the balls, and he fell writhing to the floor squealing like a queer.
The other guy had gone so white he looked pure Aryan. I took a deep breath. I lowered my voice to make it sound even more threatening.
“I want the money! R-i-ght now!”
Paleface, who by now had grasped who I was and who had sent me, tried to calm me down.
“How much do we owe you?”
“A hundred million.”
“Ninety million,” muttered Red, whose bloody face fitted in even more perfectly with his nickname. “Thirty thousand dollars, which I changed at three thousand, that makes ninety million pesos. I was always going to pay you, but I won’t forget this, I can tell you.”
Paleface looked at me quizzically.
“It was ninety, but there’s another ten in interest because of all the hassle you’ve put me through to get them,” I explained. “You’ll make up the difference in a few days. I don’t want another word. Either you hand over the money or you’re coming with me.”
“We’ll have to open the safe.”
“I’ll give you one minute.”
While they were getting the money, I took stock of the situation. Beretta in hand, Silver Bullet had the office in his sights. In his other hand he was clutching a bag of crisps. Among the women looking on in terror, I caught sight of Red Rosenthal’s secretary-nymphette.
With the money safely in my briefcase, I went over to her. Her pleading eyes showed she had been stripped of all make-up, disdain, all smugness and self-satisfaction. Thanks to the narcotic lucidity of action, I realized that Maria de los Angeles Esparza was no longer the vain little nymph who could look right through me while at the same time inevitably spotting the grease stain on my trousers, but was now a woman who would offer no resistance to whatever I might tell her to do. Hard as a god I came to a halt beside her desk. A brief sob rose in her throat. I tweaked her nipple just once, as hard as I could, and didn’t let go until she moaned. I liked seeing tears in her eyes.
We got back into the car without problems. I took seven hundred from a bundle of notes and stuffed them in one of Silver Bullet’s pockets.
“There’s more than two hundred there,” I told him.
“Want some, boss?” Silver Bullet held out the packet of crisps he had found on one of the desks in CAMBIMEX.
*
I felt relaxed and pleased with myself. A job well done, words of praise from a superior and a nice pile of banknotes to keep me warm. All of this contributed to my happy state of mind. I had the Commander eating out of my hand. He passed up on the ten per cent in my favour. So that after paying him his cut and the money I’d given my sidekick, I still made more than four million straight profit.
On my way home I thought I might open a bank account in Lourdes’s name. I’d put enough in so she could spend it as she liked, to buy shoes or dresses or perfumes. That would be a nice touch, and a pleasant surprise for her. The truth was I missed her a hell of a lot. I’ve grown used to her body, her voice, to having her always near.
Seeing what time it was, and considering that nobody seemed to want to pay me overtime, I took some folders with me to look at outside the office. The gringo business was dragging on. I told the boss I’d work on it and he said I needn’t bother coming in the next day.
As I was parking outside my home in San Pedro de los Pinos, I could hear the hoarse wail of Carlos’s saxophone. It seems as though at seventeen music is all he wants from life. I gave him a .22 pistol, but he didn’t even try it. It’s me who has to clean it and oil it every month. I took him to the Plaza Garibaldi to have some fun (despite the fuss Lourdes kicked up!) and to counteract any side-effects of his musical obsession. You don’t have to be a reactionary to be worried about the influence all the homosexuals and drug addicts who abound in that profession might have on an adolescent. It was cool. We danced with some of the girls there, and Carlos lightened up enough to say he was completely drunk on three rum and cokes and to tell me I wasn’t to worry, he was no queer, but that those mariachis hadn’t the faintest idea what proper music was. That’s how things stand. I’m just glad he’s getting good marks at school. That’s hard enough.
I found him wrapped in his sheepskin jacket and with his hair brushed back laboriously with a quiff to make him look like Pajaro Loco. His reply to my greeting was a whirl of the saxophone, so I carried on up to the bedrooms to find Araceli. The apple of my eye was putting on make-up in the bathroom, and she stopped any attempt of mine to get close with a “Hi there, Dad! Don’t even think of kissing me!” which pricked my enthusiasm like a balloon and led me to think yet again of that strange universal attitude that women have which means that their attempts to doll themselves up take top priority over everything else, all the problems of the United Nations included.
Araceli is a doll whose beauty makes her father proud. What’s worrying is that she’s fifteen. I know what men are like, and that’s what worries me.
The three of us embarked on a lively discussion as to what nationality restaurant we would choose. We decided we’d stuff ourselves on pasta and stew in a trattoria. The decision put us in a good mood that lasted all night.
I used the meal to set them straight on a few misguided opinions their mother had about me, and my determination to prove her wrong. I encouraged them to be part of my team when they went to see her and to tell her that all the family was anxiously awaiting the return of the queen bee to her hearth and home.