“Because…” He made his hand into the shape of a pistol and put it against the bridge of his nose. “They will shoot you in the face, and thenthey will burn your body, and no one will be able to identify you when they dump your pieces on the side of the highway for the dogs to devour.”
There was a long silence.
Brodie said, “Just tell us where. A street, a neighborhood.” He reminded Raúl, “Five hundred dollars.”
Raúl looked at him, then at Taylor. “These days no one cares about a whore in Caracas. We are all whores now, doing what we must to live. But this thing with the children brings attention. This crime must stay in the dark.”
“Why is that?” asked Taylor.
Brodie thought the answer was that child prostitution attracted international attention, but Raúl said, “The regime.”
“The regime is cracking down on child prostitution?” asked Taylor.
Raúl seemed to think that was funny. “No, señora. People in the regime work with the local gangs. They bring drugs from Colombia, stolen food and medicine from the ports. They sell weapons taken from the military. And the young girls, this is another part of their business. The women and the girls.”
Brodie and Taylor exchanged glances. There didn’t seem to be any bottom to the pit that this country had fallen into.
Raúl added, “It is mostly the government oilmen. PDVSA. The scum of the scum.”
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 areprotected 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.
