Steve’s Shorts: Mayhem, Murder, and Music’s Zamba Argentina…Part One of Two
[Note from Steve: This is the continuation of a series of short stories inspired by my favorite songs. Some you might know, like the Billy Joel classic, “The Piano Man,” motivation for the first story; others, like this one, homage to “Zamba de Mi Esperanza,” sung by the Chachaleros, are a wee bit obscure (and possibly no longer available). They’re freebies for readers of this blog…until they appear in a short story collection, that is. The Argentine zamba, sometimes written samba (technically a mistake, and one I made in the title of one of my ebooks), isn’t a dance, as Wikipedia claims, and shouldn’t be confused with the Brazilian dance. Enjoy!]
Zamba Argentina
Copyright 2015, Steven M. Moore
“Who’s up?” said the Sub-Commissioner.
Marco looked up from the report he was writing. It was the Sub’s idea of irony. The rest of the squad room was empty. “I’m your man, I guess. But I was writing a report.”
“Later,” said the Sub. “This one’s a German tourist. The embassy wants swift action. The Deputy Chief wants swift action.”
“And so you want swift action?”
“You guessed it, Atahualpa.”
The Sub was referring to Marco’s Native American blood. His father was a Porteño, but his mother was from Salta. Only his mother was still alive on that side of the family. Too many family members on both sides had died in the Dirty War when the Junta made anyone suspected of being connected to the opposition “disappear.”
The Sub had a strange sense of humor, but Marco didn’t mind—he admired the man. He’d come up the hard way from poverty and had been a shaker and mover when the new Policia Metropolitana de Buenos Aires was created. The capital’s Scotland Yard was modeled after the London Metropolitan Police and the NYPD. It had a zero tolerance policy, but the port city’s civilians trusted it more than the Argentine Federal Police, known for high levels of corruption like the Mexican Federales.
In contrast to Marco’s slender frame, the Sub was portly and out of shape. Marco, twenty years younger, had thinning hair and dark rings under his eyes, characteristics that made him seem much older than Angelina. He didn’t expect to ever be in as bad a shape as the Super.
Marco sighed and shut down his laptop. Instead of going home early, he’d have a late dinner and arrive late. Angelina would probably be asleep by that time.
He gathered up his umbrella, hat, and raincoat and headed out.
***
The drizzle had diminished a bit by the time he reached the docks. He saw a bulky giant pacing up and down in front of the crime scene.
“About time,” the man said in English with a German accent. “Show me your ID.”
“I’ll ask you to do the same,” said Marco, not liking the man.
“Karl Brandt, German Embassy Security.”
“Marco Montanari, Metropolitan Police.” They exchanged creds. “I understand the victim is a tourist and not from the Embassy?”
“That’s correct. I’m here to see that you do your job. I assume your forensic people are competent. The ME’s been here and left. TOD was between four and six a.m. COD is a stab wound in the back, pending autopsy, but I’m guessing a professional job to the right renal artery. No sign of rape.”
Rape wasn’t common in the capital. It generally occurred as some sort of payback from pimps or johns and not from sexual perverts. Not that that makes it any better, Marco thought.
He found the ME’s tentative report on his smart phone. “From the point of entry and lack of blood, I’d agree this was professionally done. Marks on the neck indicate a grab from behind with the left arm and penetration with the knife using the right. Is there a murder weapon?”
“They haven’t found one.” Brandt pointed at the dirty harbor water. “Good luck finding it if it’s in there. I guess you people don’t worry about polluted harbors.”
Marco skirted around the “you people.” “We’re a major port and a city with a diverse population of more than three million people. Hamburg is half that size. And if you people hadn’t shipped all your old Nazis here, we’d be doing better at this point in time.”
Brandt shook his head and frowned. “I won’t report you for that remark. Keep me updated with your progress.” He walked away.
***
“A nasty old kraut,” said Lisa Buendia, head of the forensics team. She approached Marco and kissed him on the cheek. “How’s Angelina?”
Lisa was Angelina’s sister. “Better now that the morning sickness is ancient history. A little demanding with the cravings. I had to find some gelato early in the morning two days ago.”
“I bet you had some too.”
He smiled. “A reward for being a good husband. Do you have anything for me?”
“We’re bagging a few things. Some dark hair—the victim’s blond. There are a few blood drops and material under the nails. She might have scratched his face going down. We might have some luck with that, whether her attacker was Argentine or German. Maybe your friend Brandt can help out with the latter—it could be another German national.”
“I wouldn’t count on help from him. He’s a blustering bag of hot air, but not a cop. He wouldn’t be here working as Embassy Security if he were really any good. This is a backwater assignment for someone who’s ready to retire. He’s the age of my mother at least, but he’s probably in a midlife crisis and more worried about his pension.”
She smiled. “I understand that you don’t like him. Still…”
“Yeah, I can ask the favor if I need to, but we have Interpol contacts that will be better than that fat Bavarian.”
“Have you been to Germany?”
“No, but Angelina’s into the pastries now.”
“Don’t let her go wild with that. She can have all kinds of problems down the road. I know.” Lisa had three kids. “What’s your take on this?”
“I agreed with old Karl—it looks like a hit. We need to learn more about this victim.” He looked at his smart phone again. “Melissa Brentwood? Hardly sounds German.”
“More American or English. But Brandt was here. Maybe she lives in Germany or is married to a German?”
“I’d better check that out. You’d think the old hijo de puta would have told us that.”
Lisa nodded, agreeing that the German was an SOB.
***
Marco watched Klaus Ihlenfeldt pace up and down in front of the window of the hotel room. He was an intense and nervous young man. With his athletic build, blond hair, and bule eyes, he could have been on a recruiting poster for the Third Reich. He swung his arms and pounded his right palm with his left fist.
“I told her to be careful. She’s always too adventurous. That’s how we met.”
“On a tour?” said Marco.
“No, hot air balloon ride near Rothenburg.” He smiled, but it was a sad smile. “It lurched and she fell into my arms. She was studying German in Munich.” He collapsed into the desk chair. “And now she’s gone.” He snapped his fingers indicating the speed of her demise. “How am I supposed to make sense out of that?”
“You weren’t with her obviously. What were you doing between four and six a.m. this morning?”
The German glared at Marco. “Ja, I see, the husband is always the first suspect! I was preparing some Powerpoint slides for a business meeting. She decided to enjoy the evening listening to tangos in La Boca. I warned her about the lecherous Argentine men that inhabit the clubs. I didn’t think to warn her about assassins. Who would kill my sweet Melissa?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” Marco pulled out his smart phone and stylus. “Can you give me some more background about Melissa and yourself? Have either of you been in Buenos Aires before? Do you have any enemies? Even ones back in Europe could be important because they could hire someone here. Things like that. The smallest details can sometimes be important.”
He was prepared for the long session. At times he saw tears come to Klaus’ eyes. After the session, he’d recommend the man buy some tranquilizers—otherwise, he wouldn’t be sleeping much.
After leaving the grieving husband, he checked his watch. It was nearing ten p.m., not a late hour for Argentine diners, but late for his pregnant wife. Adding a thirty-five minute bus ride, she’d probably be asleep when he arrived. He popped into a nearby restaurant, made a quick dinner out of steak, salad, bread, and red wine, and then caught the bus for home.
As he’d predicted, Angelina was asleep. She had her arms wrapped around her large teddy bear. He was often jealous of that bear. Tonight wasn’t any exception as he stripped down into his boxers, grabbed his pillow, and headed for the couch.
***
“I don’t want to hear about the murder,” Angelina said, serving him eggs and sausage the next morning.
He pointed at the Clarin’s front page. Buenos Aires’ largest newspaper’s reporter and photographer had arrived at the crime scene just as he left. He had known TV reporters would soon follow. He’d been lucky to avoid them.
“You’ve already seen the story,” he said with a sigh. “Female victim this time, execution style. German tourist but British citizen, so there are international complications. I’m contacting a friend in Interpol today. I’m sorry I was late.”
“I had Osvaldo. I should have married him.”
Osito Osvaldo was the bear. He smiled. “He wouldn’t give you any sons or daughters.”
“But he keeps me warm.” She sat down at the table, took a bite of toast. “I used to like that kind of breakfast.”
“You will again. Thanks for making it. It’s always good to start the day with a good breakfast. Other inspectors only have coffee and pastry on the way in to work.”
“And some older ones also look like W. C. Fields as a consequence and are just as bad humored.”
Angelina was a fan of old Hollywood comedians. She was also a fan of Gardel, the old crooner of tangos that had gone to Hollywood. Marco preferred more traditional music. His favorite group was the Chachaleros; his favorite song was their “Zamba de Mi Esperanza.” Like a lot of South American folk music, Argentina’s had many influences but often featured strong rhythms, Spanish influences, and Native American melancholy in its melodies.
“First impressions are often wrong. They might be grumpy old men, but most are just trying to be good public servants. We’re much better than the federal police.”
“Which group has the more dangerous jobs?”
“Probably us. Any big city has crime. Do you want to live in the Pampas?”
“No. I want a husband who’s alive to be the father of my children.”
They’d had that discussion before. It always ended in stalemate. “Let’s not go there this morning. How are you feeling?”
“Before watching you gulp down eggs and sausage, I was fine. Slow down at least.”
“It’s habit.”
“Jobs can wait.”
“Not for the job, querida. I grew up with four brothers and three sisters. We competed for food. Survival of the fittest.”
“Were you the fittest?”
“No. Katia was. She ate like a Viking princess, grabbing and eating faster than all of us.”
He frowned. HIs older sister, a singer, now lived in Europe. With brothers, uncles, and aunts among the disappeared, she had no use for the currents of fascism still present in Argentina. She had married a Jewish man, a writer, who had protested against the mysterious death of a special prosecutor who had wanted to indict the current president. They both felt safer now in Spain.
“Let’s move on. Katia’s off limits as a topic this morning too. Forget my breakfast and answer my question.”
She shrugged. “I’m better. Men should have to carry babies so they know what it’s like.”
He laughed. “If men had to carry babies and give birth, there would be a lot fewer kids. I’m glad you’re better.” He looked at his watch. “Got to run.” He gave her a kiss, grabbed his creds and shoulder holster, and dashed out.
She finished the eggs and sausage.
***
In elibris libertas….
