Woes of the True Policeman

movements, and took them both down. The assholes never got a shot out. The one with the Uzi died with a look of surprise on his face. Then I turned, angrily, since rage was all I felt then, and I emptied the rest of the clip at the slobs from Tijuana trotting away, but they were already too far. I think I wounded a bystander.”
    “You’re a real son of a bitch, darling,” said the whore.
    “They held me for five hours at the General Sepúlveda police station. Don Gabriel’s wife told the police that I was her bodyguard but they didn’t believe her. Before they put me in the patrol car I told her to call her husband and then go to some coffee shop to wait for him and not come out, and if there was a way to lock herself in the bathroom at the coffee shop, she should go ahead and do it. Then they cuffed me, put me in the patrol car, and took me to the station.”
    “I’m sure they knocked you around, love,” said the whore.
    “I had to answer all kinds of questions. The police wanted to know whether I knew either of the dead men, whether I knew the wounded pedestrian, why I fired at the slobs, whether I was high and what drugs I consumed on a regular basis, whether it was me who killed Pérez Delfino, Juan Pérez Delfino, Virgilio Montes’s right-hand man, whether I knew any traffickers from Arizona, whether I had ever been to some fucking bar in Hermosillo, the Adiós, Mi Lupe, where I’d gotten the gun, whether I was friends with Robert Alvarado, whether I had ever been to prison and what prison and why and how many times. I’ve never been locked up, I told them. I wasn’t shivering anymore and my brain was registering people instead of clothes, people with an interest in me, people who wanted to hear what I had to say, people who wanted to sucker-punch me, people having fun or bored of it all, people doing their jobs. But I didn’t say a word. Where did you learn to shoot? asked those flesh-and-blood people, do you have a permit? where the hell do you live? And I just kept my mouth shut, call Don Gabriel Salazar, he’ll tell you whatever he thinks you need to know.”
    “You took it like a man, darling,” said the whore.
    “Five hours later Don Pedro Negrete arrived and the policemen stood to attention. Don Pedro came in with a smile on his face and his hands in his pockets, like he had all the time in the world and he didn’t mind coming in to the station on a Saturday night. Who put this boy in the tank? he asked without raising his voice. The deputies who were questioning me pissed themselves they were so scared. Me, boss, said one. Ay , Ramírez, you really fucked up this time, said Don Pedro, and Ramírez almost threw himself at his feet to kiss them, no, Don Pedro, it was just routine, I swear, Don Pedro, we never laid a finger on him, ask him, for the love of God, Don Pedro, and Don Pedro looked down at the ground, looked at me, looked around at the other policemen, ay , Ramírez, Don Pedro laughed, ay , Ramírez, and everyone except for me started to laugh, too, they were starting to recover, relax, and they laughed, they laughed at poor Ramírez, man, you’re in the shit now and Ramírez gave each of them a look, one by one, like he was saying have you all gone crazy? and then even I laughed, and that poor dumbshit Ramírez finally laughed a little too. And now that I think of it, the laughing sounded strange, it was laughing but it was something else too. You’ve never heard a bunch of cops laughing at another cop in an interrogation room. It was a kind of onion laugh. The bad boy inside each of them laughed and the onion burned away little by little. The laughs echoed off the damp walls. The onions were small and fierce. And to me it felt like a welcome or a celebration.”
    “I like to hear one cop laugh, not a lot of cops all together, sugar,” said the whore.
    “Gumaro, who was leaning in the doorway and who I hadn’t noticed until then, laughing. Don Pedro Negrete laughing, which was like the laughter of God and smelled like whiskey and expensive cigarettes. And all the laughing from the men who were about to be my crew, finding it honest-to-God funny, the beating that son of a bitch Ramírez was going to take.”
    “I think I know the Ramírez you’re talking about, love,” said the whore.
    “I don’t think so, Ramírez died before you got here. He tried to get Don Gabriel Salazar to hire him, but it didn’t work. Don Gabriel wanted me, but Don Pedro Negrete told him