by Elise Noble
“That’s right.”
A girl to the barman’s left had been watching the whole exchange with interest. Or possibly incredulity. She tapped the ash off the glowing end of her cigarette before speaking.
“Roscoe. You’re looking for Roscoe.”
“Roscoe?”
“Yeah, but I haven’t seen him for weeks. Usually, he hangs out at El Bajo Tierra.”
El bajo tierra? The underground?
“The club in Laureles?” Esther asked.
Thank goodness one of us was up to speed on Medellín’s nightlife.
“That’s it. Let me give you a piece of advice, chica.” She gave her head a shake, and I knew inside she was laughing at me. “Roscoe’s an asshole. Just burn the damn sock.”
She followed the bartender back inside. The door slammed behind them, leaving me with Esther and a barely controllable urge to murder my friend.
“A hook-up? A one-night freaking stand?”
“A sock?”
“I panicked, okay?”
“At least we got Roscoe’s name, and it’s still only nine o’clock. Ready to go underground?”
Esther wiggled her hips, and I groaned out loud. The further I got down this rabbit hole, the more uncomfortable I felt.
“No. No, I’m not. We really haven’t thought this through. I mean, what happens if we find this man? Do we just ask him about Izzy?”
“Girl, have you lost your mind? If he is holding her hostage, he might…”
She made a slashing motion across her neck, and I feared she was enjoying this escapade a little too much.
“This isn’t fun, you know.”
“Oh, I totally get that. Sorry.” She looked at her feet, contrite. “But it’s more exciting than yoga.”
The whole thing was a bad, bad idea.
“So we don’t tip our hand to Roscoe… Then what? We go to the police?”
In Esther’s eyes, the student-teacher role had clearly been reversed, and I realised I was about to get a lecture.
“Corazon da Silva, use that brain of yours for just one minute. The police confirmed Isabella’s death, didn’t they? If they made a mistake, they won’t want to admit it, and what if it’s worse? What if they’re involved?”
“Now you think the police are involved?”
“There could have been a cover-up. Colombia’s almost as bad as Haiti when it comes to government corruption.”
“Colombia’s come a long way in the last decade.”
Her tone softened. “I know that, but…”
Yeah, corruption was still rife. We both understood that.
“So what can we do?”
Her eyes sparkled in the flickering light from the exit sign. “Take a look for ourselves.”
Break into Roscoe’s home?
“No way. Last time you tried that, you got caught.”
“Only because Mr. Bellingham forgot his grocery coupons and came back home early. A fluke, that was all.”
“If Roscoe is holding Izzy prisoner, he might lock us up too.”
Esther pondered that for a moment.
“You’re right. What we need is a lookout.”
Drag a poor, innocent third party into this scheme?
“A lookout. Brilliant. Do you have anyone in mind?”
She totally ignored my sarcasm. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. First, we need to find Roscoe.”
“You’re serious? Tonight?”
“There’s no time like the present.”
CHAPTER 3 - CORA
AS ITS NAME suggested, El Bajo Tierra was located in a basement, not that the earth did much to muffle the heavy base throbbing from the sound system. The thump-thump-thump clashed with my rapidly beating heart and gave me palpitations.
A gaggle of girls hanging around outside all wore skirts shorter than their heels and left me feeling decidedly underdressed. For a moment, I worried we wouldn’t be allowed in, but the bouncer waved us to the front of the line and gave me a slow, sleazy appraisal, held out his hand for the sixty-thousand-peso cover charge, and lifted the velvet rope.
“Rumour has it a drug lord owns this place,” Esther told me as we picked our way down the stairs in near darkness.
“Dare I ask which one?”
“El Gato.”
The Cat, also known as Eduardo Garcia. And rumour also said Garcia once dissolved a man in acid while the poor sod was still alive.
“Perhaps we should go home.”
“Oh, don’t be such a chicken. He’s not gonna kill us for visiting his nightclub.”
Logic said that was true, but for me, logic went out the window when it came to the drugs trade, replaced by fear, hatred, and terrible memories. Still, now wasn’t the time to rake over my past.
“You might even enjoy yourself,” Esther added as we walked into the club proper.
Unlikely.
Café Bourbon had been colourful in its own way—neon signs, bright cocktails, a rainbow of outfits—but El Bajo Tierra was just dark, dark, dark. From the strangely haunting music to the ebony bar to the black clothes worn by almost every patron, the atmosphere sent a tingle of fear up my spine. The only respite from the gloom came from the waitresses gliding past, whose catsuits glowed under the ultraviolet lights. And when I said catsuits, I really meant skintight kitty costumes. Tails, whiskers, and silver freaking claws.
Guess the rumours were true.
I was edging towards the bar, parched from the heat, when Esther elbowed me in the side.
“I see him!”
“Who? Roscoe?”
“No, freaking Yoda.”
With Esther’s penchant for conspiracy theories, that was entirely possible.
“Where is he?”
“There, by that platform thing.”
Ah yes, the one with the half-naked girls dancing on it. Their tiny skirts and halter-neck tops left almost nothing to the imagination, and I felt weirdly self-conscious in my jeans. But then I spotted Roscoe. Tousled blond hair, a straight, slender nose that turned up slightly at the end, and a shirt that stretched tight over his chest. He’d opened enough buttons to let a smattering of hair show. Preppy meets pimp.
“Now what?” Esther asked. “Should we go over?”
No need. I’d spent too long staring, which meant he caught me looking, and now he was headed in our direction. Oh, shit. I frantically searched for the bathroom, but I’d have had to walk past him to reach it.
Normally, I liked confidence in a man, mainly because it made up for my lack of it. But tonight, as Roscoe stopped a foot away and looked me in the eye, I kind of wished he’d kept watching from afar.
“Pareces periódico,” he said.
“I look…newspaper?”
Confusion crossed his face for a second before his cocky grin came back. “Perdido. I meant perdido. You look lost. And it seems your English is better than my Spanish.”
“Then shall we speak English?”
He nodded. “That’d stop me from making any more stupid mistakes. First time at El Bajo Tierra?”
“How did you guess? Me and my friend wanted a change of scene, and someone suggested this place.”
“Your friend?”
“Yes, my…” I looked to my left, but Esther had vanished. “She was right here.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s having a good time. Let me buy you a drink.”
“But I don’t know you.”
My phone buzzed with a thumbs-up emoticon from Esther. Dammit, she was supposed to be my wingwoman, and now I’d have to kill her later. I conjured up a smile for Roscoe. He couldn’t do anything criminal in a public place, could he? El Gato probably had heavily armed foot soldiers hidden away in closets, just waiting for an excuse to prove the size of their cojones. Unless Roscoe was somehow connected with Eduardo Garcia… No, that didn’t bear thinking about.
Roscoe leaned in closer, and for a moment, I thought he was going to kiss my cheek. But he only smiled, thank goodness.
“Is that your first name or your last name?”
A shrug. “Just Roscoe.”
He raised an eyebrow expectantly.
“I’m C—” Mierda. What if Izzy had mentioned my name to him? “Catalina. I’m Catalina.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“Most people just call me Lina. And thank you, I’d love a drink.”
I needed a drink. My mouth was drier than the Atacama Desert.
“What do you want?”
“Diet cola.”
He stared at me.
“With, uh, aguardiente.”
He ordered himself a beer, then put his hand on the small of my back as he led me over to an empty table. Don’t shudder, Cora. At least El Bajo Tierra was emptier than Café Bourbon. If I’d been this close to Roscoe there, I wouldn’t have been able to breathe. As it was, I had to stop myself from hyperventilating.
“So, Lina-Catalina… Why did you want a change of scene?”
I really hadn’t thought this through, had I?
“My ex-boyfriend used to take me out to expensive restaurants all the time, and now when I see a fancy menu, it brings back horrible memories.”
“Bad break-up?”
“I found out he was only dating me to get back at his wife for cheating on him.”
Hopefully, Roscoe hadn’t watched that particular telenovela episode the night before last.
“Ouch. Well, you’ve come to the right place. El Bajo Tierra doesn’t even serve food.”
“Why do you come here?”
“The music. The people. The atmosphere.”
The cocaine? I hadn’t seen anyone openly taking drugs, but it would make sense for El Gato to use the club as a sales outlet.
“It’s not as busy as I thought it would be.”
“They’re picky about who they let in.”
“Really? I didn’t even have to wait in line.”
“Like I said… Have you lived in Medellín your whole life, Lina?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you speak English with a British accent. That’s not something you hear often around here.”
But he’d have heard it from Izzy. My great-grandparents, Marisol’s parents, had been British missionaries, and their way of speaking had been passed down through our family. Izzy’s too, because my grandma and her mother before her had taught English to anyone in our village who wanted to learn. How much of that had Izzy told Roscoe?
“I studied in England. Have you been there?”
Please say no, because I’ve never once set foot out of Colombia.
“Not yet. It’s on my bucket list. I’ve always wanted to travel around Europe.”
Phew. I started breathing again.
“What brought you to Medellín? You’re American, right?”
He nodded. “Walnut Creek, California. I moved here a few years ago for work.”
“What do you do?”
“Exports. My fellow countrymen pay top dollar for Colombian handicrafts.”
“Handicrafts?”
That wasn’t what I’d expected.
“Jewellery, purses, clothing, furniture. You know what this month’s bestseller is?”
“What?”
“Hammocks. My online store got featured in a lifestyle magazine, and I can’t get enough of them. Women in three villages are working around the clock.” He reached out to touch my necklace. “Where did you get this?”
“From El Pulguero.”
I named the big market in Llanogrande, when in actual fact, the piece of jewellery was Izzy’s handiwork. Making jewellery was something she’d always done, even through the difficult years. She had an artist’s soul. Perhaps that was why she’d got involved with Roscoe? Because she thought he could sell some of her pieces?
“That’s only on four times a year?”
I nodded.
“Too bad. I’ll have to make sure I visit next time. I could clean them out of trinkets like those.”
The whole conversation left me off balance. Roscoe was friendly, charming even, and if I hadn’t suspected him of doing something really, really awful to Izzy, I’d probably have liked him. Was this how she felt when they first met? Flattered? Intrigued? As if she were the centre of Roscoe’s world?
Another guy stopped beside us, a Colombian by the look of him.
“Quiubo, parce?” What’s up, bro? “You have a new friend?”
“This is Catalina.” Roscoe tapped his head near the corner of his eye. “And her face is up here.”
The newcomer slowly raised his gaze. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and I got a hint of dimples. He was too cute to be scary but too confident for me to relax.
“Your first time in El Bajo Tierra?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of the club so far?”
I held up my glass. “First drink. But okay, I guess.”
“What did he buy you? Aguardiente? Parcero, this is a five-star girl. You buy her a five-star drink.” He clicked his fingers, and one of the cat-women appeared instantly. “Maria, bring a glass of champagne for the lady.”
“There’s no need—”
He acted as if I hadn’t spoken. “We have a large selection of European drinks. Six different kinds of gin. I’d recommend the Bombay Sapphire.”
“But no food?”
“You’re hungry? I’ll make a reservation for you at the restaurant next door.”
“No! I mean, no thank you. I’m not hungry—it was just an observation.”
Another faint smile. “In that case, enjoy the dancing.”
He melted back into the crowd, leaving me alone with Roscoe and a glass of chilled champagne. I wasn’t sure what to make of the encounter.
“Do you know that guy?” I asked Roscoe. “Is he a friend?”
“Marco. His father owns this place, and the restaurant next door too. He likes to keep track of who’s in here, especially if they’re as pretty as you.”
Great. Now I’d caught the attention of a drug lord’s son, and Roscoe had carefully dodged my question about whether they were friends. The air conditioner in the club was working overtime, but still a bead of sweat rolled down my spine. This undercover thing was hard.
“Do you live near here?” I asked.
“Not so far away. La Florida.”
No, not Florida in the USA. La Florida was a barrio in the El Poblado neighbourhood, and if Roscoe could afford to live there, then his export business must have been doing very well indeed. The place was full of ex-pats and luxury high-rise apartments, and ranked firmly as an estrato six.
I took a sip of my champagne, stalling for time because I didn’t know what to say to men at the best of times, let alone men I suspected of kidnapping my best friend.
“And your office? Is that nearby?”
“In Campo Amor, near the airport. But enough about me—I’d rather hear about you, Lina-Catalina. Where do you live?”
“Conquistadores.” Esther had got me into this mess, so the least she could do was lend me her address. “Near the Unicentro mall.”
“You live with your family?”
“No, it’s just me. I’m an only child, and my parents died in a car crash.”
He reached across the table and squeezed my hand—a gesture of sympathy rather than anything creepy.
“I’m sorry.”
“It happened a long time ago. As long as I keep busy, I’m okay.”
“Do you work?”
“Of course. I’m an English…administrative assistant. I mean, I’m an administrative assistant for an English company. They sell, uh…” Think, Cora. Think. “Speakers. They sell speakers.”
How did people do this undercover thing for a living?
“Speakers?”
“For music.”
Luckily, the music came to my rescue. The song changed to something more upbeat, and Roscoe held out a hand.
“Dance?”
/> “What about our drinks?”
“In here? They’ll be fine.”
“Really?” I’d heard enough horror stories about date-rape drugs.
“Trust me.”
Trust him? I choked back a laugh. How could I possibly trust him knowing what I knew? But I took his hand and let him lead me to the dance floor, following—quite literally—in Izzy’s footsteps. Where would they take me?
CHAPTER 4 - CORA
MIERDA, MY HEAD hurt. Not just from last night’s alcohol consumption and the music and the lack of sleep, but because I was confused as hell. I’d danced with Roscoe for almost an hour, and when I twisted my ankle, he’d half carried me outside and helped me into a cab. Sweet. He’d even offered to see me home, but that would have been super awkward since Esther was still hiding in the ladies’ bathroom. As it was, I had to get the driver to wait around the corner until she could escape and join us.
“This is going so well,” she squealed as she climbed into the back seat beside me. “Don’t you think?”
“No! You abandoned me.”
“Only because I thought Roscoe might recognise me from last time in Café Bourbon. I panicked, and I’m so sorry.”
I suppose she did have a point. “My ankle’s swelling up already.”
“Here, take a painkiller.” She fumbled in her purse and handed me a packet. “But that wasn’t what I meant. Roscoe likes you. I saw you dancing.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. He wanted my phone number.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“No, but I took his.”
“What about his address? Did you get that?”
“I only know he lives in El Poblado.”
“Then you’d better call him and set up a second date.”
Now, alone in my bedroom, I had space to think, but my trip to El Bajo Tierra had left me with more questions than answers. And it wasn’t a first date, for goodness’ sake, no matter what Esther might say.
What to do…
If I’d met Roscoe in any other situation, I’d absolutely have called him. He’d acted like a complete gentleman, and I struggled to imagine him kidnapping Izzy. Why would he even have needed to? If he treated her the way he’d treated me yesterday evening, surely she’d have spent time with him willingly? Any red-blooded woman would. What if Esther’s theory was totally wrong?
