Synchro. José Miguel Sánchez Guitian

bars with a flashy poster announcing the main flavors of their three varieties: sativa, indica and ruderalis.

      “How, Gaby”. Álvaro returned the man’s greeting.

      “You’ve come early, I was just opening. The usual?” Gaby narrowed his eyes. “You have the look of someone who’s just been to a funeral”.

      “Yes, a ten-year-old’s, son of a workmate; leukemia, shit luck”.

      “Terrible..”.

      “Yes…” Guzmán kept his eyes on the floor, as if a deep hole had suddenly appeared and he could see the coffin rising to the surface. “Give me something strong”.

      “I don’t have anything strong enough for what you need, but take ten ounces of indico; I just received it from a farm close to Guadalajara. They say this pot is extremely relaxing; its flowering period lasts seven weeks and this batch is freshly cut”.

      “Sedative?”

      “Yes, narcotic, and it is very fruity with a touch of wood. If it were wine, it would be a sort of syrah”.

      Guzmán smiled.

      “Gaby, you’re the best at selling this shit in the entire world. Every time I come here, I feel like I’m at a wine tasting in the Guadalupe valley. To me, this smoke all tastes the same. I’m sorry”. Guzmán took out his credit card and then realized he couldn’t pay with it.

      “You know that you have to pay with cash because of some obsolete federal law… You are a policeman, change the laws”.

      “I make sure the law is obeyed, but just enough, and I don’t write the laws; if it was up to me, there would only be one law: don’t fuck other people over and children are forbidden to die. Well, those are two laws…”. Álvaro took out a police card with his name and number and put it down on the table. “Add it to my tab, I’ll come by tomorrow. I’ll pay you and let you know whether the shit was fruity. If I don’t turn up, make a call and get me arrested for robbery. How!”

      He picked up his bag and left. Gaby took his card and left it next to the cash register, as a lucky charm.

      As he reached his car, Guzmán felt tempted to roll a joint and smoke it on his way home; he was really craving one. A police car drove past and for a few seconds, the agent held his gaze, studying him, car to car; Guzmán was outside Fumadera and that alone made him suspicious. Guzmán had always been on the brink of becoming a problem; he was an outsider in the brigade and at fifty, he was not willing to change his habits. Nevertheless, today, he would avoid trouble; he would not challenge his fellow policeman. The car drove on, slowly, watchful. He turned the key and started the hybrid engine. He would smoke it at home and relax a little before going to work. Ever since him and his wife got separated, the house had become a calm place, he thought.

      A moving van from Álamo was blocking his parking spot; someone was moving into the apartment next door to his. His neighboring spot was occupied by an elegant, faded red BMW X-15 with auto pilot. Guzmán pictured a forty-year-old man from the movie industry, probably going through a divorce. Apartment 17 had been empty for three months, ever since old Robert decided to throw away all his stuff and move back to Mérida. ‘Álvaro, DF is no place for old men like me’ was what he told him.

      Guzmán turned back in the alleyway and found an empty spot two streets down; he walked distractedly as he opened his bag of cannabis. He rolled a joint with an expert hand, lit it and inhaled the incandescent weed.

      He crossed the street without looking; a car braked and stopped just a few inches away from him.

      “Fuck!” Scared, Álvaro had dropped his small bag and the lit joint on the ground.

      Inside the vehicle, the driver, a man with a strong build, and a very attractive blonde girl, stared in shock at the man who had so suddenly crossed the road. Carlo Stamas had been driving distractedly, one hand on the wheel, one on Ana Riccoli’s thigh.

      Guzmán bent down and picked up his small bag and the joint, which he immediately took to his mouth for a long drag. The couple looked at him, amazed.

      “Fucking drug addict!” he heard the man with the shiny shaved head shout from the car.

      Guzmán answered by opening his jacket and showing the gun that was tucked at his side. The driver reacted by waving his own gun behind the windscreen. Guzmán answered the provocation violently by drawing his own weapon; he burst the side window with the iron butt, and taking advantage of Stamas’ surprise, grabbed his gun and threw it by the back wheel.

      The woman started to shout and the two men began a peculiar struggle as one tried to open and the other to close the driver’s door. Finally, Guzmán pulled it open and dragged the man out of the car. Carlo fell on the ground. Despite his size; Guzmán handcuffed him and began to search him. The young woman looked at him, terrified. The policeman had not pronounced a single word yet and the Carlo was breathing quickly, looking at the sides without understanding what was going on. An elderly couple watched the arrest scene from a window.

      “I’m a lawyer; let me tell you, you’re going to pay for this”, said Carlo Stamas, his face on the ground, as Guzmán went through his pockets.

      Álvaro got hold of two bags of cocaine which he tore open and emptied steadily on the street.

      “Come on, güey. You son of a bitch!” Carlo shouted angrily.

      Guzmán’s gaze shifted to the vehicle where he spotted the box the young woman was holding. It was black and had a logo that looked like the wifi drawing with two ram horns: Synchro.

      The lieutenant walked up to the woman, he took the box from her and opened it. Inside, he found a dozen tiny black balls the size of a pill.

      “What the fuck is this?” he demanded, pointing at the box with the tiny balls.

      “That’s none of your business, asshole”, she said.

      Guzmán looked around; there were groups of people watching from the corners and two cars waited impatiently. He helped the handcuffed man up.

      “Amigo, I’m going for lunch with my girl and you just fucked me over”, Carlo said looking down at the dirt on his shirt. “You know you can’t arrest me like this… This is, without doubt, police brutality… You let me go and I’ll let you go, deal?”

      The policeman looked at his joint and then at the bag of cannabis that was still lying on the asphalt; he considered the situation. What the man said was true; this would mean heaps of problematic paperwork and explanations that evening. He released him from the handcuffs; Carlo picked up his weapon and got back in his car.

      “Son of a bitch”, the girl murmured.

      Guzmán dropped the black balls together with his joint and stepped on them, leaving an odd-looking black mess. Then, he left to his apartment, walking up the newly-painted main staircase.

      On the landing, a sweaty young man in shorts waited for instructions holding two wooden chairs with a Cisco Home label. From inside, came a woman’s voice:

      “Leave those next to that table”.

      As Guzmán put his key in the keyhole, the voice that was giving the instructions, addressed him from behind:

      “Hello, I’m Gloria Altolaza, the new neighbor. You must be Álvaro, the policeman; Margarita, the manager, told me about you”. She held out her hand.

      Guzmán shook hands with Gloria Altolaza. Around forty, he thought. She was wearing a grey t-shirt exposing a bare shoulder and black leggings with a skull printed on one side.

      “I’m Álvaro Guzmán… welcome. And Margarita is definitely the mother of this neighborhood. Careful with her, she said that stuff about me being a policeman to give you a sense of security and get a better rent”.

      “It’s certainly worked with me; they should discount it from your rent, a bonus. There should even be a sign: ‘policeman living in this building’”,