The Convert's Song Read Online Free

cart, covered desks, and climbed in stacks along the walls.
    The atmosphere changed in the judge’s office. Muted lighting bathed paneled wood. Tall windows showed greenery. The decorations consisted of crucifixes, religious art—writhing Saint Sebastians riddled with arrows—and photos of the judge with big shots.
    The judge was close to fifty, small and trim, a sandy goatee on a boyish face. His ears stuck out from the obligatory gelled and combed-back hair. His suit was double-breasted and snug. He talked through his nose in a sustained whine that blurred words together. He patted Dr. Block on the shoulder, addressing him across the chasm that separates people who speak different languages.
    The judge’s desk faced three chairs. Pescatore nudged Block into the chair on the left and sat in the middle. He made a slow-motion show of putting the envelope on the chair to his right. The judge saw the envelope but kept talking. Pescatore struggled to translate for Block the verbal salvo about the size of the judge’s caseload, his sorrow for the doctor’s loss. The judge paused, appraising Pescatore.
    “I’ve seen you before, young man,” he said, surprising Pescatore with the informal vos appellation. “In the courthouse. You are Argentine, no?”
    “No, sir, I—”
    “I don’t remember the case. Were you an investigator? Or a defendant?” The smile displayed symmetrical, shimmering teeth. “You aren’t a crook, are you?”
    Pescatore stiffened. “I was a federal police officer in the United States. An agent of the Border Patrol. It’s like the Gendarmería here—”
    “It was a joke, friend, a joke,” the judge said with a chuckle. Then he launched into an explanation of how the calamitous disorder of the legal system was impeding his valiant efforts to keep the accused killer of the doctor’s son locked up.
    A phone rang on the desk. The judge answered, engaged in animated conversation, laughed, and hung up. He turned to his computer screen and typed, no doubt answering e-mails, while he complained about the do-gooders and human rights activists who had teamed up to install revolving doors for hoodlums in courtrooms across the nation.
    Pescatore glanced at Dr. Block, whose face had creased in pain. Pescatore translated for another minute, then stopped. The judge kept talking. Pescatore brought his palm down on the table, interrupting the monologue. He flashed a head-game grin of his own.
    “Lamentably, Your Honor, Dr. Block has to catch a plane this very afternoon,” he said. “He’s here to express to you how deeply he hopes you can keep the suspect behind bars and move forward with this case. He has full confidence in this court, Your Honor, and in the justice system.”
    The judge’s voice lowered an octave.
    “Such a complex case,” he intoned. “Many legal subtleties. These mafias, Doctor, they are sinister. But we are doing everything we can. I can only imagine the profound, unbearable agony of losing a son.”
    The judge shook his head. His eyes welled up. His manicured hand delved into his breast pocket and produced a large purple handkerchief. He dabbed beneath each eye.
    “Very sad, very sad,” he murmured.
    Pescatore got up. Signal received. End of tragicomedy. Dr. Block followed his lead.
    “Thank you very much for your time, Your Honor,” Pescatore said.
    “A lovely chat,” the judge declared. “The most important thing, my dear doctor, is to pray. Pray a lot.”
    Pescatore led Block out before the judge could swoop around the desk for a farewell round of hands-on hypocrisy. They rode back downtown. Pescatore left Block with the car and driver at the hotel, telling him to take the time he needed to pack and check out. Then Pescatore walked to a café called La Biela, the longtime hangout and informal base of operations of his boss, Facundo Hyman Bassat, owner and director of Villa Crespo International Investigations and Security.
      
    Per the dictates of national slang,