17 Stone Angels (46 page)

Now he heard Domingo swearing and felt him tearing at his fingers. He felt a blow at his ear, but he had the gun partly out of the holster, enough to get his finger into the trigger, to flip off the safety. The gun went off only a few inches from his head, shooting through the holster and into Domingo's leg. A scream, the sudden dark weight across his body. He had the gun now, was pointing into Domingo's crotch from below. His hand tightened and he felt the hot backblast of the gases against his fist, then a stickiness as Domingo's screaming became a high choking wail. Domingo's legs were kicking around his head now and he fired again and the kicking stopped. The flashlight was directly in his eyes now, and he heard another gun go off and Domingo's body jumped with the impact.

“Give me light! I need my gun!” Santamarina screamed, and Fortunato grasped that Santamarina had put his gun down to manage the rope and couldn't find it.

The light! Fortunato jerked his hands free and shot in the direction of the light as another roar erupted behind him and another bullet went shuddering into Domingo's body. He fired again at the bright circle. A strange gasp went through the dark space, and the flashlight fell to the ground, pointing away from him and towards the wall. The radiant afterimage of the light kept burning white in his retina, Santamarina somewhere above him,
with a gun now. Another cannon blast and he heard an impact and felt a tingling at the side of his face as little chips of concrete spattered his cheek. He stretched upward with the gun in his manacled hands and Domingo's black leather shoes sprawled on either side of his face, saw Santamarina's faint smudge edging the white circle of afterflash. Blinding light, a rush of air along his arm. Another flash, Domingo's leg flinching at his stomach, then a stab of heat in his gut. Fortunato rolled halfway beneath the dead weight and aimed upside down from the floor. Shooting through the round ghost of light that haunted his retina, he fired, fired again, heard a shout of surprise and pain above the ringing in his ears, then Santamarina went tumbling off the loading dock and onto the floor behind him, writhing slowly against the oil-stained cement.

Fortunato pushed Domingo's body aside and tried to sit up, but as he did he felt the noose tightening around his neck and a wave of horror lurched through him. As he worked the noose off he felt giddy, as if the old Fortunato had departed and left a new, better version in his place. The protruding slide of the .25 reminded him that it had no more bullets, and he wiped it down quickly on Domingo's bloody jacket and left it on the floor. Ignoring the pain that minced his stomach, he came to his feet and tried to put some order to the scene that had a moment ago been nothing but sound and flashes.

A weak illumination bounced off the wall from the discarded flashlight. Santamarina was groaning softly and there were faint sounds of movement from the body near the door. Domingo lay still and dark, an evil shadow against the vague surface of the floor.
Kill me, you son of a bitch? How stupid is Fortunato now?
He kicked him in the side, then made out Santamarina's gun lying several feet away from him. He picked it up: a ·357 Magnum revolver with three shots expended and three in the cylinder. Santamarina was groaning, curling into a fetal position and holding his chest.
Kill me? Cursed torturer! Now who is the owner of life and death?
Fortunato bent down and pointed the ·357 at Santamarina's head. The gun exploded into Santamarina's skull, and Fortunato moved through the dim light to the doorway. The third man was rolling from side to side, groaning. A lucky shot from that distance: the small bullet of the .25 had hit him in the throat. Santamarina's colleague from La Gloria three weeks ago. Fortunato put the muzzle of the .357 next to the man's heart and pulled the trigger, taking in the ferocious report as if it were the opening blast of
a symphony. He watched the body jerk and then become still.
Strangle me now, bastard!
The butt of his own Browning stuck out of the man's waistband, and Fortunato pulled it out. He picked up the flashlight and looked over three dead men with a feeling of deep satisfaction. A pool of blood was dyeing the noose they'd intended for him. All tranquil now.
A good piece of work, eh Domingo?
He found Domingo's key chain and quickly unfastened the cuffs from his hand. “Give my regards to Vasquez.” As if in answer, Domingo moved, and Fortunato pointed the nine millimeter at his skull and ruined his head in a burst of metal and fire. He heard himself say in an amiable tone: “I was doing you a favor,
boludo
.”

An undefined sense of urgency sprang from the fresh carnage as the analytical part of his mind made its first weak attempts to reassert control. The sound of Santamarina's radio clicking, a soft statick-y voice. “
Que pasa, Abel?
” He forced himself back to the scene. A fourth man, the lookout, was wondering about the shots. He would be approaching, checking it out carefully.

Fortunato turned off the flashlight and put it in his pocket. The memory of light persisted in his old eyes as all memories persisted, floating across the screen of the present. He could run, of course. That would be most cautious. But caution felt like something exceedingly frivolous right now, so far from the essential ingredients of the world. The universe had gone out of balance some time ago, and it couldn't be brought to equilibrium with the old methods. He was Fortunato, now. He had a job to finish.

A granite-colored glow oozed through a gap between the wall and ceiling, barely enough to make out the dim shadows of the bodies against the floor. The sentry would be coming, approaching the closed door with caution and a bit of fear. He would have his gun out, would be wondering what had gone wrong and who had been hit, he might guess that the final rounds had been finishing shots. What he would never suspect would be that Fortunato would be the last one standing. Fortunato waited silently to the side of the closed door, pointing his nine millimeter at the tin in front of him. He heard the sound of footsteps in the leaves that filled the gutter, saw a flashlight playing against the cracks of the crooked doorway. The man approached closer, calling softly. “Abel! Abel!”

The calling stopped, and Fortunato heard his footsteps mount the curb and scutter against the pavement by the door. Only a half meter of space and
the thin sheet of tin separated him from Fortunato now. The slim crack of light around the door began to widen.

Fortunato fired through the wall in three evenly spaced shots, heard a cry, then stepped quickly into the doorway. The man had turned and was shooting wildly at the wall, and before he could get his bearings Fortunato fired again and the man went spiraling to the pavement. The Comisario shot him again in the chest, then sent a round into the man's head, watching him quiver there on the sidewalk like a fish that had just received the sharp hard blow of the club.
La concha de tu madre
.

The Comisario started laughing, listening to the dry mad sound of his mirth and feeling better than he had in his entire life. They were dead, all four of them, and he was still breathing the night air.
He!
Comisario Fortunato of the 35th Precinto. The
boludo
who was supposed to have committed suicide five minutes before to suit the plans of bigger men! He wished Waterbury could see this now, that Berenski could see it. Berenski would shit himself laughing at this.
This is better than the SuperClassic, Comi!
Fortunato considered trying to wipe off all his prints, but it already was. Fortunato was of spirit now, already departing. He was beyond the laws of the Republic. Now there was only Fortunato's law. He took the spare clip from his holster and slid it home, then chambered a round. He began to walk towards his car.

The thought came to him gently, with a certain irony rather than alarm: someone somewhere might have called the police. Illicit lovers lifting heads from rumpled pillows, a bored prostitute wandering down for the excitement.
They're shooting outside!
Sub-Comisario Pignoli would be the commander on duty. Nicolosi would probably respond first to this sector. Poor Nicolosi: the honest working stiff who'd put in fifteen years of service and never gotten beyond patrolman. For some reason, he'd be ashamed to have Nicolosi see him here. At least Nicolosi, as an honest man, would understand his reasons.
I had to do it, Amadeo. It was the only justice that remained
.

As he started towards his car the pain began to insist a bit more. It was in his stomach, but better not to look at it. A gooey friction constrained the fingers of his left hand and his clothes were painted with blood. As he neared the car he felt a faint trickle at his thighs. With it, the distant sound of a siren. A first-class crime scene,
muchachos
. Five calibers of bullets and four suspects who would never talk. One a cop. The others security operatives for Carlo Pelegrini. What a sumptuous
expediente
this one will inspire!

He got into the car and began driving from the area. He'd begun to sweat, but he felt elated and confident. He was dead now, anyway. What did it matter, the little ache in his stomach or the blood all over him? Thus the dead should look.
You see, Waterbury; at least I've evened your score a bit. More than evened it
. Only a spirit now, far above the considerations of caution or morality. That was all behind him. He was an angel. The one in the tango who plays it all to recover an insult or an act of infidelity. Maybe this had been his destiny, all those years. All those decades he had been carefully measuring and accumulating, never imagining that in the end all he'd done would be reversed in a few hours.

There remained only Leon. The Chief. His friend and mentor all these years, always ahead of him in rank, directing him in his career and at last, directing its end. Fortunato knew he should feel some anger, but it didn't come. Perhaps because he was already dead, and the dead don't feel anger. There were simply things to do and ways to do them, and the rest remained for people still in life, who had egos and hopes to protect.

At his home? Perhaps. Ringing the bell.
What say, tanguero!
Raising the gun and blowing him backwards. But no. The wife might answer. Moreover, the Chief always went out on weekends. He loved to play the
transnochero
, taking coffee and whiskey at four in the morning, singing tango at the 17 Stone Angels . . .

Fortunato imagined the Chief in his ivory suit within the fluorescent interior of the old worn
milonga
. Osvaldo with his gold tooth and all of the regulars filtering in from the barrio. Of course. It had to be thus, as if obeying some law of symmetry not apparent before. Fortunato's law.

Fortunato turned the car towards
the center. It would take him forty minutes to reach La Boca. At two-thirty in the morning the Chief would already have sung four or five songs, would have critiqued poor Gustavo, the ancient sailor, for his lack of tone.

His cellular rang. The voice was trying hard to suppress its excitement.

“Comisario Fortunato, forgive that I disturb you! It's Nicolosi! There's been a quadruple murder here in San Justo! Can you come!”

“Where is it?” the Comisario asked calmly.

“Behind the
kilombo
on Benito Perez. At a factory.”

“Can't Sub-Comisario Pignoli take it?”

“It's a massacre, Comisario! Better that you come!” A brief pause. “One of the dead is Domingo Fausto!”

“Inspector Fausto? They killed Inspector Fausto?”

“Sí, Comisario!”

“Are there witnesses?” “No, Comisario.”

Fortunato smiled. “
Está Bien
, Nicolosi. Remain
tranquilo
. In this case, at least, justice is at hand. I'm on my way.”

He turned off the cell phone and continued towards the Autopista 25 de Mayo. He turned on the radio and found the all-tango station that they played at La Gloria. Goyeneche was singing “Makeup', Piazzola's classic about an illusory world.
Lies, they're lies: your virtue, your love, your kindness
. . . Sing, Polack, sing! He turned it up. The booming dissonance of the accordion, the sour strings tearing at the heart. Fortunato felt a glorious sense of belonging. After a lifetime of lies he had finally grasped a bigger truth and was bearing down on its brilliant focal point.

The common sights of the city had never looked more beautiful. Goodbye, little mechanic shop, goodbye, seller of flowers. There was darkness and a pink sky, and the tired glorious buildings. All his life he'd spent in this suburb, this provincial town of church and fields now swallowed up by the endless sprawl of the city. The ditches where he hunted frogs, all gone. The gardens and ragged little football fields with goals made of tin cans. The humming factories, now silent. As a boy everything had seemed so permanent, and one had to live a whole life to realize how transient were the things one most deeply loved. His mother and father, his Marcela. Even the cool luscious air of this autumn night streaming through the windows to caress his cheeks. What a farcical life, hoarding little green papers and the respect of empty men! All those years with Marcela wasted. If only she could see him now. Her low playful voice—“You're acting well, Miguel. At last you're arranging things as they should be.”

He crossed Avenida General Paz
and entered Buenos Aires proper and continued down Teniente General Dellepiane towards the autopista. The buildings became larger and more ornate with stonework as he passed through the barrios of Flores and Caballito. The city shook off its provincial stupor and
began to snap. The store windows were wider, the clothes more elegant. The long-gone boom of Buenos Aires began to assert itself again in columns and curlicues. The whole city was out for the evening, ablaze at two in the morning as if at two in the afternoon. People were dancing and people were trying out love poems and people were getting knifed and snorting
merca
and launching long slow pirouettes beneath the covers. Every sidewalk and every café window was illuminated now by the burning destinies of the lives that skittered along the thoroughfare and by the vivid afterglow of the legions who had walked those streets before. Thus, Buenos Aires! Thus the furious dream! As if obeying Fortunato's law, Carlos Gardel took over the radio in his scratchy 1920s voice and began singing the operatic lament that began his most famous song.
My beloved Buenos Aires, when I see you again
. . . Fortunato intoned along with Gardel's longing and hope:
There will be no more sorrow or forgetting
.