black chinos looked at Brodie, then at Luis. “Qué?”
Luis introduced his client, and gave Pepe’s name and whorehouse as reference, but the man didn’t reply and looked again at Brodie.
Brodie now noticed that the man wore a leather holster and was packing what looked like a six-shooter with an ivory handle. He made contact with the man’s dark eyes, and for a moment Brodie thought he saw something dawning in the man’s tiny brain—like, Ah, you’re the gringo we’ve been waiting for. But maybe that was just his imagination.
The man stepped aside and motioned them into a small foyer.
He said something to Luis, who replied and tapped his hip where he carried his—or now Brodie’s—Glock. The man nodded, and as Brodie had guessed, he didn’t ask for Luis’ gun.
The man then reached out and frisked Brodie, exhibiting a passable degree of expertise matching that of a TSA guy in an airport, except he didn’t go for the crotch.
The man plucked Brodie’s passport out of his pants pocket and flipped through it while glancing at Brodie’s face. “Bow-man.”
“Sí,” said Brodie. “Call me Clark.”
The man held on to the passport, then pulled the wad of greenbacks out of Brodie’s hip pocket, took a twenty for himself, and handed the money back to Brodie along with his passport. Brodie hoped the cover charge included a drink.
The man said something to Luis—maybe directing him to the baño—then motioned them to a door which Luis opened, stepping aside to let his customer in first.
Brodie walked into a dimly lit, smoke-filled room, and as his eyes adjusted he saw that it was a large lounge with a long L-shaped bar to the left. A few men sat at the bar with their backs to him, except for the men at the short arm of the L who had a view of the door, and were looking at him.
Luis stood beside Brodie and said, “We should sit.”
They found a small plastic table and sat in plastic chairs. Brodie looked around. There were tables scattered here and there, along with couches, which Simpson had mentioned, but that didn’t mean they were actually in the same brothel where Simpson had seen his old Army buddy—who did not appear to be among the customers at the bar or at the tables.
On the concrete floor was a low-pile leopard-print rug that probably did a good job of hiding stains, and in the middle of the room a topless twenty-something of average appearance danced lethargically on a pole as mounted speakers piped in a bad Spanish-language Katy Perry rip-off. Red rope-lights lined the underside of the bar and ran up and down the walls, casting the whole room in a crimson hue. The walls themselves were cement block, painted dark red, and the ceiling was unfinished, revealing electrical conduits and air-conditioning ducts with grates, through which a small amount of cool air seeped into the warm room. The place didn’t smell too bad, all things considered.
Brodie also noticed that the walls were adorned with neon beer signs, pinups of Venezuelan beauty queens, and lots of grimy mirrors. The waitresses were all naked or wearing G-strings, which saved on uniforms.
A naked waitress, modestly covered with glitter, came to the table and checked Brodie out before asking Luis in Spanish what she could do for them.
Luis ordered two cervezas and the lady moved to the bar.
Brodie noticed that Luis was sweating. He said to him, “Go to the baño. I’ll follow.”
Luis nodded, but didn’t move.
The waitress returned with two bottles of beer in her hands—no tray—and put them on the table. “Ten dollar.”
Brodie gave her a twenty and said, “Keep the change,” wondering where she’d put it. He asked, “Do you have souvenir mugs?”
Luis did not translate, and their waitress smiled and moved off to another table where the beer was probably a buck.
As in places like this all over the world, the beer bottles were delivered unopened and there was an opener on the table for paranoid customers who didn’t want to be drugged or poisoned. Brodie opened both bottles, and he and Luis clinked and sipped.
Brodie glanced around again, upping his situational awareness. An elderly man sat alone at a table near the pole dancer, an audience of one, and the pole dancer smiled at him a few times. Naked waitresses worked the few occupied tables, and Brodie thought they were all of legal age. The kids were obviously kept out of sight.