Read Online The Black Minutes by Martín Solares - Free Book Online
Authors: Martín Solares
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Suspense, Fiction - General, Mexico, Mystery & Detective, Mystery, Police, Police Procedural, Mystery & Detective - General, Mystery And Suspense Fiction, Cold cases (Criminal investigation), Tamaulipas (State), Tamaulipas (Mexico)
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a while to convince her, but finally she removed her blouse, her skirt, and then her bra. They were listening to some down-tempo soul music, and the massage began. First chance he got, El Macetón tried to grab her breasts and she slapped his hand: You just want to make love! Treat me like a lady, you miserable pig! She massaged his neck, his arms, and his shoulders and he let her do whatever she wanted; obedience was the shortest way to the remote. But the massage turned out to be really, really nice, and El Macetón ended up getting used to her hands pushing into his flesh and he smiled more and more.
Suddenly, the movement stopped and El Macetón looked at her, intrigued: What’s up? She rubbed some oil onto her neck and shoulders. She tilted the bottle a little and a drop fell between her breasts, toward her belly. That’s not how a lady should act, El Macetón chided her.
Do you think this is wrong?
I do, but I can manage, we pacifists are very tolerant.
She let a second drop fall in the same place. What’s up? The oil’s going to run out. Weren’t you going to use it on me? Hold on, she said, and let a third drop fall on her right breast; El Macetón watched it trickle down. The drop made its way slowly but didn’t slide off her breast.
Don’t you need some help? If you want an assistant, I can lend you a hand.
Quiet, she ordered him, or I’ll get dressed and leave. Then she let another drop fall on her left breast. She looked him in the eyes, smiling....
A little while later, Cabrera got the nerve to say, That’s the best demo I’ve ever seen, I want a box of that product.
You liked it?
Well, yeah, I want to give it to the social service girls.
You shameless pig, she chided, you macho pig.
In the end, it was a quiet evening. It helped him to do the right thing.
10
In the morning, El Macetón was brushing his teeth when he heard the doorbell. The Bedouin was waiting on the doorstep.
“The chief wants to see you. It’s urgent.”
He practically dragged him the few blocks that separated them from headquarters.
“What’s the rush,
cabrón?
”
But his coworker didn’t answer. Like everybody knows, the police offices are located in the historic downtown, in a whitish building, under a giant pecan tree swarming with ravens. In the morning, the noise they make is deafening.
There was the usual hustle and bustle at the front door. The Bedouin asked for the chief, and a new agent, who had someone in cuffs, motioned with his chin and signaled down a hallway: He’s back already. Hurry up, man, they’re waiting for you. They walked down the corridor. The walls were covered with official announcements, composite sketches, photographs of missing people, messages from one cop to another, ads for cars or apartments for sale, and several maps of the city, neighborhood by neighborhood. Finally, they reached the reception room. Two new guys were on duty. The chief’s secretary said hi to Cabrera, ignoring the Bedouin. Obviously bothered by this, the Bedouin made his way between the two guards and reported to the chief.
“Here’s Cabrera.”
Inside, it was as cold as in a glacier, though the chief didn’t seem to mind at all. He was wearing a white guayabera, like the ones in fashion when Echeverría was the president of Mexico in the seventies, and a black leather jacket, extra large. When Cabrera walked in, the chief was on the phone. The Bedouin approached him to whisper something in his ear, and the chief did nothing to welcome them. Cabrera had enough time to examine the office furniture, the official photograph of the president of the republic, the TV with the news on, two pictures of the chief with the current governor (one eating with him, the other hugging him), and, underneath them, three glass display cases packed with standard-issue firearms. There were few personal items in the office and all of them had to do with hunting: a Winchester shotgun, a deer’s head, and a wild
Suddenly, the movement stopped and El Macetón looked at her, intrigued: What’s up? She rubbed some oil onto her neck and shoulders. She tilted the bottle a little and a drop fell between her breasts, toward her belly. That’s not how a lady should act, El Macetón chided her.
Do you think this is wrong?
I do, but I can manage, we pacifists are very tolerant.
She let a second drop fall in the same place. What’s up? The oil’s going to run out. Weren’t you going to use it on me? Hold on, she said, and let a third drop fall on her right breast; El Macetón watched it trickle down. The drop made its way slowly but didn’t slide off her breast.
Don’t you need some help? If you want an assistant, I can lend you a hand.
Quiet, she ordered him, or I’ll get dressed and leave. Then she let another drop fall on her left breast. She looked him in the eyes, smiling....
A little while later, Cabrera got the nerve to say, That’s the best demo I’ve ever seen, I want a box of that product.
You liked it?
Well, yeah, I want to give it to the social service girls.
You shameless pig, she chided, you macho pig.
In the end, it was a quiet evening. It helped him to do the right thing.
10
In the morning, El Macetón was brushing his teeth when he heard the doorbell. The Bedouin was waiting on the doorstep.
“The chief wants to see you. It’s urgent.”
He practically dragged him the few blocks that separated them from headquarters.
“What’s the rush,
cabrón?
”
But his coworker didn’t answer. Like everybody knows, the police offices are located in the historic downtown, in a whitish building, under a giant pecan tree swarming with ravens. In the morning, the noise they make is deafening.
There was the usual hustle and bustle at the front door. The Bedouin asked for the chief, and a new agent, who had someone in cuffs, motioned with his chin and signaled down a hallway: He’s back already. Hurry up, man, they’re waiting for you. They walked down the corridor. The walls were covered with official announcements, composite sketches, photographs of missing people, messages from one cop to another, ads for cars or apartments for sale, and several maps of the city, neighborhood by neighborhood. Finally, they reached the reception room. Two new guys were on duty. The chief’s secretary said hi to Cabrera, ignoring the Bedouin. Obviously bothered by this, the Bedouin made his way between the two guards and reported to the chief.
“Here’s Cabrera.”
Inside, it was as cold as in a glacier, though the chief didn’t seem to mind at all. He was wearing a white guayabera, like the ones in fashion when Echeverría was the president of Mexico in the seventies, and a black leather jacket, extra large. When Cabrera walked in, the chief was on the phone. The Bedouin approached him to whisper something in his ear, and the chief did nothing to welcome them. Cabrera had enough time to examine the office furniture, the official photograph of the president of the republic, the TV with the news on, two pictures of the chief with the current governor (one eating with him, the other hugging him), and, underneath them, three glass display cases packed with standard-issue firearms. There were few personal items in the office and all of them had to do with hunting: a Winchester shotgun, a deer’s head, and a wild
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