No One Loves a Policeman by Guillermo Orsi, Nick Caistor Page B

was in the force I read forensic reports. Now the brochures from bathroom-furniture makers are wonderful, they’re full of color photographs. I take one to bed with me and fall asleep peacefully.”
    â€œThat’s a lie. Nobody who was a police officer during the dictatorship sleeps peacefully.”
    Our whispers had grown gradually louder, and threatened to end in a slanging match. Other readers started shushing us, and an assistant came over to tell us to be quiet or leave. We promised to behave. I took a deep breath, sat in silence for a full minute, then stood up to go. Wolf caught up with me in the corridor.
    â€œI didn’t mean to offend you,” he said, panting. He still had the book in his hand.
    â€œI sleep peacefully, Parrondo.”
    â€œMy friends call me Wolf,” he said, trying to smooth things over.
    â€œAnd mine call me Gotán. But for now, it’s Martelli and Parrondo. And it’s time we got a few things straight. I wasn’t thrown out of the force because I was a rotten policeman, and nor did I win promotion by killing guerrillas.”
    â€œO.K., Martelli, I’m not interested in your past. It was a stupid thing to say, but I didn’t really bring you in here to read Faulkner either. He bores the pants off me, just as he does my son. I brought you here because we were being followed.”
    I studied Wolf for a moment, then turned to have a good look round. We were halfway down a long, wide corridor that ended in a flight of stairs. There was no-one else there apart from a scattering of people in the reading room, and a few bored library assistants waiting for their shift to end. Nothing out of the ordinary.
    Not a muscle of Wolf’s face moved. Either he was telling the truth or he was a very good liar. He asked me to wait while he returned the book, then came straight back, feeling his pockets for a pack of cigarettes.
    â€œA red car,” he said, lighting up as we left the library.
    â€œBuenos Aires is full of red cars.”
    â€œBut this one was following us. I always make sure I adjust the wing mirror so I can see behind.”
    â€œParanoia.”
    â€œOr an instinct for self-preservation, Martelli. Apart from getting me suspended, what I wrote has obviously upset some big fish, and they’re rude enough to want to remind me I’m not immortal.”
    We went out into the park. The spring night was cool and heavy with scents. There were a few couples promising each other heaven on earth or explaining why it would never work. No different from any other evening in the squares of Buenos Aires.
    Wolf told me not to get back in the car.
    â€œUnlock it and leave one door not shut properly,” he said. “Then let’s sit for a while and have a smoke.”
    â€œIf you’re going to propose, you’ve got the wrong man.”
    Wolf came to a halt, looked up at the sky as if to make sure it was not clouding over, then stepped over the low wire round the edge of the grass and started to pee behind one of the bushes.
    While he was thus engaged, I went over to the car. I sensed there was something wrong about this perfect spring evening, that I should not be doing what I was doing. It was not my car. It did not even belong to the widow or to Cinderella, but to a dead friend’s daughter. She had been kidnapped, and I was doing nothing to discover where she was, assuming they were no longer holding her in the countryside outside Tres Arroyos.
    I followed Wolf’s instructions. He came over, pointing toward a nearby bench. Instead of asking him what the fuck he thought he was playing at, I accepted a strong, rough cigarette and we sat down.
    â€œFrom here we can see without being seen,” he said, between drags.
    I am no angler, but I have been on fishing expeditions with friends addicted to the sport. They can spend an entire day and night just waiting for their float to bob. There is nothing more boring than to