“That may not be a good thing.” Brodie reminded her, “We’re looking for the whorehouse now.” He said to Luis, “Keep going.”
Luis continued along the narrow road.
Brodie spotted another piece of graffiti on a building up ahead featuring a collection of raised fists in a full spectrum of skin tones, maybe symbolizing Venezuela’s diverse ethnic makeup. On the wrist below each fist was an outline of the Venezuelan flag dripping with blood, as though carved into the bearer’s skin. Above the fists was the familiar face of Hugo Chávez in his signature military fatigues and red beret. And above Chávez, in big, bold letters: MBR-200.
Brodie asked Luis, “Are we in the July Twenty-Fourth neighborhood?”
“It is just ahead.”
“We need our guns.”
“Sí.” Luis squeezed to the side of the road, put the car in park, leaned over, and opened the glove compartment. He pulled on the open door and the entire glove compartment slid out, followed by a black plastic bag.
Luis ripped the bag free and handed it to Brodie, who asked, “Was your uncle’s name David Copperfield?”
“Señor?”
“Never mind.” Brodie distributed the munitions as Luis slid the glove compartment back into the dashboard.
Brodie pulled the Taser and zip ties out of the plastic bag—which probably had enough white powder residue on it to constitute a felony—and handed the bag to Luis, who shoved it under his seat. He said to Luis, “We’ll walk. You stay with the car.”
Luis looked around apprehensively. “It is daytime, so it is maybe okay, but it is much safer to stay in the car.”
Brodie looked at Luis. He was nervous, which was understandable. The guy had a family, and he was risking his culo on an assignment he hadn’t signed up for and knew nothing about. Time to brief and motivate the useful local.
Brodie took the photo of Mercer out of his jacket and showed it to Luis. “We are looking for this man, as you know. He has committed a very serious crime and we must bring him back to the United States to answer for it. He was last seen in a bordello somewhere around here, and we need to find it.”
Luis nodded, processing this.
Brodie continued, “The brothel we are looking for has child prostitutes.”
Luis’ face dropped. “Oh, señor…”
“I know, Luis. But this is the shit world we live in.” He added, “The guy we are looking for is a piece of shit.”
Taylor added, “He is also very dangerous. And also dangerous to Venezuela.”
Well, thought Brodie, that might be a stretch. But maybe not.
Brodie said to Luis, “We’ll call you if there’s a problem.”
“There is no cell service, señor.”
Brodie remembered a line from an old country song: “If the phone don’t ring, it’s me.”
“Señor?”
“If we’re not back in an hour, go directly to the embassy and report to Señor Worley.”
Luis nodded.
Brodie asked, “Which way is July Twenty-Fourth?”
Luis pointed to a steep staircase between two buildings. “By foot, that way is the quickest.” He added, “That neighborhood is more dangerous than this one.”
“Right.” From Shithole A to Super Shithole B. “Are there signs that say ‘Welcome to July Twenty-Fourth’?”
“No. But you will know.” He added, “The colectivo of MBR-200 is the government in July Twenty-Fourth.”
“Okay. See you later.” He got out of Luis’ Dodge Dart, followed by Taylor, who wished Luis good luck.
Luis replied, “Vaya con Dios.”
Brodie and Taylor headed for the staircase.
* * *
They worked their way up the steep, crumbling staircase, which had twists and turns along the way and crossed through several narrow alleyways lined with densely packed buildings. Brodie heard voices up ahead, and in a few minutes they reached a flat space full of men, women, and children. At the head of the crowd was a young man standing on a platform of wooden crates, calling out numbers from a list in his hands. As the numbers were called, people yelled out and pressed forward through the throng, holding slips of paper aloft. It was like the slum’s answer to the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. But what was the commodity?
Brodie took a closer look at the crowd and saw that many of the people were visibly ill or in need of care. An older man coughed violently. A young pregnant woman sat on a chair in the shade holding her belly while a group of women stood over her. A young man near them clutched his forearm wrapped in a blood-soaked rag.
Taylor said, “Looks like the med clinics we set up in Afghanistan.”