Chapter 52
Club Embrujo–”Warlock” in English–was situated in the suburbs
at the end of the number 27 bus line. Looking more like a fortification than a dance club, it was surrounded on all sides by high stucco walls into which were embedded
shards of shattered beer bottles–a
crude security system
preventing anyone from entering illegally without leaving
behind a good portion of flesh.
During
the ride, Becker
had resolved himself to the fact that he’d failed.
It was time to call Strathmore with the bad news–the
search was hopeless. He had done the best he could; now it was time to go
home.
But now, gazing
out at the mob of patrons pushing
their way through the club’s
entrance, Becker was not so sure his conscience would allow him to give up the search. He was staring at the biggest crowd
of punks he’d ever seen; there were coiffures of red, white,
and blue everywhere.
Becker sighed, weighing his options. He scanned the crowd and shrugged.
Where else would she be on
a Saturday night? Cursing
his good fortune,
Becker climbed off the
bus.
The access to Club Embrujo was a narrow stone corridor. As Becker entered he immediately felt
himself caught up in the
inward surge of eager patrons.
“Outta my way, faggot!” A human pincushion pawed past him, giving Becker an elbow in the
side.
“Nice tie.” Someone gave Becker’s necktie a hard yank.
“Wanna
fuck?” A teenage girl stared up at him looking
like something out of Dawn of the Dead.
The darkness
of the corridor spilled out into a huge cement chamber
that reeked of alcohol and body odor. The scene was surreal–a
deep mountain grotto in which hundreds of bodies moved as one. They surged up and down, hands pressed firmly to their sides, heads bobbing
like lifeless bulbs on top of rigid spines.
Crazed souls took running dives off a stage and landed on a sea of human limbs. Bodies were passed back and forth like human beach balls. Overhead, the pulsating strobes
gave the whole thing the look
of an old, silent movie.
On the far wall, speakers the size of minivans
shook so deeply
that not even the most dedicated
dancers could get closer
than thirty feet from the
pounding woofers.
Becker plugged his ears and searched
the crowd. Everywhere he looked
was another red, white, and blue head. The bodies were packed so closely
together that he couldn’t
see what they were wearing.
He saw no hint of a British flag anywhere.
It was obvious
he’d never be able to enter the crowd without getting trampled.
Someone nearby started
vomiting.
Lovely.
Becker groaned. He
moved off down a spray-painted hallway.
The hall turned
into a narrow mirrored tunnel, which opened to an outdoor
patio scattered with tables and chairs. The patio was crowded with punk rockers,
but to Becker
it was like the gateway
to Shangri-La–the summer sky opened up
above him and the music faded away.
Ignoring
the curious stares, Becker walked out into the crowd.
He loosened his tie and collapsed into a chair at the nearest
unoccupied table.
It seemed like a lifetime since Strathmore’s early-morning call.
After clearing
the empty beer bottles from his table, Becker laid his head in his hands. Just for a few
minutes, he thought.
* * *
Five miles away, the man in wire-rim glasses sat in the back of a Fiat taxi as it raced headlong down
a country road.
“Embrujo,” he grunted, reminding the driver of their destination.
The driver nodded,
eyeing his curious new fare in the rearview mirror. “Embrujo,” he grumbled
to himself. “Weirder crowd every night.”
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