The Black Minutes by Martín Solares Page A

slowly looked him up and down, and Cabrera did the same tohim. It went on like that until Chávez laughed and tugged on his little goatee.
    “You’ve been very busy.”
    “Yep.”
    “I heard you met with Romero. Are you looking for Rangel?”
    Hearing that name, for the third time in two days, gave him a bad feeling. “Why? Are you looking for him?”
    “No.” He mocked him. “But if
you
want to find Rangel, go ask your wife.”
    Rosa Isela knew what was going on, because she tried to intervene—“Mr. Cabrera, Mr. Cabrera, come on, please”—but Fatwolf and the Bedouin were guarding the door.
    “Stay out of it, miss, leave them alone.”
    Cabrera walked toward Chávez. “What did you say?”
    “Go ask your wife.”
    “Do you want me to beat your ass?”
    “
No pues
. If you’re going to get all upset,
don’t
ask her. But if you want to find out where Vicente is, go ask your wife.”
    Cabrera kicked the table up into the air. Chávez pulled his hand from behind his back, brass knuckles covering his fist, and brandished it in Cabrera’s face. Cabrera took a step back. While Chávez waved his hand around, Cabrera took the chance to punch him in the jaw, a direct hit as hard as he could, and Chávez fell down face-first. He was on the floor, but he wasn’t giving up; Cabrera guessed that he was about to jump up and hit him back, but as Chávez started to stand up, Cabrera kicked him right in the solar plexus. Unfortunately for Chávez, Cabrera was wearing cowboy boots. Chávez went up in the air, flipped over, and fell behind the table. He tried to get up but his legs gave out. It was already too late: Cabrera’s pacifist spirit was completely gone. The Bedouin and Fatwolf had to grab him by thearms so he wouldn’t kill Chávez: “Take it easy, dude, take it easy.”
    “Ah,
now
you interrupt me, fucking
pendejo?
Fuck your mother!” he screamed, and pulled himself out of their grip. Then he saw Chávez arch his arm and he felt a pain in his right leg. “Son of a whore!” he spat out. The asshole had thrown his brass knuckles without even looking and got him square on the shin. Cabrera pushed Fatwolf off him and he was about to go finish what he had started, but Isela hugged him, bawling, “Mr. Cabrera, please calm down!” When he saw her, he pulled himself together and walked out, gasping for air.
    By then a crowed had gathered at the door; all the new guys were there. Goddamn nosy people, he thought. The problem was that in order to leave he had to walk by Chávez, sprawled out on the floor. Rosa Isela dragged him by the arm, trying to get between the two, but when Cabrera went by Chávez, he heard murmuring and went back.
    “Repeat what you just said!”
    “You’re dead,” Chávez said. “You’re dead.”
    “Learn from this,” Cabrera told the newbies. “If you’re going to kill somebody, just kill him and be done with it, don’t run an announcement in the society pages.”
    Chávez squinted his eyes like only he knew how to do and Cabrera understood he was serious.
    Leaning on Isela, he went out into the street.
    “Please, get out of here. Chávez is going to be after you.”
    “Don’t worry,” he told her, “nothing’s going to happen to me.”
    “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
    “Yeah, but for Chávez. He’s probably spitting his teeth out right now.”

    “Have you seen how
you
look yet? They hit you real bad.”
    It was the truth. When Chávez hit him the first time, he must have grazed the tip of his nose, because it was bleeding. He was so enraged, he hadn’t noticed. And he noticed his leg was starting to go numb.
    “You have to see a doctor. It might be broken.”
    Where his leg had been hit, a dark black mark had begun to form. Rosa was right. He wasn’t going to be able to do anything like this, it would be better to head home.
    “Here he comes. Get out of here, please!” The girl was incredibly anxious, “Chávez is coming.”
    And, in fact, Chávez was