“No,” Luis assured him. “There are few police in the barrios.”
“Good.”
“It is too dangerous.”
“Excuse me?”
“In the barrios, the colectivos are the police.” He explained, “The colectivos are armed by the government, which allows them the power and the money from the drugs and the prostitution.”
Sounded like The Godfather Part Four with a Latin twist.
Luis continued, “In return, the colectivos help the regime… eliminate other gangs and also the political opposition. It is believed that many of the people who died in the protests were actually killed by colectivo members.”
Brodie thought of Luis’ nephew, and wondered if their driver might have another motivation—beyond money or asylum in America—for risking his ass in Petare.
Luis went on, “The state oil company, too, profits from the prostitution and drugs, and also the military and National Guard are given money and power if they sit and do nothing.”
Brodie wasn’t sure this was a good business model, but it seemed to work here.
Luis admitted, “It is all a little confusing, and the power shifts sometimes, but those who want the power and the money understand it.”
“Right.” He and Taylor would sometimes argue about which country was more corrupt, Iraq or Afghanistan. Well, Venezuela wins.
Brodie said to Taylor, “The good news is that the police are afraid of Petare.”
“I think that’s the bad news, Scott.”
“Right. Sorry I asked.”
“Me too.”
CHAPTER 22
Brodie looked around as they crept along the narrow, winding road. Petare was a study in urban chaos—buildings piled upon buildings, and mountains of trash massed along the roadside. Tangles of jerry-rigged power lines ran up and down the red clay–block façades, and there was graffiti everywhere, much of it political. Along one wall was a mural that offered a cartoonish rendering of Venezuela’s pantheon of heroes—Bolívar, Guevara, Chávez, and a couple of other military figures that Brodie didn’t recognize. Maduro, El Presidente, was up there too, off to the side and disrupting the intended symmetry of the mural, like an afterthought slapped on out of political necessity.
It was almost ten in the morning, but the streets were quiet. Brodie guessed there wasn’t much reason to leave the house when there was no work, no food, and no hope. They passed two old men playing dominoes at a plastic table in front of a garage full of old car parts. The men passed a cigarette back and forth between them.
Taylor said to Brodie, “Let’s show them the photo of Mercer.”
“Let’s not let everyone in Petare know we’re looking for Kyle Mercer.”
Luis, who hadn’t previously offered much in the way of investigative advice, said, “It is perhaps better not to alert the people here that you are looking for someone.” He added, “News travels fast in the barrio.”
Taylor said to Brodie, “That may be a good thing. If we can’t find Mercer, he may find us.”
“That may not be a good thing.” Brodie reminded her, “We’re looking for the whorehouse now.” He said to Luis, “Keep going.”
Luis continued along the narrow road.
Brodie spotted another piece of graffiti on a building up ahead featuring a collection of raised fists in a full spectrum of skin tones, maybesymbolizing Venezuela’s diverse ethnic makeup. On the wrist below each fist was an outline of the Venezuelan flag dripping with blood, as though carved into the bearer’s skin. Above the fists was the familiar face of Hugo Chávez in his signature military fatigues and red beret. And above Chávez, in big, bold letters:MBR-200.
Brodie asked Luis, “Are we in the July Twenty-Fourth neighborhood?”
“It is just ahead.”
“We need our guns.”
“Sí.” Luis squeezed to the side of the road, put the car in park, leaned over, and opened the glove compartment. He pulled on the open door and the entire glove compartment slid out, followed by a black plastic bag.
