The Best American Mystery Stories 2014 by Laura Lippman, Otto Penzler Page A
Authors: Laura Lippman, Otto Penzler
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thinking,
What will happen to the truck? Will it be waiting for me when I get out?
The soldiers found the package, and to protect his brother Rogelio said nothing about its origins. He played dumb, which wasn’t difficult. Everyone—from the soldiers who conducted the search, to the policemen who came to arrest him, to his ferocious interrogators, to the lawyer charged with defending him—saw Rogelio as he assumed they would: as a clueless, ignorant young man from the provinces. All these years, and nothing had changed: he was still invisible.
Henry’s route to Collectors was very different, and it began at the Teatro Olímpico, after the third performance of his controversial play
The Idiot President
. That morning one of the right-wing papers had declared the play outrageous. “It mocks our authorities and gives succor to the enemy,” the critic wrote. Henry had celebrated. “Maybe now we will sell some tickets,” he’d said to a friend.
But that night, after the show, there were two men in dark suits hanging about. No one paid much attention to them, least of all Henry. Then the theater emptied, the audience dispersed, and one of the men approached. “Are you Henry Nuñez?” he said.
Henry had a leather bag thrown over his shoulder, nothing inside but some dirty clothes and a few annotated scripts.
Who were these idiots, who asked inane questions when the entire theater universe
knew he was Henry Nuñez
. Who else, exactly, could he be?
They placed their giant hands on Henry. His friend and costar Patalarga emerged from backstage just in time to see what was happening. He tried to stop the men, and when he wouldn’t shut up they knocked him out and locked him in the ticket booth.
Henry was held with little human contact in a mercifully clean though still unpleasant cell. He was questioned about his friends, his plays, his travels around the country, his motives, but it was all strangely lethargic, inefficient, as if the police were too bored to decide his fate. He wasn’t beaten or tortured, which was a great relief, of course; he surely would’ve confessed to anything at the mere threat of such treatment. On the third day, Henry, still thinking, breathing, and living in the mode of a playwright, asked for a pen and some paper in order to jot down notes about his tedious imprisonment, things to remember should he ever want to write about his experience. He was denied, but even then, in his naïveté, he wasn’t worried. Not truly concerned. If he’d been asked, Henry would have said that he expected to be released at any moment. His captivity was so ridiculous to him that he could hardly conceive of it. He just couldn’t understand why anyone would be upset by
The Idiot President
. Had they seen the play? It wasn’t even any good!
On the fifth or sixth day, when Henry was finally allowed a visitor, his older sister, Marta, appeared at the jail, representing the entire living world outside the small cell that held him—his family, his friends, his supporters. It was a burden that showed clearly on her face. Her eyes were ringed with dark bluish circles, and her skin was sallow. She hadn’t eaten, she reported; in fact, no one in the family had stopped to eat or rest for five days, and they were doing everything they could to get him out. He imagined them all—his large, bickering extended family—coming together to complete this task: it would be easier to put them on shifts and have them dig a tunnel beneath the jail. The image made him smile. Marta was happy to see that Henry hadn’t been abused, and they passed much of the hour talking about plans for after his release. She had two children, a daughter and a son, ages six and four, who’d both made him get-well cards, because they’d been told that their uncle was at the hospital. Henry found this amusing; the fact that the cards had been confiscated at the jail he found maddening. Marta assured him that they’d remember this little
What will happen to the truck? Will it be waiting for me when I get out?
The soldiers found the package, and to protect his brother Rogelio said nothing about its origins. He played dumb, which wasn’t difficult. Everyone—from the soldiers who conducted the search, to the policemen who came to arrest him, to his ferocious interrogators, to the lawyer charged with defending him—saw Rogelio as he assumed they would: as a clueless, ignorant young man from the provinces. All these years, and nothing had changed: he was still invisible.
Henry’s route to Collectors was very different, and it began at the Teatro Olímpico, after the third performance of his controversial play
The Idiot President
. That morning one of the right-wing papers had declared the play outrageous. “It mocks our authorities and gives succor to the enemy,” the critic wrote. Henry had celebrated. “Maybe now we will sell some tickets,” he’d said to a friend.
But that night, after the show, there were two men in dark suits hanging about. No one paid much attention to them, least of all Henry. Then the theater emptied, the audience dispersed, and one of the men approached. “Are you Henry Nuñez?” he said.
Henry had a leather bag thrown over his shoulder, nothing inside but some dirty clothes and a few annotated scripts.
Who were these idiots, who asked inane questions when the entire theater universe
knew he was Henry Nuñez
. Who else, exactly, could he be?
They placed their giant hands on Henry. His friend and costar Patalarga emerged from backstage just in time to see what was happening. He tried to stop the men, and when he wouldn’t shut up they knocked him out and locked him in the ticket booth.
Henry was held with little human contact in a mercifully clean though still unpleasant cell. He was questioned about his friends, his plays, his travels around the country, his motives, but it was all strangely lethargic, inefficient, as if the police were too bored to decide his fate. He wasn’t beaten or tortured, which was a great relief, of course; he surely would’ve confessed to anything at the mere threat of such treatment. On the third day, Henry, still thinking, breathing, and living in the mode of a playwright, asked for a pen and some paper in order to jot down notes about his tedious imprisonment, things to remember should he ever want to write about his experience. He was denied, but even then, in his naïveté, he wasn’t worried. Not truly concerned. If he’d been asked, Henry would have said that he expected to be released at any moment. His captivity was so ridiculous to him that he could hardly conceive of it. He just couldn’t understand why anyone would be upset by
The Idiot President
. Had they seen the play? It wasn’t even any good!
On the fifth or sixth day, when Henry was finally allowed a visitor, his older sister, Marta, appeared at the jail, representing the entire living world outside the small cell that held him—his family, his friends, his supporters. It was a burden that showed clearly on her face. Her eyes were ringed with dark bluish circles, and her skin was sallow. She hadn’t eaten, she reported; in fact, no one in the family had stopped to eat or rest for five days, and they were doing everything they could to get him out. He imagined them all—his large, bickering extended family—coming together to complete this task: it would be easier to put them on shifts and have them dig a tunnel beneath the jail. The image made him smile. Marta was happy to see that Henry hadn’t been abused, and they passed much of the hour talking about plans for after his release. She had two children, a daughter and a son, ages six and four, who’d both made him get-well cards, because they’d been told that their uncle was at the hospital. Henry found this amusing; the fact that the cards had been confiscated at the jail he found maddening. Marta assured him that they’d remember this little
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