walks for blocks like that, calmly, until he enters the mouth of the underground. He lets the first train go by. The platform is momentarily deserted. He stands behind the newspaper stand, takes off his soaking-wet overalls and stuffs them under the stand. His suit has yellow stains on it.
When he re-emerges at Primera Junta station, the rain has turned into cold, sharp needles. He enters a second-rate clothing shop. He leaves behind him, to the astonishment of the sales people, a trail of water that could almost have been blood.
In the changing room he takes off his stained clothes, puts on some new ones, and dries the bag off with the old. In this minuscule space of privacy he slips his thirty-eight under his belt, takes out ten bills of a hundred dollars each, puts four in one pocket and six in the other. He bundles up his used clothes and stuffs them under a broken-down stool. He ignores the salesman who helped him and walks resolutely up to the cash register, where a smarmy man is doing some bookkeeping. He’s the one in charge. You can tell because he looks like a rat. Miranda places six bills on the counter, in piles of two, two and two.
These two are for the clothes. Give me two hundred australes for these two. These two are so you’ll keep your mouth shut.
He subtly adjusts his jacket to show his weapon.
If you ever saw me, I’ll come back and kill you. Understand?
The rat immediately evaluates the deal on the counter: just one of those Franklins pays for the clothes and one more covers the amount of Argentinean money the man wants. He nods, picks up the six bills with his effeminate fingers, and stuffs them into his pocket; then he opens the register and places three bills of fifty australes and five of ten on the counter. He turns back to his bookkeeping as if Mole didn’t exist. He never saw him.
Goodbye, sir, thank you very much.
Miranda walks out slowly. Along the way, he picks a raincoat off the rack, pulls off the price tag and throws it on the ground. Once outside, he trots to the corner, and with one small shove steals the only free taxi away from an elderly gentleman.
Where to, sir? Just drive. I’ll tell you in a minute.
On the radio they’re talking about Percudani’s goal that beat the Brits in Tokyo. Miranda pays no attention to the driver’s enthusiastic remarks.
Take me on a little tour. Anywhere you want, other than the centre.
The driver looks at him through the rear-view mirror. Why did I have to get this deadbeat? He decides to ignore his passenger and starts driving slowly down Rivadavia, in the right lane, adding his horn to the general uproar.
Unconcerned, Mole watches the wet city go by while he tries to work things out: first, where to hide the bag with the money; and then, where to hide himself. The robbery was a disaster, as usual, the victim of happenstance. A plainclothes cop, hoping to get his picture in the papers, was waiting in line at window 6. He’ll be there in the afternoon edition, photographed in a pool of his own blood. The idiot drew his nine millimetre, but so clumsily that it fell on the ground, right at Dandy’s feet. He doesn’t understand why fat people have a reputation for being so calm. Dandy lost his head and shot him straight in his chest with his sawn-off twelve gauge, and for no reason at all because the copper was already unarmed. He had the advantage, but he killed him anyway. Bad nerves. The cop jumped back when the shells tore into his chest, then crumpled onto the ground. People started shouting as if they were all getting killed. Then Dandy shot into the air to make them shut up. Damn fool – a piece of plaster the size of a large pizza fell on him. Fastfingers, waiting in the getaway car at the door, heard the shots, put it in gear and hightailed it out of there. Mole had already packed up the loot, so he closed up the bag and pushed the dazed Dandy outside. When they got to the door, he
When he re-emerges at Primera Junta station, the rain has turned into cold, sharp needles. He enters a second-rate clothing shop. He leaves behind him, to the astonishment of the sales people, a trail of water that could almost have been blood.
In the changing room he takes off his stained clothes, puts on some new ones, and dries the bag off with the old. In this minuscule space of privacy he slips his thirty-eight under his belt, takes out ten bills of a hundred dollars each, puts four in one pocket and six in the other. He bundles up his used clothes and stuffs them under a broken-down stool. He ignores the salesman who helped him and walks resolutely up to the cash register, where a smarmy man is doing some bookkeeping. He’s the one in charge. You can tell because he looks like a rat. Miranda places six bills on the counter, in piles of two, two and two.
These two are for the clothes. Give me two hundred australes for these two. These two are so you’ll keep your mouth shut.
He subtly adjusts his jacket to show his weapon.
If you ever saw me, I’ll come back and kill you. Understand?
The rat immediately evaluates the deal on the counter: just one of those Franklins pays for the clothes and one more covers the amount of Argentinean money the man wants. He nods, picks up the six bills with his effeminate fingers, and stuffs them into his pocket; then he opens the register and places three bills of fifty australes and five of ten on the counter. He turns back to his bookkeeping as if Mole didn’t exist. He never saw him.
Goodbye, sir, thank you very much.
Miranda walks out slowly. Along the way, he picks a raincoat off the rack, pulls off the price tag and throws it on the ground. Once outside, he trots to the corner, and with one small shove steals the only free taxi away from an elderly gentleman.
Where to, sir? Just drive. I’ll tell you in a minute.
On the radio they’re talking about Percudani’s goal that beat the Brits in Tokyo. Miranda pays no attention to the driver’s enthusiastic remarks.
Take me on a little tour. Anywhere you want, other than the centre.
The driver looks at him through the rear-view mirror. Why did I have to get this deadbeat? He decides to ignore his passenger and starts driving slowly down Rivadavia, in the right lane, adding his horn to the general uproar.
Unconcerned, Mole watches the wet city go by while he tries to work things out: first, where to hide the bag with the money; and then, where to hide himself. The robbery was a disaster, as usual, the victim of happenstance. A plainclothes cop, hoping to get his picture in the papers, was waiting in line at window 6. He’ll be there in the afternoon edition, photographed in a pool of his own blood. The idiot drew his nine millimetre, but so clumsily that it fell on the ground, right at Dandy’s feet. He doesn’t understand why fat people have a reputation for being so calm. Dandy lost his head and shot him straight in his chest with his sawn-off twelve gauge, and for no reason at all because the copper was already unarmed. He had the advantage, but he killed him anyway. Bad nerves. The cop jumped back when the shells tore into his chest, then crumpled onto the ground. People started shouting as if they were all getting killed. Then Dandy shot into the air to make them shut up. Damn fool – a piece of plaster the size of a large pizza fell on him. Fastfingers, waiting in the getaway car at the door, heard the shots, put it in gear and hightailed it out of there. Mole had already packed up the loot, so he closed up the bag and pushed the dazed Dandy outside. When they got to the door, he
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