The Shadow of the Shadow (22 page)

FERMIN VALENCIA AND THE LAWYER Verdugo had
agreed to combine both their business and their investigations.
The poet had gone along with the lawyer to the seventh-district
court house to file a complaint against a bullfighter for the rape
of a chorus girl. And the lawyer had accompanied the poet to the
offices of the Peltzer Tire Company so that his friend could draw
his pay and protest his treatment at the hands of the lieutenant
with the itchy trigger finger.

In between, they made a stop at the "National Armory" gun
shop-following the advice Pancho Villa had once given the
poet-expanding their arsenal to the tune of a pair of shotguns,
ammunition, and a German-made Walter repeating pistol.

Now they motored through the rain down San Juan de Letran
in the lawyer's bulletproof Packard, without any particular destination in mind.

"The lieutenant's name's Estrada," said the poet. "Juan Carlos
Estrada. They said he was there to buy tires for the gendarmerie
fleet."

"Gomez."

"That's right. And besides that, I've got the idea there was
more to his visit than just tires."

"What'd he tell Peltzer about why he was trying to pick you
of?"

"He said I'd insulted him."

"Dammit, poet, this thing gets more confusing all the time.
Are you sure you've never seen the guy before? Maybe you killed
his dad or laid his sister or something."

"Well, I couldn't swear one way or the other about his dad,
but I'm sure no Estrada's ever gotten between my sheets, or me
between hers, for that matter."

"So what's next?"

"Let's try the jewelry store. I've got the feeling there's a thread
there that'll lead us to something more solid."

With the windows closed, the Packard started to fill up with
steam and cigar smoke until it finally pulled to a stop, casting up
a silent curtain of spray in front of the El Democrata offices on
Humboldt Street.

The poet and the lawyer paused in the waiting room of Weiss
Bros. Jewelers and automatically turned to stare at the window
over the street. A new pane had replaced the one through which
Colonel Zevada had taken his fatal fall. The rain tapped placidly
against the glass.

"I don't ask too many questions these days. It's the Revolution.
Everything's gone shady, strange, unpredictable. One guy sells
a gem for train fare, the next guy trades it for three horses and
a suitcase. A house burns down and a child saves his mother's
jewelry from the fire. A soldier steals the ring off a dead man
who stole it off another corpse the day before. A maid sells off
her former employer's jewels. Nothing's like it used to be. These
aren't normal times. It's been ten years now since I asked to see
a sales receipt or certificate of ownership. I buy and don't ask any
questions. Possession is ownership these days-I give the seller a
receipt and a fair price. You shouldn't be surprised. Nothing's the
same anymore. I run a straight business, above board, it's just that
these are strange times for a man in my trade," announced the
wrinkled jeweler in one long paragraph.

Except for the enormous strongbox sitting on four stout iron
legs, with the words STENDHAL AND COMPANY scrolled across the
front, the office could easily have belonged to any type of business
at all. The walls were bare, the oak desk empty, the many grooves
in its worn surface poorly covered by a coat of glistening varnish. There wasn't even a jeweler's glass or a velvet pouch, a pair of pliers
or a hand lens in sight. Weiss, a little man with white hair that
stood straight up off his head, sat behind the desk smiling at our
two friends. They stood in the middle of the room, there being
nowhere to sit except for a ridiculous pink velvet love seat pushed
up against the far wall.

"What about Zevada?"

"I'd never seen him before. It would have been the first time he
came to do business with me."

"The name doesn't ring any bells?"

"None at all. The second time the police came they showed
me a photograph of his brother. I didn't know him either. They
showed me some jewelry, too. I'd never seen those pieces before."

"How about Margarita Roldan, the widow of the fellow who
used to run the Industrial Printworks."

"Margarita Herrera, the Widow Roldan. Yes, yes, of course."

"She buy or sell?"

"Both. But she's bought more than she's sold. Nothing out
of this world, really. A very nice sapphire once. A Russian pearl
tiara, a pair of diamonds in the rough, a topaz necklace. All gifts,
I suppose... Nothing out of this world, like I said... I'm afraid
you're mistaken, gentlemen. The only thing I have to do with this
whole story is that I'm the one who had to pay for the broken
window."

They left the car in front of the Bank of London and walked
along, covering their cigars with their hats to keep them out of the
rain. Verdugo had insisted they arrive on foot at the Arana Cantina
on Netzahualcoyotl Street, one door down from the bakers' union
local. "A bulletproof Packard'd be in bad taste around a place like
that," he'd said.

In the Arana, the poet discovered the remarkable popularity
his streetwise friend enjoyed in certain quarters of the city. Grifters,
hookers, rumrunners, small-time hoods all greeted him with
affection, or at least with respect. A player piano stood abandoned in one corner of the room and the shouts of the customers and
the tobacco smoke were all the atmosphere there was to the joint.
The Arana was the kind of place where you could just as easily
be served rubbing alcohol cut with sugarcane juice as a glass of
authentic Napoleon brandy.

Verdugo greeted the proprietress-a disfigured paralytic
woman serving drinks from behind the bar-with a kiss on the
cheek, and then glanced around for his source of information.

"What's the haps, licenciado? You buying or selling?"

"Neither, One-eye. I'm looking for someone mourning the
loss of a couple of dead friends. We can talk price later."

"I don't give nothing for free, not even to my own mother."

"I'm sure we can work out a fair exchange. How about some
information today in exchange for future legal services? You get
the best lawyer in Mexico City free at your disposal the next time
you need him."

"Two for one."

"Two for one it is, One-eye... The dead men I referred to are
Gallego Suarez and Felipe Tibon."

"You want a name or you want the man in person?"

"In person'd be better, One-eye."

"Stick around half an hour and I'll have him for you," said
the serape'd One-eye, and without another word he walked out of
the dive and hurried down the street. The two friends leaned back
in their chairs and called for a bottle of English gin, lemons, and
a pitcher of water, and settled down to wait. But fifteen minutes
hadn't gone by before the one-eyed man reappeared, dragging
along a soaking-wet and sickly looking fellow dressed in a suit that
hung limply off his shoulders, the rain dripping off the sleeves and
forming a puddle on the ground at his feet. He was about forty
years old, with his forehead wrinkled into a permanent frown, his
shiny black hair plastered just above his eyes, and a dirty black tie
that danced across his shirt, now and then brushing against the
bulge of his gun.

"The Gypsy, at your service, lawyer," said the one-eyed man,
gesturing toward his companion. Then he disappeared into the
surrounding hubbub.

The new arrival set his wide-brimmed black hat down on the
table next to the bottle of gin and, dragging over a chair, sat down
with his elbows resting on the chair back.

"What can I do for you, licenciado Verdugo?"

"Do we know each other?"

"Not personally, but once a while back you defended a cousin
of mine in court."

"In other words, I've already worked for the family."

"You could say that," said The Gypsy and, after glancing at the
lawyer for permission, poured himself a shot of gin.

"About a week ago Gallego Suarez, Felipe Tibon, and another
man whose name I don't know tried to kill me and three friends
of mine. We'd never had anything to do with them before, so it
stands to reason that someone else paid them to do the job. I want
to know who."

The Gypsy looked from the poet to the lawyer and then spoke
in a low voice that could only just be heard over the noise from
the nearby tables.

"They weren't gunning for you, licenciado. They were after your
friend the reporter. It wasn't you they wanted."

"How do you know?"

"What's it matter? Maybe I was the one who fixed them up.
Maybe the third stiff was another cousin of mine. What difference does it make? You know how much a man's life is worth
in this town? Now, I don't mean any offense by it, but it costs
three hundred bills to off a gentleman like yourself. You just put
six hundred pesos on the table there and I'll personally take care
of the man who hired Gallego and Felipe. I'd enjoy it, too, because
the man in question never even bothered to tell those poor boys
that you fellows knew how to shoot. They went off to hunt rabbits
and ended up with a bunch of Apaches."

"Why six hundred, friend?" asked the poet with a smile.
"Because the guy what hired them isn't any John Doe, and he's no
fool either. He can shoot as good as you, maybe better. Or maybe
we should just say that the rates are going up."

"I'll give you the six hundred just for the name," said
Verdugo.

The Gypsy thought for a minute. Then he glanced nervously
around the bar.

"Six hundred and a promise, licenciado."

"Sure, if I can."

"Promise me you won't miss, because if you do I'm not going
to be around long enough to enjoy all that money."

Verdugo and the poet exchanged glances. The lawyer took out
his wallet and drew out six hundred-peso notes from what was left
of his lottery money.

"I'm all ears."

"Hell, if it wasn't so hard for a man to make a living out there,
I'd beat it for Zacatecas or San Luis Potosi."

Verdugo folded the bills and slid them across the table toward
The Gypsy.

"You don't have to hide it, lawyer. There's more eyes in this
joint than in a movie theater. More than one of these stiffs's already
heard everything's been said without hearing nothing at all." The
Gypsy poured out another glass of gin, tossed it down, and said,
"You all want to have a chat with Colonel Martinez Fierro."

MANTEROLA LOWERED HIS EYES from the Virgin with
her lilac-and-yellow mantle to the nineteen-year-old painter
standing beside the figure, and it dawned on him that he was
looking at a man in possession of the truth. How could he describe
to his readers this sudden realization of another man's absolute con-
viction?-this young man, dressed in shirt and tie, with thick lips,
a pale face, interrogative eyebrows, who seemed to concentrate all
his energy into a pair of intense black eyes...

"Senor Revueltas..."

"Call me Fermin."