The Charity Chip

by Brock Booher

  “The wound that heals doesn’t hurt,” he said out loud.

  “Bravo!” said Raúl from the back doorway as he clapped. “Impressive work, doctor.”

  Julio spun around in his chair, but before he could get up, Chancho pushed him back into the chair and sat on his lap. Esqueleto and Brujo each grabbed an arm and were tying him to the chair with a belt. “Leave me alone! What are you doing?” asked Julio. When Esqueleto and Brujo had him restrained, Chancho stood up and laughed in his face. The three of them stood sneering as he struggled against the restraint.

  Raúl rummaged through the refrigerator. “We heard you come in a while ago, but you never came upstairs. We wanted to talk to you.” He pulled another clear bottle from behind the vodka. “Looks like the doctor is almost ready for a new bottle of vodka.”

  “Talk to me?” said Julio. “This doesn’t look like a conversation to me.”

  Raúl approached the medical table. He held the bottle of alcohol up to the light. “So this is the charity chip. It sure is tiny, but I guess it has to be to fit under your skin.” He took the syringe that Julio had used and filled it with alcohol. He handed the bottle to Brujo. “You know, you aren’t the only one that helps Doctor Barilla from time to time.” He squirted the alcohol out onto the table and shook off any excess.

  Brujo turned the bottle on its side and retrieved the chip with the tweezers. Then he produced a chip delivery syringe from his jacket and inserted the chip into the plunger.

  “You used up all the lidocaine, so this is going to hurt a bit,” said Raúl. “Did you know that DNA sensors can’t differentiate between the DNA of identical twins?” he asked as he held out his right hand to Brujo.

  Brujo wiped the thenar space of Raúl’s right hand and plunged the large needle in between his thumb and forefinger. Raúl grimaced. “Ay! That hurts.”

  Julio’s face went white. “Raúl, listen to me. That chip is not what you think. They are using it to harvest organs. I saw them kill a girl. It’s not what you think!”

  Raúl shook his head and laughed. “For over a week now you’ve been telling me that this charity chip was our savior, that you could take care of us both now, that I needed to stop hanging out with los mALditos.” He inserted the needle of the syringe into the bottle he had withdrawn from the refrigerator and pulled back the plunger. “Now that I have the chip, you tell me it is dangerous?” He shook his head and gave Julio a sardonic grin. “Don’t worry, brother. I can take care of us both now.” He stuck the needle into Julio’s arm and pushed the plunger.

  Julio tugged at the leather belt that tied him to the chair and tried to stand up. “What did you do? I’m trying to save you.” The room began to spin and his head felt light.

  “That sedative works pretty fast, doesn’t it?” asked Raúl.

  Julio blinked and tried to focus, but their grinning faces began to blur. “You have to believe me.” His words began to run together and it was getting difficult to stay awake. “I have . . . evidence.”

  The last thing he remembered was Raúl patting him on the head and telling him, “Remember, the wound that heals doesn’t hurt.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  La Promesa

  (The Promise)

  It took several minutes for Julio to realize where he was. His head hurt, and the room was still spinning when he opened his eyes. The black plastic over the windows rustled in the morning breeze, and he could smell the damp ocean air. He blinked and shook his head, trying to regain all of his senses, but he felt like the room was rocking back and forth in the breeze. He could feel the cold concrete seeping through his bed mat. He closed his eyes and tried not to panic, or throw up.

  He didn’t have to look to know that Raúl was gone. He only hoped that Isak and Doctor Kozyar hadn’t already taken him. He worried about Angelica, and guilt overcame him. He felt guilty that she had been taken and he had escaped. He felt guilty that he had caused the deaths of Sergio and Turco. He felt guilty for stealing the money. He felt guilty about putting Raúl in danger. He felt guilty that he had not kept his promise to Mamá. The guilt seemed to press down on him and push him into the cold floor.

  Unable to get up yet, but unable to sleep, he grabbed the small tin box. The drugs were starting to wear off and the room only wobbled from time to time now. He looked at the family picture and stared at Mamá’s smiling face. He didn’t have to wonder what she would tell him to do. You have the power to make a difference in the world. He didn’t feel powerful. He didn’t even feel like getting out of bed.

  Hunger finally prodded him into action.

  He slipped off his shirt and found his Alianza jersey. He noticed that Raúl had left both his Saint Michael’s pendant and the flash drive around his neck. He kissed the pendant and looked at the small drive. It was the only evidence he had left, and he hoped it was enough for Sofía Encuentro. He slipped the jersey over his head and was happy to find his jacket, backpack, and skateboard dumped in a pile next to the door. He pulled on his jacket, grabbed his backpack, and then with his skateboard tucked under his arm, shuffled down the stairs on wobbly legs.

  Doctor Barilla’s kitchen was dark, and Julio thought it best not to disturb them. The back door to the doctor’s office was still open when he got downstairs, and he slipped inside. The bottle of alcohol sat open next to the dirty cotton balls. The dirty syringes and the empty bottle of lidocaine were on the floor. Out of habit, and respect for Doctor Barilla, he cleaned up the mess.

  He started for the door, but saw the doctor’s laptop on his desk. He fingered at the lanyard with the drive, then slipped off his backpack and took a seat in the chair. He opened the laptop and slipped the drive over his neck. He wasn’t sure what to expect when he plugged it in, but he hoped that whatever Martín had uploaded it would be damning enough to stop Isak and Caritas.

  He found one file on the drive—Angelica. When he clicked on the file to open it, a video began. Instead of evidence, it was an old soccer match where Alianza beat La U. He stopped the video and searched the drive for other files—nothing. He pounded the desk with his fist. Martín tricked me! I have nothing. He pulled the drive from the laptop and threw it across the room, and then sat with his head in his hands.

  After several minutes, his stomach growled, and he forced himself onto his feet. He closed the laptop and slipped on his jacket. Now what? He retrieved his skateboard and started for the back door. I still have ten thousand soles. I can start over. The door scraped against the concrete as he stepped out into the damp morning air and skated off in search of breakfast.

  Without the embedded chip, the supermarket was off limits. He found a run-down corner store that accepted free chip transactions. His choices were limited, but he could also buy whatever he wanted. He purchased a yogurt and an Inca Kola. It wasn’t exactly healthy, but he didn’t care.

  After the breakfast of his choice, he still wasn’t sure what to do. A part of him just wanted to buy a bus ticket to somewhere and start over. He had always wanted to see the Amazon or maybe the Sierra. His promise to Mamá gnawed at his insides. Instead of heading for the Amazon, he bought a single yellow rose and skated for the cemetery where Papá and Mamá were buried.

  The gray fog still lingered and shrouded the gray crypts and the concrete resting places of La Victoria’s humbly departed. It was a few blocks from the Catholic chapel where the simple funeral service of each of his parents had been held. Julio skated through the open gate and past the rows of concrete coffin enclosures stacked five-high. Those resting sites were for La Victoria’s wealthy. He skated on to the rows and rows of small receptacles filled with the cremated remains of those who couldn’t afford to be buried in a coffin. When Julio’s father had been killed during a union protest, the union had been kind enough to secure an alcove for his ashes. When Mamá had died, Julio had placed her ashes in the same alcove. A small brass plaque advertised his father’s name to the world, César Raúl Camino, but no mention was made of Mamá.

 
He counted as he skated by in order to find his father’s spot in the fourth wall. Then he stopped, tucked his board under his arm, and began counting rows—five rows over and two spots from the bottom. He found the brass marker with his father’s name and brushed away the dust and debris before placing the single yellow rose on the lip of the alcove. Mamá adored yellow roses. He kissed the pendant of Saint Michael and bowed his head.

  Julio sat on his board and leaned against the opposite wall. He stared at the yellow rose and the brass plaque. The words of Mamá flooded his mind. We gave you that name to remind you that you have the power to make a difference in the world. It is better to suffer hunger than the shame of dishonesty. Life is not fair, but God is merciful. Love is not found in words, but in deeds. The wound that heals doesn’t hurt. Death is a door we must all pass through—Make sure you are ready when you turn the handle. Promise me you will take care of your brother, Raúl.

  The promise. He wished he had never promised to do something he couldn’t do. How can I take care of Raúl? I tried to stop him, but he joined los mALditos. I tried to teach him to be honest, and he became a thief. I tried to provide for him, and he didn’t want my help. He ran his finger across the stubble of his eyebrow. He looked down at the stitches in his left hand. I tried to save him from the gang, and he turned on me. I tried to warn him about the chip, and he implanted it anyway. How can I save Raúl if he doesn’t want to be saved?

  He stared at the yellow rose in front of the brass plaque bearing his father’s name. He could see the dying face of Mamá insisting—Promise me. He recounted his reply. I promise. He pulled out the pendant of Saint Michael and stared at it. Ten thousand soles—enough money for him to disappear. He looked back at the yellow rose—a promise impossible to keep. He shook his head and put his face in his hands.

  After a few minutes, he kissed the pendant and stood. He adjusted the yellow rose and skated out of the cemetery.

  His first stop was at a used electronics store in a nearby strip mall. He bargained with the shop owner and traded three of the extra phones he had taken from Martín’s shop for a used smart phone and enough airtime and data to last him for a week or so.

  The first person he called was Sofía Encuentro. She answered on the third ring. “Sofía Encuentro, cuando hay noticias, yo encuentro.”

  “Buenos días, this is Julio Camino, the young man you interviewed at Caritas.”

  “Oh, hola, Julio.”

  “I wanted to let you know that another participant of Caritas will die in the next twenty-for hours.”

  Sofía sighed. “Julio, Isak Blixt called me. He told me that you and Angelica hacked into his computer system and stole several thousand euros. He warned me that you would probably call with some crazy story about organ smuggling, or human trafficking, or something like that.”

  “It is crazy, and I didn’t expect you to believe me, but if you don’t act now, they will take another one,” insisted Julio.

  “Look, why don’t you just turn yourself in—”

  Julio ended the call. He hadn’t expected any help without evidence, but it was frustrating just the same. He tucked the phone in his pocket and skated for El Infierno.

  As he approached Abtao Street, he heard drums and singing. Then he remembered. Today was the big game between Alianza and La U, their cross-town rivals. It was the biggest game of the year—El Clásico. If he wanted to find Raúl and los mALditos, they would be at the game. Maybe he would finally get to watch a game inside the stadium.

  Calle Abtao led to the stadium and was packed with a sea of noisy fans decked out in blue and white. Barras bravas, the gangs of supporters like los mALditos, danced and shuffled to the beat of drums in long procession. They sang fight songs at the tops of their voices. They blew shrill whistles and chanted. They carried banners and waved their shirts above their heads.

  Looking like all the other fans in his Alianza jersey, Julio followed along on his skateboard weaving slowly along the sidewalk and looking for Raúl or any of los mALditos, but it was impossible to find anyone in the jubilant crowd of fans. The music and mood were intoxicating, and Julio found himself cheering along. It reminded him of Papá. When the crowd began singing the club anthem, he couldn’t help but sing along. It was a contagious feeling, a euphoria that lifted his spirits and excited him. Then a cheering fan cut in front of him with a blue T-shirt and white lettering that said “As immense as the sky; as big as the ocean; as important as my mother—Alianza Lima!”

  As important as my mother? The feeling of euphoria slipped away and guilt took its place. He refocused on finding Raúl.

  When he got to the stadium, several scalpers stood just outside the stadium hawking their tickets. Julio skated up to a pudgy man dressed from head to toe in blue and white and waving tickets in his hand. He wasn’t sure about using the money from the chip embedded in his pendant, but he needed to get into the game if he wanted any chance at finding Raúl before Isak. “What seats do you have and how much?”

  “Don’t bother me, muchacho. I’m trying to sell these tickets.”

  “Are they good seats?”

  “Tickets!” barked the scalper at the passing crowd. “Better than you can afford,” he said to Julio out of the side of his mouth.

  “Last chance. How much for two?”

  The man stopped and stared at Julio. “One thousand soles,” he said, sneering.

  “One thousand soles? For two tickets?” questioned Julio. “Are they box seats?”

  “They are tenth row just outside the section for Comando Sur. What did you expect to pay? This is el Clásico.”

  Julio knew his price was high, but he played along. “Will you accept a free chip payment?”

  The scalper wrinkled his brow. “Yes.”

  “I’ll give you four hundred soles for one.”

  The man raised an eyebrow and pulled out his phone. He tapped at the screen and handed it to Julio along with a ticket. Julio had no idea if the seat was good. He had never been inside the stadium. He looked down at the screen.

  “Just put in your password and the amount, and the ticket’s yours,” instructed the man.

  Julio held the phone and typed Angelica’s name, approved the transfer of four hundred soles, and handed back the phone. He kept the ticket.

  The scalper looked at his phone and grunted. “Enjoy the game.” Then he turned to the passing crowd and continued to hawk his remaining tickets.

  Julio shoved his skateboard into his backpack and shuffled along with the cheering crowd as it poured into the stadium, hoping to catch sight of Raúl, but it was impossible not to get excited about finally getting to watch Alianza Lima live.

  The sound in Estadio Alejandro Villanueva was deafening. The fans blew whistles. They blew horns or cheered. They lit fireworks. No one was quiet. To top it off, from time to time the entire stadium broke into song, as if they were some giant choir directed by an invisible director. Julio recognized some of the songs and sang along as he found his section and seat.

  The scalper hadn’t lied. The seat was in the tenth row not too far from the section owned by Comando Sur, the loose affiliation of gangs and barras bravas that packed a section of the stadium for every game. The entire section was cordoned off with a high chain-link fence. From his seat, Julio could see that except for a small section of red jerseys behind the visiting team’s bench, the entire stadium was a churning sea of blue and white. He was glad he had worn his Alianza jersey.

  When Alianza Lima took the field, the fans in the lower sections flooded the field with white streamers and fired off blue smoke that drifted and hovered above the crowd. The entire stadium chanted and moved in unison. An enormous Alianza banner was unfurled at the bottom of his section, and the crowd passed it overhead until it stretched out over his half of the stadium. The excitement and unity were electrifying. Julio grinned from ear to ear. He couldn’t believe he was actually at el Clásico. The banner was cleared and the crowd filled with anticipation as the players
faced off in the middle of the field.

  The game kicked off with a roar, and the pace of the game soon fell into a rhythm that oscillated between building excitement as Alianza attacked, followed by tense fear as La U advanced. The field and the fans were in constant motion. Players fought for position and chased the ball up and down the field as fans danced to songs and swayed and chanted in unison. In spite of all the motion and noise, nobody scored in the first half, and the tension began transforming into a rising frustration that seemed to move through the crowd like a fast-spreading virus. As the players left the field, Comando Sur broke into several taunting chants.

  Julio had watched the game during the first half, but during the break, he slipped down next to the perimeter fence and slowly made his way through the crowd to the section reserved for Comando Sur. The fence was at least fifteen feet tall and topped with concertina wire. Several white streamers were caught in the sharp barbs along the top and fluttered in the wind like birds caught in a trap. He would either have to try and get into the guarded section or look through the fence for Raúl. He turned and began climbing the stairs to the top, looking into the seething crowd as he continued upward. Before he got halfway to the top, the players returned to the field and the second half began. Julio went all the way to the top ignoring the game as he looked for any of the familiar faces from los mALditos.

  From the top of the stadium, he had a commanding view of the entire spectacle. The energetic spectators continued to bounce and sway as they sang song after song. From Comando Sur came the sound of beating drums, like some preparing war party, and the building angst among the barras bravas seeped out of their section like the sea fog that drifted in from the ocean and shrouded Lima each winter night. The players on the field looked like toy figures controlled by the will of the crowd.

  He stood and searched the crowd in vain for any sign of his brother. He assumed that Isak would make his move soon but began to think he wouldn’t do it at a venue as crowded as a soccer game. This might be his only chance to get to Raúl first. If not, he would hurry to El Infierno after the game. He was certain that Isak would make his move there. Nobody would care what happened to a bunch of gangbangers.