Raúl, wanting to earn his seven hundred dollars, said to Brodie, “A foreigner is usually brought to these places by someone. Someone connected to the gang or to corrupt regime people. But also a man alone—a sex tourist—can go. And if he is lucky, he will have sex with a child prostitute. If he is not so lucky, he will be robbed and maybe have his throat cut.”
“Right,” said Brodie. Al Simpson and his partner had been hosted by the PDVSA guys. But how did Kyle Mercer come to be there? Well,Brodie would ask him when he apprehended him. This wasn’t much to go on, but it was something. Kyle Mercer had last been seen in a child prostitution whorehouse in a certain neighborhood in Petare. Maybe Mercer was a sex tourist, and was now in Bangkok. Brodie said to Taylor, “This job sucks.”
“What was your first clue?”
Raúl seemed confused by the exchange. He stated firmly, “That is all I know.”
Brodie nodded. “Okay. Do you take American Express?”
“Señor—”
“Let’s do cash.” Brodie pulled a wad of twenties out of his pocket and counted seven hundred dollars into Raúl’s open palms. “And here’s another twenty for the church collection basket.”
Raúl didn’t think that was funny, but he took the twenty and shoved the cash in his pocket.
Brodie asked, “Is there another way out of here?”
“There is another staircase at the other side of the tower.”
“And I don’t want to see your three rent-a-cops there.”
“I am an honest businessman, señor. You can ask Señor Hunt.”
“I think Señor Hunt has been here too long.”
Raúl smiled. “Señor Hunt has said so himself.”
“You lead the way,” said Brodie. “And no funny business—if I see your homeboys, you’re the first casualty.”
CHAPTER 19
They followed Raúl through a labyrinth of brick and cinder-block rooms. One room was larger than the rest, and amidst the debris and drifts of trash were piles of folding chairs and a rusty metal desk. On one wall was a large spray-painted stencil of Hugo Chávez’ face accompanied by painted words that Taylor translated aloud: “?‘Tower of David Community Council.’?” She asked Raúl, “What is that?”
Raúl explained, “Each floor had a representative. They met, they voted. They had their own police. People had shops in here too. Businesses.”
Well, thought Brodie, maybe those former squatters could teach the clowns in the Presidential Palace how to run a democracy and an economy. Maybe that’s why they were kicked out.
They followed Raúl to a stairwell that had no outer wall and no banister to keep people from falling to their deaths. It was hard to imagine that this place used to house thousands of residents, including children. Brodie said to Raúl, “You first.”
From this height, Brodie could see that they were on the opposite side of the tower, out of sight of the entrance gate. The concrete security wall extended around to this end of the complex, though no other gates were visible.
They descended to the base of the stairs and followed Raúl toward the wall. Brodie looked around. It was oddly tranquil here, as they traversed the overgrown weeds, littered with stray chunks of broken concrete and tangles of rusty rebar. The moon hung bright and almost full, and the chirps of nighthawks pierced the soft rustle of palm trees in the wind.
“This way,” said Raúl in a whisper. He led them along the outer wall toward a section where someone had broken a hole large enough to crawl through.
Raúl said, “I will leave you here.” He added, “You will tell Mr. Hunt I was very helpful to you.”
“You will get a good performance review.”
Raúl seemed to be processing that.
Taylor said to Raúl, “If this information is good, we’ll be seeing you again. If it’s not good, we’ll be seeing you again.”
Raúl looked at her. “Perhaps you should go to Petare with this gentleman.”
Brodie thought that was funny, but suppressed his smile. “See ya around, amigo.”
“Buenas noches.” He walked away.
