told him to run in one direction and he took the other. In these cases, the best thing to do is separate. As he ran away, Mole managed to see Dandy slip, dropping his shotgun as he fell, at the precise instant a patrol car drove onto the sidewalk – two policemen grabbed him, and one knocked him out with a punch to his jaw. Mole’s last glimpse was of Bangs running across the street.
A fuck-up, a major fuck-up. But that’s life. Even when you’ve got the whole thing planned out to the very last detail, unexpected things happen, and then there’s a chain reaction that ends up making a mess of everything. Or, as his grandfather used to say, when things are in a mess, the tip of the turnip points up. At least he came away with some cash, even if the bag with the money weighs three tons at the moment. He’s got to think fast, hide out somewhere until things calm down. Which isn’t going to happen anytime soon. Back in the bank there’s a dead cop, and the police don’t like that at all, they always think it could have been one of them. He doesn’t have much faith in Dandy if they put pressure on him, which he assumes they’ll do. He considers running off to Rosario, but he immediately discards that idea. Loro Benítez got nabbed a week before, and the Reverend is still breathing, barely and only as long as they don’t unplug him. Hell of a life I lead. Lía? No, Dandy knows her.
As he rides down towards the Avenida San Martín bridge, he’s already shuffled and discarded almost every possible place to hide. He decides to return to the one he has in the hopes that he hasn’t been followed for the last couple of days. He doesn’t think so, but you can never be sure.
15
Walking through the heart of the banking district, known as La City, Lascano feels alienated, as if Buenos Aires didn’t belong to him, as if an army of headless suits had taken over. The invaders are around thirty years old; they wear grey suits and loud ties. They keep their eyes peeled straight ahead of them, speak only to each other, have cords hanging out of their ears, and wouldn’t move aside even if their dying grandmother were trying to get through. Who are all these people, where did they come from all at once, and what happened to them? They go in and out of huge glass buildings. Some wear colourful backpacks, many haven’t shaved for a couple of days, most take refuge behind large sunglasses, all of them are in a hurry. They are insolent, shout when they speak and call each other boludos , or morons. As he walks down 25 de Mayo toward the business centre of the city, the crowd of boludos becomes denser and denser, more compact. He’s looking for the address he wrote down on a piece of paper; it must be one of these glass monoliths. In the lobby are two dark-skinned toughs dressed up in sheriff costumes, the little star badge and all. They look at all the men as if they want to punch them and at all the women as if they were about to rape them, but nobody looks at
them, except others with the same colour skin. One of the cowboys is guarding a row of turnstiles in front of the elevators. Lascano watches as they all open the turnstile with the card they wear hanging off their waists. Modern shackles for these corporate slaves, he muses. The Turnstile Sheriff points him to a round counter where there’s someone who looks like the marshal in a Hollywood Western – though this one’s a Mapuche Indian. After a brief exchange and several longish pauses, he gives him a pass card and tells him to return it when he leaves, as well as a piece of paper on which he must get the signature of the person he is going to see. Now he’s absolutely certain: this is a prison. He gives the guard at the turnstile a smile, but the other makes no sign of having received it; he must be studying how to be a boludo. The card lets him through and he enters the elevator, where five uncomfortable-looking boludos have already taken up residence. One of them
A fuck-up, a major fuck-up. But that’s life. Even when you’ve got the whole thing planned out to the very last detail, unexpected things happen, and then there’s a chain reaction that ends up making a mess of everything. Or, as his grandfather used to say, when things are in a mess, the tip of the turnip points up. At least he came away with some cash, even if the bag with the money weighs three tons at the moment. He’s got to think fast, hide out somewhere until things calm down. Which isn’t going to happen anytime soon. Back in the bank there’s a dead cop, and the police don’t like that at all, they always think it could have been one of them. He doesn’t have much faith in Dandy if they put pressure on him, which he assumes they’ll do. He considers running off to Rosario, but he immediately discards that idea. Loro Benítez got nabbed a week before, and the Reverend is still breathing, barely and only as long as they don’t unplug him. Hell of a life I lead. Lía? No, Dandy knows her.
As he rides down towards the Avenida San Martín bridge, he’s already shuffled and discarded almost every possible place to hide. He decides to return to the one he has in the hopes that he hasn’t been followed for the last couple of days. He doesn’t think so, but you can never be sure.
15
Walking through the heart of the banking district, known as La City, Lascano feels alienated, as if Buenos Aires didn’t belong to him, as if an army of headless suits had taken over. The invaders are around thirty years old; they wear grey suits and loud ties. They keep their eyes peeled straight ahead of them, speak only to each other, have cords hanging out of their ears, and wouldn’t move aside even if their dying grandmother were trying to get through. Who are all these people, where did they come from all at once, and what happened to them? They go in and out of huge glass buildings. Some wear colourful backpacks, many haven’t shaved for a couple of days, most take refuge behind large sunglasses, all of them are in a hurry. They are insolent, shout when they speak and call each other boludos , or morons. As he walks down 25 de Mayo toward the business centre of the city, the crowd of boludos becomes denser and denser, more compact. He’s looking for the address he wrote down on a piece of paper; it must be one of these glass monoliths. In the lobby are two dark-skinned toughs dressed up in sheriff costumes, the little star badge and all. They look at all the men as if they want to punch them and at all the women as if they were about to rape them, but nobody looks at
them, except others with the same colour skin. One of the cowboys is guarding a row of turnstiles in front of the elevators. Lascano watches as they all open the turnstile with the card they wear hanging off their waists. Modern shackles for these corporate slaves, he muses. The Turnstile Sheriff points him to a round counter where there’s someone who looks like the marshal in a Hollywood Western – though this one’s a Mapuche Indian. After a brief exchange and several longish pauses, he gives him a pass card and tells him to return it when he leaves, as well as a piece of paper on which he must get the signature of the person he is going to see. Now he’s absolutely certain: this is a prison. He gives the guard at the turnstile a smile, but the other makes no sign of having received it; he must be studying how to be a boludo. The card lets him through and he enters the elevator, where five uncomfortable-looking boludos have already taken up residence. One of them
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