She stood in front of his building and yelled out his name until Nando opened a window on the third floor and lowered a basket with the key. There was no intercom, and inside there was no elevator. You either yelled for someone to open or pounded the door until the super deigned to let you in, if she was around. Montserrat climbed the staircase cursing the cold weather and her aching leg.
Nando received her with a kiss on the cheek and a big smile. He made a show of walking her to the living room, which was clear of junk. The rest of his apartment was filled with carefully labeled boxes containing his merchandise and rolled-up movie posters, or else remained the domain of his mother.
“You want a beer?” he asked, offering an open bottle of Sol that was on the coffee table.
The room was wallpapered with a pattern of flowers, in the style of Nando’s mother, who was the one who paid the rent. The old lady didn’t allow any redecoration. She did permit Nando to cram a huge TV and a stereo into the living room, although, at this time of the year, the TV was half blocked by a plastic Christmas tree with blinking lights and an excessive amount of tinsel.
“It’s a bit early for me.”
“I wouldn’t know. I was at a tocada in Santa Fe until four a.m. I just woke up.”
Nando was only two years younger than Montserrat, but acted like he was fifteen and looked fifty.
“Where’s your mom?”
“Off to the market. It’s the two of us in the apartment,” Nando said with a wink.
A painting of the Santo Ni?o de Atocha surveyed her from above the couch, where Nando had plopped himself, patting the space next to him. Montserrat pulled up a chair instead.
“How’s the job?” he asked.
“Same old story. It’s a bit slow this month. I want to pick up my bonus tomorrow, and I’ll enjoy the quiet weeks until it picks up again.”
What she wanted was for Mario to open the vault and let her grab the film she’d stored there, but the bonus would be as good an excuse as any. She might also be able to guilt Mario into throwing her a bunch of shifts in January. This whole magic business was leaving her life in disarray.
“I heard Mario was cutting hours at Antares, and he chopped a bunch of yours.”
“Who told you about the hours at Antares?”
“Lalo Podesta was here a few days ago. We were playing cards. He says Samuel is bringing in a friend to replace you.”
“How does he know what Samuel is doing?”
“Lalo loves to gossip.”
If Lalo was flapping his mouth there might be some truth to it, but she didn’t want to think about that right now, so she shook her head and glared at Nando. “Lalo should mind his own business and so should you. Anyway, I’m not here to discuss my job.”
“Why are you here? You’re looking nice, Montserrat. I love the thing you did with your hair.”
The only thing Montserrat had done with her hair was tie it into a ponytail, but Nando was a horny dog trying to butter her up like a succulent lobster. She’d dodged enough creeps to know how to deal with this one.
“A while back you had a script for sale. It was by Romeo Donderis, and you said it could be authenticated by the writer himself because it was pricey.”
“Sure, but that was a while back. It’s long gone.”
“I’m not interested in the script. I want to know about Donderis. Do you have his phone number or home address?”
“You’re going to go see him? Are you trying to cut out the middleman in these transactions? I won’t have that. How am I supposed to make a living?” Nando asked, spilling a little of his beer as he set the bottle down.
“What? No. I’m doing research on something.”
“Oh? What are you working on?”
Nothing. The plan for a documentary piece was over. Maybe Tristán was correct, maybe they ought to cease their inquiries and pretend they had never heard of Ewers or his movie. But she couldn’t look away and must find out who had killed Abel. That she knew, like she knew when a musical cue was about to play on screen. She didn’t want to attribute any supernatural qualities to this feeling, but perhaps there was something of that to it. Abel had said once a spell is in motion, it must conclude.
It could also be a run-of-the-mill obsession, simple boredom. The tiresome echoes of her humdrum life that now pushed her to find that frisson of excitement. She felt alert and eager, like she hadn’t in a long time.
“It’s none of your business,” she told Nando.
“When you ask for someone’s help you should at least pretend to be polite. I thought you were going to buy something, but you’re wasting my time,” Nando said, scratching at the skin right above the elastic waist of his sweatpants.
Montserrat took a couple of bills from her wallet and slammed them on the table, next to the beer bottle. She didn’t have money to be throwing around, but she also didn’t want to spend an hour chatting up Nando. “There. Now give me his contact information.”
Nando took both bills and stuffed them in his sweatpants’ pocket and shrugged. “Beats me.”
“You don’t know.”
“I have no idea,” Nando said, shaking his head and taking another swig of beer.
“You fucker. How were you going to get the script authenticated, then?”
“I met the guy when I was selling at El Chopo. He stopped by my stall, I gave him my info. I’ve bought a few things from him. Lobby cards, other scripts, that kind of stuff. But he’s the one who contacts me.”
“Give me back my money, you bastard,” she said, stretching out a hand and glaring at him.
“You’re cute when you’re pissed off. If you want to play detective, maybe you should seduce me to get your answer.”
“You touch me, I’ll kick you in the balls,” she said matter-of-factly.
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. If you need him, you could try the coffee shop where I normally meet him. It’s always the same place. The Maupassant. They sell crepes, about two blocks from Metro Chilpancingo. I think he’s friends with the owners. What’s your research about? Golden Age writers?”
“Something of the sort. Does he still write?”
“No. I think he’s a copy editor. He has memorabilia from back in the day and sells it from time to time, to pay for a vacation or whatnot. Nice fellow.”
“What does he look like?”
“Tall, gray hair, has a beard. Wears a hat. Do you want to look at a new shipment—”
“Thanks,” Montserrat said. She quickly stood up, shook Nando’s hand, and before he could attempt to give her a kiss on the cheek, hurried outside the apartment. Creep.
“Crush a spider in your left hand,” she muttered to herself, wishing she could crush this guy.
The Maupassant was on Minería. It advertised authentic Parisian crepes as well as enchiladas on its windows. Neither offering seemed to be drawing in the crowds. When Montserrat walked in, the place was deserted. The small, white tables had vases with plastic flowers, and the walls were decorated with cheap posters showing the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. A white board announced the weekly special: empanadas de atun a la vizcaína and Nutella crepes for dessert. The woman behind the cash register was watching a small black-and-white TV set. She’d set a glass with a sign that said “tips and donations” on the counter. It only held a couple of coins.