you here? I’m looking for some equipment, but it looks to me like you’re keeping some pretty questionable company lately. What are you talking about? The guy who just left. What’s wrong with him? What do you mean, what’s wrong? I can see the mark of the police cap on his forehead. He’s out of the force. You don’t say. I’m telling you. What did he want? We’ve got a gig. Oh, really. You’ll be happy. Why? Let’s just say it’s the guy who nabbed you last time. You don’t say. And when’s that coming down? Don’t know, soon. What do you need? Guns. Just tell me how many…
10
It’s been two days since Ramona left him at a pension in Chacarita with a few australes, a bottle of analgesics and a lot of advice. She said she’d call or come by, but he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of her and has no way of getting in touch. This morning the owner came to ask him how long he’d be staying because someone else was interested in the room. He also told him he’d have to pay in advance.
He counts the money he has left. He’s got to do something, and he’s got to do it now. He gulps down three aspirins, gets dressed and goes out without a clear idea where he’s headed or what he’s going to do once he gets there. He walks through the streets, trying to recognize this Buenos Aires that’s shining in all its plastic splendour. The new economic policy, the Austral Plan, is basically just more of the same: a repeat performance of the plata dulce , or “sweet money” period during the dictatorship. Finally free from state terror, consumers are partying it up, officials are getting their knickers in a twist talking about democracy, and the majority say they never heard of the atrocities committed during the Dirty War. The dollar is worth less than the austral,
and people are rushing all over the place trying to buy the very latest imported toys. Shop windows manage to look little better than a bad imitation of their cheapest American counterparts. The frenetic compulsion to buy is heightened by the unconscious certainty that this prosperity is fleeting. In the meantime, the faces of hunger and poverty that nobody seems to want to see are already showing up at the party. The captains of the financial sector accumulate capital as they gnaw constantly at the feet of the presidential throne where, buoyed up by his image as the champion of democracy, Alfonsín reposes in confidence.
He heads for the city centre. He’s considering a visit to police headquarters; he’s still got one friend in Criminal Records, but it may be too dangerous to get anywhere near the place. If the Apostles killed Jorge, he might be in their sights as well. Ramona’s fear when she found out and the alacrity with which she washed her hands of him can only mean one thing: he’s a marked man. She didn’t say it in so many words, but it is implicit, and even if he was being paranoid, entering headquarters through the main door doesn’t seem like the best way to find out.
He keeps walking till after one o’clock. He sits down on a bench in Plaza Lavalle. The effect of the aspirin begins to wear off, and the wound in his chest starts to hurt, less than yesterday though, and more than tomorrow , Lascano thinks in an unusual burst of optimism.
The shootout happened just a few blocks away; that was the day he saw Eva for the last time. He’d rented a safe deposit box at a nearby bank and put twenty thousand dollars in it. Eva had found the money by accident in a
house she was hiding in when the military came to get her. Then, when all hell broke loose with Giribaldi and his death squad, they went to get the money so they could get out of town, but there they met Giribaldi’s henchmen, right at the door to the bank, and that’s when it all came down. The last thing he saw was Eva running away. Did she manage to get the money? Maybe yes, maybe no. What if it all happened so fast she didn’t have time, and she had to escape without
10
It’s been two days since Ramona left him at a pension in Chacarita with a few australes, a bottle of analgesics and a lot of advice. She said she’d call or come by, but he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of her and has no way of getting in touch. This morning the owner came to ask him how long he’d be staying because someone else was interested in the room. He also told him he’d have to pay in advance.
He counts the money he has left. He’s got to do something, and he’s got to do it now. He gulps down three aspirins, gets dressed and goes out without a clear idea where he’s headed or what he’s going to do once he gets there. He walks through the streets, trying to recognize this Buenos Aires that’s shining in all its plastic splendour. The new economic policy, the Austral Plan, is basically just more of the same: a repeat performance of the plata dulce , or “sweet money” period during the dictatorship. Finally free from state terror, consumers are partying it up, officials are getting their knickers in a twist talking about democracy, and the majority say they never heard of the atrocities committed during the Dirty War. The dollar is worth less than the austral,
and people are rushing all over the place trying to buy the very latest imported toys. Shop windows manage to look little better than a bad imitation of their cheapest American counterparts. The frenetic compulsion to buy is heightened by the unconscious certainty that this prosperity is fleeting. In the meantime, the faces of hunger and poverty that nobody seems to want to see are already showing up at the party. The captains of the financial sector accumulate capital as they gnaw constantly at the feet of the presidential throne where, buoyed up by his image as the champion of democracy, Alfonsín reposes in confidence.
He heads for the city centre. He’s considering a visit to police headquarters; he’s still got one friend in Criminal Records, but it may be too dangerous to get anywhere near the place. If the Apostles killed Jorge, he might be in their sights as well. Ramona’s fear when she found out and the alacrity with which she washed her hands of him can only mean one thing: he’s a marked man. She didn’t say it in so many words, but it is implicit, and even if he was being paranoid, entering headquarters through the main door doesn’t seem like the best way to find out.
He keeps walking till after one o’clock. He sits down on a bench in Plaza Lavalle. The effect of the aspirin begins to wear off, and the wound in his chest starts to hurt, less than yesterday though, and more than tomorrow , Lascano thinks in an unusual burst of optimism.
The shootout happened just a few blocks away; that was the day he saw Eva for the last time. He’d rented a safe deposit box at a nearby bank and put twenty thousand dollars in it. Eva had found the money by accident in a
house she was hiding in when the military came to get her. Then, when all hell broke loose with Giribaldi and his death squad, they went to get the money so they could get out of town, but there they met Giribaldi’s henchmen, right at the door to the bank, and that’s when it all came down. The last thing he saw was Eva running away. Did she manage to get the money? Maybe yes, maybe no. What if it all happened so fast she didn’t have time, and she had to escape without
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