Brodie thought back to Al Simpson. Government oil guys exploiting their power to get rich off the underworld, and taking foreign VIPs on a nocturnal joyride out to a far-flung corner of their criminal empire to engage in illicit carnal pleasures. Then maybe blackmailing them to get a good deal. And maybe that’s what they’d done with Al Simpson and his partner, Pete. But what the hell did Kyle Mercer have to do with any of this?
Brodie said to Raúl, “What I need from you, señor, are the names and addresses of the brothels in Petare where child prostitution takes place.”
“Why does the American Embassy need to know this?”
Brodie replied, “That’s none of your fucking business.”
Raúl thought a moment, then said, “Americans are arrogant.”
“Tell us something we don’t know,” suggested Brodie.
Raúl smiled. “Arrogant.” He glanced at Brodie. “These places are protected by the regime. If I gave you the names, I would be putting my life at risk.”
“We wouldn’t rat you out,” Brodie assured him. He added, “Six hundred dollars.”
“Seven.”
“You got a deal.”
Raúl lit another cigarette and said, “The colectivos. You know of this?”
“No.”
“The colectivos are gangs. But political gangs. Began by Chávez. He armed them. Like a militia—a political militia. They control different neighborhoods in the barrios and sometimes they fight with other gangs, the ones that are not so political. And there is a large colectivo in Petare—MBR-200.” He added, “This colectivo is involved with child prostitution.”
“Where in Petare?” asked Brodie.
“Barrio Veinticuatro de Julio. July Twenty-Fourth neighborhood. This is where they started. But they have also fought other gangs and expanded to other places.”
Taylor reminded Raúl, “We are looking for the names and addresses of the brothels that engage in child prostitution.”
Raúl smiled. “Names? You think they have names? With neon signs?”
Taylor said something to him in Spanish that wiped the smile from Raúl’s face.
Raúl glanced at her briefly, then said, “I have given you the name of the neighborhood in Petare where you will find these places. There are maybe two, three of them. You will need to find them on your own.” He added, “I would advise you to go armed, during the daylight. I would also advise that you, señora, do not go with this gentleman.”
Neither Brodie nor Taylor replied.
Raúl, wanting to earn his seven hundred dollars, said to Brodie, “A foreigner is usually brought to these places by someone. Someone connected to the gang or to corrupt regime people. But also a man alone—a sex tourist—can go. And if he is lucky, he will have sex with a child prostitute. If he is not so lucky, he will be robbed and maybe have his throat cut.”
“Right,” said Brodie. Al Simpson and his partner had been hosted by the PDVSA guys. But how did Kyle Mercer come to be there? Well, Brodie would ask him when he apprehended him. This wasn’t much to go on, but it was something. Kyle Mercer had last been seen in a child prostitution whorehouse in a certain neighborhood in Petare. Maybe Mercer was a sex tourist, and was now in Bangkok. Brodie said to Taylor, “This job sucks.”
“What was your first clue?”
Raúl seemed confused by the exchange. He stated firmly, “That is all I know.”
Brodie nodded. “Okay. Do you take American Express?”
“Señor—”
“Let’s do cash.” Brodie pulled a wad of twenties out of his pocket and counted seven hundred dollars into Raúl’s open palms. “And here’s another twenty for the church collection basket.”
Raúl didn’t think that was funny, but he took the twenty and shoved the cash in his pocket.
Brodie asked, “Is there another way out of here?”
“There is another staircase at the other side of the tower.”
“And I don’t want to see your three rent-a-cops there.”
“I am an honest businessman, señor. You can ask Señor Hunt.”
“I think Señor Hunt has been here too long.”
Raúl smiled. “Señor Hunt has said so himself.”
“You lead the way,” said Brodie. “And no funny business—if I see your homeboys, you’re the first casualty.”
CHAPTER 19
They followed Raúl through a labyrinth of brick and cinder-block rooms. One room was larger than the rest, and amidst the debris and drifts of trash were piles of folding chairs and a rusty metal desk. On one wall was a large spray-painted stencil of Hugo Chávez’ face accompanied by painted words that Taylor translated aloud: “ ‘Tower of David Community Council.’ ” She asked Raúl, “What is that?”
Raúl explained, “Each floor had a representative. They met, they voted. They had their own police. People had shops in here too. Businesses.”