that.
“He told me I was his sophisticated lady,” Florencia said. “I felt like the queen of the world. He shot an arrow right through my heart. Ay.”
She pressed a hand over the afflicted organ and addressed Belhaj in a sisterly tone. “What a romance. First class all the way: champagne, restaurants, hotels. Very physical. The age difference made it better. A vigorous, passionate young man!”
Please God no details, Pescatore thought. She described romantic getaways to the beach resorts of Uruguay.
“He loved that coast. I told him the old joke: If the Apocalypse comes, move to Uruguay: everything there happens fifty years later. He said he would be perfectly content to find a little club on the beach and play the piano waiting for the Apocalypse. He liked how calm and slow Uruguay was. It soothed him. Remember, he was still recovering from his cocaine addiction. Very tormented. I took care of him. I cured him.”
She explained that Raymond grew close to Suleiman Kharroubi, who was in his thirties and owned car lots and import/export companies that did business with Bolivia.
“Well connected in the Arab community, the Kharroubis,” she said. “A used-car empire. Half gangsters. Well, to tell the truth, total gangsters.”
Raymond told Flo they had an opportunity to make serious money. He began bringing her “clients” for illegal help with documents.
“Turquitos, chinitos, bolitas,” she said.
Arabs, Asians, Bolivians, Pescatore translated to himself as she threw around impolite ethnic labels.
“Also Indians, Pakistanis, Mexicans. An American or two. Some bought new identities. Some left with their Argentine passports and visas for the United States or Europe. I wanted to stay low-key, not overdo it, but Ramón kept pushing. He was so charming and persuasive. I was drunk on him. And the money was incredible. Even before the drug aspect began. We were The Bold and the Beautiful. Pardon me, I am dying for a cigarette. You don’t mind, Valentín?”
He minded. Belhaj had been smoking in his face for days. But he wasn’t going to complain. Florencia’s plump hands fumbled with the lighter.
“The drug aspect is where Belisario Ortega comes in, the leader of the terrorist cell,” Biondani interjected. He was perched on the edge of an armchair, as if getting comfortable might implicate him in the acquisition of ill-gotten goods.
“I only met Ortega a few times.” Florencia wrinkled her nose. “I never liked that one. Un negro de la provincia. ”
The commonly used, casually racist term meant “a black from the province.” It referred to dark-skinned, working-class people living in the hinterland around the capital. Pescatore wondered if the maid hovering in the next room had heard it. He wondered what Florencia would have called his mother.
Cocaine smuggling grew out of the human trafficking, she said. The ring moved migrants with strategically placed officials in ports, airports and border posts. They started using the same pipelines for drugs: inbound from suppliers in Bolivia, outbound to Europe through Africa. At first, couriers carried the cocaine. As the volume grew, loads were hidden in shipments of cargo, mainly used cars, using the cover of Kharroubi’s firms.
“Ramón brought in Ortega, who was a narcotics chief in the Bonaerense. His men in the police escorted loads, protected distribution. Soon we were swimming in cash. You can’t imagine. I couldn’t spend it fast enough. I bought this home. I bought that piano for Raymond.”
Her languid wave took in the piano, the apartment, the city below, the horizon beyond. As if to say: Behold all I am about to lose.
“It’s a lovely home,” Pescatore said, sensing that she expected a compliment. “Life was good.”
She sighed. “Yes and no, dear. Yes and no. Frankly, I was frightened. We were playing in a heavyweight world. Ramón told me he knew what he was doing. He had contacts: the police, the Americans. He had worked for
“He told me I was his sophisticated lady,” Florencia said. “I felt like the queen of the world. He shot an arrow right through my heart. Ay.”
She pressed a hand over the afflicted organ and addressed Belhaj in a sisterly tone. “What a romance. First class all the way: champagne, restaurants, hotels. Very physical. The age difference made it better. A vigorous, passionate young man!”
Please God no details, Pescatore thought. She described romantic getaways to the beach resorts of Uruguay.
“He loved that coast. I told him the old joke: If the Apocalypse comes, move to Uruguay: everything there happens fifty years later. He said he would be perfectly content to find a little club on the beach and play the piano waiting for the Apocalypse. He liked how calm and slow Uruguay was. It soothed him. Remember, he was still recovering from his cocaine addiction. Very tormented. I took care of him. I cured him.”
She explained that Raymond grew close to Suleiman Kharroubi, who was in his thirties and owned car lots and import/export companies that did business with Bolivia.
“Well connected in the Arab community, the Kharroubis,” she said. “A used-car empire. Half gangsters. Well, to tell the truth, total gangsters.”
Raymond told Flo they had an opportunity to make serious money. He began bringing her “clients” for illegal help with documents.
“Turquitos, chinitos, bolitas,” she said.
Arabs, Asians, Bolivians, Pescatore translated to himself as she threw around impolite ethnic labels.
“Also Indians, Pakistanis, Mexicans. An American or two. Some bought new identities. Some left with their Argentine passports and visas for the United States or Europe. I wanted to stay low-key, not overdo it, but Ramón kept pushing. He was so charming and persuasive. I was drunk on him. And the money was incredible. Even before the drug aspect began. We were The Bold and the Beautiful. Pardon me, I am dying for a cigarette. You don’t mind, Valentín?”
He minded. Belhaj had been smoking in his face for days. But he wasn’t going to complain. Florencia’s plump hands fumbled with the lighter.
“The drug aspect is where Belisario Ortega comes in, the leader of the terrorist cell,” Biondani interjected. He was perched on the edge of an armchair, as if getting comfortable might implicate him in the acquisition of ill-gotten goods.
“I only met Ortega a few times.” Florencia wrinkled her nose. “I never liked that one. Un negro de la provincia. ”
The commonly used, casually racist term meant “a black from the province.” It referred to dark-skinned, working-class people living in the hinterland around the capital. Pescatore wondered if the maid hovering in the next room had heard it. He wondered what Florencia would have called his mother.
Cocaine smuggling grew out of the human trafficking, she said. The ring moved migrants with strategically placed officials in ports, airports and border posts. They started using the same pipelines for drugs: inbound from suppliers in Bolivia, outbound to Europe through Africa. At first, couriers carried the cocaine. As the volume grew, loads were hidden in shipments of cargo, mainly used cars, using the cover of Kharroubi’s firms.
“Ramón brought in Ortega, who was a narcotics chief in the Bonaerense. His men in the police escorted loads, protected distribution. Soon we were swimming in cash. You can’t imagine. I couldn’t spend it fast enough. I bought this home. I bought that piano for Raymond.”
Her languid wave took in the piano, the apartment, the city below, the horizon beyond. As if to say: Behold all I am about to lose.
“It’s a lovely home,” Pescatore said, sensing that she expected a compliment. “Life was good.”
She sighed. “Yes and no, dear. Yes and no. Frankly, I was frightened. We were playing in a heavyweight world. Ramón told me he knew what he was doing. He had contacts: the police, the Americans. He had worked for
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