Mexico City Noir Read Online Free Page B

understand?” “Yes, chief.” “What’s your name?” “I don’t have a name, chief. I’m nobody.” “Fine, I like that, now be quiet and get outta here.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “I don’t have name, chief. I’m nobody.”
    “Don’t call me chief. I’m Mrs. Chávez, the head of the neighborhood association.”
    “Yes, chief.”
    “People are complaining about the drunks and drug addicts who hang around here. I just reported you. You’re the one they call Vikingo, right?” “I’m nobody.”
    He tries to get her to let go of the cart, but she holds on as if she has claws. He tries again but with little success. Vikingo’s bones have lost their strength, they feel like putty, watered down, drained of energy. He wants to beg the woman to let him go, to tell her he has to keep walking, but the only things out of his mouth are the same words as always.
    “I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything either. I’m nobody …”
    “You’re gonna tell me you don’t know anything about the dead guy they found this morning near the government parking lot? They say there was a bum hanging around with a supermarket cart. And you’re the only one around here who’s always dragging a cart. Have you seen yourself? The least you could have done is washed off the blood after killing the man.”
    “Fernando …”
    The woman smiles triumphantly and her face twists into a malicious mask.
    “Yes, Fernando Aranda. See, you do know. Now you’re gonna tell the cops everything.”
    “I don’t know anything. I just …”
    Desperation gives him strength to move the cart but he still can’t get the woman to let go.
    “You’re not going anywhere, you criminal!”
    “I swear, I don’t know anything.”
    People begin to gather and listen to the argument. Some are from the neighborhood and they know both him and the woman. Others have only noticed them in passing. There’s some murmuring. Vikingo recognizes words like corpse, homicide, killer . He remembers how, whenever there was a dead guy, the uniforms used to come for him and his friends around Parque Delta and they’d interrogate them in the bowels of the police station. He remembers the wet towels stinging his skin, the electric shocks, water spurting into his brain. Screaming in pain. The mocking questions and giving the answers over and over until he was exhausted. The answers the only words left in his brain. In his fogginess, he also remembers that before the interrogations, he knew who he was. His name. His past. A big wave of fury and panic passes through him as he distinguishes the blue and red lights from a squad car on a nearby window. The murmuring increases. The dead, they say. He killed him . He jerks the cart forcefully to loosen it and the woman screams.
    “Ay! Beast! You broke my nail!”
    The onlookers part as he makes his way toward them, while the woman runs in the direction of the squad car. I don’t know anything, chief. I didn’t see anything. I’m nobody.
    Two uniformed cops get out of the car. Vikingo sees them and realizes they’re the same guys who went after Fernando. Without hesitation, he grabs the liquor bottle, opens it, and drains the last bit. The alcohol makes his stomach tremble, then spreads a pleasant warmth through his body. Fernando, that was his name. They shouted his name. I didn’t see anything.
    “Hey, you, cabrón! Stop!”
    It’s the same voice from last night. They’re even the same words. The only thing missing is Fernando’s name. Fernando. Yes. But, unlike that guy, Vikingo doesn’t run: he just walks. “I don’t know anything, chief. I never see anything. I’m nobody.” He recites his litany as footsteps come up behind him. He figures that history repeats itself, that they’ll take him to the station’s bowels, or to some other cellar, to squeeze the truth out of him, that they’re going to stick him with the murder of a guy he didn’t even know, like they’ve done so many other