The Shadow of the Shadow by Paco Ignacio Taibo II Read Free Book Online

bottom: "Your friend Conchita-social secretary
to the Widow Roldan."
    He puzzled over the invitation for a while, concluding finally
that Arenas and Vera were both strangers to him, not to mention Co. Ltd., whoever that might be. As far as he could tell, his
only connection to this Widow Roldan and her luxurious home
(or so he assumed from the address in the Colonia San Rafael)
was through his old friend Conchita, who he'd rescued several
years ago from dire circumstances. From the looks of things,
she'd risen considerably in society circles from the days when she
used to dance the cancan in second-class cabarets, and was now
established as the personal secretary to a wealthy widow. Thinking
it would be good to see Conchita again in happier circumstances and sensing the possibility of a free (not to mention substantial)
dinner, and also because he'd recently become a fan of the silver
screen, Verdugo stuck the invitation in his vest pocket.

    He lived in a flat almost entirely devoid of furniture (there
was a bed in one room and a single armchair in what would have
been the living room) in a neighborhood full of houses under
construction half a mile from the Condesa Track, a part of town
that was being rapidly subdivided into lots for sale and which the
ads in the newspapers had started to call Insurgentes-Condesa.
The apartment had previously belonged to one of Verdugo's clients.
The man had taken his own life and left the place to the lawyer
in his will, with the provision that after ten years it be converted
into either a bordello or a gambling house. Verdugo moved in,
figuring that after the ten years allotted by his client he would
simply walk away and leave the keys in the door. For the time
being, and probably forever, the bed and the armchair, a coat rack
and a single dish (in which he fed milk to a stray cat that wintered
over in the apartment) were the only household items he bothered
to keep. Whenever he went out, it was with the certainty that he'd
left nothing behind and he never felt the need to hurry back.
    Now he fitted his pearl gray Stetson onto his head and set out
to fight the blazing sun.
    As he was stepping off a bus on Balderas, he ran into the
reporter and the poet arguing about the chances for a GiantsYankees repeat up North.
    "What's new, gentlemen?"
    "Discussing strategy," explained the journalist. "Only with this
guy you can't talk for more than fifteen minutes about the same
thing without him changing the subject."
    "The fact of the matter is," said the poet, breaking into a brisk
walk down Balderas without waiting for the others to follow him,
"that this fellow here is an excellent journalist, but when it comes
to detective work he leaves a lot to be desired."
    "Maybe it's just that this picture here reminds me of a woman I once held in high esteem," countered the journalist.

    Pastel clouds danced around inside his head as he tried both
to evoke and suppress his memories at the same time, painful
memories he'd never been able to let go of.
    Verdugo recognized something in the journalist's voice that
brought his own experiences to mind and he wisely cut into the
conversation, interrupting Manterola's reverie.
    "What's that? Did you find the woman from the trombonist's
picture? Is she the same one you saw when the guy fell out the
window?"
    The journalist nodded and held out the small photograph. She
was a young woman, no older than thirty, with the fine features
and languid eyes currently in fashion. She was thinner than he
would have liked, and dressed rigorously in black. Pretty but with
a certain hardness about her. She sat in a brocaded chair looking
out a window. A halo of sunlight enveloped her face, overexposing
the picture and producing a strangely exotic effect. On the back of
the photograph were the words: "Margarita, the Widow Roldan,"
and an address.
    "Now there's a coincidence for you," muttered the lawyer.
    "What, do you know her?"