The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [39]
“It must be hard for a Mexican,” he said, as if he wanted to warm Manuel, but he let go of Manuel’s shoulders.
If he only knew how cold it could be, Manuel thought. Thousands of thoughts and impressions swarmed like angry bees in his head. Should I demand the money that Patricio spoke of? Why does he laugh when his eyes say something different? What really happened to Angel?
But it was Armas who overwhelmed Manuel with questions, when and how he had come to Sweden, if he had met any Swedes, yes, perhaps even made some friends.
“Swedes love Latinos,” he said. “You could start a dance class tomorrow and get a lot of women to shake their asses.”
He spoke well of Mexico, that he would like to return and that Manuel could be his Mexican friend. Had Armas really believed that Manuel was going to take up his brothers’ business? He implied as much. Dropped hints of riches. Manuel was amazed. One dead, and one in prison, and the man dared to talk about dollars.
When they reached the tent—it took about ten minutes because Armas stopped constantly—he praised Manuel on its placement and how well Manuel had arranged everything.
“How did you recognize me?” Manuel asked abruptly. “We only saw each other for a short time and that was a long time ago.”
“You are like your brothers,” Armas said, “and I have a good memory for faces. I know which ones are important to remember. I work with people and it …”
Then he stopped suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, and looked at Manuel.
“Are you angry?”
Manuel nodded, but could not say anything. Nothing of what he had thought the last few months came to his lips.
“Have you visited your brother?”
“Yes, once.”
“And he told you a lot of nonsense, of course?”
“He talked about money,” Manuel said and cursed himself. As if money was what was important.
“So he is still hungry for money,” Armas said with a smile, and now he suddenly switched to English.
“I think you should be happy he is alive,” he said cryptically.
“What do you mean?”
“Many unpleasant things happen in prison, people are stressed.”
Manuel stared at him, tried to understand.
“Some are racists and don’t like Latinos coming here with AIDS and drugs.”
“AIDS? Is Patricio sick?”
Armas laughed.
“I think you should go home to the mountains,” he said. “Today.”
Suddenly Manuel understood. He was a threat. Patricio was a threat. As long as they lived they could squeal. He drew back from Armas, who followed.
“I’m staying,” Manuel said. “I will look after my brother.”
Armas leaned over him.
“If I tell you to go home, then that is what you should do. That will be best for you and your brother.”
“And for you and the fat one?”
“For everyone,” Armas said and smiled.
“I want justice,” Manuel said.
Armas stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a gun. It looked like a toy in his hand.
“Are you going to kill me?”
In a way, Manuel was not surprised. In his mind, he saw Miguel lying in front of his house. Miguel’s death smelled of herbs. In his fall he had crushed a plant, a rue bitterwort. It helped a headache, but no plant in the world would get Miguel back on his feet again.
Manuel turned around.
“Then you will have to shoot me in the back,” he said, while he put his hand in his pocket and took out the stiletto that clicked open with a metallic sound. Manuel threw himself forward and to the side, raised his arm and slashed. The cut was perfect. Armas fired his pistol at the same time. The whole thing was over in seconds.
Later, as he was pulling the heavy body down to the river, Armas’s shirt ripped and revealed a bare shoulder and upper arm. Manuel immediately recognized the tattoo and an intense rage grew. How could this murderer and drug smuggler have gotten the idea of having a feathered snake tattooed on his white skin? It was an insult, and in his rage Manuel kicked the lifeless body. Quetzalcóatl meant something that neither Armas nor any other gringo could