The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Twelve

Lorenzo Wader ordered a Staropramen, then took the beer to the room beyond the bar, lit a cigarillo, and leaned back in an armchair. The little man would arrive in ten minutes.

Lorenzo did not trust him, why should he? A little rat spreading gossip. But he was a useful rat. Lorenzo smiled to himself and gave a couple of the other hotel guests a nod as they walked past on their way into the bar. They had exchanged a few words the day before and the men had told him they were attending a seismology conference with participants from around the world. Lorenzo had pacified their curiosity by telling them that he was a businessman who was looking for new markets and contacts, which was true. He wanted to expand.

At the agreed-upon time the rat slunk in through the entrance, gave the receptionist a worried look, caught sight of Lorenzo Wader, and steered a course toward him.

Lorenzo put down his cigarillo and stood up.

“On time,” he said simply and stretched out his hand.

They sat down. Olaf González shot a glance at the beer but gave no indication of an intention to order one for himself.

“Well,” Lorenzo said, “what’s new?”

“Armas is on his way to Spain,” González said.

The high pitch of his voice was accentuated by the slight Norwegian accent.

“He is going by car.”

It was clear that he had more to say, but Lorenzo did not help him along. Instead he sat quietly, sucking on the revived cigarillo, and reached for his beer.

“I have been fired,” Olaf González said, and this was followed by the whole story of how unfairly he had been treated.

Lorenzo Wader understood that his story also contained a veiled critique of himself, or at least an expectation of his support.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lorenzo said, “but I am sure it will turn out for the best.” He wanted to keep the rat in a good mood, without promising too much.

“I gave him the package and the next day he came down to Dakar. He was furious. I thought he was going to kill me.”

“But you only lost your job,” Lorenzo said. “Why? Do you have any dirty laundry?”

“What do you mean ‘dirty laundry’?”

“Does Armas know anything about you that is not so flattering?” Lorenzo explained.

González stared at him. How stupid you are, Lorenzo thought.

“How did you know?”

Lorenzo sighed.

“Would you like a beer?”

The waiter looked insulted, unexpectedly shook his head, and Lorenzo perceived a small movement.

“Stay seated,” he said and González sank back into the chair. “You have done a good job,” he went on, “and the bullet hit its mark, that is the important thing. This is the good news, much more important than the unfortunate fact that you lost your shitty job at a shitty restaurant. This is how you must see it. It is called perspective.”

Lorenzo studied the man on the other side of the table. He knew too little about González, but on the other hand he knew the type and trusted his first impression. González was for sale, and right now he was in a spot. Lorenzo knew that his prospects of getting another job in this town were limited. This was to Lorenzo’s advantage, even though he would have preferred to keep him positioned at Dakar.

He could finish him off, but González was still useful. He knew the town and the restaurant business.

“What do you want with Armas anyway?” González asked.

Lorenzo winced at this word choice, but he answered with a smile.

“Nothing bad,” he said.

“I don’t believe you,” González said with unexpected vehemence.

“Why spend so much time on him if this isn’t something big? I’m not that stupid.”

“I never said you were. Why did I contact you? I am so tired of shady types and barflies with an inflated sense of their own importance. I wanted to have an experienced contact here. Someone who could introduce me around town.”

Not a single word revealed Lorenzo Wader’s real purpose, that of establishing himself in Uppsala. One of Lorenzo’s runners had gotten in touch with González a few weeks ago and had asked him to give Armas a package. The payment for his troubles had been two thousand kronor, enough to indicate that this was not your usual mail delivery.

When González had accepted, Lorenzo got in touch with him directly. The transaction was completed and the money changed hands.

The next step was already planned, and in this González had no role to play, but even so Lorenzo decided to keep him in a good mood. He could be useful in the future.

“Olaf, it is partly my fault that you have become unemployed,” Lorenzo said, “and this is regrettable, but of course you shall remain untainted. There will be other jobs.”

Olaf González could not repress a smile.

“Call me Gonzo,” he said.