Revenge of the Assassin

over having to terminate his friendship so abruptly. It was nothing personal, just as the uncle’s researching his past hadn’t been personal. He’d done what he’d felt compelled to do, and El Rey had responded in kind. That was how the world worked. If you played with vipers, you shouldn’t be surprised when one bit you. It was the law of the jungle El Rey lived by, and the incident only served to reinforce why it was a good idea to never get too close to anyone, or too attached to any place or thing. Relative peace and safety could turn dangerous in a heartbeat, and it was foolishness to drop your guard.

Gustavo had been working on his project for over a week — he’d seen from the e-mail dates. Which meant that if he’d been telling the truth, he’d known, or suspected, for almost that long. El Rey could only hope that he’d kept the information to himself, which he believed was strongly likely. Anyone else knowing would have compromised the old man’s hoped-for hold over El Rey, and he was sure that Gustavo had leveled with him about his problem in Buenos Aires. His only miscalculation had been in believing that he could control the assassin and force him to do his bidding.

It was a pity — it was hard to find friends these days. But it was also unavoidable.

El Rey had two choices. He could disappear, hoping to elude any pursuit, or he could stay put and see what happened. But he didn’t want to trip any alarms and a sudden departure immediately after the murder of his chess partner might trigger the exact sort of manhunt he was hoping to avoid. After much thought, he decided to wait and see rather than running. He liked Mendoza more than anyplace else he’d been, and he wasn’t anxious to leave if he didn’t have to. So he’d gathered up his passports and double-checked his escape kit, which he’d stowed in the large safe behind a paneled section of his home study, and resigned himself to being patient and waiting it out. Nothing was ever gained by making rash moves.

Jania had sounded genuinely surprised and shocked, so Gustavo hadn’t told her anything. That was good. He would have hated to have to kill her over that sort of indiscretion. On balance, then, it wasn’t a bad start to the day. She would get to live.

He hummed to himself as he walked to the glass front entry, silently debating not opening, and then dismissing the idea. Better to go about his business as though nothing had happened — which in a way, it hadn’t. His shopkeeper’s uncle had been the victim of a failed burglary attempt, or alternatively, had been killed by some of the unsavory elements from his murky past. Either way the police looked, they’d encounter a dead end. There was no trail to him, or the shop, to follow.

He flipped the sign over from closed to open and unlocked the door. If today was like any other weekday, he’d be lucky to see five customers before dinner time.

El Rey brought his notebook computer from out of the back office and settled in behind the counter on the high padded stool where Jania spent most of her time. Peering at his watch, he mentally calculated how many hours he’d be on this lonely duty and sighed resignedly as he moved the cursor to his favorite web browser to surf the web.

El Rey closed at two o’clock for the customary two hour lunch break that all of Argentina took. Sometimes it was extended to three hours on slow days, which today, given the two customers so far, he felt qualified as such. He walked a block to his favorite lunchtime restaurant, a small Italian place on one of the main streets, and ordered a salad and some duck ravioli. Following his meal, he opted for an hour and a half at the gym.

Refreshed from the exercise, he stowed his gear in the locker he rented by the month and made his way back to the shop. The usual sprawl of students was lounging around, carousing on the promenade in front, but other than that, he saw nothing of note. He grudgingly opened the door, propping it open to lure tourists in, and remounted the stool, waiting for closing time to come.

At six, two men in trench coats entered, removing their fedoras, and Antonio instinctively stiffened, their bearings unmistakable. The taller of the pair approached him — a rough-looking man in his early fifties whose baby face had long ago succumbed to the effects of wine and gravity, and whose day-old stubble was laced with gray.

“Senor Balardi? Antonio Balardi?” he asked officiously.

“Yes. How can I help you?” Antonio answered in a modulated, quiet voice.

“I’m Detective Rufio Starone, and this is Detective Franko Lombardetti. We’d like to ask you a few questions,” the taller man responded.

“Certainly. Would you mind showing me some identification?” Antonio asked reasonably.

The request seemed to annoy the two men, but they flipped out their badges, which Antonio studied over the rims of his glasses and then nodded.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“We’re investigating the murder of Gustavo Peralta Malagro. We got your name from his niece, Jania.”

“Yes. She called this morning. A shocking crime. He was a wonderful man. But I’m not sure how I can help you…”

“We’re following up with everyone he knew, to see if there was anything suspicious or worrisome about him in his last days. Let’s begin with you telling us how well you knew him,” Starone said.

“Not particularly well. He and I would play chess a few times a month. I’ve only known him for maybe four months, through Jania. He’d come by, we got to talking, and it became somewhat of a ritual — a way to kill time,” Antonio explained.

“When did you last see him?” Detective Lombardetti asked.

“Oh, it must have been four days ago. We sat over at the little French bakery and played a game of chess, as was our custom.”

“Did he seem preoccupied or concerned? Did he mention anything worrying him?” Starone inquired.

“No. Not unusually so. I mean, he would complain about things sometimes, but just routine stuff, nothing dramatic. Why? I thought Jania said that this was a burglary? Isn’t that the case?”

Starone ignored the question. “What kind of routine stuff? Give me some examples.”

“Well, let’s see. He griped about the cost of gas and energy a lot, and about international banks robbing the country blind, and about how the economy sucked and the government was incompetent…”

“Basically what everyone in Argentina talks about,” Starone remarked.

“Yes. That’s what I mean about routine.”

“Did he ever mention his past?” Lombardetti interjected.

“His past? No, not really. He mentioned that he had been with the government, but he made it sound like a bureaucratic function. All due respect, I wasn’t all that interested. He was a nice old man I played chess with. I wasn’t thinking about dating him,” Antonio explained.

“Yes, well, he was a little more than a low-level flunky. He was actually fairly high up in the intelligence service for much of his career. He made a lot of enemies, I’m sure. Those were difficult times for our country. Dark times.” Starone paused, studying Antonio’s face. “So what’s your story, Antonio? I see by your records that you have been in Argentina for eight and a half months. What brought you to Mendoza?”

“Oh, you know. I was tired of living at home, in Ecuador, and wanted a change of scenery. I inherited a little money when an uncle died, so I decided to see the world. I wound up staying here after falling in love with the place. I’m hoping this business takes off and I can make a go of it. Things could be better, with the economy still in the toilet and tourism off so much,” Antonio complained, convincingly, he thought. But he didn’t like the direction the questions were turning.

“Yes. It’s been a tough few years. And what did you do in Ecuador?” Starone probed, while making a few notes in a small pad he’d extracted from his coat. “What part are you from?”

Antonio launched into his carefully rehearsed cover.

“Quito. The capital. I helped my parents with a little store off the Plaza Grande, by the cathedral. Cell phones and consumer electronics. But there’s not a lot of opportunity there, and I got bored, so I set out for somewhere new once I got some money. I love Mendoza, and I’m hoping I can succeed with my business here,” he gestured at the shop.

“Who’s president of Ecuador now? I don’t follow those things,” Starone asked.

“Rafael Correa. He’s on his second term,” Antonio said without hesitation. He was getting really uncomfortable, but outwardly his demeanor didn’t change, and he continued to project polite concern and worry over Gustavo.