Israel Centeno

Tenorio was sitting in the park, on the usual bench, facing the artificial lake. The sun at its zenith seemed to scorch everything living, even the intense green of the trees. Next to him sat Vicente, the Tombo. From the perspective of some youngsters flying a kite, they looked like harmless retirees.

“I’m about to throw in the towel,” said Rubén Tenorio. “This business of solving cases for the devil’s lawyers of the church in Pittsburgh wasn’t what I had in mind when I left the country.”

Tombo, with his gaze fixed on an emerald blue kite, responded:

“At least it’s interesting. Unusual. A first-world problem.”

“I’m telling you,” said Rubén. “A policeman, son and grandson of policemen, anchored in a small town in the northern United States.”

“Bah, don’t talk nonsense. I also have my case; I’m content watching the cameras at the hospital and eating donuts. A verifiable fact: cops in this country eat donuts and spend long hours sitting.”

They both remained silent for a few minutes, their eyes dancing in the air, following the zigzagging of the kites.

“From the movies one watches, all the literature one consumed,” said Tenorio, “the life of a detective in the United States should be interesting.”

“Interesting like a pool game broadcast on television,” replied Tombo.

Rubén Tenorio scratched his head, stretched his feet, and opened his arms as if trying to embrace a breeze, an air that would relieve the swelter.

“At least a pool game requires some logic. But eating donuts or unmasking the Maracucho brothers because they manipulate a mystic, it seems more like something written by Boris Vian.”

Tombo stood up, stretching his entire body without losing sight of the kites. He let out a big yawn.

“You have to live somehow. Now my enemies aren’t bullets but donuts.”

Rubén laughed, imagining Tombo as Homer Simpson. He didn’t say it, but he laughed at his face.

“Don’t kid yourself,” said Tombo. “Are you going to mock me? As if you were any better. You had the big case with Pollo Carvajal, and I had the other twist with Bernal. One of these days, we’ll see them invited by the mayor of New York to inaugurate something or participate in a forum for democracy and public decency.”

Tenorio thought he wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t going to admit it.

“What aren’t you going to give me?” asked Tombo.

“The satisfaction. Someday I’ll see these guys wearing prison uniforms, that pretty and hopeful orange, extradited…”

“Stop talking nonsense. Those things don’t happen anymore, and if they do, they happen in John Ryan movies. Not even there. By the way, has Dunkin’ Donuts opened yet?”