Brodie got out of the car, and he and Luis started down the hill toward the Hen House.
CHAPTER 29
Brodie and Luis walked past the parked cars and SUVs. A few of the drivers looked them over, and a few called out to Luis, who replied, and they all got a laugh about something—probably about the gringo with a wad of cash bigger than his pene.
Brodie had played many parts in undercover assignments, and he had a sense of how to look, walk, and act for every role. Tonight, he was Clark Bowman, an insurance salesman from East Wheatfield, Kansas. Clark was nervous but excited, following his dick to a real brothel that his driver had recommended. Clark would try to dress the part of a cool guy going to a whorehouse, but he was still recognizable as a dork.
Deeper inside Clark Bowman was Scott Brodie, a man who had killed other men and would do so again if he had to.
They approached the black steel door of the Hen House and Brodie glanced up at the red eye of the security camera, which stared back at him.
Luis pushed the button on the doorjamb, which Brodie knew would cause a light to flash inside. They waited.
Brodie reminded Luis, “You need to use the baño.”
“Sí. I do.” He added, “But most drivers use the street.”
“You want to wash your hands.”
Luis nodded.
“And don’t forget—Pepe from the Club of the Damned sent us here.”
“Sí.”
Brodie also reminded him, “Soon you’ll be in the U.S. with your family.”
Luis didn’t reply.
Finally the door opened, and a big man in a tight black T-shirt and 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.
