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water upon the attendees, and left as quickly as he had arrived. Fritz stayed behind, head bowed, and set himself up in a corner, ready to hear confessions.
    The rest of the morning was extremely difficult, especially for Cabrera, who couldn’t stand funerals. He listened to every kind of idiotic comment, along the lines of “He got what was coming to him, that’s the risk of the profession,” “Who told him to come work here in the port when he had a job in San Antonio?” and “If only he’d worked in his father’s business.” There came a moment when he found the comments intolerable, and he went out to look for a cup of coffee.
    In a law-enforcement setting, the first impression is what counts, and Cabrera was no exception in believing this. As soon as he saw Agent Chávez walk in, he knew his colleague was worried about something, for he looked on edge and irritable. Like Cabrera, Rufino Chávez, aka “El Chaneque” was a survivor from the seventies. You had only to look at his wide tie, his salt-and-pepper sideburns, and his gangsterish mustache. Despite his fifty years, he kept in shape, like those featherweight boxers who stay in training their whole lives. One of the new recruits had accompanied him, in point of fact the one in the dark glasses from before:pistol in his waistband, glad of being on an official mission, unaware of what kind of prick he was keeping company with. Chávez customarily took on the new guys as apprentices—and too bad for them, thought Cabrera, because, honestly, what could they possibly learn from El Chaneque?
    Chávez went up to Cabrera like someone getting ready to drive off a dog.
    “Did Taboada send you?”
    “Yep.”
    “Tell him I’m taking charge, and you make tracks. You’ve got nothing to do around here.”
    Cabrera counted to ten and made an effort to answer like the pacifist he was. “If you don’t like it, complain to the boss. Got it?”
    There was an audible
click
, and Cabrera found that Chávez was holding a switchblade against his paunch. The harder he tried to avoid it, the deeper it impinged on his belly. Cabrera felt himself turning pale. This is it . . . this is it . . . When Chávez decided it had been enough, he put the blade away and walked off. Cabrera breathed a sigh of relief.
    In the hall, he gave his full attention to recovering, but then he saw that Father Fritz was headed for the exit and he approached him. The priest’s head was bowed, and he displayed not a trace of his customary optimism. Cabrera called him by name twice but had to tap him on the shoulder to get him to respond.
    “Oh, right, the things.” He sounded depressed. “It’s not important in the least. I can throw them in the trash myself.”
    “Certainly not,” Cabrera insisted. “Tell me when I can come by for them.”
    Fritz regarded him for a moment. “Today at five, in my office.”
    “The same one as before?”

    “The same as ever,” he said with a grunt.
    It was going to be an awfully difficult talk. Since the last time they’d seen each other, the priest’s personality seemed to have worsened.
    “Now you’ll have to excuse me.” He stepped to one side. “They’re taking him off to the cemetery.”

6

    When he found out Cabrera didn’t have a car, his young colleague insisted on giving him a ride to the cemetery. Cabrera suggested that they pass the funeral procession.
    They arrived long before the cortege and sat down to wait beside a wall. Immediately they began to sweat. The few palm trees around provided no shade, and it was hard to see into the distance with the sun rebounding off the whitewashed tombs. Cabrera’s shirt was sopping, and sweat trickled down his back.
    The first to arrive was a fat fellow of about fifty, who wore suspenders. He asked if they were waiting for Bernardo Blanco, and the young colleague said yes. Before he sat down with them, the man looked the detective over.
    “You’re Ramón Cabrera, right? The one who solved the