Chapter 51: Chapter 51

THE WHITE...

When I leave the presidential residence, Peter, the driver, has already parked the Tesla under the marquee. He gets out of the car as I approach and hands me the key card. As soon as I take the card and get in the car, I feel my cell phone vibrate in my pants pocket. It's an unknown number, but since I only gave it to one person in America, I know who it is.

"Detective", I salute.

- Mr. Campbell,” mutters Kevin Pierce.

I hear the noise from the police station through the cell phone. Phones are constantly ringing, side conversations and computer keys are being pressed. I can be stressed just by idealizing the environment.

"New doubts have emerged in the investigation into the attack," he informs.

I start the car and leave the Donneli estate.

“Then you are on the right track.

"You know…I heard about you." The noise is muffled, so Pierce probably walked into a closed room.

He's bluffing. It's impossible for Pierce to know anything about a name I created.

- They're all lying.

- Good product.

- So it's true.

– Could you come to the police station? - he asks.

The sun is setting on the horizon. When that happens, there's only a short time before street racing begins in the Bronx. It was my favorite moment, other than confessing to Father Bee.

- Am I a suspect? I ask.

- Absolutely not.

“So here is your answer.

Since the attack, the work has been difficult. My best sources were rogue cops, and most of them got fired. There is also this detective within my reach, who does not seem to want to give up.

– I try to make things easy. Help me, Mr. Campbell - Pierce mumbles. I am very, very patient. Otherwise, he would go to that detective and feed him his teasing.

“You know you won't get a solution from me. When you start looking in the right places, then you'll have an answer, Detective.

I drive to the Bronx. Not the kind of neighborhood a Tesla should be in, but I don't have many options. I need to know who Minerva is, and why she's making such noise in the city. It's not exactly important for my job, but it's for my ego.

"I…" he tries, but I cut him off.

- Have a good afternoon. Goodbye – I turn off the phone and play in the passenger seat.

The Bronx is separated from Manhattan by the Harlem River. This means that a mere trickle of water separates the rich from the poor. There are two versions of the Bronx neighborhood. The first is known worldwide as the area of extreme poverty, where people sell lunch to buy dinner. The second part is feared around the world. Home for drug addicts, teenagers who discovered prostitution and criminals. It is in the latter that I grew up.

I know I'll find Minerva – whoever she is – in the Bronx restricted area. He likes racing, from what I hear, and there is always a loophole regarding betting in the restricted area. I don't plan on putting my Tesla in the game tonight, but if I have to, I will.

I'm approaching the restricted area. The sun went down a few minutes ago, and I can count the streetlights that work on the fingers of one hand. The streets are wide, with abandoned or dilapidated buildings on the sides.

I slow down to identify the streets. This was my home – if this hole can be called that – for a few years. I remember every alley perfectly, because, although I want to, I never forget something that crossed my eyes.

The more I advance in the periphery of the district, the more the glances turn towards the car. They are not really surprised that once in a while a luxury car shows up at the races.

I arrive in the restricted area. This place was a textile factory twenty years ago, but it closed due to lack of resources. This kind of shit is common in the suburbs. The gate is open and I'm driving the car. I only drive a few meters until I start to hear the loud music and see the flashing colored lights.

Races are weekly events. There is music, alcohol, half-naked women, stolen cars waiting for a second owner. The worst of the streets are found here in excess.

More than fifty cars parked together indicate that I have arrived. The first race begins after eight o'clock, when the police tower decreases. The customized cars are the ones from us, the usual ones. Newer cars were most likely stolen during the day. The most expensive cars are show items.

I park next to the factory building and get out. The surrounding walls are full of graffiti; a few phrases, drawings or gang symbols.

The first thing I smell is the smell of sewage and burnt tires. Disgusting and oddly familiar. The loud music is coming from a shoddy turbocharged green car. The lighting is bad, but not as bad as on the streets. All cars have their headlights on, at least.

I get a few suspicious looks as I pass, but I wouldn't be the first man in a suit to frequent this place.

The front door of the building is open. There are three cars in the space that functions almost like a workshop, all modified. I know who I'll meet inside, so I'm going inside.

Yolanda Paz leans against one of the cars. She's Mexican, brunette, petite. You think she's harmless until you find out she was married to a faction leader. He was killed by rival gangs a few years ago, and she has since returned to her position. Yolanda knew how to handle the illegal trade. She has money and respect, so she has everything.

A man with tattoos on his arms and face is by his side, but I don't know him. They chat while watching the movement of cars arriving and parking on the street.

Yolanda sees me. Her red lips arch into a vile smile. The last time we saw each other, she still had a little innocence in her. Not really.

- Closer. I don't bite - she calls me with her fingers. I approach – I thought you were dead.

It's not the first time I've heard this.

The man next to her sits up to look taller, stronger. This type of reaction is common in these places. Power means a lot, its absence too.

“You better go for a walk, Romes. She winks at the man. He seems to be struggling, looking me up and down like he doesn't want to give in to a stranger, but in the end he gives in. The boss is Yolanda anyway. When Romes comes out of space, she turns to me – What are you doing here?

- In the neighborhood ?

- In the country.

“Work,” I say.

I study the woman in front of me. Sexy as ever, venomous as ever. Despite her vanity, Yolanda wears jeans. She hated this type of clothing, but seems to have learned something about practicality from her husband.

– I guess – she sits on the hood of the car crossing her legs – Looking for something in the Bronx?

– Minerva.

– Of course – Yolanda laughs – It wouldn't take long for you to want to return to your evil post around here.

Unfortunately for Father Abeille, I don't think I ever lost that position.

– I have no interest in the position. Just tell me who it is, and we'll have no problem.

“Don't threaten me, LeBlanc. You know I like it - your eyes are sparkling. That's what she likes: being in the middle of danger. There are people who live in the Bronx not because they are poor or drug addicts, but because they like the darker side of life here.

Yolanda opens her mouth to say something, but two women walk down the aisle. From the way she holds back her smile, I know something less than decent would fall from her lips. The women are dressed in microscopic clothing, leaving little to the imagination. The first, blonde, has smudged makeup and red eyes. The second, a redhead, seems to be starting to work now.

"The first race has started", informs the blonde.

They stop next to us. They both see me, but only the redhead, a little taller than her friend, continues to stare at me.

- Good. Earn money, girls - advises Yolanda.

The redhead takes a few steps towards me. Her pink lips arch as she stops in front of me, close enough for me to smell the cheap perfume.

– I tend to charge a lot. But not for you,” she says in her sexiest tone.

– I'm sorry, but I left my wallet at home – I clap my hands in my trouser pockets almost sarcastically.

"He's not for you, Meredith," Yolanda said. I see her roll her eyes.

"I meant I won't charge you, sweetheart," the woman insists, biting her lower lip in a way that normally makes most men put their hands in their pockets and throw away the money that they've got. they look.

Two things in the Bronx sell more than water: drugs and women.

"Oh...Meredith, right?" I ask. She shakes her head, "Well, Meredith, I'm sure you have amazing talents." But today I would be a disappointing lover.

Meredith steps closer, invading my space with an almost innocent smile. Her body is touching mine, an attitude typical of someone who has spent his whole life captivating men to keep having something to eat. She puts her lips to my ear, and I allow it, even though I know this scent will permeate my suit.

- You are not the kind of man who disappoints.

"Let's go," says the blonde. Meredith walks away, still smiling. She looks at me one last time, as if giving me one last second to change my mind, then turns and heads for the exit.

– She's a nice girl – assures Yolanda – But let's get back to the subject. Minerva.

- I'm all ears.

– Minerva started racing with cars that were too expensive for our standards. It happened to me that he was a daddy's boy, but he was a good driver. He showed up at dawn, got away before sunrise, never got in trouble. I allowed him to stay.

"It didn't last long like that," I guess.

- Nope. Confusion, graffiti and broken windows started to happen. Races have also become more frequent. So I personally decided to meet the troublemaker – Yolanda pauses – It was a girl.

It takes me a few seconds to dive into it. I'm not surprised, but I admit that I hadn't thought of this possibility. So the person everyone thinks is as evil as me was a rich girl?

– Minerva is the goddess of war, not a god – Yolanda smiles – Anyway, she assured me she could keep the police out of the Bronx in the wee hours. It was more than enough for me.

- What's her name?

- I can not tell. You know me, LeBlanc, I'm true to my agreements.

– How much do you want for the name? – I ask, because I know her. Yolanda would sell anything she could as long as she was offered a decent price.

– Well… – she pretends to think – Fifty thousand.

- In liquid?

- Nope. I have an account in Singapore.

– I make the transfer as soon as I am sure that the person exists.

– Still formal – Yolanda gets out of the car – Her name is Skyla Parker. I don't know much about the girl, but I know her family has enough money to buy off the crooked New York cops.

"Skyla Parker", I repeat the name.

She walks towards me. Yolanda adjusts the cleavage, but I don't take my eyes off her.

"I'm waiting for the transfer," she said. I nod my head in agreement. I don't have many qualities, but one of them is keeping my word – And coming back more often. It's nice to see a rich, handsome man around here.