The Mongolian Conspiracy Page 16

  “Go ahead.”

  The professor ordered a double.

  “Who was protecting Manrique?”

  “Luciano Manrique’s entire life, as well as his specific activities, can be reduced to one bit of legal terminology: chargeable offense. His name first appears in the Mexican police records of Tampico as a procurer: arrested for aggravated assault, charged with procuring and carrying illegal weapons — a club and assorted other bits. Three years. Released in two. He had learned an important lesson. If one wants to devote one’s life to the professions of procurement, robbery, and similar activities, one must be allied with some member of the police force. So he becomes a policeman in Tamaulipas. As you can see, Cap’n, and without meaning any offense, he rose in the criminal ranks while sinking deeper into the swamp.”

  “Who got him out of jail?”

  “He became buddies with a policeman, who in turn became buddies with the chief of military operations, one General Miraflores. Cheers, Cap’n.”

  “Why did he get him out?”

  “Perhaps out of noble feelings of mercy for his fellow human beings, Christian mercy. Though if that were the case, it would be the only instance of such feelings in General Miraflores’s brilliant career. There are those with malevolent but probably correct notions who claim that Miraflores had him released from jail so he could help him collect his cut from the local prostitutes.”

  “Then what?”

  “When the general came to Mexico City and Mr. Rosendo del Valle left the government of Tamaulipas, Luciano came, too, and apparently without a job title. Just in case, as they say. He brought with him his wife, or mistress or consort, with whom he lived on Camelia Street, number 87.”

  “Has in been in jail here in Mexico City?”

  “Once, for robbery. He got out on bail thanks to his brilliant defense attorney, your humble servant.”

  “And who paid for your services?”

  “His wife. Again, they caught him with a stolen car. But they couldn’t prove anything, and the owner of the car, thanks to my efforts, withdrew the complaint.”

  “Who paid you, Professor?”

  “The wife.”

  “Where did she get the money?”

  “You want hearsay?”

  “Yes.”

  “General Miraflores. Seems he was very fond of our man. I was, too, and he was turning out to be a good client, until . . . until he died.”

  “What else?”

  “The woman’s name is Ester Ramírez. She was working at a whorehouse in Tampico, and Luciano Manrique rescued her from that ignominious and degraded life. So, what about my fee, Cap’n?”

  “Here.”

  “Thank you. I see you subtracted the thirty pesos.”

  “I did. That was the deal.”

  “Okay, okay. In fact, Cap’n, the police still haven’t found out who murdered the men in the black Pontiac, as they are now called in the newspapers.”

  “So?”

  “But in the courts, word has it that the police know who killed them but orders have come from higher up to drop the investigation. Cheers, Cap’n.”

  “And lately, just before he died, is anything known about what Manrique was doing?”

  “He had more money than usual and was often seen in the company of new friends.”

  “Who?”

  “One they call the Toad. He’s also from Tampico, and he also worked with the police there. The other one, according to what they say, is a recently arrived gringo who lives in a hotel on Mina Street. And, it seems, there’s been a whole new wave of crimes. Last night, they found four men and a woman, dead, in a room on Guerrero Street.”

  “Really.”

  “Turns out the woman was the inconsolable widow you and I interviewed yesterday afternoon. She was strangled with an electrical cord.”

  “Really.”

  “They must have killed her shortly after we left.”

  “I left her with you, Professor.”

  The professor took a sip of tequila, then smiled.

  “We both live from crime, Cap’n, but those of my profession have reached the conclusion that killing our potential clients is not only unethical but very bad business. In the circles you move in, on the other hand, one has not reached this conclusion.”

  “You’re crossing a line, Professor.”

  García’s voice did not sound hard, only tired. The professor smiled again.

  “Don’t get mad, Cap’n. It was only a joke. Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  The professor finished his tequila and ordered another. Fucking jokes. Fucking truth. So we’re dumbasses because we kill our clientele. Maybe only chumps work in this business — the sharp-witted ones study law. And what about the Russian and the gringo? Seems they studied their profession, like the professor. And I didn’t study shit. I fell into it without even knowing why or how. Maybe because it was there for the taking. Or because that was life in those days. Or because that’s how they wanted me to be. Fucking life! And the gringo and the Russian studied a lot to become what I am. And this lawyer, what is he? A cantina rat? Specialists, del Valle said. Fucking gunslingers like me! And now Marta comes along and tells me how good I am! What the fuck?! What would the professor say if I told him that? Good Filiberto. Fucking faggot Filiberto! What would he say if I told him about Marta? There should be a university department for gunslingers. Experts in slinging guns. Experts in screwing others over. Experts in churning out the faithful departed. One year of studies to learn not to remember the dead you leave behind. And another year, so that even if you do remember, you don’t give a damn. Does this lawyer remember all the dirty cases he’s been in on? All the bribes? They say some killers notch their guns for each of their victims. Dumbasses! I don’t need to make any marks to remember. For all I know Graves made a mark on his gun last night. Or maybe he keeps a list. That Russian with his reactions. If after every killing, he ate like he said he does, he’d be fat as hell. And he says Graves goes and tells all, like in confession. And Marta confesses to me. All that’s left is for me to have the urge to confess to her. Fucking confession! There are things you never tell anybody. Hey, Marta, one day in Parral I killed a woman. She was making a chump out of me and I killed her. Hey, Marta, out in Huasteca, I strangled an old man with an electrical cord. And in Mazatlán, I whacked two guys in a cantina. First I got them drunk. There they were, slumped over on the floor, backs against the counter, their eyes wide open. The dead always have stupid expressions on their faces. And me pretending to be good old Filiberto. Listen, Marta, out there in San Andrés Tuxtle, I killed a man then fucked his wife, right there in the same room, I raped her. Must have been one of those reactions the Russian was talking about. Because now those things aren’t low-down shit, they’re reactions. The Russian police even keeps lists of them: after killing, Filiberto García is known to rape the victim’s wife.

  “You angry, Cap’n?”

  “No, Professor. Actually, there’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time.”

  “Ask away, Cap’n. Another tequila, Raymundo!”

  “You studied at the university and received your law degree.”

  “In 1929. If you want, I can show you my certificate. I must have it around, somewhere.”

  “With all that, your studies and your degree, it doesn’t seem like you’ve gotten very far, have you?”

  “That hurt your feelings, didn’t it, what I said before?”

  “No, it’s not that. But I’ve heard that you know everything there is to know about the law.”

  “Summa cum laude. But it didn’t do me much good, did it? Thanks, Raymundo. This one’s to your health, Cap’n. Maybe it was true what my father said. He was also a lawyer: ‘What nature doesn’t give, Salamanca won’t provide.’”

  He finished his tequila in one gulp. When he spoke again there was a strange sadness in his voice.

  “My father was a lawyer and a supporter of Porfirio Díaz. Always wore a b
owler hat and a suit. He was a judge and they said he’d be a magistrate. Don Porfirio was his friend. But he didn’t become a magistrate; he didn’t become anything. You know why, Cap’n?”

  “Because of the Revolution?”

  “No. Many like him, including one of his closest friends, joined the Revolution. But my father remained loyal. He resigned. He wouldn’t serve a rebel government of mutinous officers and the masses. He resigned and then he wasn’t nothing or nobody. He could recite the laws in Latin and he spoke French and German, but he wasn’t nothing or nobody, because he wanted to remain loyal. The old fool.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Professor.”

  “But I started working as a lawyer during the time when the military was in charge. The days of men like you, Cap’n. The military and the law don’t get along very well. More important than knowing all the articles of the Code, and all the Latin phrases my father taught me, was getting in good with some general, with one of our many heroes. Because there’s one thing you learn from military men: being right isn’t worth shit, what matters is having buddies. Just look at the case of Luciano Manrique.”

  “He’s dead, Professor.”

  “That’s right — he got unbuddied. But as it turns out, a lawyer who’s nobody’s buddy is one lawyer too many in this buddiocracy. Now that I think about it, my father was loyal to Don Porfirio, but I couldn’t be loyal to the law I studied. Instead of justice, I was looking for buddies. It’s what would’ve happened to you, Cap’n, if you’d been young when there were lots of laws in the land.”

  The professor grew quiet. A stupid smile hovered over his lips. Fucking professor! It’s like he’s pulling my leg. With this guy you never know. He has absolutely no fear, but he doesn’t have any balls, either. Maybe because he’s a drunk. Or because by now he doesn’t give a rat’s ass. And the Russian said he was going to come at noon. For all I know he won’t come because they already told him I’m no expert. He’s probably busy doing something with all his technology. With his international intrigue. Waiting for messages from the far reaches of Outer Mongolia. Fucking Outer Mongolia!

  The professor raised his hand to get Raymundo’s attention.

  “Another tequila, Raymundo. And as time passed, Cap’n, I learned to make buddies, but I didn’t forget the law. And since you didn’t have to go to the university to make buddies, just the cantina, I became a drunk. But you, Cap’n, you had lots of opportunities when you were young, so you never became a drunk. And now that we’re living in a lawyerocracy, I’m already too buddified to be worth anything to anybody. Cheers, Cap’n.”

  “Cheers, Professor.”

  He drank the shot of tequila that had been placed in front of him. A small shot, like for a bird.

  “And in order to live, I have to work with my buddies, with people like you, like the ones from my early days. In this way, I’m just like my father who remained loyal to Don Porfirio. I’m loyal to all of you. And that’s why, like my father, I’m so screwed.”

  Laski entered the cantina. García signaled to him to come over, and he let the professor know he should move to a different table. The professor picked up his glass, put back on his stupid and complacent smile, and went over to the bar. Laski approached.

  “What’s up, Filiberto, my friend?”

  “I thought you wouldn’t come.”

  “Because you’re no longer working on our case? You have a very poor concept of friendship, Filiberto.”

  “What happened to all that crap about feelings?”

  “That is true. We have no feelings. But we can greet our good friends.”

  He sat down and ordered a beer.

  “It’s going to be very bad for me,” he said.

  “Why drink it, then?”

  “One thing I’ve learned in Mexico: cantinas have very bad milk. Yet another proof of how ancient Mexican culture is.”

  Laski tasted his beer.

  “Any more news from Outer Mongolia?”

  “No. But I’m very interested in your theory about the Cubans and the Chinese, Filiberto?”

  “Really?”

  “And I’m thinking it’s time we leave in the efficient hands of our friend Graves the protection of his president and we, Filiberto, my friend, we investigate to find out whatever truth might be behind your theory.”

  “Why me? I think I will also leave in your capable hands the defense of Russian interests in Cuba. I’ve got other things to do.”

  “Like going to Cuautla with Miss Fong?”

  “Among other things.”

  “And you don’t want to find out if your theories are correct?”

  “I already know.”

  “You don’t want to know where all those dollars are?”

  “They’re not mine. They belong to the Chinese . . . and you people.”

  “But they’re there and there’s no clear owner.”

  “You knew that money was for carrying out a coup in Cuba, didn’t you?”

  “We considered that possibility. Don’t you want to work with us, Filiberto?”

  “I’ve already got a job.”

  “You have to go to Cuautla with Miss Fong.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “You haven’t slept in two nights and you’re tired, Filiberto. But I want you to consider my proposition. As well as the five hundred thousand dollars hanging around, somewhere, with no owner.”

  “There’s no reason to consider either, Ivan Mikhailovich. I’m sick and tired of this shit about Outer Mongolia and Constantinople and the whole damn business. I’ve never had anything to do with international intrigue, and I don’t want to start now.”

  Laski sat staring at him. There was great sadness in his eyes.

  “Filiberto, my friend, tovarich, I know what’s going on with you. We offended you the other night, when Graves and I were talking about our old adventures. But I assure you, our intentions were not to . . . to embarrass you, let us say. I know that some of your adventures leave all mine in the dust, and that’s why we want your help.”

  “I have a job.”

  “For example, what you did there in that training camp that had been set up in Chiapas . . .”

  “What do you know about that?”

  “We were very upset about the whole affair. That camp could have become very important, and you destroyed everything. We never thought anybody could find it, but we didn’t count on your nose and your courage, Filiberto. And we thought that you would only, at the worst, arrest the boys. Why did you kill them?”

  “Because I don’t like to be the dead one. Did you train those men?”

  “They were good infiltrators. When you killed them, certain people in the highest places considered putting you on a list of those to be liquidated. Good thing we didn’t.”

  “See you around, Ivan Mikhailovich.”

  “I’ll ask you again, in two or three days, when this whole fuss about the presidential visit is over.”

  “Don’t waste your time.”

  García stopped at the tobacconist, picked up the public telephone, and dialed a number:

  “Gomitos? García here.”

  “I’ve got the information you asked for, Cap’n. You sure the colonel’s not going to be pissed off?”

  “Sure.”

  “The telephone number you gave me is in a house on Dolores Street, under the name of Hong Kong Pacific Enterprises.”

  “What address on Dolores?”

  “Number 189. No apartment number. There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “It was installed just two weeks ago.”

  “Thanks, Gomitos. See you later.”

  “If the colonel asks . . . ?”

  “He’s got no reason to ask you anything, but if he does, tell him you gave me the information.”

  He hung up the phone and hopped on a bus. Useless to wait for a taxi. I should’ve brought the car, but then, where would I park it. Fucking colonel doesn’t want me to use s
pecial plates. And all that dough on Dolores Streets, so close to where I’m going now. And now the Russian wants me to work with him. How many agents does he have on this thing? Some we know about, and the others are playing very earnestly at being tourists. And del Valle’s shit about how I’m no expert, so now the real experts want to hire me. Marta must’ve already returned from her shopping spree. I feel like telling them all to go to hell and getting into bed. Why should I give a shit if they kill the gringos’ president? And what do I care about world peace? Tomorrow at this time we’ll know if they whacked the president or not. But the gringos will have rolled out all their security. They’re the experts. Like they were in Dallas. And me, maybe tonight I’ll show up on Dolores Street. If I had all that dough, what the hell would I care what happens? And that fucking professor with all his memories. Seems we’re all having a go at our memories and our confessions. So he wasn’t loyal to his laws. Fucking laws! Laws are for dumbasses, not for us and not for the lawyers. It’s like they just stole the Revolution right out of our hands. But I never had it in my hands. Those who are born in the gutter . . . General Miraflores scaled the heights, but now these lawyer-types have left even him in the dust.

  The house on Camelia Street turned out to be a run-down tenement. He knocked on the door of the room they directed him to and a thin woman with large dark eyes dressed in black opened it.

  “Ester Ramírez?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Police.”

  “Come in.”

  They entered the small room with wood floors painted what they call Congo yellow. You could tell the woman had done the impossible to make it look like a living room, with two small rickety tables covered with embroidered tablecloths and porcelain figurines, these probably taken from some old inn out in the boondocks. There were even curtains, but all that effort to disguise the poverty made it stand out more.

  “Have a seat,” the woman said.

  García took off his hat and sat down on one of the chairs. The woman sat in the other. This broad has been crying her eyes out. Maybe she really felt for the dead man. And now it’s like she’s all empty inside, like she doesn’t have anything left at all.