Tequila Blue by Rolo Diez Page A

It’s a classic criminal ploy: if the shadow of a doubt arises, go for it. And if you do, the one who’s the toughest, the one with the most skill and powers of persuasion is likely to win out. Then again, however much you’d like to be somewhere else, staring at some other ugly mug,doing something else altogether, you’re in the game now, and there’s no quitting.
    â€œGet dressed and bring your ID,” I said, seeing Cruz was wearing pyjama trousers and a filthy T-shirt. “You’re coming with me. Once you’re safely inside we’ll give your brother-in-law and your godfather a call.”
    Cruz grunted and stared at me, itching for a fight. I moved my hand to my waist and lifted my gun an inch out of its holster. He stood up. I wanted to do the same, but I would have lost authority if I didn’t go on being calm. From the red mist in my host’s eyes and the way he bared his teeth at me, I could tell he might attack at any moment. I stayed put, because that’s the next move in the game.
    â€œYou’ll regret this for the rest of your life, you fucking clown!” Cruz threatened me.
    â€œI’ll give you five seconds, then I’m going to get angry.”
    Cro-Magnon man made for a chest of drawers. As he turned away from me, I quickly pulled out my gun and aimed at the middle of his back. He opened the top drawer, took out a crumpled shirt and laid it on top of the chest. He felt inside the drawer again, and a second later a hail of bullets flew over my head and crashed into the wall and furniture behind me. I put four shots into his chest and one in his forehead. I didn’t stop firing until he dropped his weapon.
    Conclusion: apart from the penal code, self-defence and other legal justification, the truth isthat nailing someone who is trying to kill you is very satisfying. I’m no sadist, and it’s not just me. I’ve asked several colleagues, and they all say the same. It’s a question of biology, some sort of memory from our jungle past: we’ve been challenged and we have come out on top; they tried to defeat us, but we defeated them. There’s also a psychological element to it: we have affirmed our personality, we’re not as useless as others would have us believe, or even as we ourselves think – that is, in those brief moments when we don’t consider ourselves sheer geniuses.
    You feel alive, and that doesn’t happen every day. I feel it when a dame starts to groan with passion, or when I solve a case neatly, when I’m on holiday or, like now, when I send a son of a bitch who thought he could pull one over on me to the cemetery.
    I was on the ground floor of a four-storey block. I could hear sounds and voices, see lights being switched on and off. Clear signs that the whole building was aware that something had happened in Osvaldo Cruz’s apartment.
    There was nothing else for it, so I called the police. But before that I switched all the lights on and carried out a rapid search. I found a stash of money and a handful of jewels hidden at the bottom of a drawer. I chose a necklace for Lourdes and a pair of earrings for Gloria no one would notice. The main thing always is not to take anything that might affect the investigation. I stared at the rest of the jewels for a good while thenpicked out a bracelet about half an inch thick that looked as if it was made of gold. I put it in my pocket.
    When the detectives arrived, I briefly explained what had happened. The ’tecs stared at the stash of jewels, stared at me as if they wanted to search me, then let me go after I swore I would give them a proper statement the next day.
    Some days and nights never seem to end. I set off through Tlalpan, heading for the viaduct, but before I had gone two hundred yards I knew it was too late to go to Mixcoac. I stopped at an open store and bought a few tins of seafood, ham, cheese, sausages, bread, cigarettes and a bottle of