Sweet money il-2 Read online

  Tomorrow he will try to find Lascano. He has the feeling he might be biting off more than he can chew. His mother calls him to the table. He puts all the documents back in the envelope. He decides to also take Kelsen’s book with him.

  The aroma wafting down the hallway makes his stomach growl like a crocodile: his mother makes the best risotto in the world.

  5

  Jorge shaves meticulously and for a long time. He opens the tap and contemplates with satisfaction as the bathroom fills up with steam. He undresses and steps into the very hot shower. His wife says he boils himself rather than bathes. He washes his hair with herbal shampoo, scrubs his body with scentless glycerine soap, then rinses twice. He dries himself off in front of the open window, feeling his pores closing in the cold breeze. He takes a bottle of Fahrenheit cologne out of the medicine cabinet. He aims the spray at the ceiling and lets the cloud of scent fall over his skin like a morning mist. These moments of his morning ablutions are when he plans his day, when he feels most inspired. He’s quite satisfied this morning. Despite all the Apostles’ manoeuvrings and the pressure they applied to secure the position for one of their own, he got it. He remembers Filander’s angry look the day he was sworn in, and he smiles. Now he must quickly dismantle their operation. Those guys are no sissies, and he can’t expect them to roll over and play dead. That very morning he will begin to execute his plan to decapitate the organization. He knows he doesn’t have a moment to lose; he can’t give them time to get a foothold, surround him, throw him off balance. In one fell swoop he will move Cubas to the Oran precinct, he’ll open an internal investigation of Valli and Medina — up to their eyeballs in the racket of stripping stolen cars — and he’ll put Bellon and Garcia on administrative leave. Filander has to die. He’d rather avoid such a measure, and he resorts to it only when he has absolutely no other choice; this, he believes, is such a case. Filander is a dangerous lunatic. He trusts the rest will scurry away like cockroaches when the lights go on. Then he’ll deal with them in a few days. Ladeski has had it in for Hernandez ever since he got the upper hand and kept the fifteenth precinct. If he promises it to one of them and gives the seventeenth, for example, to the other, he’s got a good chance of getting them both on his team. He’ll first have to see their reactions, but he’s almost sure they’ll come on board with him. He just has to wait and see.

  He goes back to the bedroom, where Cora has laid his clean clothes out on the bed. The shirt is impeccably ironed, the trousers have a crease so sharp you could cut salami with it — as his old man used to say — and the shoes are shined so brightly he could use them as mirrors to shave in. He takes a sip of mate through the bombilla straw as he contemplates himself in the mirror. He isn’t carrying an ounce of fat, and the few grey hairs that have appeared here and there give him a touch of distinction.

  I’ve still got my good looks.

  He gives the mate back to his wife and puts on the jacket of his spanking-new Chief of Police uniform.

  So, my love, are you proud of your hubbie? You know I am, Jorge. It’s just that I’m worried that now I’ll see even less of you than I did before. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’m not worried, it’s just that the kids treat this place like a hotel, coming here to eat and sleep, and you work more and more every day, and all I do is sit here alone and watch the mould grow. You’ve got your mother, your friends. It’s not the same, Jorge, it’s just not the same. What do you say we go out to eat to celebrate? Oh, I don’t know, you think we should? I can’t figure you out. Should I tell the kids? No, just the two of us. Oh, I don’t know. I’ll call you later and we’ll arrange it. Whatever you say, Jorge. Would I have to get dressed? I guess, unless you want to go naked.

  Graciela is waiting for him at the entrance on Moreno Street. She, too, is wearing a brand-new uniform. She greets him with a Good morning, sir, and a cheeky wink. They have a perfect understanding. The entire department suspects there’s something going on between them. And there is, but the secret they share is very different from the one the others imagine. She follows him into his office. Jorge asks her to get him the phone numbers of a series of people whose names she writes down on her pad. She closes the door behind her, sits down at her desk and begins to look up the numbers. Jorge, sitting at his desk, is figuring out what he should do first. In front of him he has the police organizational chart, with all the names and their corresponding positions. He begins the task of moving people around. Internal Affairs: he crosses out Crio. He puts a line through Superintendent Olindo Gaito and writes in Lascano. Vice: get rid of…

  In the reception room, Graciela is writing down telephone numbers next to the names Jorge dictated to her. The door opens and two superintendents she already knows, a civilian and one young female officer she’s never seen enter.

  You’ll be leaving now. What did you say, sir? That you’ll be leaving now. Where, sir? Home, you’ve got the day off. I’ll just go tell the Chief. We’ll take care of the Chief. But… No buts, just leave, now!

  The man is whispering, but his tone and the look in his eyes brook no argument. Graciela grabs her purse and walks out, her chest heaving with distress. The female officer sits down in Graciela’s chair behind the desk and hands the pad with the names and numbers to Superintendent Valli. He reads, smiles smugly, shows it to Bellon, tears off the sheet, stuffs it in his pocket and hands the pad back to the policewoman. He looks at the civilian.

  Everything ready, Doctor? Ready. Let’s go.

  Valli and Bellon enter the office; the doctor follows behind and closes the door. Jorge starts to get up, but Valli is already on him, pushing him back down in the chair. Bellon stands behind Jorge and pins his arms back. Valli puts Jorge’s neck in a lock with his right arm as he grabs his hair with his left. The doctor approaches, pushes open Jorge’s jacket and, with both hands, rips open his shirt, tearing off the buttons. Jorge tries to move, but Bellon holds his arms and Valli has his neck. The doctor takes out of one pocket a ten centimetre-long cardiac needle and out of the other a vial of adrenaline. He places the needle in the plunger, pulls up the plastic pump, grabs the whole thing as if it were a dagger, and in one swift movement stabs it into Jorge’s chest with expert precision. Jorge feels a sharp pain in his heart; he fixes his bulging eyes on the doctor, who presses on the pump, emptying the contents of the syringe into his heart muscle. Jorge has a spasm and kicks the doctor in the shin, making him swear. He throws his head back and begins to shake violently. The two superintendents have to hold him down with all their strength, his eyes fill with blood, he desperately gasps for breath, he grows stiff, then relaxes, then dies with his eyes and mouth open. The two policemen are sweating and trembling from the exertion. The doctor touches his neck to feel for a pulse. Valli looks at the papers on the desk, picks up the organizational chart, reads it, folds it twice and puts it in his pocket.

  Ready. Let’s go.

  The three men leave the office. The policewoman is in the same place they left her. Valli picks up the telephone and dials a number…

  … it’s done.

  He hangs up.

  In half an hour, you sound the alarm and call the ambulance at this number. Yes, sir. Do you have any questions about what you rehearsed? You know exactly what you are supposed to do and say? Yes. Are you okay? Yes, fine. Don’t fail me. Don’t worry about anything.

  The men leave the reception room. The policewoman accompanies them to the door and locks it behind them. She walks to the office. She enters. She goes up to Jorge’s body and touches his neck to look for a pulse. She leaves. She wipes off the two doorknobs with a handkerchief, closes the office door, unlocks the door to the reception area and sits down in front of the desk. She looks at her watch and sighs.

  The whole thing took less than three minutes.

  6

  Miranda spends the whole night as if he’d been bitten by a tsetse fly: tossing and turning, floating in a vague half-sleep, falling into a deeper sleep for mere minutes, maybe seconds, at a ti
me. He spends his first night of freedom full of regrets, fears, guilt and the constant urge to cry. He is tormented as only a tough man, hardened and moulded by life’s harsh realities can be when all his defences fall away; he feels like a slug starting down a path strewn with salt. Even his pores feel sorrow and ache. He is overwhelmed by a sense of vertigo, and the only escape appears to be the end of this interminable night. Tomorrow he will confront his greatest fear, hear his final sentence. He knows this is one of those all-or-nothing moments he has had to confront several times throughout his life. There have been times he’s even gone looking for them and then boasted about surviving them. But now he’s weary, he wants it to stop. He cannot imagine life as an invalid, or without his woman or his son. He gets up, goes to the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror, where all the marks stamped on his face by the prison bars are reflected back at him, no detail spared: his left eye slightly crossed — which wasn’t like that before — the brown spot on his temple, his receding gums that now expose the tips of the roots of his teeth — which themselves have yellowed. He is sick of that insipid face staring heartlessly back at him. He hates mirrors. Now that they’ve let him out of his cage he can allow himself this moment of tremendous weakness, which anyway was inevitable. He feels sorry for himself and hates himself for feeling that way. He despises the man he has always been, the one he no longer wants to be, the man who is determined to change, come what may.

  The black of the sky edges toward blue, then continues to lighten. The arrival of what Miranda waited for all night does not lift his spirits. Lying in the bathtub with his eyes closed and abandoning himself to the warmth of the water enveloping him, he thinks: This is the ideal way: a razor blade in the bathtub. Uncork the blood, fall asleep, let it flow like water. Leave his wife and son a pale, clean corpse, as if he were sleeping. Nothing pathetic, sordid or bloody. Something that can be buried with decorum.

  Doctor Gelser had to twice postpone his appointment with Peretti because the entryway was swarming with police. He is a prudent man and doesn’t want to run the risk of someone recognizing him and starting to ask questions. But at that moment, the entrance to Churruca Police Hospital is particularly peaceful. He looks at his watch. He walks from the corner with quick steps. He’s wearing a doctor’s white coat. As he enters, he keeps his head down, past the elevators and directly to the door that leads to the basement. The corridor is empty. He stops in front of the supply window and rings the bell. It opens briefly, then shuts with a bang. Gelser walks over to the door next to the window; Peretti, a big guy wearing blue overalls, appears.

  Come in, Sawbones.

  Gelser enters. Peretti looks up and down the corridor and closes the door. He takes a box off a shelf and gives it to him.

  Here’s your order. Great. As long as I’m here, I need something else. If I’ve got it, it’s yours. A Finocchietto rib-splitter. Wait a second…

  Peretti picks up a styrofoam box and places it on the table in front of Gelser.

  Anything else? That’s all for now. Did you work something out with the people in the pharmacy? We’ll have to wait till next week when the Turk comes back from vacation; that jerk who took his place would be better lost than found. Okay. Let me know if you need anything. You know I will, Sawbones.

  Gelser takes out a small wad of banknotes held together with a rubber band and stuffs them into one of Peretti’s pockets.

  That’s for the order, what do I owe you for the rib-splitter? It’s on the house, Sawbones. Really? Natch. Thanks a million.

  Peretti picks up the telephone and dials three numbers.

  Wait for me to clear your way… Vasco?… Sawbones Gelser is on his way out with some merchandise. Make sure the coast is clear for him… Okay… They’re really breaking people’s balls on the way out. Thanks, we’ll be in touch. You’re welcome, any time.

  It’s almost eleven in the morning by the time Mole leaves his hideout. The morning has dished him up a perfectly splendid autumn day. The sun: perfect; the temperature: perfect, even exhilarating. He walks to Gelser’s house. Where that is, exactly, is one of the best kept secrets in the criminal underworld. Nobody would dare even mention that it exists, no matter how tight a spot they’re in. It’s where fugitives go to get treatment when they’ve been wounded by officers of the law or rival criminals, which are often one and the same.

  Sawbones used to practise medicine in the poor neighbourhood of Claypole, where he’d been born and raised. One night the local police superintendent asked him to perform an abortion on a minor, but the pregnancy was too far along and he refused. They framed him and threw the book at him. In the end, he lost his licence and became the doctor of the underworld. He’s a genius at removing bullets, a true master at preventing and curing infections. If there’s dough, he charges; if not, no problem. He never leaves anybody out in the cold. The doctor has earned himself a place of respect, gratitude and appreciation, even among the most violent and crazy lowlifes.

  There’s no lock on the door, but inside are all the trappings of a regular doctor’s office, even a small operating room equipped with everything he managed to rescue from his former practice, as well as what Peretti supplies him. Gelser comes out to greet him, flashing his magnificent smile.

  My dear, dear Mole, what a pleasure, come in, come in. When did you get out? Yesterday. Everything okay? Well, you know what it’s like, those first hours out. Terrifying. Look, I know someone, a psychoanalyst, he was inside and now he does therapy for ex-cons. Are you interested? Hey, man, if we’ve got psychoanalysts for cons, you know we’re lost. So leave me alone with that crap. That’s all I need. So, what do you need? Look… I want you to test me for the plague. The ELISA test, for HIV? For AIDS. Right, that’s for HIV. What do I have to do? It’s nothing. Go to this address. Ask to speak to Alberto, tell him I sent you. Here’s the lab order. You won’t have to pay anything. Money’s not a problem. It’s on me. You’ll have the results in two days. Let me take a look at you. Take off your shirt.

  Gelser stands up and looks in his eyes with a little device that emits a very bright white light, then in his throat and ears, listens to his chest through a stethoscope and palpates his lymph nodes.

  You look as healthy as a horse to me. But you want to be sure, right? Yeah, of course. I want to get back with Duchess, but not if I’ve got it. How many were you with inside? Just one. The whole time? No, in the last year. Was he with anybody else? Just me. That’s good.

  After he leaves the laboratory Miranda calls Screw and they arrange to meet that evening at Topolino, a pizzeria in downtown Haedo, in the suburbs of Buenos Aires. Screw is the one who manages Mole’s money. While Mole was in jail, he made sure he and his family had whatever they needed. He has carried out his duty with remarkable loyalty and meticulousness, he has accounted forevery penny and gives many more explanations than Miranda demands. They agree to meet at ten that night.

  Mole arrives first and orders a large, half-mozzarella, half-onion with cheese pizza and a beer. Screw shows up one minute later. Miranda watches him step around two barefoot kids asking for spare change in the street in front and enter quickly; he stands up and gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He’s truly happy to see him, but Screw looks distraught.

  What’s up, old man, why the long face? You’re going to kill me. What’s going on? It’s all gone, Mole, I’ve lost almost all your dough. What do you mean lost? I didn’t want to tell you because I hoped I’d get it back before you got out, but I couldn’t.

  With great solemnity, and racked with shame, Screw places an envelope on the table. Miranda stares at it, unable to get over the shock.

  What’s this? It’s all that’s left.

  Mole peeks in the envelope and casts a disappointed eye on the bundle of dollars inside, then puts it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  But what happened? My baby girl is sick.

  Screw’s eyes fill with tears. He lowers his head. The waiter places the wooden platter with the pizza o
n the table, opens the Quilmes beer and walks away. Mole pours out the beer and hands Screw a glass. Screw finishes it in one gulp. He looks up from the foam in the glass and meets Mole’s eyes. His face is twisted with grief. His voice sounds like his tongue is a wet rag.

  She’s dying, Mole.

  He looks down and burps. Miranda calls over the waiter.

  Do me a favour, kid. Put the pizza in a box and give it to those kids out front. Seems we’ve lost our appetite.

  Mole stares silently at his friend, then pulls himself together.

  You’re going to kill me. Stop talking crap, will you? What do you mean, I’m going to kill you? I would if I were you. Nothing can be done? I spent all the dough on tests to see what she had. And? It’s a brain tumour. Inoperable, no treatment. All I can do is sit around and watch her die. She’s blind…