La Gloria, Medellín:
The old Dodge Dart speeds towards the compound, sweeping up dust as it fishtails out of every corner. Sunlight detonates from the windshield every now and then, especially when the car passes over a pothole. The boy in the back seat looks straight ahead, tapping out some imaginary rhythm on his knees. On the final turn, his driver jabs the horn three times –a signal for the guard to open the gate. The Dodge accelerates, forcing the guard to hurry and curse, and then slides to a halt inside using the handbrake only. Manu likes to make an entrance, especially when returning from a job well done.
The compound is made up of a number of single storey buildings, three of which look out on to a courtyard. The walls are whitewashed, with sloping red-tiled roofs and a covered porch. Geraniums hang in pots from the eaves, offering yet more escape from the sun. A group of men are drinking coffee round a table in the shade here, while the two white mastiffs that have been basking on the steps come to life as the car doors swing open. These are attack dogs, with slathering jaws and muscular bodies. When the boy drops out he is almost knocked off his feet, and yet he seems unfazed by the attention.
‘Hey, girls, did you think I wasn’t coming back?’ He ruffles one dog behind the ears, and then grabs the other in a headlock. He’s no match for these beasts, should they choose to turn on him, but the pistol grip sticking out of his pants suggests he knows how to handle himself. If anything, he looks pleased to have found some playmates at last, and relieved to be out in the fresh air again. The comedown from the injection Manu had given him was bad enough. It helped him see a job through, but as the calming effects wore off so the bad guts and the twitchy feet kicked in, not to mention the ringing ears – even from a single shot. The last thing he wants after a hit is to be cooped up in a car that reeks of freshener. What he really needs is a little space to work off the churn and slosh going on inside his stomach. That’ll come later, however. First he has to speak to the individual waiting for him inside the building. El Fantasma only left his quarters when it was absolutely necessary, which boiled down to business and soccer.
The boy stops fooling with the dogs and looks around for Manu, his driver these last few weeks. He’s with the others now, pouring himself a coffee and talking with a cigarette pinched between his lips.
‘Hey,’ the boy calls out to him. ‘Where’s my picture?’
‘Passenger seat.’ Manu grins at one of the men. ‘I’m thinking I shall become a portrait photographer.’
The boy finds what he’s looking for: a Polaroid taken by his driver when he collected him from the scene. It was all part of the deal. The proof before he got paid, maybe something more. He holds the picture in the palm of his hand, buckling it slightly, and wonders if the widow will clean and press the suit her husband died in. Every time he hopes to avoid making a mess, but it isn’t easy. At his height, and at such close range, it’s hard to carry out a simple headshot. Knowing the boss as he does, it means that season ticket he’s been promised as a bonus might just have to wait.
‘Adios, senor,’ he whispers, and braces himself for an audience with El Fantasma. ‘Alberto will take care of you now.’