The Mongolian Conspiracy Page 17

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I want to talk to you about Luciano Manrique.”

  “Why? I already told the police everything I know and he . . . he’s dead. What for?”

  “Did you tell the police about the Toad and the gringo?”

  “I don’t know who they are.”

  “It might have been them who killed Luciano. They were his buddies . . . the Toad was in the police with him, back home.”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew him.

  “Yes. He was a bad man.”

  “And a friend of Luciano’s?”

  “I told him not to be friends with him anymore. He was a bad man, a professional hit man. Luciano never killed anybody, never . . .”

  “But he was in jail.”

  “Yes. And I worked in a whorehouse and that’s why we could never live in peace. That’s why we had no right to anything. I don’t even have the right to be alone in my own house, thinking about him, about that man who was so good to me, the man I loved. It must sound funny to you, doesn’t it? A woman from a whorehouse who loves a man? Pretty funny, eh?”

  “No.”

  “My love for Luciano, it was the only thing I had. The only thing, you understand? And now that’s gone. And I can’t even be alone in my house and think about him.”

  “What business did he have with the gringo?”

  “I don’t know anything about his business, and I don’t want to. Luciano was good, but he was weak and he was ambitious. He said he wanted to give me lots of things and, sometimes, when he had money, he gave me things. I didn’t ask for anything, only that he be here and be good, but he wanted to give me things, he wanted to be important. I begged him for so long to take a job. We didn’t need much. General Miraflores would have given him a steady job, but he didn’t want one. He was looking for something else . . . And now he’s dead.”

  “He talked about making a lot of money?”

  “He was always talking about that, but I’d stopped listening. ‘Go pick out your car,’ he’d tell me. ‘This deal can’t go wrong.’ ‘We’re going to live in our own house.’ That’s how he’d talk to me, because he loved me, because he was good to me, but I knew it would never happen. I stopped even trying to get him to forget about all those things. I just kept loving him, that’s all.”

  García remained quiet. Fucking broad! She’s going to keep talking about her dearly departed, as if any of that mattered. They say that Filiberto García rapes the widows of the men he kills. But now he’s a faggot.

  “I should’ve insisted, I should’ve threatened to leave him, but he took me out of the whorehouse, so he never listened to me, he didn’t think what I said mattered. And that’s true, he took me out of the whorehouse — he was good to me.”

  “Lately, did he have more money than usual?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes. A week ago he gave me some to pay the three months rent we owed and the bill at the grocery store. And he bought me a pair of stockings. That’s how he was. But now they’ve gone and killed him. And the police don’t want to tell me anything. They just wanted me to identify the body. The night before last I waited up for him all night and only yesterday afternoon did they come to tell me. That’s how you are, you policemen. And then I talked to General Miraflores, who’s helped us so many times. I just wanted them to give me his body so I could hold a wake and bury him. But he didn’t want to do anything, he didn’t even want to talk to me. That’s what his assistant said, that the general didn’t want to talk to me and that he had nothing to do with Luciano. Fair weather friends.”

  “Who hired him for the job he was doing?”

  “I don’t know what he was doing. He said it was something big, very big. That’s what he said. I didn’t want him to get involved in those big things, but he never paid any attention to what I said. We’ve never had anything to do with those big things, they aren’t for us. We deal in small things, things for people who did time or who worked in a whorehouse. And now he’s dead, sir, dead, and the person who killed him, what did he know about how good he was to me? What did he know about the things he said to me? What did he know about how he took me out of the whorehouse because I was so unhappy there, because I was never happy there? But that’s something they don’t understand, men who kill. They don’t realize, when they do that, that there’s no going back.”

  “You want to find out who killed him and why?”

  “What for? A man killed him . . .”

  “You don’t want to know who?”

  “A man.”

  “And if it was the Toad and that gringo who lives there in that hotel on Mina Street?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “You don’t want them to be punished?”

  “What does it matter? Look, sir, I know he was nobody important. But he was a man and he had the right to live, like you do and like I do. And they killed him. And he’d never killed anybody. He might have been a thief, he might have been a crook, like they say, but he wasn’t a gunman, he wasn’t a hit man. He didn’t even own a gun. Just a club, to defend himself. He did bad things, but who hasn’t? But he didn’t have blood on his hands. And they killed him.”

  “What about the gringo?”

  “I told Luciano not to have anything to do with him. But he told me we were never going to be poor again, we were going to be important people. ‘You can’t imagine all the things we’ll do, Mrs. Manrique,’ that’s how he talked to me because he was good to me. We weren’t married, but when he was happy he always called me Mrs. Manrique. He even said we were going to get married and we were going to live in our own house, in Chihuahua. He was going to hunt deer. He even had a rifle.”

  “Is it here?”

  “What?”

  “The rifle?”

  “No, the gringo has it. He brought it across the border.”

  “Had Luciano ever been a hunter?”

  “No, but he was going to be. He told me that when he was a boy, the men would take him along. Sometimes he was like a child. He lived on dreams, on his desire to do things they told him important people did, like hunting. And four days ago, he brought a rifle to show me. I don’t think he even knew how to use it, but he was very happy with it. He told me the gringo was going to give it to him.”

  “What was it like?”

  “I don’t know anything about those things. It had a lens on top of the barrel and he told me to look through it. He was like a child.”

  They sat in silence. Fucking child! Playing with the rifle they were going to use to kill the president of the United States. But now he’s dead. I figure Marta wouldn’t understand these things. Even though she said she saw a lot of things there in Canton. But those are Outer Mongolian things. Fucking Outer Mongolia!

  “You don’t know if he had any Chinese friends from around here?”

  “No. I never heard him talk about any of them. Not even the Chinaman from the coffee shop on the corner. Luciano was mad at him because he didn’t want to let us have credit.”

  “And the Toad? When did he come around?”

  “About two weeks ago, or less. He came to talk him into something. I never trusted that man. I know he’s a bad one. Once, in Tampico, he killed one of the girls in the whorehouse. For no reason. He’s mean. And I told Luciano, but his head was turned by the money they offered him and with the idea of buying me a house in Chihuahua. That’s how he was. He wanted everything for me, and now they went and killed him.”

  “What did the Toad want to talk him into?”

  “I don’t know. Something big. Along with that gringo. Poor Luciano had always wanted to do something big.”

  “Do you need money, Ester?”

  “For what?”

  “There are always expenses. Here, I’m going to give you five hundred pesos.”

  He left the house. Ester sat there, the bill in her hand, not aware of anything. I’m a fucking dumbass! But one day, I could tell this to Marta. No, on second thought. .
. . She saw the dead man, she saw the knife. She won’t understand this. I threw away five hundred pesos, and I don’t even know why. Here I am, once again, thinking I’m in a soap opera. She’d already told me what I wanted to know, without me giving her any money. But there goes the chump again. “Here, take, five hundred pesos, buy whatever you want.” I don’t even know if she realized I put it in her hand. Fucking dumbass!

  At the third hotel he visited on Mina Street, he came upon the name of the American. Edmund T. Browning, from Amarillo, Texas. Tourist. He was the only gringo tourist registered, and it looked like Magallanes Hotel didn’t get many foreigners. The receptionist, a thin young man, neatly dressed with big dark eyes and a full head of shining, well-groomed hair, was obviously nervous:

  “We’ve never had any problems with the police, sir. This is a family hotel . . .”

  “Yeah, to make families,” García said.

  The receptionist looked at him with sadness and disgust. He’s got a limp wrist. Butters his bread on the wrong side.

  “When did Browning get here?”

  “Six days ago. He seems like a responsible man, very polite.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “The States. He came in his car, and I myself gave him room 328. He wanted an inside room, without windows on the street, because of the noise. He’s very sensitive.”

  “What car does he drive?”

  “A beautiful Chevrolet. Impala, brand new.”

  “Is he in his room?”

  “No, he went out.”

  “Give me the key.”

  “I don’t know if I should, sir . . .”

  García grabbed his tie and almost lifted him out from behind the counter.

  “You have no right.”

  “Give me the key.”

  “You have no right, I’m going to complain —”

  García slapped him with his left hand. The receptionist exuded the scent of a sickly sweet perfume.

  “No right,” he said, his eyes filling with tears.

  García abruptly released him and pushed him backward. He fell to the floor, banging his head against the wall filled with pigeonholes for the room keys. Blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. García reached over and took the key to room 328. The receptionist looked at him, his eyes filled with hatred.

  The elevator stopped on the third floor. Room 328 was to the right — 300 to 325 to the left, 326 to 340 to the right. García knocked on the door, waited a moment, then opened it. Mr. Browning was a very neat and methodical man. Two suits were hanging in the closet, and there was a hunting rifle with its telescopic sight in its leather case. On the shelf above the closet was a box with twenty-eight rifle cartridges. García took the weapon out of its case. Fucking gringo! He sure knows how to take care of a weapon. It’s well oiled. But he hasn’t used it much. All dressed up and ready to go, as they say. A gift for his Latin American friend, Luciano Manrique. So, they didn’t see this at customs. Maybe it didn’t even pass through customs.

  The tools for cleaning the rifle were in a bag in the case — rags, a small brush, and a can of 3-in-One Oil. MADE IN MEXICO.

  He put everything back in its place, walked out, and locked the door. When he got downstairs, the receptionist had already cleaned the blood off his face and combed his hair. He seemed on the verge of tears.

  “Here’s the key, my friend.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Tell Browning the police were here.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “One more thing, my friend . . .”

  The receptionist pushed himself back against the wall, as far away from García as possible.

  “Does Mr. Browning ever have any visitors?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  García stretched his hand out toward him. The receptionist saw it coming but did nothing to stop him. The hand again grabbed his tie and pulled.

  “Two gentlemen came . . .”

  “That’s better. Nobody can say you don’t cooperate with the police, my friend. What are the visitors’ names?”

  “Truth is, I don’t know, sir. I swear I don’t. They never told me.”

  “One of them is about as tall as me, dark, heavyset, with bulging eyes, right?

  “Yes. He’s the one who comes most often.”

  García let go of his tie. The receptionist fell back against the wall. He looked over at the door with despair in his eyes, as if hoping somebody would show up.

  “Thank you, my friend. And next time, be a little faster with your information. Or are you the type who likes it a little rough?”

  “No, sir, no. And that . . . you have no right . . .”

  “You’re right, my friend, I have no right. Who else comes to visit him?”

  “The other man, he’s short, thin, always wears a trench coat.”

  “What about women?”

  “We don’t allow . . .”

  “Women?”

  The receptionist was getting more and more nervous. His eyes were filling with tears. García’s hand was again reaching out for him.

  “He’s got a woman in room 311.”

  “Let’s go pay her a visit.”

  “But no, sir . . . I can’t leave my post. My assistant went to eat and won’t be back till —”

  “Let’s go. Bring your master key.”

  The receptionist looked from side to side, hoping for somebody to rescue him, but there was nobody. He took a key attached to a chain with a large plastic bar out from under the counter and walked into the hallway. García grabbed him by the arm and could feel he was shaking. Fucking faggot! He’s more afraid than a rabbit in a fox hole. But nicely perfumed.

  They stopped in front of room 311.

  “Open it.”

  “Shouldn’t we knock first? The lady might be . . . She might not be fully dressed.”

  The pressure on his arm increased.

  “I don’t see why a naked woman would bother you any, my friend. Open it.”

  He opened the door. A female voice called out from inside the room:

  “Who’s there? Oh, it’s you, Mauricio! You should knock before entering . . .”

  She fell silent when she saw García following Mauricio into the room. The woman was lying in bed, half her body covered by the sheet, the other half, naked. Her hair was a mess and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. When she saw García, she quickly pulled the sheet up to cover her firm, heavy breasts. She must have been about thirty, with fine features, large blue eyes, and an aquiline nose. Her face didn’t match the heaviness of her breasts.

  “Who’s that man?” she asked.

  “Don’t be afraid, honey.”

  “I can’t receive anybody. Mauricio, how dare you bring that man in here? You know I can’t receive anybody . . .”

  García came up right to the edge of the bed, then stopped and stared at her. His eyes were hard, emotionless. The woman had to lift her eyes to look him in the face, which made her look like she was begging.

  “I’m telling you, I can’t —”

  “Shut up!”

  “But it’s just that —”

  “I told you to shut up.”

  “It’s just . . . I think there’s been a mistake. I can’t attend to you. Edmund might come at any moment and —”

  “What do you know about that gringo?”

  “Edmund?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s my friend. Is that a crime?”

  “What’s he doing here in Mexico?”

  “He’s a tourist, sightseeing. And he’s got the money for it.”

  “What else is he doing?”

  “What do I know? And you, who the hell are you? I’m going to tell Edmund when he comes —”

  With his left hand, García pushed her back against the pillow and with his right he grabbed her breast and started to squeeze and twist it. The woman wanted to shout, but he covered her mouth with his hand.

  “What’s the gringo doing in Mexico?”
<
br />   Tears rolled down the woman’s cheeks. García kept squeezing her breast, harder and harder. He took his hand away from her mouth. Mauricio’s eyes were popping out of his head, and saliva was dribbling out of his open mouth.

  “What’s the gringo doing here?”

  “Let me go, please let go. I didn’t know him before, I swear, I’d never met him. He hired me to keep him company . . . Please, let go, you’re hurting me . . . Damn gringo. I don’t know why he wants me here. He’s never here . . . Please, sir, let me go . . .”

  García let go. The woman covered her breasts. She took quick, shallow breaths, like she was aroused. She tried to smile.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She didn’t rub her hurt breast. She stared at García.

  “Where does he go when he goes out?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell Mauricio to leave? Three’s a crowd —”

  “Does he go out with his friends?”

  “Yeah. With that guy they call the Toad and another one . . . Sometimes he comes back very late, but he’s never drunk. Tell Mauricio —”

  “Do you go out with him?”

  “I did once. He took me for a ride in his car. I wanted to go to Chapultepec, or El Pedregal . . . But instead he took me to that plaza where they’re putting up the Statue of Friendship. I don’t know what he wanted to see there, but he kept driving around and around and around, without saying a word. Please, tell Mauricio . . .”

  Now she was rubbing her hurt breast, not to relieve the pain but rather unconsciously, sensually.

  “Tell Mauricio, please. Three’s a crowd . . .”

  “Just the two of you were in the car?”

  “Tell Mauricio —”

  “Just you two alone?”

  “Listen, after all, who do you think you are, you bastard? Get the hell out of here before . . .”

  García leaned over her and pulled the sheet up over her breasts. Then he turned to the receptionist.

  “Let’s go, Mauricio.”

  They left, closing the door behind them. The woman started crying. In the hallway, Mauricio dared open his mouth. His hands were shaking:

  “Mr. Browning is going to get very angry and Doris will probably tell him everything.”