I opened my eyes and blinked a few times, glancing around without moving my head. Above me was a white ceiling. To my left was a large window, to my right a bedside table with a lamp on it. I was lying on something soft but disgustingly sticky. The stench of blood made me nauseous. My heart was pounding in my chest like crazy—slowing down, then suddenly starting. My head ached. My whole face throbbed like a freshly pierced lump. I felt like all my teeth were about to fall out.
I struggled to sit up in bed. My head detached itself from the pillow with a sickening thud—black with blood. So did my hair. All my belongings were scattered on the floor—pants, shoes, shirt, socks, underwear. I sat on the edge of the bed, completely naked, pale, bloody, sore, and confused. I had just enough clarity to decide that before I got dressed, I needed a bath and a hair wash; I went out
into the hallway, trying to find the bathroom. Hearing the sound of the shower, I immediately realized it was two rooms away. Someone was taking a shower. I stood by the door for a moment. But I was curious about the source of the blood, and I wanted a drink, and I decided it wasn't proper for Luca to be rummaging through someone's refrigerator. So I tried the doorknob. It gave way; the door wasn't locked.
The brass knob was also caked with clotted blood. My blood, I only then realized. The same blood that was on the pillow and on the back of my head.
When I entered the bathroom, the girl didn't scream in terror, as women usually do when they find her naked. She didn't try to cover herself either. And why would she, after all, when I'd already seen her naked? She stood there staring at me blankly with round, bulging eyes, her mouth open. She searched my face with stunned eyes.
"What's your name?"
"What?" she squealed, frozen in place, naked and wet in the shower. "
I wanted to know your name."
"Claudia..." she replied quietly, uncertainly.
"Hi! It was nice meeting you," I said, then stepped closer and landed a solid right hook on Claudia. She stumbled and hit her head hard against the white wall, cutting her forehead. She bounced off it and slipped, losing her balance. As she fell, she hit her head on the edge of the shower stall.
I watched her blood pour down the tile floor. I stepped back and stood in the bathroom doorway. There, I waited for her to bleed out. I carefully observed her naked, tanned body, dripping with water, blood, and lust, watching for any unwelcome signs of consciousness.
I waited ten minutes. I calmed down when she didn't move after that. I didn't touch her, didn't check her pulse. I stepped into the shower, careful not to trip or slip, and swiveled under the hot spray to thoroughly rinse the dried blood off me.
Just then, a familiar, searing pain flared up on my right arm. I instinctively grabbed the stinging spot. A tattoo, I remembered. I removed my hand and saw an inflamed, slightly blurred design on my skin—just like yesterday.
A seven.
***
I washed my hair with her women's shampoo. Judging by her beautiful, shiny hair, it was really good. It smelled nice; and it thoroughly washed away the dried blood. I dried myself, got dressed, and combed my hair. I brushed my teeth with her toothbrush. I just didn't use her perfume.
I noticed my pockets were empty. The whore had seduced me, dragged me home, and beaten me to death, and even stole my change. She was a fucking hag! I looked around the room, wondering where she could have hidden it. She wasn't very resourceful. I found a wad of my pesos stuffed into my wallet at the bottom of a white woman's purse. I pulled out my money and hers and put it in my pocket.
I checked the time. It was almost six in the morning.
I left, locking the door and putting the key in my pocket. As quietly as I could, I descended the stairs and stepped out onto the street. It was already light, but cool; quiet and deserted. A new day was just beginning. My first night in San Sebastian was behind me. A hard one, because it was hard, but at least I hadn't lost a penny. In fact, I left richer than I'd arrived. But it was a fluke, a fluke, and I didn't intend to continue earning money in such a complicated way. Although you never know. When poverty gets to you, you forget your promises. You can get bruised and your teeth knocked out for a few pesos. Rubbing my jaw, I decided I'd find myself some meaningful work and a place to stay that very day.
I walked around the city, looking for something, some place to hang out. I searched the windows of shops for signs asking for help. I found nothing. I wanted to help with the crates; Unloading, loading into the truck. I asked in restaurants if they needed someone to take and deliver orders, or wash dishes; I didn't push my way into the kitchen. Sometimes they politely refused, sometimes they just looked at me with contempt, so much so that I could barely bring my fists to my chest. They also had enough workers in the warehouses; besides, they didn't pay very well. I wandered around San Sebastian, going in and asking everywhere where they could hire someone straight off the street, without preparation or questions, and get paid straight to my hand. I found nothing.
Late in the afternoon, I gave up. On aching legs, I dragged myself to the nearest restaurant and ordered—just like yesterday—a spicy burrito and orange soda. And right then, while chowing down on beans with a throat-burning sauce, I realized something. I'd been wandering around looking for a job I didn't want. Waiting at the table, washing dishes, or carrying boxes—these weren't my cup of tea. I simply wasn't cut out for honest work; for sweating it out all day just to earn money for a burrito, an orange soda, and a pillow. From a young age, I'd been working under the table. I stole, I did mischief. Naturally, I fell in with the right crowd, and then I stole and did even more, and the money came in bigger and bigger. The local mafia took our whole gang under its wing – because we were good, guys with potential, and they wanted us for themselves, not against each other. That's when things got rough. I'd never carried a gun before, and at most, I'd pull out a knife as a scare tactic, and that usually worked. But you got used to it. It's tough at first, but then it just keeps going – and the only thing you have to be careful about is not getting too carried away. Woe betide anyone who thinks they can play games with the boss. Steal his cash and drugs, and make even bigger bucks on the side. He'll find out sooner or later. He pulls all the strings, including the police – so if he wants, he'll kill any sly guy, even in jail, and no one sees a thing, no one knows a thing. Or they'll take him out of town, shoot him in the head, and leave him – and no one will care. It's the norm. And even though I got burned on that job, that was all I knew how to do – work around the clock. I'd learned from my own mistakes what I shouldn't do – so it was high time I made some money doing something I knew how to do. Something illegal and punishable. And you don't look for that kind of work during the day. This job will find you on its own, in the dark of night.
***
Some pop music with a touch of real music blared from the speakers. I stood at the bar, leaning my back against the counter, my back to the bartender, casually sipping an orange drink. I hadn't been on the dance floor once that evening. Occasionally, something suitable for hanging out would come on, but I kept watch at the bar. I wasn't there for fun. Even when a chick approached me, I'd more or less politely brush her off – after yesterday, I had a slight aversion to women. Besides, I wasn't there for a pick-up line – although, admittedly, I did intend to make a few new friends. But I was interested in networking. Plugs. To meet someone useful, someone who could get me the job I was suited for. So I stood there, drinking, and trying to look like a trustworthy sly guy.
When some kid—about seventeen, I guess—approached me with a sly smile, I knew it was my day.
"Oh, a new face, I see," he said, as if he'd instantly spotted a good opportunity.
I waited until he sat down on the stool at the bar next to me. Of course, I sensed an opportunity too, but I didn't want to show too much enthusiasm. Merchandise that immediately leaps into a customer's arms becomes less attractive. So I waited in silence and let him continue.
"Drive-by?" he asked.
I nodded, not looking at him. I squinted at the dancing crowd on the dance floor. Modern disco was playing. Not my thing at all.
"There's a job," he continued, "and you seem like the perfect guy for it.
A good deal. He could have found about twenty more perfectly suited guys in the disco alone. If I'd brushed him off, he'd have walked up to the guy two meters away and given him the same bullshit. But I wasn't about to let him go. I was curious what he had for me—and he didn't look like a salesman for anything legal. Like me, he'd probably never washed dishes in a bar either. He was just like me a few years ago. Small, but sly and important. And he didn't come here to drink, party, or make out. He was working. Late at night, in a dark disco, that's where these kinds of sly guys do their best business.
"What kind of job?" I finally asked, still pretending to be mildly curious.
He didn't answer immediately. He looked at me pointedly—it could only mean one thing. I raised my eyebrows, almost asking for confirmation. He nodded at me significantly. Drugs—of course. Something big was brewing, or they wouldn't be looking for a dealer. Someone like him could have handled the deal—any kid with a sly look. They probably needed an adult for something more serious.
"We're moving the stuff across the ocean."
I just nodded, so he continued. Looking at me intently, like a buyer looking at the stuff, he explained:
"We have buyers for our coke in Los Angeles. We just need someone to transport it for us.
" "And that has to be me, right?"
"Oh, how clever! I've got it.
" "Don't be silly," I muttered. "Go on.
" "The trick is, we don't hide it in our luggage or tape it to our bodies. That's why I couldn't approach just anyone with it. You know, if we could hide it anywhere, I'd have handed it over to that girl. But we need a tough guy here, but one who doesn't have to be shouted at in the face that he's a thug. And you look like one to me. He's supposed to be just an ordinary guy here, but he knows his own kind."
I raised my eyebrows. He was pretty good. And I was curious what to do next.
"So how am I supposed to transport the goods? Sniff them in and sneeze them out?
" "Good, good!" he laughed softly. "You'll be carrying them here," he replied, poking me in the stomach, just below the ribs.
I widened my eyes at him. He noticed this, so he quickly started to calm me down.
"Easy! There'll be a hundred tiny plastic capsules. You'll swallow them and you won't even notice. In a suitcase or on you, a dog would sniff them out in a second. And we don't want that. They won't find it in your stomach, even if you belch in a policeman's face. Think about it—five thousand for the whole thing. Dollars, that is. Fifty for each capsule. Are you in?
It wouldn't be wise to back out right now. The guy laid out the shady deal in black and white, and although I still didn't know who, what, and where, and I hadn't even seen the goods—he was ready to punch me in the guts so I wouldn't accidentally splash anything.
"That's fine.
" "Do you have a passport?
" "Well, that's a slight problem. They cut my papers.
" "Oh, my ass," the boy said sourly. "Pedro!" he shouted to the crowd.
A tall guy with a slight mustache stumbled out from among the dancers.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Try to get that guy, that little guy, to come out with his papers, okay?
" "Should I check his pockets or take him outside and hide the guy with the guys there?
" "Do whatever you want! I want papers for that man," he said, nodding at me.
"We'll do it," Pedro assured me, and walked away.
"Well, you've got it," he smiled at me arrogantly. "Now we just need to get you a passport and you're off."
***
We left the club well after midnight—it might have been two or three. Me, the Bastard, Pedro, and another guy, also underage. Pedro led us down the street. A white car was parked on the corner. He started fumbling with the key in the driver's side lock. It took him a long time; he was really drunk and couldn't find the lock.
"Hey, guy, come on, I'll drive!" I said, pushing him away from the door.
"Fuck off!" Pedro muttered. "That's my car!"
"Tell him something, or I'll punch him in the face.
" "It's his car," the little bastard shrugged, smiling dismissively. I'd have loved to punch him too—but now he was my employer. "Are you coming with us or not?" he asked.
Without a word, I got into the car, sitting behind the driver. As he pulled away, completely sober and skillfully backing out and turning onto the street, I growled right behind his ear,
"If anything happens to me, I'll kill you, you hear?
" "Easy, easy," he waved me off.
"Don't distract the driver, he'll kill us," the brat said mockingly from the front seat. The guy next to me chuckled stupidly.
Pedro drove through town, in the middle of the night, at full throttle. I started to regret getting in; or not punching his face in the face so he'd give me the wheel. Or even getting involved with those bastards. The car was going like a sledgehammer. The tipsy lad was tearing ahead, either utterly confident in his abilities or so hot he didn't care. He seemed to be handling well—no shaking on straights, smooth corners, and always somehow fitting into the road. My only fear was that something unexpected would suddenly jump out of the darkness—a dog, a cat, a person, or a tree—that we'd kill something or someone, or hit something, and that would be the end of us. When something spun, first under the front wheels, then the rear, I didn't even want to guess what it was. I was a bit drunk myself, so everything started to sag, and then I became completely dizzy and couldn't think clearly.
The guy next to me rolled down his window and looked out with a blissful expression. At one point, he simply threw up. He vomited at 60 km/h, splashing the street, the car door, and the edge of the seat. Then, calmly as he could, he rolled up the window and sat back down, leaning his back against the vomit. I shuddered; I stared blankly at the back of the driver's head. I was feeling a little dizzy and tired. I just wanted to lie down and sleep until noon.
A shout from the Bastard jolted me out of my stupor.
"Man!"
The car braked suddenly. If I had a seatbelt, they would have broken my ribs. But they weren't. I slammed my face into the back of the seat.
***
"Hey, dude, are you alive?"
I felt someone shaking me.
"Get the fuck out of the car, you're not going to rot in my seats!" Pedro muttered, tugging at my shirt.
I grabbed his wrist and squeezed it so hard that he squealed like a pinched three-year-old. I looked up at him, ready to beat his face into a bloody pulp. I pushed him out and got out of the car myself.
"Shush, fuck! Don't make smoke!" the Bastard scolded us in a low voice. "That's all we need! If they catch us for knocking that guy out, we're out. "
I looked at him, dumbfounded.
"Oh yeah, you kind of went off the rails then." The Bastard scratched his head. "Well, there was a little bang. I hope there's no marks on the hood, because if they associate us with that, it'll be bad.
" I blinked. I wanted to say something, but I just stood there for a moment, mouth agape, like an idiot.
"Are you okay?" he asked, still casually.
"I guess..." I replied. My head hurt a bit, and so did my nose—but other than that, everything was fine.
On some strange feeling, I pulled up my sleeve to examine the reddened tattoo.
And yet. A seven.
"Nice tattoo," the guy sitting in the car next to me observed curiously, puking out the window at full throttle.
We rolled into one of the apartments near the parked white car—Bastard, Pedro, the puke, and finally me. The first one turned on the meager light in the only room they had.
"Lie down wherever you want," he told me.
I looked around the dingy room. Dirty clothes were strewn across the floor—shirts, socks, pants. A half-eaten burrito was drying on the table; two empty bottles of beer stood beside it. Under the window was a bed, and opposite were two armchairs. Perpendicular to them was an old, ripped sofa upholstered in fabric. Since he was so hospitable, I decided to take advantage of it—I stretched out on the bed. Without a sheet, without bedding, and without taking off my clothes, I jumped on it so hard that the springs creaked, and that's how I fell asleep—I don't know when.
***
Feeling a hand on my buttock, I woke up and sobered up faster than if someone had shoved smelling salts up my nose up to my tonsils. I wriggled around, blindly aiming my elbow behind me. I rolled onto my back, the bed springs creaking beneath me. One of the puppies landed heavily on the floor.
"Which one?" I grumbled, getting up.
Pedro was sitting on the ground, staring at me, dumbfounded.
"You... you're not a sexy blonde in a bikini," he muttered, turning pale.
"I'll fucking kill you, you drugged-out faggot!" I roared and threw myself at him, pinning him to the ground.
"Hey, boys, I'm not forbidding you," said the ever-cool Bastard, "but not like this in front of people. "
The puked-covered man grabbed my arm and twisted it around.
"Calm down!"
I stood up and abruptly backed away, pushing him against the wall. He let go of my hand. I was about to turn and shoot him when, behind me, in the other corner of the room, I heard a quiet but very familiar crack.
"Relax, buddy! We don't want any trouble here," the Bastard began slowly. "And I certainly wouldn't want to shoot you.
" "Okay... Cool, that was off the table," I replied, resigned, turning away from the Puke.
"Yeah!" the Bastard nodded approvingly. He cocked the safety and tucked it into his belt.
Pedro slowly rose from the floor.
"Jesus Christ! A man's sound asleep, dreaming he's fucking a nice ass, and then suddenly—cunt!—an elbow in the face!
" "You grabbed my ass, you faggot!" I growled at him.
He winced in pain and disgust.
"Ah! My arm!" Give me a knife, I'll go cut it off!
"Don't overdo it," said the Scumbag. "Go wash it properly, and maybe in a few days you'll be able to eat normally with it. Just don't wipe it on my towel, or I'll shoot you like a dog."
The stupid hen disappeared down the hall, then into the bathroom, where he was probably scrubbing his hand until it bled. I was planning to go after him and wash his buttocks. And burn my pants after breakfast.
" "Do you have anything to eat here?"
The scoundrel looked confused for a moment, but didn't show it.
"What you see," he said with his usual irony, pointing to the table. Burritos, even more dried out than yesterday, and empty bottles. "The only thing to drink is what you have here.
" "You, listen," I interrupted the scoundrel. "What's your real name?
" "Pablo.
" "I'm Luca.
" "No," he said.
"What, no?
" "That's your name now," he said, showing me his ID card. "Ronaldo Ruiz." "Here, keep it. We'll get a picture when we get the passport ones. "
Pedro emerged from the bathroom after a good five minutes.
"Pedro, this is Ronaldo," Pablo pointed at me.
The stupid hen was about to reach out and shake mine, but he stopped himself just in time. I wouldn't touch the hand that grabbed a guy's ass myself—even if it was me.
***
Pablo sent Pedro and Guillermo—that's his nickname, Puke—out for food, beer, and a few other things. They were gone for about half an hour. I watched through the curtain as the white car pulled away from the window, then sat down in the armchair opposite the brat. I figured this would be a good time to ask more about the job—what exactly, how, where, when—because he hadn't said anything yet. He clearly didn't want to talk in front of the others. But when I sat down and turned to him, he started talking before I could say anything.
"We're leaving for Puerto Vallarta tomorrow morning. You have a flight from there in two weeks. We'll take you to a hotel, and you'll stay there until you leave. The hotel is paid for those two weeks, so don't worry about that. You can lie there the whole time, eating hot dogs and carrots, and no one will kick you out. You can wander around, sightsee—and no one will want anything from you." Whatever happens, I'll be the only one in contact with you. You'll get a cell phone so I can reach you or arrange a meeting if necessary.
"What about the money? When and how much?
" "I'll come to you the day before departure, with the money and the goods. It's the same deal I told you. One hundred capsules, five grand. Each capsule is fifty bucks—how much you swallow, how much money you get! Hand to hand—no scams! I won't screw you over, and you won't screw me over. Got it?
" "Granted," I nodded. "What about the passport?
" "We'll do it. We just need to get your passport photos taken, and then we'll get the passport. A week—and you'll have a decent paper for a fake name.
" "Ronaldo Ruiz," I recalled it aloud.
"Exactly. Remember it. That's your name now.
" "Okay. And what about that flight?
" "Like I said—two weeks. You're flying out Friday afternoon on the twentieth." An hour and you're in Los Angeles. Straight ahead, no hassle, no transfers.
- And then what?
"Our colleagues will be waiting for you there. You won't have to look for them—they'll find you themselves, and then you'll go to the hotel, and that's where..." Pablo paused, as if searching for the right word. "...handing over the goods.
" "Oh, everything's clear..." I nodded. "Wait a minute! Handing over the goods? So... if I have it in my stomach... then... I'm supposed to shit it out there for them?!
The bastard looked at me with a smile, shrugging.
"That's not my thing! If you have any objections to shitting it out, throw it up on their table if you want. I don't care. As far as I'm concerned, you can pee it out, cough it out, sneeze it out, or give yourself a C-section with a sharpener. The only thing that matters to me is that the goods get through to the other side. I'm taking the money, and if something goes wrong, I'll get my ass kicked. I only have to look after your ass until we get you to the airport; Then it's all in your hands.
"Never mind that I'll have to put the block down and then maybe mess around with it... For five grand, I'd even eat my own shit and say no. I mean, will it..." Now I was searching for the word. "...will it work?
" "Don't be so quick! I'm not going to make you deliver a baby with your ass. They're capsules." Pablo formed his thumb and forefinger into a rather small shape, but he waved them in front of my eyes so quickly that I didn't quite grasp how small they really were. Besides, he immediately continued, reassuring me. "Once it goes down your throat, what can't go down your throat? They'll fly by like candy canes, you won't even feel it.
" "Let's say I believe you," I said. It might not have looked easy—in fact, it was a bit disgusting—but well, money is money. There are worse ways to make money; worse things than candy canes in your ass." "And what after that?" I asked.
"I mean, when?"
"Well, once I've 'handed over the goods,'" I explained, shuddering between the quotation marks.
"Then... hmm... do whatever you want! You'll have five grand in your pocket—what you do with it is up to you. You can hang around there right away; our colleagues would surely find you a job. If you don't want to, come back here. If you run out of money, come to the right place and I'll find you myself.
" "And how will I even find my way there? I only know "hi" and two curse words in English.
" "Well, if anything, say you're no comprendo. You won't surprise anyone there. Besides, there are plenty of us there, so you'll figure it out anyway.
" "Sounds good," I admitted. I had the job, so I could already say I was happy with it. "Good call."
Pablo looked at me with the most relaxed expression a human could muster.
Then we heard the crunch of tires outside the window. A white car pulled up in front of the house. The others had returned.
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