Woes of the True Policeman

three times, this bastard was by my side all through the Revolution, this dead meat nursed me when I was sick and took my kids to school. He repeated this several times: he nursed me when I was sick and took my kids to school. Those words made an impression on me, boys. They summed up a whole philosophy of dedication and hard work. Then mi general looked at me again that way he had of looking at you like he was grabbing your heart and he said: you’ll go far, kid. Me, sir? I hope you’re right. And he: yes, you, jackass, but if you want to go far and hold on to what’s yours you have to keep your head on straight. Then it was as if he had fallen asleep and I thought: poor guy, the shock of finding his man dead must have exhausted him. And I started to think, too, about what he’d said to me and about other things and the truth is that suddenly I felt this great sense of calm or quiet fill me, sitting there on the dead man’s bed, across from mi general , whose head had fallen to one side and who was snoring a little. But then the general opened one eye and asked me whether I knew where Nicanor was from and I gathered that Nicanor was the dead man and I had to tell him the truth, which was that I didn’t know. Then mi general said: he was from Villaviciosa, damn it. And I took note of that. And mi general said: those jackasses are the only men in all of Mexico who can be trusted. Really, mi general ? I asked. Really, he said. Then I called the funeral home and I led mi general into another room, so he wouldn’t feel bad when he saw Nicanor being put into a coffin. We talked until his lawyer and secretary got there. That was the last time I saw mi general . The next year he died,” said Don Pedro as he ordered his fifth whiskey.
    “He must have been quite a man, General Sepúlveda,” said one of the policemen.
    “More than a man, he was a hero,” said Pedro Negrete. The policemen nodded.
    “And now get to work,” said Don Pedro. “I don’t want any bums on the force.”
    The policemen got up instantly. Two of them were wearing shoulder holsters under their tracksuit jackets and the other two were carrying their guns on their hips.
    “You stay here, Pancho, I want to talk to you,” said Don Pedro.
    Pancho Monje said goodbye to his comrades and sat down again.
    “What are you working on?” asked Don Pedro.
    “The shooting in Los Álamos,” said Pancho.
    “Well, you’ll have to take a break for a few days to tail a university professor. I want a complete report in a week.”
    “Who’s the individual?” asked Pancho.
    Don Pedro pulled a bundle of papers from his suit pocket and began to go through them one by one.
    “His name is Óscar Amalfitano,” said Gumaro. “He’s Chilean. He teaches philosophy at the university.”
    “I want a careful job,” said Don Pedro. “You’ll deliver the report to me personally.”
    “At your service,” said Pancho.

7
    Homero Sepúlveda (1895–1955) showed an aptitude for military leadership from an early age: at eight he was tall and dauntless and he captained a gang of kids that made itself hated and legendary in the neighborhoods surrounding the old Municipal Slaughterhouse that once stood on the east side of Santa Teresa, where the man soon to be so prominent in the Revolution grew up. His father was a schoolteacher, originally from Hermosillo, and his mother was a self-effacing housewife, born in Santa Teresa. He was the third of a litter of three brothers and four sisters, all tall and strong, though none of them with Homero’s eyes. He didn’t attend high school.
    When the Revolution began, he and his older brother Lucas took up arms with Pancho Villa. Soon his skill at mounting ambushes, planning raids on enemy supply bases, and moving his troops at lightning speed earned him a well-deserved reputation for bravery and intelligence, a reputation he would never lose. But unlike his brother Lucas, who was brave and intelligent, too, and who died in a cavalry charge in 1917, Homero Sepúlveda was also (and chiefly) cautious and prudent and possessed the ability to predict the twists and turns of fate. It wasn’t long before he earned his general’s stripes, bestowed on him by Pancho Villa himself aboard his private train.
    He battled Porfirio Díaz and was a dyed-in-the-wool Maderista (though in his heart—like his father, who read the Latin American classics—he was never too deeply convinced of anything), he fought tirelessly against Huerta