Martin Solares - The Black Minutes

The Black Minutes

Martn Solares

Translation by Aura Estrada
and John Pluecker

Copyright 2006 by Martn Solares
Translation copyright 2010 by Aura Estrada and John Pluecker

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Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-0-8021-9703-0 (e-book)

Black Cat
a paperback original imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003

Distributed by Publishers Group West
www.groveatlantic.com

To Vesta

The Paracun Police

Rosa Isela, a beautiful girl doing her social service work at the Paracun police headquarters Camarena and Rodrigo Columba: young graduates of the police academy Joaqun Taboada, El Travolta, current chief of Paracuns municipal police Ramn Cabrera, also known as El Macetn (the Big Flowerpot) Garca, Taboadas predecessor Lolita, secretary Rufino Chvez aka El Chaneque (the Goblin): Taboadas right-hand man The forensic expert, Ramrez Jarquiel, El Profe (the Professor), police officer Wong, El Chino, police officer Salim, El Beduino (the Bedouin), police officer Zozaya, El Evangelista (the Evangelist), police officer Tiroloco (Crazyshot), police officer Mena, Gordolobo (Fatwolf), police officer Luis Calatrava, El Brujo (the Wizard), checkpoint guard Dr. Ridaura, forensic doctor and respected biology professor Vicente Rangel Gonzlez, detective Jorge Romero, El Ciego (the Blind Man): Rangels madrina, i.e., his lackey Emilio Nieto, El Chicote (the Whip), receptionist, prison guard, car washer, and courier Cruz Trevio, chief of the judicial police, previously a municipal police officer

The Locals

Bernardo Blanco, a young journalist Don Rubn Blanco, Bernardos father Johnny Guerrero, nota roja (crime-beat) reporter for El Mercurio La Chilanga, photographer Ren Luz de Dios Lpez, imprisoned for killing four girls Fritz Tschanz, Jesuit priest His Holiness the bishop of Paracun John Williams, influential businessman in the port, owner of Cola Drinks John Williams, Jr., called Jack Tobas Wolffer, local congressman Rodrigo Montoya, director of the Paracun archives Lucilo Rivas, Bar Len manager Ral Silva Santacruz, witness Juan, El Chimuelo (Gaptooth) and Jorge, El Chaparro (Shorty), butchers El Lobina, fisherman Don Isaac Klein, restaurant owner El Profeta (the Prophet), ice-cream vendor Luca Hernndez Campillo, Ins Gmez Lobato, Karla Cevallos, Julia Concepcin Gonzlez, Daniela Torres, the victims of the Jackal

The Visitors

Lieutenant Miguel Rivera Gonzlez, legendary policeman from Paracun Mr. Traven Torsvan, writer Dr. Alfonso Quiroz Cuarn, internationally renowned criminologist Rigo Tovar, singer El Rey de los Marcianos (the King of the Martians), alien Cormac McCormick, ex-detective for the FBI El Albino, crime-beat photographer

The Narcos

El Chincualillo (the Little Pain), wholesale drug dealer El Cochiloco (the Crazy Pig), leader of the Colombians El Chato Rambal (the Flat-faced Rambal), head of the port cartel Vivar, the Paracun cartels lawyer Mr. Obregn, the Paracun cartels leader

The Politicos

Licenciado Echaverreta, president of Mexico Juan Jos Churruca, government minister for the state of Tamaulipas Jos Pepe Topete, influential politician Daniel Torres Sabinas, Paracun mayor at the end of the seventies Agustn Barbosa, Ciudad Maderas first opposition mayor Edelmiro Morales, leader of the professors union in Tamaulipas

The Invaders

The officers from the Federal Security Administration

I had the most important nightmare of my life so far while traveling in a bus down a highway flanked by pine trees. I havent been able to figure out what it means, at least not entirely.

It was nighttime, but I couldnt sleep. Every time I started to nod off, the headlights of oncoming cars or the jolting of the bus jarred me awake. I knew I was finally asleep when I couldnt hear the engine drone anymore and the headlights turned soft and blue and stopped bothering me.

I was having a pleasant dream, one that was even, in certain respects, a musical one, when I sensed that a sarcastic person, someone who knew me fairly well, had moved into the seat behind me. The visitor waited until I was used to his presence; then he uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, and, breathing down my neck, said:

Isnt it true that in the life of
every man there are five
black minutes?

The idea frightened me so much I woke up, and since there was no one in any of the seats around me, I spent the rest of the night drinking water, watching the moon, and trying to calculate if Id already reached my quota of black minutes.

Thats what I was doing when I pulled in to Paracun.

The first time he saw the journalist, he reckoned him to be twenty years old and he was wrong. The journalist, from his perspective, reckoned the plaid-shirted rancher to be around fifty, and he guessed right. They were both traveling south. The journalist was on his way from the United States, after quitting his job; the man in the plaid shirt was coming back from a job in the northern part of the state, but he didnt say what it was. They knew they were getting into Mexico because the air on the bus was too thick to breathe.

When they crossed the Ro Muerto, they saw a two-jeep convoy. As they got to Dos Cruces a pickup full of judiciales passed them, and at Seis Marias they ran into a checkpoint inspection by the Eighth Military Zone. A soldier with a lantern signaled the driver to pull over; the driver took the bus down a dirt road and stopped it in the beam of a huge floodlight, between two walls of sandbags. On the other side of the highway was a big canvas tent with a set of radar machines, and farther down three dozen soldiers were doing calisthenics. During the search of the bus, the journalist turned on his reading light and tried to read the only book he had with him, The Spiritual Exercises by St. Ignatius of Loyola, but just a minute into it he felt deeply uncomfortable and looked in the direction of the trenches. Just beneath him, behind the sandbags and the thicket of palm trees, two soldiers stared at him, full of resentment. He wouldnt have cared, if it werent for the high-caliber machine guns they had trained on him. The rancher said hed probably look the same, if he had to spend the night at the mercy of the mosquitoes, in hundred-degree heat, crouched behind a bunch of sandbags.

The inspection was carried out without incident. The sergeant who looked them over did it only out of duty and scrutinized the luggage lazily. Meanwhile, the young journalist took advantage of the wait to drink a yogurt, and he offered another to the rancher. In exchange, the fifty-year-old offered him some

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