got a gig for you.
Horacio checks to make sure nobody is listening.
I heard Turcheli kicked the bucket. Heart attack. Right after his promotion. Tough luck. Who’s going to take his place? Filander.
Can I come back? I don’t know, we’ll have to see. What you got for me? A hit, serious shit. Who? A former superintendent. Who? Lascano. Perro? The one and only. Didn’t he die? Not even remotely. There was a gunfight with some soldiers, but he got away. No shit, somebody must have had his back. Who’s protecting him? Protected him. Who? The one with the heart attack. Say no more, where do I find him? We’re tailing him. You up for it? No problem, what’s in it for me? Same as always, maybe a reinstatement, if everything works out. Everything will work out. Be careful, Perro’s no pushover. Don’t worry. You’re the one who should worry. Everything’s got to go just right. If you screw up or they nab you, you’re going to be lonelier than Adam on Mother’s Day. Have I ever screwed up? I don’t know. You’ll get me the gun? You get it yourself. Okay, okay, how much will you give me now? Five grand, will that do? That’ll do. As soon as I hear, I’ll let you know where he is. Done deal.
The next day Horacio parks his car in front of the Retiro bus terminal. Around his own neighbourhood, they call his Valiant II “The Panther” because of the of black spots showing through the yellow he painted on after he stole it. Horacio puts on the steering-wheel lock and walks into Villa 31, the shanty town. He turns down an alleyway and continues for about two hundred yards till he gets to the home of One-Eyed Giardina.
In 1965 anti-Peronist thugs organized a demonstration against Isabelita Perón, right in front of Hotel Alvear Palace in the middle of Barrio Norte, where she was staying. For a little spare change, Giardina signed up to be counted in this demonstration for the posh and privileged. But the plebs from the Infantry Guards beat
the demonstrators with sticks and shot tear gas canisters at their heads. One of those canisters took out one of his eyes.
Horacio stops next to one of the hovels, in front of a paisley cloth curtain. He hears two men inside talking. He claps his hands. The voices stop. A moment later One-Eyed appears and invites him to come in. An ashen-faced man sits at a wooden table in front of a jug of red wine and a plate full of cubes of salami and cheese.
Sonia! Bring a glass for my friend.
A woman of undefined age appears from the next room, dragging her feet. She’s missing her two front teeth and the rest of them are broken and yellowed. She looks Fatso up and down and slams the glass down on the table.
This is my buddy, José. What’s up? Nothin’ much. It’s been a long time, Fatso. Yup, sure has.
One-Eyed looks at José and forces a smile. He serves Horacio some wine, then turns back to José and smiles.
Can we talk? My friend here was just leaving. Hey, no worries, I don’t mean to rush you. Didn’t I tell you he was just leaving? You were just leaving, weren’t you? Yeah, it’s getting late.
The goodbye ritual is short and sweet. After the man walks through the curtain, the other two check each other out during a long moment of silence. Finally, One-Eyed gets up, goes to the doorway, pulls back the curtain, looks
up and down the alleyway and returns. He switches on the radio; a rasping cumbia is playing and he turns the volume way up.
Long time no see. You back in? Not yet. What’re you up to? I opened a grill, you should come by one day. Where is it? Next to Acceso Oeste, right after the Morón exit. It’s called Two Gold Coins; when you’re heading into the city, it’s on the frontage road on the other side. Where did you get that name? I opened it with the dough I made on a hit, a pretty-boy in a cabaret who had great big enormous eyes. When he saw he was done for, his eyes looked like two big gold
Horacio checks to make sure nobody is listening.
I heard Turcheli kicked the bucket. Heart attack. Right after his promotion. Tough luck. Who’s going to take his place? Filander.
Can I come back? I don’t know, we’ll have to see. What you got for me? A hit, serious shit. Who? A former superintendent. Who? Lascano. Perro? The one and only. Didn’t he die? Not even remotely. There was a gunfight with some soldiers, but he got away. No shit, somebody must have had his back. Who’s protecting him? Protected him. Who? The one with the heart attack. Say no more, where do I find him? We’re tailing him. You up for it? No problem, what’s in it for me? Same as always, maybe a reinstatement, if everything works out. Everything will work out. Be careful, Perro’s no pushover. Don’t worry. You’re the one who should worry. Everything’s got to go just right. If you screw up or they nab you, you’re going to be lonelier than Adam on Mother’s Day. Have I ever screwed up? I don’t know. You’ll get me the gun? You get it yourself. Okay, okay, how much will you give me now? Five grand, will that do? That’ll do. As soon as I hear, I’ll let you know where he is. Done deal.
The next day Horacio parks his car in front of the Retiro bus terminal. Around his own neighbourhood, they call his Valiant II “The Panther” because of the of black spots showing through the yellow he painted on after he stole it. Horacio puts on the steering-wheel lock and walks into Villa 31, the shanty town. He turns down an alleyway and continues for about two hundred yards till he gets to the home of One-Eyed Giardina.
In 1965 anti-Peronist thugs organized a demonstration against Isabelita Perón, right in front of Hotel Alvear Palace in the middle of Barrio Norte, where she was staying. For a little spare change, Giardina signed up to be counted in this demonstration for the posh and privileged. But the plebs from the Infantry Guards beat
the demonstrators with sticks and shot tear gas canisters at their heads. One of those canisters took out one of his eyes.
Horacio stops next to one of the hovels, in front of a paisley cloth curtain. He hears two men inside talking. He claps his hands. The voices stop. A moment later One-Eyed appears and invites him to come in. An ashen-faced man sits at a wooden table in front of a jug of red wine and a plate full of cubes of salami and cheese.
Sonia! Bring a glass for my friend.
A woman of undefined age appears from the next room, dragging her feet. She’s missing her two front teeth and the rest of them are broken and yellowed. She looks Fatso up and down and slams the glass down on the table.
This is my buddy, José. What’s up? Nothin’ much. It’s been a long time, Fatso. Yup, sure has.
One-Eyed looks at José and forces a smile. He serves Horacio some wine, then turns back to José and smiles.
Can we talk? My friend here was just leaving. Hey, no worries, I don’t mean to rush you. Didn’t I tell you he was just leaving? You were just leaving, weren’t you? Yeah, it’s getting late.
The goodbye ritual is short and sweet. After the man walks through the curtain, the other two check each other out during a long moment of silence. Finally, One-Eyed gets up, goes to the doorway, pulls back the curtain, looks
up and down the alleyway and returns. He switches on the radio; a rasping cumbia is playing and he turns the volume way up.
Long time no see. You back in? Not yet. What’re you up to? I opened a grill, you should come by one day. Where is it? Next to Acceso Oeste, right after the Morón exit. It’s called Two Gold Coins; when you’re heading into the city, it’s on the frontage road on the other side. Where did you get that name? I opened it with the dough I made on a hit, a pretty-boy in a cabaret who had great big enormous eyes. When he saw he was done for, his eyes looked like two big gold
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