The Angst-Ridden Executive by Manuel Vazquez Montalban

Author:Manuel Vazquez Montalban [Montalban, Manuel Vazquez]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Hard-Boiled, Mystery & Detective
ISBN: 9781612190396
Publisher: Melville House
Published: 2012-02-14T05:00:00+00:00

‘Don’t worry, chief, I’ll put the camp bed next to the phone.’

Biscuter was prepared to stay awake all night in the event of Rhomberg’s call not arriving during what was left of the day. Concha Hijar had replied to say that she could only see Carvalho after nine, because she had to feed the children first. The papers were full of their usual contradictory news items. On the one hand the police were arresting the extreme Left, and on the other they were setting them free. In the afternoon they were persecuting the extreme Right, and at night the extreme Right was given a free hand. The political parties were preparing for the forthcoming elections. The fascist International had its headquarters in Spain. There was still no sign of the driver of the BMW that had crashed into the Tordera. The Peter Herzen Mystery: It appears that Mr. “Peter Herzen” had hired the BMW with false papers.’

‘I’m going out before the trouble starts on the Ramblas.’

‘I’ve got your dinner ready, chief. Kidneys in sherry and rice pilaf.’

‘What sort of rice?’

‘Uncle Ben’s.’

‘Keep it for me till tomorrow, and keep an ear out for Rhomberg’s phone call.’

‘God—anyone would think I’d ever let you down, boss.’

It seemed that the stage was being set for a scene similar to the night before. The police were waiting for the demonstrators, and the demonstrators seemed to be waiting for the police to take up positions. A drunk with a face blackened by his own grime began calling to imaginary chickens: ‘Here, chook. . . Chookie, chookie. . . !’ And then he began to sing:

The wine of my Asuncion

Is neither white nor red,

It has no colour at all.

Somewhere between his chest and his shoulders, Carvalho could feel a psychological chill. He tried to work out which of his recent experiences could be worrying him. Probably the drunk. But possibly not this drunk in particular.

The wine of my Asuncion

Is neither white nor red,

It has no colour at all.

A few five-and ten-cent coins clattered down into the street. They glittered on top of the cobblestones where they fell, or down the cracks in-between. The old singers gathered up their harvest, and didn’t turn up their noses at a small coin that had fallen into a pile of horse-dung.

‘Give him some—that one there.’

‘Why that one, and not the one before?’

‘Because this one’s old.’

The street singers were old, and were disabled. The people of District 5 leaned over their balconies and were selective in their charity.

‘He must have been wounded in the war,’ his mother would say. Wounded in the war. And grown old from what? Grown old from the war? Who hadn’t grown old from, the war? Who wasn’t war-wounded in one way or another?

‘Thank you, sir.’

The drunkard took the hundred-peseta note that Carvalho passed out of the car window. Between the black of his face and the yellow that bore no relation to what should have been the whites of his naked eyes, the drunk stared uncomprehendingly, trying to resurrect a semblance of dignity in gratitude.

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