on.
The Beast stood at the opposite end of the car, weapons in both hands.
Señorita Raven and Señor Rodríguez weren’t present, had been sent back to the apartments to await further instructions.
Medianoche looked down from the autopista . Smelled grilled beef, chicken, cerveza , and paco . Saw lights that were kept on by illegal electricity and poverty. The music that played was loud, sounded almost inviting, but the lyrics to the songs were as warm as a rap record back in the States. Lyrics about killing and fucking putas until they bled. It was the lyrics about killing that had Medianoche on guard, ready to do the same. Music like that disturbed the senses, disoriented the enemy, kept them off balance.
Guns in both hands, The Beast moved and stood next to Medianoche.
Medianoche had been instructed to stop at one of the fourteen shanty-towns. A quarter of a million lived in slums in the Paris of the South. A quarter of a million squatters that had claimed abandoned buildings and land, had brought in bricks, tin, and cardboard and taken over. These were squatters who fought armed police, squatters who stood up to the same military that made people vanish, hooligans that refused to be bulldozed off the most valuable land in the city. They stood at the outskirts of the slum like they were on the border of another country.
The villa had been built on land and spread out until it literally touched the autopista . The barbed wire that was supposed to keep them from hopping the fence and running across the autopista was used to hang laundry. So as people drove by, there were miles of clothes flapping in the wind, and more clotheslines on the roofs of structures that stood three or four floors high, odd shapes and sizes, all improvised.
A hooligan no taller than five feet tall walked across a building.
He was no more than fifteen. Hair slicked back from the rain. He had on blue and gold, a Boca Juniors soccer uniform, the team of the working class. The boy carried an Uzi. He climbed over the unsteady roof of one of the tin and cardboard houses, made his way to the top of the fence, a section where the barbed wire had been removed with wire cutters.
The Beast said, “Junior.”
“ Buenas noches. ”
“How is your father?”
“My father he is good.”
“How’s the drug trade?”
“It is slow. Not so good.”
“It’ll get better.”
“ Sí .”
“Your English is getting better.”
“I take English class for the community center on some days.”
“How is your girlfriend?”
“She is . . . she is . . . ¿Cómo se dice embarazada en inglés ?”
“Pregnant.”
“She is pregnant.”
“Congratulations.”
“ Sí . I will going to be the papa soon. In four years.”
“Months.”
“ Sí. In four months.”
“ Año is year. Mes is month.”
The Beast handed the boy the black briefcase. Told him to tell his father that he would call him with instructions. The boy nodded. The Beast gave the boy two one-hundred-dollar bills. U.S. money. That was his tip. The equivalent of more than seven hundred pesos.
For a kid who lived off three pesos a day, he was rich. A Slumdog Millionaire.
The Beast told him there would be six hundred U.S. dollars when he returned.
Medianoche stared out at the slums. Poverty that went on for miles.
He looked to his left, a mile away, high-rises, the richest of the rich.
Back on the seventeenth floor, eighteen floors above the concrete jungle, Señorita Raven and Señor Rodríguez were already inside their condos.
Medianoche followed The Beast, went inside his apartment door.
His flat-screen television was on. A black-and-white movie. Humphrey Bogart. Mary Astor. Gladys George. Peter Lorre. El Halcón Maltés . Spanish for The Maltese Falcon .
A servant entered from the small kitchen in a hurry, like a waiter rushing to a customer at a five-star café. A young Greek man dressed in a butler’s uniform, English-cut tuxedo, and black bow tie. A young man who
The Beast stood at the opposite end of the car, weapons in both hands.
Señorita Raven and Señor Rodríguez weren’t present, had been sent back to the apartments to await further instructions.
Medianoche looked down from the autopista . Smelled grilled beef, chicken, cerveza , and paco . Saw lights that were kept on by illegal electricity and poverty. The music that played was loud, sounded almost inviting, but the lyrics to the songs were as warm as a rap record back in the States. Lyrics about killing and fucking putas until they bled. It was the lyrics about killing that had Medianoche on guard, ready to do the same. Music like that disturbed the senses, disoriented the enemy, kept them off balance.
Guns in both hands, The Beast moved and stood next to Medianoche.
Medianoche had been instructed to stop at one of the fourteen shanty-towns. A quarter of a million lived in slums in the Paris of the South. A quarter of a million squatters that had claimed abandoned buildings and land, had brought in bricks, tin, and cardboard and taken over. These were squatters who fought armed police, squatters who stood up to the same military that made people vanish, hooligans that refused to be bulldozed off the most valuable land in the city. They stood at the outskirts of the slum like they were on the border of another country.
The villa had been built on land and spread out until it literally touched the autopista . The barbed wire that was supposed to keep them from hopping the fence and running across the autopista was used to hang laundry. So as people drove by, there were miles of clothes flapping in the wind, and more clotheslines on the roofs of structures that stood three or four floors high, odd shapes and sizes, all improvised.
A hooligan no taller than five feet tall walked across a building.
He was no more than fifteen. Hair slicked back from the rain. He had on blue and gold, a Boca Juniors soccer uniform, the team of the working class. The boy carried an Uzi. He climbed over the unsteady roof of one of the tin and cardboard houses, made his way to the top of the fence, a section where the barbed wire had been removed with wire cutters.
The Beast said, “Junior.”
“ Buenas noches. ”
“How is your father?”
“My father he is good.”
“How’s the drug trade?”
“It is slow. Not so good.”
“It’ll get better.”
“ Sí .”
“Your English is getting better.”
“I take English class for the community center on some days.”
“How is your girlfriend?”
“She is . . . she is . . . ¿Cómo se dice embarazada en inglés ?”
“Pregnant.”
“She is pregnant.”
“Congratulations.”
“ Sí . I will going to be the papa soon. In four years.”
“Months.”
“ Sí. In four months.”
“ Año is year. Mes is month.”
The Beast handed the boy the black briefcase. Told him to tell his father that he would call him with instructions. The boy nodded. The Beast gave the boy two one-hundred-dollar bills. U.S. money. That was his tip. The equivalent of more than seven hundred pesos.
For a kid who lived off three pesos a day, he was rich. A Slumdog Millionaire.
The Beast told him there would be six hundred U.S. dollars when he returned.
Medianoche stared out at the slums. Poverty that went on for miles.
He looked to his left, a mile away, high-rises, the richest of the rich.
Back on the seventeenth floor, eighteen floors above the concrete jungle, Señorita Raven and Señor Rodríguez were already inside their condos.
Medianoche followed The Beast, went inside his apartment door.
His flat-screen television was on. A black-and-white movie. Humphrey Bogart. Mary Astor. Gladys George. Peter Lorre. El Halcón Maltés . Spanish for The Maltese Falcon .
A servant entered from the small kitchen in a hurry, like a waiter rushing to a customer at a five-star café. A young Greek man dressed in a butler’s uniform, English-cut tuxedo, and black bow tie. A young man who
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