<
id="heading_id_51">Honest Whitey</
>
I
Honest whitey didn’t waste any time. He headed straight to police headquarters. Following his nephew’s shrewd advice, he gave his statement and handed over in evidence a lousy solitaire so low in carats that even by the wildest overestimation it wasn’t worth ten sols. Colonel López de Salamanca praised his civic spirit. “Don Quintín, I can’t thank you enough for your forthright contribution to this investigation. Rushing to our office in order to supply us with such invaluable information—I congratulate you on such praiseworthy behavior. But could I beg you to elaborate on a few of the details? Are you personally acquainted with the village woman who brought the ring? Do you have any idea where she lives? That would be a great help in capturing the aforesaid. Most likely the fugitive met the said female when he discovered that a warrant had been issued for his arrest. Do you believe he sought her out with a specific purpose in mind?”
“Possibly.”
“They didn’t meet by chance?”
“Who knows?”
“Do you know the whereabouts of this lowlife’s abode?”
“No clue.”
II
Honest whitey was covering his back so as not to blow it and get hurt. He was afraid he might get in a tangle, tipping them off to the trick he’d pulled. The chief of police stared at him, smiling suspiciously and superciliously, the infallible skewering by a uniformed telepath. The pawnbroker began to panic and cursed Melquíades under his breath. “We enter every receipt. I’ll take a look. I can’t guarantee my assistant has got around to it yet. He’s a careless young fellow who’s only just come from the mother country.”
The chief of police stuck out his chest and leaned over his desk. “What a shame if you got hit with a big fine because of some careless fool.”
The pawnbroker concealed his annoyance. “Dear Colonel, if he has been negligent, there are ways and means for your men to get the goods. That peasant lives with a no-good who’s visited my establishment more than once. I’m sure he’s on your books. Hardly a law-abiding citizen. One of those bandits who was amnestied years ago—when a deal was done with the ringleaders and they were given an army stripe. Nowadays he sets up as a potter.”
“Do you happen to know this individual’s name?”
“I expect it will come to me.”
“Any distinguishing feature?”
“A scar over his face.”
“Scarface Zac?”
“I’d hate to be wrong, but yes, that could be him.”
“You show great insight, Mr. Peredita. I must reiterate my thanks. We’re on the right path now. You may go.”
Honest whitey inquired: “And the little ring?”
“We must attach it to the statement.”
“So I lose nine sols?”
“Your tough luck! But you can put in an appeal to the Justice Department. There’ll be some red tape but I’m sure you’ll get compensation in the end. Start the appeal now. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Peredita!”
The chief of police rang his bell. A sweaty, shabby clerk walked in: creased starched collar, tie at half-mast, pen behind ear, an ink-stained drill guayabera with black half sleeves. The colonel scribbled on a docket, stamped it, and handed it to the clerk. “Proceed to the immediate arrest of this couple. Choose men who are ready to shoot and tell them to be on high alert: Scarface Zac’s a genuine tough guy. If someone who knows him is available, give him the job. And pull Zac’s file. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Peredita. You’ve been most helpful!”
He dispatched him with a round of flattering flimflam. Honest whitey withdrew, crestfallen, directing one last, lingering glance, like a whimpering pooch, at the table where the ring was irrevocably marooned under a sea of forms. After instructing the clerk, the chief of police peered out the barred window overlooking the courtyard. A squad of gendarmes lined up and rushed off. The corporal, a handlebar-mustachioed mestizo, was a veteran of the old campaign against the brigands led by Colonel Irineo Castañon, Peg Leg.
III
The corporal stationed his men in pairs around the shack on the Rich Peruvian’s Plot. He peered around the door, pistol cocked. “Zac, give yourself up!”
The chinita’s tremulous voice came from inside: “That no-good bum’s gone and left me! You won’t find him here! The beast’s looking for fresh pastures!”
Her shadow cowered behind a grindstone, as she whined and whimpered and made herself scarce. The gendarmes converged on the door, aiming their pistols inside. The corporal rasped, “Outside now!”
“Why do you want me?”
“To put a flower in your hair.”
The corporal cracked jokes to keep up his men’s spirits. The barefoot mother, child on hip, emerged meekly from the darkness, her hair trailing over her shoulders. “You can search every nook and cranny. That bum’s gone and left his kids with nothing but his sandals.”
“Listen, baby, we know what’s doing. Cut the crap. You pawned a ring that belonged to Colonel de la Gándara.”
“It was pure chance that ended up with me! I found it.”
“You are summoned to appear before my immediate superior, Colonel López de Salamanca. Put the child down and get a move on.”
“Can’t I take my child with me?”
“Police headquarters isn’t a home for waifs and strays.”
“What am I supposed to do with my kid?”
“We’ll arrange admission to a charitable institution.”
The kid crawled out between the gendarme’s legs and toddled off toward the marsh. His mother cried anxiously, “You bad boy, come back!”
Pointing his gun, the corporal entered the dark hovel. “Watch out! Who wants to volunteer to search the place? Be on the lookout. The bum could be hiding in there waiting to take a potshot. Surrender, Scarface! Don’t fuck around. You’ll only make things worse for yourself.”
He went into the shack, surrounded by gendarmes, his gun pointed ahead into the darkness.
IV
After completing their search, the corporal and his men came out to handcuff the whimpering chinita. She sat slumped against the doorway moaning, with her skirts over her head. The corporal yanked her to her feet. Her child was lying in the swamp slime, crying, surrounded by grunting hogs. The gendarmes were pushing and shoving the mother. She twisted around and screamed at the boy, “Come here! Don’t be afraid! Come here! Quick!”
The child ran then stopped. He called out to his mother. A gendarme turned, scaring the boy, who froze in place. He was crying and hitting himself in the face. His mother shouted hoarsely, “Come here! Come, come!”
But the child wouldn’t budge. He stood on the bank of the waterway and sobbed, watching the distance grow between him and his mother.