Chapter 35
Becker stared in shock at Rocío.
“You sold the ring?”
The woman nodded, her silky red
hair falling around her shoulders. Becker
willed it not to be true. “Pero…
but…”
She shrugged and said in Spanish,
“A girl near the park.”
Becker felt his legs go weak.
This
can’t be!
Rocío smiled coyly and motioned
to the German. “Él quería que lo guardara. He wanted to keep it, but I told him no. I’ve got Gitana blood in me, Gypsy blood;
we Gitanas, in addition to having
red hair, are very superstitious. A ring offered by a dying man
is not a good sign.”
“Did you know
the girl?” Becker interrogated.
Rocío arched
her eyebrows. “Vaya. You
really want this ring, don’t you?” Becker
nodded sternly. “Who did you
sell it to?”
The enormous
German sat bewildered on the bed. His romantic
evening was being ruined,
and he apparently had no idea why. “Was passiert?” he asked nervously. “What’s happening?”
Becker ignored him.
“I didn’t actually
sell it,” Rocío said. “I tried to, but she was just a kid and had no money. I ended up
giving it to her. Had I known about your generous offer, I would have saved it for you.”
“Why did you leave the park?” Becker demanded. “Somebody had died. Why didn’t you wait for the police?
And give them the ring?”
“I solicit many things,
Mr. Becker, but trouble is not one of them. Besides,
that old man seemed to have things under control.”
“The Canadian?”
“Yes, he called the ambulance. We decided
to leave. I saw no reason
to involve my date or myself with the police.”
Becker nodded absently. He was still trying to accept this cruel twist of fate. She gave the damn thing away!
“I tried to help the dying man,” Rocío explained. “But he didn’t seem to want it. He started with the ring–kept
pushing it in our faces. He had these three crippled fingers sticking
up. He kept pushing his hand at us–like we were supposed to take the ring. I didn’t want to, but my friend here finally did. Then
the guy died.”
“And you tried
CPR?” Becker guessed.
“No. We didn’t touch him. My friend got scared. He’s big, but he’s a wimp.” She smiled seductively at
Becker. “Don’t worry–he can’t
speak a word of Spanish.”
Becker
frowned. He was wondering again about the bruises on Tankado’s chest. “Did the
paramedics give CPR?”
“I have no
idea. As I told you,
we left before they arrived.”
“You mean after you stole the ring.” Becker
scowled.
Rocío glared
at him. “We did not steal the ring. The man was dying. His
intentions were clear.
We gave him his last wish.”
Becker softened.
Rocío was right; he probably would have done the same damn thing. “But then you gave the ring to some
girl?”
“I told you. The ring made me nervous. The girl had lots of jewelry on. I thought
she might like it.”
“And she
didn’t think it was strange?
That you’d just give her a ring?”
“No. I told her I found it in the park. I thought
she might offer to pay
me for it, but she didn’t.
I didn’t care. I just
wanted to get rid of it.” “When did
you give it to her?”
Rocío shrugged.
“This afternoon. About an hour
after I got it.”
Becker checked his
watch: 11:48 p.m. The trail was eight hours old. What the hell am I doing here? I’m supposed to be in the Smokys. He sighed and asked the only question
he could think of. “What
did the girl look like?”
“Era un punki,” Rocío replied.
Becker looked up, puzzled. “Un punki?” “Sí. Punki.”
“A punk?”
“Yes, a punk,” she said in rough English,
and then immediately switched
back to Spanish.
“Mucha joyería. Lots
of jewelry. A weird pendant in one
ear. A skull, I think.”
“There are punk rockers in Seville?”
Rocío smiled.
“Todo bajo el sol. Everything under the sun.”
It was the motto of Seville’s
Tourism Bureau.
“Did she
give you her name?”
“No.”
“Did she
say where she was going?” “No.
Her Spanish was poor.”
“She wasn’t Spanish?” Becker
asked.
“No. She
was English, I think.
She had wild hair–red, white, and
blue.” Becker winced at the bizarre
image. “Maybe she was
American,” he offered.
“I don’t
think so,” Rocío said.
“She was wearing a T-shirt
that looked like the British flag.”
Becker
nodded dumbly. “Okay. Red, white, and blue hair, a British
flag T-shirt, a skull
pendant in her ear. What else?”
“Nothing. Just your average
punk.”
Average punk? Becker was from a world of collegiate sweatshirts and conservative haircuts– he couldn’t
even picture what the woman was talking about. “Can you think
of anything else at all?”
he pressed.
Rocío thought
a moment. “No. That’s it.”
Just then the bed creaked
loudly. Rocío’s client shifted his weight
uncomfortably. Becker turned to him and spoke influent
German. “Noch et was? Anything else? Anything
to help me find the punk
rocker with the ring?”
There was a long silence.
It was as if the giant man had something he wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure how to say it. His lower lip quivered momentarily, there was a pause, and then he spoke.
The four words that came out were definitely English, but they were barely
intelligible beneath
his thick German accent. “Fock
off und die.”
Becker gaped in shock.
“I beg your pardon?
“Fock off und die,” the man repeated, patting his left palm against his fleshy right forearm–a
crude approximation of the Italian gesture for “fuck you.”
Becker was too drained to be offended. Fuck off and die? What happened to Das Wimp? He
turned back
to Rocío and spoke in Spanish.
“Sounds like I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“Don’t worry about him.” She laughed. “He’s just a little frustrated. He’ll get what’s coming to him.”
She tossed her hair and winked.
“Is there anything
else?” Becker asked. “Anything
you can tell me
that might help?”
Rocío shook her head. “That’s all. But you’ll never find her. Seville
is a big city–it
can be very deceptive.”
“I’ll do the best I can.” It’s a
matter of national security…
“If you have no luck,”
Rocío said, eyeing the bulging envelope
in Becker’s pocket, “please stop back. My friend will be sleeping,
no doubt. Knock quietly. I’ll find us an extra room. You’ll
see a side of Spain you’ll never
forget.” She pouted lusciously.
Becker forced a polite smile. “I should be going.”
He apologized to the German for interrupting his evening.
The giant smiled timidly. “Keine
Ursache.”
Becker headed out the door. No
problem? Whatever happened to “Fuck off
and die”?
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