บท 11: Chapter 11: The Middleman! (Revised)
Guns!
The young man peeing was so scared that he hurriedly tucked his "tool" back into his pants.
The four of them looked at each other, one of them, who looked slightly more mature, was about to speak.
Victor pulled out his police badge, flicked off the safety on the back of the grip, and started shooting.
Ratatat...
Casare jumped with fright, his shoulders shrank, his eyes widened, and he watched the bodies on the ground, his scalp tingling with numbness.
Could you at least wait for them to say something before spraying them so decisively?
Hearing the gunshots, Best, crouching on the ground, hugged his body tighter.
After firing all 25 bullets and hearing the click of the empty chamber, Victor lowered his hand and glanced at Casare beside him, shrugging his shoulders, "These guys intended to assault a police officer, don't study well; sooner or later, they are just backup options for drug traffickers. Might as well take them out first."
In fact, these four people were also heavily sinful, having committed robbery, rape, and murder, providing Victor with 378 points.
Casare's facial muscles trembled as he listened, he gave a thumbs up, walked over to Best, and smelled urine, a bit pungent – obviously, the young man was a bit upset.
If you're that overheated, just finish it with a burst.
"Best?" He called out twice, not wanting to touch him, obviously a bit repulsed.
The other man, upon hearing his name called, cautiously revealed his eyes. Seeing the familiar face, his eyes filled with excitement, and his voice was hoarse, as if it were damaged by smoke from a fire, "Casare!"
"Victor!"
"Buddy, I haven't seen you for so long, and you've already become like this?" Victor frowned, and seeing that the other man wanted to speak, he waved his hand, "Let's go, let's get out of here, the smell of urine is strong."
Victor expertly changed the magazine in his hand and walked out the door, seeing the slum residents looking their way upon hearing the gunshots, but no one dared to gather.
"Look at your grandma, get your head back in!" He fired a burst at the wall, scaring them into silence.
Reckless!
Arrogant!
Standing behind, Nuriel Best was a bit stunned by this scene, it was nothing like the Victor he knew.
That Victor was a gentleman, even rarely raising his voice against others, and sometimes, when encountering a girl, he would even be a bit shy.
But this man in front of him...
If you said he was a bandit, people would believe it.
"People change, Best, don't they?" Casare said with a smile.
Best was taken aback, not sure whether to believe it or not.
The three walked toward the main road, hearing the noise of cars outside. Victor saw a red Beetle with the door open, and a lady with perky buttocks was buying something next to it.
"Get in the car!"
Victor slid into the driver's seat, and once Casare and the others were in, he twisted the ignition key. The lady buying something, wearing high heels, turned around at the noise, only to see a strange man starting her car.
Angry, she was about to run over, cursing as she did.
Victor raised his gun, and she instantly shrank back, shouting, "OMG!" and ran to the side holding her head.
"Buckle up, we're taking off!"
He stepped on the clutch, changed the gear; though he looked skilled, the car jolted forward and then hesitated, almost causing Casare and the others in the backseat to bump their heads on the front seats.
"Sorry, let's try that again."
Victor looked in the rearview mirror, smiled, and muttered to himself. He slowly started the car, the Beetle's engine wasn't great; it felt almost like a slow push.
"Who were those guys?" Now there was time, Victor asked.
"Members of a Chimalhuacán gang."
"How did you get mixed up with them?"
Best's left face twitched, half of his face was wrinkled like a burn scar, "They demanded protection money, 5 Pesos a week; I had no money, the bastards still made me pay taxes!"
"I'm just a facilitator, what taxes should I pay?"
"That was the fourth gang this month demanding protection fees; I paid the others."
Hearing this, Casare looked at him with a hint of pity.
The Mexico City slums are a huge box of chives; any gang can come to collect protection money. It isn't much, sometimes just 5 Pesos a week, but there are so many gangs; it's more brutal than taxing.
Many ordinary people just can't bear it, and the gang members force you to sell your children. If you have a son at home, he would be forced to join the gang to provide them with "fresh blood." This is one of the reasons why drug traffickers cannot be defeated.
They provide a never-ending supply of criminals.
The Brazilian gangs are the same; when the military and police enter the slums, everyone's a criminal. It's the people's quagmire warfare against organized crime.
The underlying structure determines the height of the superstructure.
Think about it, with over a million people in Chimalhuacán of Mexico City, how much profit can these people bring to the gangs?
Even from the poor, one can extract something. If there's no more juice to squeeze, there's always blood.
"A few bastards daring to call themselves a gang." Victor said disdainfully.
"You're looking for me ..." Best asked.
"Don't rush, take a bath first, soak well and then we'll talk," Victor interrupted his inquiry, primarily because the smell of urine on him was too strong.
Best nodded, glanced at the Uzi submachine gun on the passenger seat, and thought: The police force is equipped with these things now?
Had Mexico's government gotten rich over the past few years?
The car stopped at the entrance of a bathhouse, which had "Northeast Old Soak" written on it in Chinese and Spanish.
The owner of this place was Chinese, who emigrated in the 70s. He opened six branches in Mexico City, was very wealthy and, it was said, had good relations with both the local gangs and the government, having a foot in both camps.
Getting out of the car, he threw the keys to the parking attendant, who looked at the crowded Beetle car then back at the three burly men walking in, thinking, 'This man has some pretty saucy tastes.'
"I want a private room with a hot spring."
"And go buy me a set of clothes, the rest is your tip," Victor said generously, handing over 200 pesos. The receptionist looked at Best strangely—why did he smell so strong?
Was this some kind of performance art?
They took the money with a smile, agreed, and had someone lead them to a very private room on the third floor.
"Take a wash, you smell," Victor said as he took off his clothes and was about to put the Uzi in the locker but then thought better of it and, keeping it ready, said to the bare-assed Casare, "Keep the gun with you."
In Mexico, it's not unheard of for people to get killed in a bathhouse.
Seeing Casare with a Colt, Best asked, "Where did these weapons come from? Uzi? That's some quality stuff."
"How can you dare to stir up trouble without some capital?"
Victor looked at Casare and said with a smile, "I have ways to get arms. They traffic drugs; we sell arms. I provide them with military support. It's business. You do what others don't, that's called having an eye. You follow when others do, that's called eating farts behind their backs."
Lying back in the hot spring, he couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief.
"Go wash over there, don't make this place all pissy."
Feeling a bit embarrassed, Best hurried to the shower to rinse off, drying himself with a towel before slipping into the warm bath.
"I know you're reluctant, you want revenge, but right now you have no money, no people, and no power. What are you going to use for your revenge?"
"Everything in this world has a price tag, including human youth, ideals, conscience, justice. We're all busy every day for money. Why were you a cop before? Wasn't it for money or was it for justice? Money is what drives our lives. If you had money, if you put a 200,000-peso bounty on your enemy's head, would no one respond? If not, then offer 500,000. Still no takers? Then 1 million!"
"See if he won't end up dead then."
Victor spread his arms wide, resting them on the sides, "Follow me, and I will help you get your revenge."
What's a drug trafficker anyway?
When my position climbs higher and higher, won't it just be a matter of a simple word from me?
Scared of having a backer? I am someone else's backer!
Actually, Best had thought about seeking protection from other gangs in the slums too. Being a go-between wasn't easy, but... he was a cripple. The fire had left him alive but also inflicted serious damage—a burned half-face, a removed meniscal, and a slight limp when he walked.
He looked miserable.
He only thought for a moment before nodding, "I agree."
He had no choice. The gangsters who died in his house had a powerful backing, which would surely seek revenge against him. If he went back, it meant death.
"Casare, there's a stack of money in my bag, go get it."
The fat man acknowledged and climbed out of the spring, still shivering, open Victor's locker, and handed him the money.
"Here's 20,000 pesos. Get yourself some new clothes, rent a decent place to live. You won't always have to look so wretched hanging with me."
That's almost 10,000 US dollars, just given like that?
"The benefits for you two are the same, no monthly salary but a 5% commission on sales. How does that sound?"
Casare did the math. 5%. For something like the AK47 they had earlier, at 800 US dollars, he'd get 40 US dollars! It might not seem like much, but they were playing a numbers game. If he sold 50 a month, that's 2,000 US dollars.
"I agree!" He was quick to accept.
Seeing Casare agree made it clear to Best that this 5% commission was substantial. He nodded, and as Victor got up to leave for a shower and massage, he said, "You guys chat first."
When he was far enough away, Casare twisted his neck.
It felt so good.
"By the way, Casare, do you know Fremont Holder?"
The name sounded familiar to him, and Casare furrowed his brow.
"Is he that former Deputy Warden of Plateau Prison who robbed the gangs?"
"That's the one!"
Best's eyes gleamed, "He's made a fortune recently."
...
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