Fifty Grand by Adrian McKinty Read Free Book Online Page A

they’re even more corrupt than they are.
Than we are
, I should say.
    The panhandler is a skinny little boy with long black hair. Picked a good spot. Stone’s throw from the plaza, which is packed with Canadians and Europeans. Behind me the cathedral is lit up by spotlights and the relentless music from the street musicians is entertaining those tourists who don’t realize that they’re having their pockets picked.
    “You’re too old to have babies. A woman of your advanced years,” Hector says in my earpiece. I’m twenty-seven, Hector, I almost yell with indignation, but that’s what he wants.
    “In a minute and ten seconds that’s the best line you can come up with? You should tell Díaz to write you some fresh material, he’s got the filthiest mouth in the station,” I say instead.
    “Can you see us?” Díaz asks.
    Certainly can. A bright green Yugo near the Ambos Mundos with the windows wound up and the two of them looking as suspicious as hell. If they weren’t cops they were Interior Ministry secret police or something. All the pimps and dealers had cleared out of here twenty minutes ago.
    “Yeah, I see you.”
    “Watch this.”
    I see him wave at me from the front seat of the car, a wave that quickly becomes a sexual pantomime I can’t really follow. Some kind of insult, I’m sure. Díaz was originally from Pinar del Río, and they’re an odd crew over there.
    “I feel lucky to have met you, Lieutenant Díaz,” I tell him.
    “Oh yeah, why’s that?” he asks, taking the bait.
    “To know that such an idiot can rise so high in the cops gives hope for all of us junior detectives.”
    “You’re not rising anywhere, Mercado, you’re lucky you’re not handing out parking tickets or sweating with the other girls down in the typing pool,” Hector says quickly.
    “The typing pool? That dates you, man. I think the department got rid of the typing pool ten years ago,” I tell him, but actually I take his point. I’m not likely to go anywhere in the PNR. He knows it, I know it, even the kingpins who pay off the rising stars know it. No envelopes filled with dollars left on my doorstep—not because I’m not susceptible to corruption but simply because no one thinks I’m important enough to corrupt.
    “At least the typing pool girls knew their place,” Hector mutters.
    “Yeah, anywhere but under you,” I tell him.
    There’s an annoyed grunt in my earpiece that is Hector trying to conceal his laughter.
    The kid’s looking at me with big dark eyes. Not saying anything. It’s a fantastic angle, makes you think that he can’t speak. Mute, cancer, could be anything. I give him a few pesos and tell him to beat it. He takes the money but he only drifts back a couple of meters toward Palma. He looks at me with infinite sadness. Yeah, he’s good. I check that my watch is still on my wrist.
    Hector’s mood is better when he comes back on a minute later.
    “What’s keeping you? Come on, we have other things to do,” he says.
    “Ok. Ok. I was waiting for an opening but if you want I’ll just call him over.”
    “Yes, do that. Do it now.”
    “You’re looking for an admission?”
    “Anything. Anything at all. We’ll have to try this
new directive
for a while before the even newer directive comes in.”
    The
new directive
, straight from the president’s office, was an end (or more likely a suspension) of coerced confessions. Now we were supposed to gather evidence and arrest people in the modern manner. With an American election coming up in less than a year, the powers that be wanted us to look like we were a country in transition, ready for a new chance. And that’s why they had me out here tonight, because that was one of the things I’d been pushing since I’d made detective.
    “Ok. See what I can do,” I say.
    I scan the place and spot him waiting on a
gabacho
table near the fountain. Two Québecois executives who’d probably tip 15 percent. The restaurant is a staple of the