understand. Then he fumbled with shaking hands in his pockets, gave the old man the cheap plastic lighter, and said, “Keep it. I have another.”
“Muchas gracias, señor.” The man turned and shambled away. Hernandez exhaled. Quickly, he opened the locker door, placed the tape on top of the envelope containing the photographs, and locked the door again. He replaced the keys in his pocket, crossed back to where the sleeping official lay, and returned the jacket.
• • •
The man had decided to drive down to the river and work his way back up, zigzagging through the warren of dark streets. At the water’s edge he stopped, wrinkling his nose at the smell of sulfur and rotting fish. He wondered whether to turn left or right. He decided to turn right. He had the doors locked, and the automatic pistol was out now, on the seat beside him.
After three hundred yards of driving slowly, eyes scouring the waterfront and the tiny alleyways that ran between the shanty homes, he glimpsed the flash of red. An old red Buick, its rear badge unmistakable, its chassis rusting, stood parked in front of a house with white peeling walls. His hand automatically reached for the gun as he pulled into the curb. He smiled and grabbed for the phone on the seat instead and punched in the number quickly.
The line clicked. A voice said, “Sí?”
“It’s Dortmund . . . I think I’ve found the car.”
• • •
Hernandez walked slowly back along the river, taking his time.
La Chacarita was a deserted place of shadows at this early hour. He would tell Sanchez about the tape tomorrow, tell him everything he knew, hope that he could help. Leaving the tape in the locker had been a wise decision, he reflected. Even if the men caught him, he could bide his time, perhaps do a deal if he was forced to. What the voices on the tape said must be important. The presence of the men at the station testified to that.
He was too nervous and excited to sleep. He stopped by the river and lit a cigarette, thinking, knowing that something was happening, something really big, worth killing for, remembering the faces of the men on the first floor as they came out of the elevator, knowing with certainty that they would have killed him. He would tell Sanchez all this; it was too dangerous for him to pursue this alone now.
Hernandez looked at his watch in the lunar light. It was time to get back to Graciella’s place and try somehow to get some sleep. He flicked away the lighted cigarette, watched as it cartwheeled into the silvery water, then turned and started to walk back toward the house.
• • •
As he approached he saw that the front door was open.
He froze.
He had closed the door after him, he was certain. Or had he? His mind was in such turmoil . . .
Hernandez heard the click and wheeled around instantly, felt the blood draining from him, saw the two men armed with pistols lunge at him, their faces a blur because already there was a rough hand over his mouth, stifling his cry, another gripping his hair, jerking his head back, pushing him into the house. As the door burst in, he was propelled forward with an almighty force, into the kitchen now, lights blazing in the tiny room, crowded with men . . .
Hernandez felt a sharp punch in his side, the hand still on his mouth, stifling his scream. Figures crowded around him, more blows rained down, pulped his face, bruised his body until he could hardly stand, the salty taste of blood in his mouth. Rough hands threw him back against the wall, two quick, sharp blows to his kidneys making him want to throw up.
Two big men held Graciella, her tiny body like a rag doll’s between them. A white towel gagged her mouth, and there was blood on her pretty face, terror in her eyes. The recording equipment lay on the kitchen table still. Two of the men from the hotel, the dark-hairedone who had opened the door to him and the elderly, silver-haired man, they stared at
“Muchas gracias, señor.” The man turned and shambled away. Hernandez exhaled. Quickly, he opened the locker door, placed the tape on top of the envelope containing the photographs, and locked the door again. He replaced the keys in his pocket, crossed back to where the sleeping official lay, and returned the jacket.
• • •
The man had decided to drive down to the river and work his way back up, zigzagging through the warren of dark streets. At the water’s edge he stopped, wrinkling his nose at the smell of sulfur and rotting fish. He wondered whether to turn left or right. He decided to turn right. He had the doors locked, and the automatic pistol was out now, on the seat beside him.
After three hundred yards of driving slowly, eyes scouring the waterfront and the tiny alleyways that ran between the shanty homes, he glimpsed the flash of red. An old red Buick, its rear badge unmistakable, its chassis rusting, stood parked in front of a house with white peeling walls. His hand automatically reached for the gun as he pulled into the curb. He smiled and grabbed for the phone on the seat instead and punched in the number quickly.
The line clicked. A voice said, “Sí?”
“It’s Dortmund . . . I think I’ve found the car.”
• • •
Hernandez walked slowly back along the river, taking his time.
La Chacarita was a deserted place of shadows at this early hour. He would tell Sanchez about the tape tomorrow, tell him everything he knew, hope that he could help. Leaving the tape in the locker had been a wise decision, he reflected. Even if the men caught him, he could bide his time, perhaps do a deal if he was forced to. What the voices on the tape said must be important. The presence of the men at the station testified to that.
He was too nervous and excited to sleep. He stopped by the river and lit a cigarette, thinking, knowing that something was happening, something really big, worth killing for, remembering the faces of the men on the first floor as they came out of the elevator, knowing with certainty that they would have killed him. He would tell Sanchez all this; it was too dangerous for him to pursue this alone now.
Hernandez looked at his watch in the lunar light. It was time to get back to Graciella’s place and try somehow to get some sleep. He flicked away the lighted cigarette, watched as it cartwheeled into the silvery water, then turned and started to walk back toward the house.
• • •
As he approached he saw that the front door was open.
He froze.
He had closed the door after him, he was certain. Or had he? His mind was in such turmoil . . .
Hernandez heard the click and wheeled around instantly, felt the blood draining from him, saw the two men armed with pistols lunge at him, their faces a blur because already there was a rough hand over his mouth, stifling his cry, another gripping his hair, jerking his head back, pushing him into the house. As the door burst in, he was propelled forward with an almighty force, into the kitchen now, lights blazing in the tiny room, crowded with men . . .
Hernandez felt a sharp punch in his side, the hand still on his mouth, stifling his scream. Figures crowded around him, more blows rained down, pulped his face, bruised his body until he could hardly stand, the salty taste of blood in his mouth. Rough hands threw him back against the wall, two quick, sharp blows to his kidneys making him want to throw up.
Two big men held Graciella, her tiny body like a rag doll’s between them. A white towel gagged her mouth, and there was blood on her pretty face, terror in her eyes. The recording equipment lay on the kitchen table still. Two of the men from the hotel, the dark-hairedone who had opened the door to him and the elderly, silver-haired man, they stared at
Similar Books
