“He’s also crazy. He chopped off those guys’ heads.”
“In the Army, we call that ‘misconduct stress behavior.’?”
“In Caracas,” said Taylor, “we call it loco.”
Eduardo came back to the table. “May I interest you in dessert?”
“We’ll take the check,” said Brodie. “This will be a room charge.”
“Regretfully, we are only accepting cash in the restaurant at this time.”
“Give me a good exchange rate,” said Brodie.
Eduardo bowed his head and walked off.
Luis’ car was, as advertised, not so nice.
He crawled up the El Dorado’s driveway in a 1980 Dodge Dart, a long, low-riding American boat with a rusted beige exterior and dented chrome bumpers. The side windows and rear windshield had been subjected to a bad homemade tint job.
Luis stopped at the curb, the old V-8 engine chugging away, and smiled at Brodie and Taylor through the rolled-down passenger-side window. He had changed into a pair of plaid cargo shorts, sneakers, and an oversize white polo. Some Joropo music was playing out of fuzzy speakers.
Brodie asked Taylor, “Shotgun?”
“No, sir. That’s how I got blown up in Afghanistan. In Tennessee, a lady sits in the rear.”
“This is Caracas.”
“Then maybe I’ll stay here.”
Brodie swung open the front passenger door, which emitted a welcoming squeal, and got in. He sank into the sagging seat. Taylor got in the back.
Brodie looked around the car, which smelled like old laundry. On the center console, barely concealed by a rolled-up newspaper, was Luis’ Glock. A large bejeweled cross hung from the rearview mirror, just in case the Glock jammed.
“Is okay?” asked Luis.
“It’s perfect,” said Brodie as he cranked up the Joropo, and they pulled out of the drive.
“Where do you wish to go?”
“Paris,” replied Brodie.
Luis laughed. “Me too.”
Brodie had asked Luis to pick them up an hour before their meeting with Raúl so that he and Taylor could do a recon of the area—what the Army called “terrain appreciation,” and what the CID called “urban immersion.” Brodie called it “know your neighborhood beat.”
“Señor?”
“Let’s see your neighborhood,” said Brodie. “We need to be in Museum Plaza in one hour.”
“Sí, señor.” Luis added, “The museums are wonderful.”
“I’m sure they are. So is Paris.”
CHAPTER 16
Luis headed south out of the neighborhood of Altamira, and back onto the highway. He commented that the more affluent neighborhoods of Caracas were in the east of the city, and that it grew poorer the farther west you traveled.
This transition was evident as they got onto another highway and took an exit into a decidedly grittier neighborhood. Rows of dilapidated and graffitied concrete buildings lined narrow streets. Rivers of dirty water ran curbside under mountains of trash that no one had come to collect, most of it spilling out into the street, already worked over by scavengers. They passed a covered bus stop that a few people were using for shade from the oppressive sun. They were clearly not waiting for the city bus, which sat with them, empty and idle, its windows broken and its tires long gone.
