Death in Veracruz by Hector Camín

care about him, just his grades. When he gets them, I want to see them. Next.”
    Two farmworkers from the El Álamo cooperative came in to see if Pizarro could help with a heretofore impossible tangle of red tape in the Veracruz governor’s office in Xalapa. “Have them see Idiáquez. Tell him to get it all straightened out and put it on the local’s bill. Have him get back to you right away. Who’s next?”
    A woman from the red light district came in to complain that the mayor’s office wasn’t letting her work due to the whim of a councilman who wanted her all to himself. She asked Pizarro to do something about this obstacle. “Call the distinguished councilman and tell him the young lady’sworking for us from now on. Tell him the right to work is inalienable. Who’s next?”
    A PRI youth leader sought help in buying ten sewing machines and ten typewriters to raffle to his constituents. He got them. A mother of three children whose husband worked in the oilfields and had abandoned her asked Pizarro to guarantee payment of her food allowance. The union was resorting to legal maneuvers to deny her benefits, she said. Pizarro gave her a memo to give the union. A group of striking workers asked for help because their strike fund had run out, and management was sowing dissension with handouts of cash. They got 300,000 pesos.
    By ten o’clock the heat in the office was unbearable.
    â€œHow many more?” Pizarro asked as if about to shut up shop.
    â€œTen or twelve.”
    Pizarro headed for the door and signaled me to follow him. The guards in the entrance stepped out in front of us. In the blinding light and heat of the orchard, beneath the jagged shadow of the huge oleander and the row of banana palms behind it, was Lázaro Pizarro’s waiting room. Two Indian women from Zongolica rushed to kiss his hand as if he were a priest. A widow clung to the arm of her adolescent son. Also among the waiting were a group of temporary PEMEX workers, two representatives of the local Red Cross, a municipal police officer, and a circle of peasants. They held their hats to their chests, and their hair either stuck up from their heads in sweaty spikes or lay plastered to their foreheads by the heat. Pizarro greeted them one by one and explained they could either leave their requests in writing with Roibal or come back tomorrow. “You can go to union headquarters,” he told the temporary workers. “And you’ll get your full pension, don’t worry,” he said to the widow.
    He lowered his voice to address the Indian women fromZongolica. “You don’t have to kiss anybody’s hand.”
    Minutes later we were in the main patio. Ahead of us were some four, six or eight men who served as his escorts in the vehicles Pizarro used to get around in. His car waited at the entrance to the main house. Pizarro and I climbed in back, and Roibal got in front.
    â€œDinner party at
Mostrador,”
he told the driver over the intercom. “L-1 on Zero. Expect fifteen casings at
Mostrador.
All on the way, in 4.”
    A vanload of armed men pulled out in front of us, and two Galaxies fell in behind.
    â€œLeave me at union headquarters, and go back to take care of those people,” Pizarro told Roibal. “I’m taking our journalist to La Mesopotamia, and we’ll be back to eat this evening. That’s all. When we get back we’ll have dinner with
Cielito
and our journalist if he’s willing to dine with us. One more thing. Find out if the piece in the paper came from the governor or from his asshole security chief.
    Rojano worked for state security in Xalapa. I got the message without blinking an eyelash.

Chapter 4
AROUND THE PYRAMID
    Pizarro’s escort blocked off the street in front of the union headquarters before he got out of the car. Roibal opened the rear door for us, and I walked towards the entrance at Pizarro’s side. His