had to do was find him, kidnap him, and get him home. And all he needed was a car and Luis. For want of a nail…
Taylor said, “I’m getting worried.”
Brodie said to the doorman, “Get us a taxi to take us to a brothel in Petare.”
The doorman looked at him, maybe unsure of his own fluency in English. He replied, “This is… not possible.”
Brodie said to Taylor, “See? Just like in the States. Can’t get a taxi to the slums.”
She had no reply, but pulled out her cell phone, presumably to call or text Luis.
Just then the gate slid open and a silver midsize Mitsubishi sedan with a dented passenger door pulled into the circular drive and stopped in front of them. Brodie barely gave the vehicle a glance as he looked toward the open gate, watching for the big black sedan he’d instructed Luis to rent. The driver of the beat-up Mitsubishi got out—and unfortunately, it was Luis. “I am sorry for my lateness,” he said, and explained, “There is some police activity…”
The doorman looked at the vehicle as if to say, “You waited for this piece of shit?” He shrugged to himself and opened the rear door to let Taylor in as Brodie went around to the other side, followed by the doorman, who seemed happy to get rid of them. Brodie gave Tito an American five and said, “Wish me luck tonight,” and winked at him.
The doorman said something to Luis, and the only word Brodie could understand was “loco.”
Luis got in the car, and Brodie noted that Luis had changed back into the dark suit he’d worn when he first met them at the airport. Luis said, “The doorman asked if the gentleman was crazy for going to Petare with this lady.”
“He should have asked the lady.” He asked Luis, “What happened to the big black sedan I asked for?”
Luis pulled through the open gate and got onto the road. “Unfortunately, there are no more luxury cars to rent in Caracas. They tell me these cars were all sent to Bogotá or Panama, where they will not be stolen from the car lot or hijacked on the road.”
Brodie recalled what Taylor had said before they left, that this had become a place where sometimes no amount of money could get you what you wanted or needed. A real nightmare for any spoiled American—especially if you needed a dark car with a big trunk and a big engine.
Brodie watched out the window as they drove through the dark streets of Altamira. The streetlights were dead, and even a few of the signal lights they passed were out. The occasional café or club offered stray islands of light in the darkness. He wondered what went on in these places, and he remembered phoning his friend Marcus, who had been crazy enough to stick around Damascus after the civil war began. What had happened to all of Marcus’ old clubs and drinking holes? “They’re packed!” he’d said. “What else are you supposed to do when the rebels are lobbing mortars into your neighborhood every night? May as well die with a drink in your hand.”
Venezuela was a country dissolving in slow motion, and that too was something to escape, if only for a night. It occurred to Brodie that the Hen House might be crowded with roosters tonight.
Brodie noticed that Luis had transferred the plastic jeweled cross from his car to the rearview mirror of this rental. He asked, “Does your wife know where you’re going tonight?”
“I just say an embassy client. She knows not to ask more.”
Right. Luis could do the worrying for both of them. Brodie wondered what it would be like to be married.
They followed the same route as that morning, taking the Francisco Fajardo Highway east toward the hills of Petare, now shrouded in darkness. Traffic was light to nonexistent. As they passed the Francisco de Miranda Airport, Brodie saw how it must have stood out to a very inebriated Al Simpson as a memorable landmark, because the runway was the only thing lit up for miles around. Brodie spotted a twin-engine plane taking off into the night. He thought back to Worley’s spiel at the yacht club this afternoon and wondered how many of these departures were one-way flights.
The highway curved north, and they passed the old quarter of Petare on their right. Again, Al Simpson’s recollection made sense—the church’s spire was the only thing around that was illuminated. It was nice to know