The Black Minutes by Martín Solares Page B

coming in. Leave me your number and I’ll call you.”
    “Negative,” I burst out. “I’m being watched.”
    “I’m gonna see if I can find your washers. Talk to me in fifteen minutes.”
    And he hung up. Obviously, I wasn’t going to wait fifteen minutes in that hallway, so I counted to a hundred and dialed again. El Chícharo picked up.
    “The news is that I found your fuckin’ washers. Where do you want ’em delivered?”
    “I want you to settle in at the front door of his house.”
    “And that is?”
    I didn’t need to look in my address book, I knew it by heart. “It’s 32-A Emiliano Contreras Street, next to the Hotel Torreblanca. On second thought, why don’t you watch him from the hotel; wouldn’t it be more comfortable for you?”
    “OK, I’m on my way. You really think I’m gonna go in the hotel? The guy at the door is my brother-in-law.”
    “And what’s the problem with that?”

    “He’ll be telling my old lady he saw me go into some transient hotel. Don’t you know anything about women?”
    These local fellows, I thought. Everything would be much easier with a professional from Germany.
    “But don’t worry, I’ve got the experience you need. I’ll find a way to follow through on the order.”
    “I hope so.”
    “Aren’t you forgetting something? How will I recognize him?”
    “Easy as can be. It’s Macetón Cabrera.”
    “Ah!”
    “And we’ll see if you do a better job this time.”
    “Balls. I’m a pro at this stuff.”
    “You’d better be.”
    I hung up discreetly and walked to the kitchen. With a little luck, I told myself, they may have left me some
chucrut
.

9

    Cabrera spent the rest of the afternoon doing paperwork. He wrote a report on his investigations and left it on the chief’s desk. At eight sharp, he said to himself: Another day, another dollar, and went home to relax. He had a date with his wife, and he didn’t want to stand her up.
    Their relationship had deteriorated in the last few months. Since December, she had been living in one apartment and he in another, but they still slept together most nights. Their last fight was over the remote control. His wife complained they never talked anymore, that he was always quiet, that he only wanted to make love and then watch TV. Cabrera denied this and then made love to her. Afterward, he turned the TV on—he couldn’t help it; it was a reflex—but she started screaming, and he ended up sleeping in the living room. He can’t remember when that happened, but without a doubt she does; she has a record of all their arguments. Unlike her, Ramón was a pacifist and forgave her whatever she did.
    That night he went to his wife’s apartment, thinking he was going to keep himself in check. He found her in a suspiciously good mood: I’m glad you’re here; I was waiting for you. She sat him down on the sofa in the living room, and his hand almost cramped up when he couldn’t find the remote.
    Where’s the remote? Hidden, she said, it’s killing our relationship. Gimme a break—he lifted up the cushions—give me theremote; if you don’t give it to me, friggin’ Mariana, there’s going to be trouble; you know I’m a pacifist, but if you’re looking for trouble, you’re gonna get some.
    I’ll give it to you, she promised, but before that I want to give you a massage.
    A massage? Why?
    A massage, come to bed.
    Ah . . . bed; he liked that word. It’s a double feature: bed and TV?
    You’re a macho pig, shut up and come to bed, take off your boots and lie on your back. Whatever you want, just don’t tie me up, I can’t stand being tied up.
    Don’t you worry.
    She showed him a small bottle of oil that smelled really, really good.
    What’s this?
    Aromatherapy, you’ll love it. With just a sniff, El Macetón felt relaxed, and a silly grin lit up his face. He went to the bed and lay down on his back.
    Naked, his wife demanded. El Macetón protested. And you? Why don’t you take off your clothes? It took