A sizable crowd had gathered outside the small, stone building, drawn by the agonized screams that were coming from inside. Each milling soul knew exactly what this building was used for. Its sole intent was to extract information from men by any means necessary, hence its name: ‘La Casa de Respuestas’, the House of Answers.
Its previous use was a utility shed, and although it was fairly small, all the shelving had been removed, providing a clear open space within. Little space was needed for its sole, insidious purpose. There was a single door, providing just one way in and out. It was guarded from both sides whenever one of the sicarios—the hitmen—were inside getting their answers.
A lone window sat high on the sturdy building, close to the roof to prevent anyone from seeing inside. However, you didn’t need to see what was happening inside La Casa de Respuestas to know what was happening. A haggard, strained voice that was begging for mercy, combined with intermittent, blood-curdling wails, painted a horrific image for all that were standing outside its walls.
Inside, Pablo Escobar presided over the proceedings, clearly enjoying it, a sick, twisted smile stretching beneath his cold, callous eyes.
“Give him another one!” he ordered, his voice completely devoid of emotion, eyes glimmering with satisfaction. Pablo Velazquez, A.K.A ‘Popeye’, one his top lieutenants nodded, ready to continue the barbaric torture of their prisoner.
The beaten man’s trembling eyes flicked from one unfriendly face to the other. “No-no, Senõr Escobar. Please! I’m begging you! I don’t know what you are talking about!”
Popeye ignored the man’s cries, walking closer to him. The torturer held in his steady hand one of his many instruments of persuasion. The captive eyed it warily, his face twitching, tears streaming down his bruised and bloodied cheeks.
The room was typically reserved for members of rival drug cartels, politicians or police officers that refused to be bought. Even a few judges had found themselves in the chamber after showing more initiative than Pablo desired. It wasn’t infrequent for a member of Escobar’s own cartel to be bound within these walls as well. If someone was thought to be a snitch or had been caught stealing from him, they would wind up here. With the help of his sicarios, Senõr Escobar would extract whatever information—or mete any punishment—that he deemed necessary.
Situations like these were critical for Pablo. As much as it angered him when someone was perceived to be disloyal in any way, how it was dealt with was a reminder to everyone, even his sicarios, of the severe consequences of such actions.
Today, Carlos Rodriguez, better known as El Boca, “The Mouth”, was being reminded of this.
The catchy nickname was not given to him because he either talked or ate too much. He did neither. Rather, it had been given to him by one of the women that he had been intimate with, and it stuck.
Although his prominent cheekbones, chiseled jawline, thick curly hair, and dark, smoldering eyes presented quite an appealing package to members of the fairer sex, none were his most popular attribute. Rather, it was his mouth, specifically his thick, full lips. Those lips made him quite popular with the many ladies of Medellin that he spent time with, due in equal parts to the way they looked as well as what he did with them. He quickly grew to enjoy his nickname and the notoriety that came with it; he was quite proud of it actually.
Today, however, was not one of those days.
Popeye menacingly held a fish hook up to Carlos’ face. “I know how proud you are of those lips of yours, but—”
“...but they are so pretty,” Pablo interjected. Popeye’s head swiveled toward his boss. As he processed Pablo’s words, however, a broad grin spread over his face. Then, as raucous laughter bubbled from his belly, he very nearly dropped his weapon of choice.
One fish hook already impaled the raw flesh of his bruised lower lip. The razor-sharp metal pierced his mouth an inch above the chin, blood dribbling from the injury into his lap. The hook scraped against the handsome man’s teeth, its barbed tip, rending the soft interior of his upper lip. He swallowed every few seconds as his mouth filled with the tinny taste of blood.
Carlos flinched, trying to pull away from his tormentor, but he could barely move his head. The rest of his body had been restrained, taped to the chair by duct tape, but the primary reason he didn’t want to move was the eruption of white-hot agony from his mouth that accompanied every movement.
The room was insufferably oppressive. As hot and humid as the air outside was, it was even worse inside. The only window was purposely inoperable, making the room dank, moisture-laden, and difficult to breathe. Water droplets had formed on the window and table due to the hideous weight of the heavy air. But the moisture that had collected there was nothing when compared to the ripening beads of pungent perspiration that gathered on Carlos’ sweat-slicked brow.
Popeye twirled a second hook between two meaty fingers, licking his lips as he surveyed the bloody landscape of Carlos’ swollen face. Carlos’ eyes went wide as Popeye seemed to decide on a target patch of skin, the standing man’s beady eyes flashing with malicious intent.
“N-no, Popeye. P-please. I can’t—” The man’s words were cut off by his own screaming as Popeye’s hand made a well-practiced swoop, another barb ripping into his prey’s tender flesh. Pain lanced through Carlos’ jaw and the man stiffened at the searing sensation, his eyes squeezing shut.
“You always did like to fish, Carlos,” Popeye mused as he wriggled the sharp metal through the latest hole in the man’s chin. “Now you get to feel how it is on the other end of the line!”
Popeye let loose a massive guffaw at his own joke, oblivious to the fact that no one else followed suit. As he slapped his knee in the throes of a mirthful fit, Pablo stepped forward. “Now tell me what I wish to know. This pain can be over very quickly if you do.”
His boss’ words seemed to sober Popeye, and the man’s laughter gradually died. Carlos’ eyes fluttered open. Under their glassy surface, a spider web of scarlet veins throbbed dull agony directly into the man’s reeling brain. “I was only kidding, Senõr Escobar. There was nothing to it. I do not work for that perra sucia.”
Pablo leaned forward, giving one of the hooks a light flick. The resulting scream from the bound man made the corners of the drug lord’s lips flick upward in amusement. “Then why did you say what you did about little Dulcita?”
Carlos’ eyes fluttered shut once again, his chin tipping downward. “She’s a beautiful woman, Pablo. I was only kidding. I joke about using my lips on many women. That’s all it was. I promise! I promise!”
Pablo reached out to give the other fish hook a flick, Carlos flinching once again. “Why should I believe you, chico bonito? Why should I believe that you’re not this cõna’s lover, reporting everything that we do to the bitch?”
Carlos moaned in agonized despair. “I’ve never made love to that one, Pablo. I swear! She was always very selective, and I…” He seemed to catch himself. “Not that I ever wanted to. She’s a puta and nothing more. I owe her nothing. I don’t even really know the cõna.”
Pablo stared at the man intently, Popeye glancing repeatedly in his direction for some indication as to how to proceed.
Finally, after a long moment of silence broken only by Carlos’ occasional slurping, Pablo waved Popeye away. Third fish hook in hand, the man looked heartbroken, but he didn’t question his boss. Instead, he turned and shuffled away in disappointment.
“Fine, Carlos. I choose to believe you.”
Carlos’ shoulders slumped, the man practically weeping with gratitude.
Pablo knelt before the man, slapping a hand on each of the man’s broad shoulders. “But if I ever find that you have lied to me? This…” he hooked a finger into one of the hooks and ripped it through the man’s already bloody lip. “...will look like a summer picnic compared to what I will do with you.”
Carlos winced with pain but managed to keep himself from screaming. Eyes clenched, he nodded quiescently.
Satisfied, Pablo turned and swept out of the room, leaving the sniffling, sniveling Carlos in his wake.
As Pablo and Popeye left the building, the small group of curious men quickly dispersed at their sudden exit. Each kept his head down, not wishing to draw attention and be the next person brought inside.
They didn’t have to worry, as Pablo had bigger issues on his mind—specifically one very large, very powerful, very green issue. This bitch might think she had the upper-hand, but as always, he was thinking three steps ahead. Pablo Escobar never backed down from any confrontation; he met any challenges, or challengers, head on. This Dulce woman was no different, it just required a little ingenuity to deal with her.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a black-and-white photo and handed it to his top lieutenant.
“You are going to the United States. Immediately,” he informed Popeye. “And you are to bring this man back to me.”
As Popeye examined the grainy photo, a cold sensation swept through his body. It was a headshot of a man that he did not recognize. Accustomed to witnessing all forms of unpleasantness, Popeye was not easily spooked, but even he couldn’t help but be startled by the man’s appearance, to the point where his eyes twitched with discomfort as it scanned the glossy paper.
Gaunt, cadaverous features were accented by his sunken eyes, and a sharp, angular jawline. A long, thin nose, combined with the extreme lack of any excess flesh on his grim, skeletal face, caused his cheekbones to be extremely pronounced, adding to his death-like image.
“W-who is this?” Popeye asked, almost in a whisper, unsure as to why he felt this uneasy from a mere photograph.
Pablo flashed a knowing smile, looking as if he had a winning hand in a poker game.
“That, Popeye, is the man that will help me kill the big green bitch that thinks she will take my money.”
Popeye didn’t reply. Staring into space, he was still shaken by the haunting image of the man he had just been tasked to retrieve.
“Popeye!” Pablo growled at him, snapping him out of his daze.
“Yes, yes, Patron?” he answered, his voice quavering slightly with nerves.
“Get your head out of your ass and go see Javier. He has a suitcase ready for you. It has cash and all the information you will need to find this man.”
Popeye shook his head in acknowledgement, “Yes, I understand,” he replied uneasily. “But Patron…what if this man will not come back with me?”
Pausing suddenly, Pablo shot him a pointed glare, puffing up in anger at the other man’s question. “Do not return here without him.”
Startled, Popeye stopped short, turning to find his boss’ smoldering eyes focused intently on his. He knew what this meant. Failure with a request of this nature was not a survivable option. “I will not fail you Patron.”
The scarlet in Pablo’s cheeks began to fade, and his frown shifted into a smug grin at his minion’s frightened reply. “You’d better not. No one ever fails me more than once.”
