by Jeff Buick
Medellín’s airport had undergone a major facelift, as had much of the city since its release from the violent grip of the drug cartels in the early 1990s. Eugene nodded his approval at the upgraded facility as he carried his solitary bag through the wide, tiled corridors. The taxi queue was non-existent and he hopped in the back seat of the first in line. He gave the man Raphael’s address and sat back for the ride.
It irked Eugene that Medellín’s reputation on the world stage was, first and foremost, associated with Pablo Escobar’s cocaine cartel. Few knew that the city and the surrounding countryside were the country’s premier suppliers of coffee, bananas, cut flowers and energy. The creative pulse of the city revealed itself in a multitude of museums housed in buildings of stunning beauty and grand architecture. Almost every major hotel had a resident art gallery, many displaying the works of local artists. Two hundred and seventy-one barrios melded together to form the municipal structure that crept up the Aburrá valley between spines of the central cordillera. The weather was temperate, the flora without peer, the people friendly and educated. Yet, mention Medellín and people thought drugs. Eugene directed the driver to a working-class suburb, one of Medellín’s rougher edges.
Raphael’s street was typical for the area: narrow, with dilapidated houses whose façades were cracked and crumbling. Dirty curtains hung in grimy windows, and small children in ragged clothes threw the taxi suspicious looks as it cruised up and came to a halt in front of number 35. Eugene showed the driver a hundred U.S. bill, then tucked it back in his pocket.
“If my friend is home, I’m going to speak with him for a while. You wait, you get the hundred.”
“Sí, amigo,” the driver said, all smiles and hoping his passenger’s friend was in.
Eugene slid out of the cab, ignored the street urchins begging for coins and knocked on the door. At one time it had obviously been bright red, but the heat and humidity had reduced it to a slab of raw wood with an occasional patch of flaking paint. Dry rot had eaten through in places, and even a half-hearted kick would reduce it to a pile of splinters. Eugene heard the sound of a latch moving the bolt back. The door opened an inch or two and a bloodshot eyeball peered out from the darkness.
“What do you want?” a gruff voice asked.
“Raphael, it’s your cousin, Eugene. Eugene Escobar.”
The door cracked open another two inches, enough to reveal a wizened face with three or four days’ stubble. The lips split into a grin, revealing irregularly spaced teeth, rotting and yellow. Then the door opened completely, and Raphael waved him in. The house was exceptionally dark for midday; all the curtains were pulled tight to the window jambs. Illumination came from a solitary lamp with a bare bulb sitting on a coffee table piled high with magazines. The unmistakable odor of mold and mildew was strong, mixed with a fishy smell emanating from the kitchen. Raphael shut the front door behind Eugene and the house was plunged into almost total darkness.
“You turned into a vampire?” Eugene asked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the low light levels.
Raphael burst out laughing, his foul breath almost knocking Eugene over. “That’s funny, cousin. Am I a vampire? No, I don’t think so. I just like it dark. Too much sunlight makes me feel sick to my stomach. You want a beer?”
Eugene didn’t, but acquiesced, knowing that to do otherwise would insult Raphael. “Sure, a beer would be great. But only one. I drink more than one and the sun almost knocks me over.”
“See,” Raphael said, heading down the hallway to the kitchen. “We’re the same, you and I. It runs in the family.”
Eugene took in the room while Raphael got two beers from the fridge. A couch, so stained that it was difficult to tell that the original fabric had been a paisley design, sat against the wall that fronted onto the street. A spring had broken and actually protruded through the fabric. Eugene ignored the couch and sat in one of two stuffed chairs. It smelled of body odor and stale cigarette smoke, but it was better than a thick, sharp wire up the ass. The floor was completely coated with dirt and grime and Eugene couldn’t tell if it had originally been tile or wood. A small color television, turned to one of the daytime soap operas, occupied a far corner.
“Nice and cold,” Raphael said, entering the room and handing Eugene one of the beers. He sat on the end of the couch without the protruding spring.
“You really should fix that,” Eugene said, taking a sip of his beer and pointing the neck of the bottle toward the couch. “If a guy sat on that he could become a woman.”
Again, the raucous laughter. “I’d fix it if I had something to cut it with. But I don’t. So fuck it.” He took a long swig, and said, “What brings you to Medellín, Eugenio?”
“Been away a long time,” Eugene said. “Thought it would be nice to visit.”
“You still living in Venezuela?”
He nodded. “On Isla de Margarita. I like it there. I take people scuba diving.”
“Good money in that?”
Eugene shook his head. “Not really. Maybe if you owned your own live-aboard, but just taking customers out for the day isn’t all that profitable. How about you? What are you doing these days?”
Raphael waved his skinny arms about the room. “Living well. Government pays me to survive in such splendor.”
“Really. The Colombian government pays for this. Why?”
“Our cousin, Pablo Escobar, kind of tarnished my reputation. I couldn’t get a job because I was related to him.”
“But you’re related on his mother’s side. Your surname isn’t Escobar. How could anyone know?”
His eyes took on a darkness that shocked Eugene. “You have no idea, Eugenio, what it was like to be related to Pablo Escobar. You didn’t live in Colombia. Your father was wise enough to get his family out of this place and into a different country. Pablo Escobar ruined my life.”
“We still had contact with him, Raphael. He didn’t ruin us.”
Raphael dismissed Eugene’s comment with a wave of one hand and hammered back the beer with the other. When he set the empty bottle on the table, Eugene noticed Raphael’s hands were shaking almost uncontrollably. The man disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a fresh beer. Eugene was relieved to see he brought only one.
“The man was a tyrant, Eugene. What he wanted, he took. No one stood in his way. If they did, they died. And they died in horrible ways: Colombian neckties, disembowelment, castration. Christ, Eugene, Pablo’s goons stuffed these poor bastard’s nuts in their mouths, then slit their throats. And if you managed to survive Pablo, Search Bloc and Los Pepes were just around the corner.”
“Search Bloc was Col. Martinez’s team, right?”
“Yeah. They were the arm of the government that worked with the American DEA and CIA. Fuckers those guys were. They were almost as bad as Pablo’s killers.”
“The vigilantes were worse,” Eugene said. He may not have lived in Colombia while the world was looking for Pablo, but he knew some of the stories that went along with the manhunt.
Raphael ran a shaking hand through his thinning hair and finished the second beer. “Los Pepes were the worst. They felt justified murdering anyone they thought was in cahoots with Pablo or the Ochoa family. And they were arrogant bastards. They even left notes on the corpses that said, Another victim of Los Pepes.”
“So now the government gives you a monthly stipend to live on. Something for your suffering.”
“Yeah, for my suffering. Nicely put.”
“When was the last time you saw Pablo?”
“What the fuck do you care?” Raphael asked, his eyes narrowing. “He’s been dead almost twelve years.”
“Relax, Raphael. I’m just visiting, remember.”
Raphael lit a cigarette and gave a curt nod. “Yeah. Just visiting.”
“I’ve got to use your washroom,” Eugene said, rising from the dirt-encrusted chair.
“First door on the right.”
“Thanks.” He wove his way down the cluttered
hall, where stacks of old magazines and piles of dirty clothes lay strewn about. He doubted Raphael had many guests, and if they came over more than once, they shared the bottom of the barrel with the owner. He closed the door and lifted the toilet seat. It was newer, not really new, but definitely in better condition than any other part of the house. In fact, as he glanced about while his stream hit the water, the overall condition of the room struck him as odd. The tub area and the floor had been retiled, and all the fixtures, not just the toilet, were in reasonable condition. The paint was in poor condition, but without upkeep it would begin peeling inside five years. It was the fixtures that intrigued him. And he thought he knew why.
Eugene flushed the toilet and rejoined his cousin. Raphael had opened another beer in his absence. “So how’s your family?” Eugene asked as he ambled about the room. Raphael chirped away. Eugene nodded and grunted on occasion to keep the man talking. He couldn’t care less about the man’s family; they were so distant to his they were veritable strangers. Then he saw it: a small plastic container with a single item in it, tucked back on a crowded shelf amid bric-a-brac and garbage that hadn’t made it out to the street. Inside the container was a battery, like the ones used in flashlights.
“That’s interesting,” Eugene said when Raphael finally quieted down.
“What?”
“That battery in the case.” He turned slightly and focused on Raphael. “Almost like it’s a trophy of some sort.”
Raphael’s hands were going again. “Naw, just a battery is all.”
“But it reminds me of an interesting story. I think it was early to mid-October of 1993, just a couple of months before Pablo was killed in the shootout. He was holed up in a finca on a hillside in Aguas Frías. You know the place? It’s just outside Medellín.”
“I know the place,” Raphael was quiet, almost mouselike, as he listened.
“Anyway, Martinez was sure Pablo was in the house on top of the mountain, and he had the place surrounded by over seven hundred police officers and soldiers. They watched the place for three or four days before they got the signal they needed to be sure he was there: Pablo placed a call to his son from the finca. Immediately the police swooped in. They were all over the place, pumping in tear gas and ripping the place apart. When they didn’t find Pablo, they brought in the dogs. Still, nothing. He escaped. You know how?”
Raphael just shrugged and Eugene continued. “He concealed himself in the forest until it was safe to head down to lower ground. And to make the trip down the mountainside, he used a flashlight. And flashlights need batteries. Two batteries. Pablo sent one of those batteries to his wife, but he kept the other. It reminded him of how close he had come to being captured or killed.”
“So where is this going?” Raphael asked.
Eugene was quiet for a moment, then calmly asked, “When was he here, Raphael?”
The man was sweating now, and shaking even more than before. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Eugenio.”
“Don’t play games with me, Raphael. I doubt you’ve seen him in years, but I know he was here.”
“Of course I haven’t seen him in years. He’s dead.”
Eugene ignored Raphael’s remark. “Before Pablo was gunned down, he was on the run. The police knew he spent some of that time here in Medellín. He drifted from place to place, never staying in one location too long. But before he moved into new digs, he always had the bathroom renovated. New toilet, new sink, new bathtub. The whole nine yards.” He glanced down the hall. “That bathroom looks a lot newer than anything else in this house, Raphael. Maybe twelve years old, give or take. And the battery. No one frames a battery. Unless you’re Pablo Escobar. I’ll put money on it that Pablo forgot to take the battery with him when he left.”
Raphael was silent, save for a sucking sound as he inhaled on a cigarette. Finally he ground out the butt in the ashtray and leaned back in his chair. “He stayed for about two weeks in October ’93. Less than two months before Martinez and his men found him and killed him. He swore me to secrecy, Eugenio. To this day, I’ve never told another soul.”
“Thanks for the honesty, Raphael. I need to know what he said to you while he was here.”
Raphael looked stunned. “Why, Eugenio? He’s dead. He’s been dead for years. Why all of a sudden are you in my living room asking questions about a dead man? What’s going on?”
Eugene shook his head. “I can’t tell you, Raphael. And trust me, you don’t want to know. Suffice to say that I’m looking for something.”
Raphael leaned forward, his dark eyes eager with anticipation. “You think he stashed some money?”
“I’m not saying.”
“But you want me to help you.”
“Yes, I do. I need to know what happened while he was here. What he did, what he said, who he called on the phone.”
Raphael rose from the couch, slightly unsteady on his legs. The beer was starting to hit him. He shuffled into the kitchen and reappeared with a beer in both hands. He offered one to Eugene, who reluctantly accepted. He dropped back into his chair and said, “Pablo used to talk a lot on his cell phone. He spoke to his wife and son mostly, seldom to his daughter. Limón, his bodyguard, lived here with him, so Pablo didn’t call him unless he was out on an errand.” He took a long drink of beer. “He liked talking with Juan Pablo and from what I could judge of the conversation, Juan Pablo liked being the son of a narco. He kept Pablo up to date on what the government forces were doing. From what I could tell, Juan Pablo had an inside connection somewhere in Col. Martinez’s Search Bloc.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Eugene said sarcastically. “How come Martinez couldn’t locate him using some sort of electronic device? He had access to CIA technology.”
“Pablo used to talk about that all the time. He had a telephone that used a higher range than normal; 120 to 140 MHz, I think. Martinez couldn’t trace the calls.”
“Smart fellow, our deceased cousin.” Eugene took a small sip of beer.
“Yeah. It really pissed off Martinez. They talked about the colonel a lot. I could tell whether Martinez was closing in or completely lost by what Pablo said to his son. One time, he said, We all know what Martinez wants. I should just give it to him.”
“Now that’s an interesting thing to say.” Eugene pondered the statement. Then asked, “When did Pablo start growing a beard?”
Raphael looked puzzled. “He never grew a beard. Just that shitty little mustache that never seemed to fill in. He shaved every day.”
Eugene’s mind was racing, but he pushed the issue no further. “He stayed here for two weeks. What the hell did he do all day? This place isn’t very big.”
Raphael showed no signs of being insulted by the remark. “I don’t know. He slept every day until after noon, got up and showered, drank some coffee and smoked a bit of weed. He stayed out of the sun; almost like he didn’t want to tan. He liked to watch movies and just before dinner he rode on his bicycle.”
“What?” Eugene said, sitting up. “What bicycle?”
“One of those stationary ones. You peddle like a crazy asshole for half an hour and don’t move an inch. He’d be sweating like a pig when he was finished. Always took another shower, then had dinner.”
“Pizza?” Eugene asked, knowing it had been Pablo’s favorite food.
Raphael shook his head. “Never. He ate chicken, vegetables, brown bread and lots of fruit.”
Eugene polished off his beer over the course of the next hour, pumping Raphael for anything else he could remember about Pablo’s stay. Mostly it was useless information, but the trip yielded more than he thought it would. He shook Raphael’s hand at the front door, waved and slid into the backseat of the taxi. It was late afternoon and cooking odors wafted out from the neighboring houses into the street. He gave the man an address on Carrera 51 and sat back, watching the residents of one of the world’s most infamous cities go about their daily routines. Things had changed in Medellín with the demise
of the drug cartels, at least on the surface. Pablo Escobar, Carlos Lehder and the Ochoa brothers were gone, but in their place were Mario and Javier Rastano, and God knew who else. The drug trade wasn’t dead, just legitimized. Javier Rastano had achieved what Pablo Escobar had dreamed of doing: living the life of a respected Colombian businessman while amassing hundreds of millions of narco dollars in foreign accounts. At least there was one positive spin to the whole affair. The level of violence was down, and the citizens of Medellín weren’t walking about looking over their shoulders.
They arrived at the address and Eugene reminded the driver of his reward for being patient. Again, the man smiled and settled in to wait. Eugene walked across the sidewalk and into the grassy expanse of Cementerio San Pedro. He walked on the winding path until he reached a gravesite adjacent to a large expanse of unused field. Small bushes ringed the site and wrought-iron bars curved over the slightly raised earth. The headstone was average for the cemetery, and above it was a picture of Pablo Escobar in a suit and tie. A few visitors were at the grave, and Eugene waited until they had gone before he stood next to the carefully tended tourist attraction.
He was silent for a couple of minutes, then he said, “You’re not in there, are you?” He stared at the picture, a good one of Pablo that didn’t show much of his double chin or heavy jowls. He looked like an average Colombian citizen who died at an early age. Eugene was alone at the graveside and he spoke aloud to the testament to his cousin.
“When you were killed, you had a beard. Yet less than two months before you died, you were shaving every day. Look at that mustache, Pablo. It’s pitiful. It would take you the better part of three or four months to grow a beard. And you stopped eating pizza. You never ate healthy or worked out in your life. You know what I think? You had some poor bastard altered surgically to look exactly like you, fattened him up and probably even burnt your fingerprints onto his with a laser. Then you set up him and Limón by giving them a phone Martinez could trace. You had the imposter grow a beard to disguise the exact shape of his face. And then you left Colombia, with a smaller waistline and countless millions in banks around the world. Your own words, Pablo: We all know what Martinez wants. I should just give it to him. Martinez wanted you dead, and you gave him that. Except you didn’t die, you just disappeared. Somewhere.”