know, but he had nothing to do with the armoured vehicle job. How do you know? Because he told me. And you believe him? I believe him. It was a botched job, the robbers were interrupted by a patrol car that just happened to be driving by, and they took off. The cops took the opportunity to keep the cash. All you have to do is figure out if it was the robbers or the cops who killed the guards. When you’ve got Chorizo in the mix, anything’s possible. Who’s Chorizo? A super from the Bonaerense precinct, the one who framed Miranda. Mole isn’t a killer, he’s a first-rate thief, an intellectual criminal. Doesn’t matter, intellectual or not, I want him in jail. What do you suggest we do about it? We? I’m not planning on doing anything; the truth is, I’m sick of all of it, Miranda is your problem now. What do you mean? There’s something I’ve got to do to try to fix my life, just a little, now that I’ve finally realized I can’t change the world. Can I help you? No, it’s something I’ve got to do alone, but I can help you with Miranda. How? If you want to nab Mole, tail his son. Miranda is a family man. Sooner or later the son will lead you to the father. Thanks for the tip, I was starting to think you were in this with him. If you want to know the truth, I’m not telling you this to further the pursuit of justice. Oh no? It’s just that I’d rather you get to him before someone like Flores does, someone who’d be capable of doing just about anything to get some money, do you understand? What are you going to do? I need to find someone who left the country, so I’m going to leave. I can get you back on the force, Lascano. You know what, Marcelo, if I did get reinstated, I’d last less time than a fart in a wicker basket. Why? The one who was protecting me was Jorge Turcheli. The chief who died right after he took over? He didn’t die, they killed him. The newspapers all said it was a heart attack. Don’t believe everything you read. What happened? The Apostles and Turcheli were vying for the job or, rather, there was a struggle between two different ways of seeing the Federal Police as a business opportunity. I don’t understand. The Apostles are a group of young officers in bed with cops who deal drugs. And? Turcheli didn’t like that; he always said that drugs always come with a lot of violence, and that those narcos don’t have any respect for anybody. Turcheli beat them out of the job, so they killed him in his office and made it look like a heart attack. I wouldn’t be surprised if the ones who did it had the blessing of some very important politicians. Now the head of the Apostles is sitting in his chair. I have no intention of hanging around to squabble with guys like that…
27
Horacio opens the small door under the grill and sees with satisfaction that the wood fire is burning heartily. Normally he doesn’t begin preparing the grill until an hour later, but today is not a normal day. With the money Valli gave him for the job, he’ll be able to pay off the last two instalments on the stainless steel grill he had put in two months ago. Outside, a storm is blowing, whistling down the chimney and pushing smoke in his face. This will be the first time he leaves the kid who helps him in charge of the grill. He’s been watching him work the last few days, and he trusts he can manage on his own, especially if not a lot of customers show up. He gives him some final instructions, then leaves him to do his job. He drags a bench over to the four-door freezer, reaches up and takes down the package that contains the Ruger he bought from One-Eyed Giardina. He says goodbye and leaves, gets into The Panther, stuffs the package under the seat, drives down the ramp, merges onto the motorway and continues toward Buenos Aires.
It’s around noon when he takes the Jujuy exit and parks along Moreno next to a truck depot. He walks through Plaza de Once, crosses the railroad bridge and, zigzagging, reaches the Abasto marketplace, where he arranged to meet Giardina, who’s waiting for him behind the wheel of an old, beat-up Renault 12.
You couldn’t find more of a wreck, old man? Don’t be deceived by appearances, you have no idea how well it runs. But there can always be problems. Relax, Horacio, this car you see here is a fiend. You want a demonstration? The only thing I want to do is finish this job and return to the grill, so let’s get going. What about the other car? It’s already in place.
They drive in silence. When they reach Aguero, Giardina points to a parked green Torino. Horacio gets into it; Giardina drives around the block and double-parks at the corner. From there he can see Horacio’s head through the rear window.
Horacio prepares himself for the wait. His target, Lascano, should appear on this block, but he doesn’t know when. His worst enemy is sleep. Boredom during indefinite waits can lead to dozing and then the target can get away. But he came prepared. He looks from side to side, then in front of him, then in the rearview mirror: apart from Giardina in the Renault, the street is empty. He takes a small envelope out of his shirt pocket, opens it and takes two generous snorts of blow into each nostril, using the long nail on his baby finger to shovel it in. He sucks off whatever’s left stuck under the nail, then puts the envelope back in his pocket. He takes the package out from under his seat, unwraps the gun, checks to make sure the clip is full, loads a round into the chamber, engages the safety catch and places it between the two front seats. He waits. There’s a walkie-talkie on the passenger seat so they can alert him to Lascano’s approach. But he needs to keep watch because they couldn’t guarantee they’d be able to warn him. The problem is impatience, as well as the paranoia the cocaine provokes. He looks through the rearview mirror. Nothing. He saw Lascano only a few times at the station. He never spoke to him, but he remembers him as a bitter and sulky guy. Horacio promised Valli that he knew him well, but now he’s not too sure he’ll recognize him when he sees him. He remembers he had a peculiar way of walking, as if he had springs on his heels — that’ll surely help identify him. The plan is simple. When Lascano walks by the car, he’ll get out quietly, walk behind him without him noticing, place the barrel of the Ruger under his ear pointing upward and pull the trigger twice. The advantage of the twenty-two long is that it doesn’t make a mess; it’s not powerful enough to send the bullet all the way through the skull, so it stays lodged inside the brain, where it’s impossible to remove. The victim doesn’t fall right away; he staggers a little as if he were drunk, then goes into a coma from which he never awakens. All he’s got to do is wait.
Lascano was on the verge of telling that punk kid, prosecutor or not, to go to hell, but he restrained himself. Anyway, he thinks, he’s nothing but a kid trying to stay afloat and keep clean in a pond full of shit. He’s sorry he wasn’t in the mood to give him some tips on staying alive. Considering the hornets’ nests he’s sticking that nose into, it’s foolhardy the way he’s walking around the streets as if nothing would happen to him. He decides to go home on foot. He quickly gets away from the deafening traffic of Tucuman and Uruguay, quickening his pace until he reaches Cordoba. As he passes by the doors of the General Registry Office, the exuberant relatives of a glowing and smiling couple shower him with rice. He shakes the grains off his jacket and out of his hair, reaches the corner and turns toward Callao. The traffic is hellish here, too, but at least the roar dissipates across the breadth of the avenue. He’s tired and in a bad mood, and he has no idea where he’s going to get the money to fly to Brazil now that he’s failed to settle his accounts with the people from the bank. Apparently bankers are better accountants than he is. He decides to go home and see how much cash he has left. It’ll probably be enough to get to Sao Paulo by bus and stay there a few days. From there he’ll improvise. A Ford Falcon is parked across the street at the corner of Laprida and Cordoba. The sun reflecting off the windshield makes it so he can’t see Onionskin, an ex-cop, or the other two in the car with him. A breeze blows through the street, making a pile of papers dumped in the street swirl into the air. When Lascano can no longer see the Falcon, it drives off, screeching around the corner at full speed. At the next corner it turns toward Fuseli’s place and parks a few yards behind the Renault, where Giardina has fallen asleep.
When Horacio sees Lascano walking calmly toward him through the rearview mirror, he recognizes him immediately. He grabs the Ruger and releases the safety catch. He lies down in the passenger seat so Lascano won’t see him as he walks by. He curses silently. Because of the direction he’s coming from, he’ll have to shoot him with his left hand, which he can do, but he feels more confident with his right. He gets out of the car and starts to walk quietly behind him, the Ruger firmly gripped in his left hand. His footsteps are silent and he’s lucky the wind is blowing toward him. When he’s just three steps away from his target, he raises his gun.
If there’s anything that really bothers Lascano, it’s the wind in his face. That’s why he’s grateful when it suddenly changes direction and he feels a gust pushing him from behind. That gust carries to his nose the penetrating scent of barbecued meat that infuses Horacio’s clothes. He turns quickly. Fatso is aiming right at his head. He sees the flesh of his finger pressing hard on the trigger. He sees himself dead.
Blam!
But Horacio is the one who falls. Onionskin, standing next to the kerb, has shot him. The report wakes up One-Eyed Giardina. Startled, he opens his eye and clutches the steering wheel with both hands. Onionskin is pointing his Magnum right between Lascano’s eyes. Horacio has landed face down. Blood begins to pour onto the
