by Linda Barnes
“Your meter doesn’t show the fare,” I said.
“It’s on the card. Meter gives the time, the distance, the waiting time. You add that to the basic fare, unless you hire by the hour.” He handed me a card with a grid of prices. His photo in the upper left-hand corner looked stiff and solemn as a choirboy. There was an identity number and a name, Guillermo Santos.
The basic fare was a dollar. To rent the cab by the hour cost eight bucks. The cabbie swerved around a slow truck, the movement as gentle as cradling a baby.
“You ever work the airport?” I asked.
“Sure. Most nights I do at least one run.”
“Can I show you a photo? I’m looking for a girl who flew into El Dorado three nights ago.”
At a red light I passed both shots of Paolina forward. He didn’t ask whether they were the same girl, just studied each one intently.
“She steal something?”
“She’s my sister.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Pretty girl. She run away?”
“Do you know a nightclub called the Zona Rosa?”
He made a quick right, then a left. “Place on the road to Chia?” he said slowly. “That’s the only one I know. You ever been to Chia?”
“No. If I reserved your cab for the evening, would you pick me up here, at the hotel, at eight?”
His eyes lit up. “For the whole evening?”
“Four hours, minimum. You’d wait for me, bring me back. Could you do that? Would you have to okay it with your boss?”
“Zona Rosa, they’ll barely be open at eight. Let’s make it ten.”
“Fine,” I said. “Ten o’clock. You need a cash advance, to hold the cab?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Thank you, Senor Santos.”
“And you, Senorita…?”
“Carlyle.”
I overtipped and watched as he seamlessly reentered the stream of traffic. Must be the altitude, I thought. Look at me, trusting a guy because he knows how to drive a cab.
CHAPTER 20
I opened the door to my room cautiously, wishing I’d pasted a single red hair across the door jamb, like some old film-noir PI. As if that would work in a hotel. I flicked the light and discovered that the bed had been made and the carpet vacuumed. Dead giveaway: The maid had been and gone.
The message light on the phone flickered. I punched the button and listened to silence followed by the click of a receiver returning to the cradle. Someone had called and waited, then left no word on the tape. Luisa Cabrera? Her three hours were almost up.
I hauled my laptop out from under the bed and plugged it in. Gloria was on target; Roz had sent mail. I skimmed the details of Angel Navas’s career. Damn. The rumors that he’d taken over Roldan’s drug empire were as false as the tales of Roldan’s death. Navas had been extradited to the U.S. around the same time El Martillo’s plane had reportedly crashed. There were clips about his Florida trial. Guilty on eight counts of distribution, but it was the racketeering conviction that had gotten him transferred to the federal pen in Colorado where he died. No details on the cause of death. Prison brawl or heart attack, the result had been the same.
I’d asked Roz to check out the outfit named on Naylor’s phone bill, MB Realty Trust. I scrolled quickly through her report. MB Realty Trust, title holder of the house in which Naylor lived, was a wholly owned subsidiary of BrackenCorp, with a capital C. BrackenCorp was a Florida-based defense contractor, a billion-dollar outfit owned by one Mark Bracken.
Was Naylor filming a PR masterpiece for BrackenCorp? Was Naylor associated with BrackenCorp, or did the company simply own a lot of properties in the area? I typed the follow-up questions for Roz.
M.B. Mark Bracken. MB Realty Trust. I closed my eyes. I knew something about BrackenCorp, but what? Something to do with the war in Iraq, a no-bid contract scandal? Mark Bracken was definitely a presence, a somebody on the business pages of glossy magazines.
Roz’s correspondence continued. Sam had phoned and given her the Ignacio number. Had I called it, she wanted to know? Gotten results?
I stretched and glanced at my watch. Cabrera’s three hours were up. I checked her card, got an outside line, and punched the numbers.
“Hello?” She picked up her own line, sounding harried. No secretary.
I identified myself. There was a long silence, the kind a person might use to collect her thoughts.
“Ah, yes, Senora Carlyle. Sorry. I was expecting another call. Where are you?”
An interesting question. I ignored it and asked my own. “What have you decided?”
A pause. “That you were right. It isn’t my sort of story.”
“Then I’ll need to proceed on my own, with the authorities and with—”
“A moment, please.” Again, she hesitated a beat too long. “I have done some work on your behalf.”
I wondered whether that work might have involved an anonymous alert phoned in to the Gold Museum. She certainly sounded as though she were grasping at straws, as though she hadn’t expected to hear from me.
“If you still wish to have this story televised—”
“I do, since you can’t help me.”
“I have a friend. You have paper, pencil?”
I wrote while she spoke. She’d decided to pass on my story, but if I was determined to go public with Paolina’s disappearance, she could recommend a broadcaster named Rivas who worked at Caracol, a local network. Unfortunately, Senor Rivas was away on location and couldn’t be reached until tomorrow in the late afternoon. Of course, I could contact someone else, but Rivas would be perfect. She sounded friendly and sincere, not like the sort of woman who’d set me up for a visit to a jail cell.
“So there’s nothing else you can do?”
“Just direct you to Caracol. And the Gold Museum. You know, you definitely should go.”
“I did,” I said. “Very informative. I learned about the Cities of Stone, the Lost Cities.”
“Oh. Then you— I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for your call.” “By the way,” I said, “what can you tell me about Base Eighteen? Do you know where to find Base Eighteen?” A quick indrawn breath, silence.
“I’m so sorry,” she said abruptly, her voice almost cracking. “I have to run.” The receiver clicked firmly into the cradle.
I’m no human lie-detector, but either Base Eighteen meant something to Cabrera or I was no judge of vocal tension. Interesting.…In Boston, print journalists and TV reporters squabble. They don’t share. They don’t trade stories or help each other out. Possibly, what with journalists an endangered species, the game was played differently in Bogota. I phoned Caracol, the TV station. Yes, Rivas worked there, and no, he wasn’t currently available. That much was on the level.
Dammit. I was more certain than ever that Cabrera knew something. Frustrated, I tried Ignacio. The same woman with the same soft voice told me to call later.
“It is later,” I said. “When will he be back?”
“Soon.”
“It’s important.”
“Soon. Call back later.”
Another click. I glared at the silent receiver in my hand. A slow ache throbbed at my temples and I squeezed my eyes shut. Against the velvet blackness, images flashed: the showcase of martyred journalists, an array of rigid golden masks, child street-jugglers, museum guards.
I wondered what Santos, the cabbie, would say if I asked him where I could buy a gun.
CHAPTER 21
What does a woman wear to a bar?
Lord, what don’t women wear to bars? Call me sensitive about issues of appropriate bar dress, but when I was a cop, I got so damned tired of hearing the guys say: “Well, what did she expect?” Well, what did she expect wearing that mini-skirt? I’ve seen bikini bottoms with more coverage. Well, what did she expect, wearing that low-cut blouse, melons like those?
Well, truth be told, she probably expected admiration. Expected some guy to belly up to the bar and buy her a Margarita. Women
, I would say, do not head in droves to bars hoping to get raped. Rape is not fun. It’s painful and humiliating, has little to do with sex, and everything to do with anger and control. It’s about the perp, not the victim. Normal guys don’t rape, and rapists rape for reasons that go way beyond apparel.
Jeez, you broads have no sense of humor.
At a street vendor’s cart, I purchased a deep blue ruana, a wool shawl that could have been designed for the express purpose of blurring shape and height. At a drugstore, I debated home hair-dye kits. I didn’t want to stand out like a beacon tonight, but I was planning to drop Naylor’s name, and if someone called to check my bona fides, he’d remember me as a redhead. The drogueria had mirrors perched over the aisles to help the employees keep track of shoplifters.
I vetoed the dye, but since I was already in the hair aisle, decided I might as well arm myself. From a shelf of hairspray, I selected a small cylinder, almost as good as Mace or pepper spray, and really, what kind of judge would send a woman to prison for squirting an assailant in the face with hairspray?
What does a woman wear to a bar?
Jeans, the equalizer of fashion. Rich, poor, old, young, you can always get away with a good pair of jeans, and I’d seen enough of them on the local streets to feel comfortable choosing them. Scoop-neck tee; show a little cleavage, make like you belong. Scarf, no jewelry. I didn’t want to be the victim of a necklace grab-and-snatch. Thieves do pay attention to what you wear.
Shoes. Since I didn’t want to be taken for a working girl, the spike-heeled sandals I’d bought in Miami were out, and my business heels were too businesslike. At the last minute I’d tossed a pair of low-heeled sandals into my duffel, figuring they’d double as bedroom slippers. Not perfect by a long shot, but okay. I topped the ensemble off with the ruana.
My backpack was not a great fashion choice, but I didn’t have an alternative. I’m the same way at home. I don’t know how some women manage to switch purses all the time, coordinating bags with shoes and mood and who knows what else. When I pick a bag, I’m looking for a place to park my keys and Kleenex.
I usually need a place to park a gun, too. As I wedged the small cylinder of hairspray into the pocket of my jeans, I longed for the Smith .40 locked in my Cambridge desk and cursed the elusive Ignacio for his continued unavailability.
Not only was Santos a skillful driver, he was prompt. Arriving under the hotel’s awning at 9:58, he got out and held the door to the back seat. You can count the number of cabbies who’ll do that in Boston on the index finger of your right hand. Standing, he was skinny, a little under six feet. He wore the same floral shirt and dark slacks, but he’d combed his hair, slicked it back; I guess, to make himself look older. It made him look wide-eyed and vulnerable instead.
“Okay if I ride in front?” I asked. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
He promptly slammed the back door and opened the front. Flashed a smile.
The streets of Bogota are laid out in a grid, more like Manhattan than Boston. Carreras run from south to north, calles from east to west, crossing the carreras at ninety-degree angles. Then there are diagonales and transversales. We took a main road out of town to the north. He called it the autopista del Norte, and I remembered it from the map. We were headed up into the savanna.
“Beautiful country,” he murmured.
In the dark, I had to take his word for it. Occasional streetlights gave piercing views of twinkle-lit valleys, small towns or settlements so far below we might have been traveling in a low-flying plane. Once we passed a series of greenhouses, the long narrow buildings glistening white.
He talked about the Red Sox and I let the conversation wash over me, grunting an occasional response while watching the rearview mirror. The incline grew steeper. We passed bicyclists fighting their way uphill, reflectors glowing red on the narrow frames of racing bikes.
He talked about himself. He was a student, reading economic theory, cabbing part-time. The town further along the road, Chia, was his birthplace. Chia, a word in the native Chibcha language, meant “moon,” so Chia was the town of the moon. On the way back, perhaps we’d take a different route. The winding road called the Septima was more scenic. He chattered on nervously and I wondered what topic he was trying to avoid.
“I asked around about this place, the Zona Rosa.” He sounded uncomfortable. I waited for him to continue, but he stayed silent.
“Is it a place to get girls?” The prospect of escorting me to a whorehouse might account for his discomfort.
“No, no. It’s a bar.”
“Is prostitution legal here?”
“It’s a gray thing. The police don’t stop it, but you can’t advertise. The places exist, but they don’t have signs.”
“Do the cabbies direct the traffic?” It’s that way in a lot of cities. When I drive, plenty of men ask if I know where they can “have a good time” in Boston.
“Some,” Santos answered. “Not me. If someone asks, I take them to the Zona Rosa, the entertainment area. No brothels there. Drinks, lots of women, but not, you know, whores.”
“You ever take people to this place we’re going?”
“Not unless they ask.” He paused and licked his lips nervously. “There are rumors.”
I waited while he pulled around a slow-moving truck, a maneuver requiring full concentration, not to mention nerve.
He said, “At this place, there might be girls, a few rooms upstairs, you know? And drugs, mainly cocaine, but also basuca, which means there are fights, too. Not every night or the police would shut it down, but sometimes.” He paused. “I don’t think it’s good for you to go there.”
“I won’t stay long.”
“You think this girl you’re looking for went there? The one who ran away?”
“She was taken.” I may have said it more emphatically than necessary. It was important, an article of faith by now. “Taken? Why?”
“Her father’s Colombian.”
“And the mother American? She wanted to divorce?”
“Look, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that her father may have friends there. I want him to know I’m looking for him.”
He seemed troubled. “You’re paying for the cab for four hours.” “Yes, but it won’t take that long.”
“I’ll come with you, inside. A woman shouldn’t go to a bar alone.”
I opened my mouth to protest. A woman should; a woman shouldn’t. Santos might as well have worked at the cop house. Then I thought, Don’t be stupid. A woman walking into a bar with a man is more natural. It’s better cover.
“Thank you,” I said. “That’ll be great.”
Embarrassed, he muttered, “It’s up here on the left.”
He turned off onto a curvy road that hugged the side of a mountain, and I asked him about the white crosses by the roadside, thinking they might be some kind of native shrine.
“Just places where people died in car accidents.”
Great, I thought. No need to post speed limits.
“Here it is.”
Low and long, constructed entirely of wood, with a courtyard and outdoor picnic benches, the place was a cross between a log cabin and an overgrown barn. Bright lights illuminated a vast grassy parking area to the right. Fairy lights and strings of pennants gave the courtyard a festive used-car-lot atmosphere. Music poured through an open door guarded by a turnstyle and flanked by two guys built like upright freezers.
Neither asked for ID, but we got a thorough scanning, almost a memorization, as we paid the cover charge. The man on the left was armed, the bulge under the left arm unmistakable.
“You play basketball?” It was the cabbie’s first comment about my height and I admired both his circumspection and his restraint.
“Volleyball,” I said.
“You should play basketball.”
The place was even bigger than it seemed, a series of smaller rooms expanding into larger ones, at least two with raised dance floors. The rough-he
wn wooden rafters were festooned with star lights, banners, and neon signs for Bavaria beer. Costumed men and women, greeters and dancers, mingled with the paying customers. The costumed women wore tiny skirts that started well below the waist and shirts that ended just under their breasts, leaving a lot of taut bare skin in between. I’d have termed the outfits sexist if the men’s garb hadn’t been just as revealing. And the dancing, well, it was not what you’d see at the senior prom, unless all the chaperones were dead drunk. The noise pounded my ears, salsa amped to the max.
“Let me buy you a drink,” I yelled.
“A mojito would be fine.”
I got myself a beer. Club Colombia. Bottled.
If I were doing a search for a kid in the States, I’d have exercised my patience, had a few beers, watched the setup, especially after what I’d heard from Santos. I’d work with a partner and we’d check the layout, identify entrances and exits, chart the flow of movement, see what the patterns were. Prostitution has a pattern. Drug deals have a pattern; buyers come, money changes hands, product changes hands.
Instead I watched the dancers, glued to each other from chest to thigh, hips punctuating the beat. I hadn’t had much sleep and I had a full day tomorrow with Base Eighteen to find and visit, and a television reporter to convince. I was impatient. Jumpy. You might say reckless.
When the bartender brought the drinks, I dove in. “The manager here tonight?”
“Why? You dance? You want a job?”
Guillermo leaned over and said, “No, she wants to complain about the service.”
Both bristled. The bartender might have had an attitude problem, but I was surprised to find Santos acting in such a proprietorial way, like I really was his date, and the bartender had insulted me.
I spoke quickly to settle any ruffled macho feathers. “Hey, he didn’t mean anything. Just tell me who to talk to. I like to talk to managers. I’m friendly.”
“The manager doesn’t see people.”
