Tato and Joaquín are tearing through the night in the Porsche. The car doesn't have wheels—it's got wings. It's flying like a goddamn devil. They do two full laps around Balboa Lake. A massive, gorgeous lake, with jade green water—though at night, of course, you can't see shit. It's pitch black. How the hell do you expect to see the color of the water, for Christ's sake?
The lake, and this is important to mention, has two islands: Emerald and Gutiérrez. Living on one of those islands will cost you an arm and a leg. But not just any arm or leg, okay? There are arms and legs out there that aren't worth a damn. Take, for example, the arm of some office clerk or a taxi driver or a second-string baseball player. Hack one of those off, and at most, you're getting a fine and a couple nights in jail. Maybe not even that. I'm talking about an arm that could get you killed if you take it. And if you're willing to take the risk, you better be getting paid big. I'm talking about the arm of a prince back when kings were chopping off heads at a whim. Or, to bring it into the present, the arm of a drug lord's son—the kind that orders bodies chopped up and hangs the guts like Christmas garlands over the bridges of his city. You get me, right? Good. So what I'm saying is, the houses on those islands cost a fortune. Just like the houses surrounding the lake. Mansions that belong to the Aragón, San Isidro, Chapiteles, El Retiro, and, of course, La Reina neighborhoods.
That place is a work of art. Everything's crafted with such obsessive detail it's almost sickening. Like some artist-architect was told, "Hey, here's a lake. Make it shine." And the guy went overboard with inspiration. The houses sprout up. Then come the streets, the docks, the yachts, the cars, the golf clubs. And without ruining nature, mind you. Because there's more green here than you'll see in your entire life. And over there, to the south, the hills. And a bit further, the forest. Both named after the nearby neighborhood of La Reina: La Reina Hills and La Reina Forest. Very classy. Very cute. But of course, it's not a place for just anyone. The law says the streets are public, that any citizen can walk through. Yeah, right. That's not true even when they print it in the official bulletin. Because all it takes is for some nobody without an invitation to decide, I don't know, to take a stroll, and three patrol cars will be on his ass. Not one. Not two. Three. Interrogation. Harassment. Threats. But not crude threats, no. Threats delivered in a voice that sounds polite, but never loses that authoritarian undertone. And always with that refined modulation. The kind of intimidation used by cops whose real boss isn't the government—it's the neighbor who pays the most taxes. The one who built half the city. The one who funds campaigns. The one who calls the mayor by his first name. And even by that nickname the mayor hates. The one he only tolerates when it comes from that millionaire who put him in the city hall chair. The same millionaire who likes to say, "And never forget, you're someone only because I allow it, you fat fuck."
Some right-wing wiseass would say that's how it should be. That it's justice. That if those men made money, they deserve everything. Sure. What that wiseass won't say—or doesn't want to say—is that when a human soul gets power, it wants more power. And more money. And in the end, it pulls all the political strings to make sure nobody else rises to Olympus. Nobody else touches the cake. So that their friends and their kids get to keep it all. But anyway, moving on. There are two avenues circling the lake: to the east, Fitzgerald Avenue; to the west, Mendoza Avenue. The Porsche, having done two laps, of course drives down both twice. First, Tato drives. Then Joaquín. The engine roars, the headlights slice through the dark, the world feels like it belongs to them. Princes of the city. Then they pull into a gas station. They want to buy some beers. They try to bribe the clerk. But the guy shakes his head. "I can't. Sorry. Please, don't insist, guys." First, because they're underage. Second, because it's after ten and selling booze is off-limits. But mostly, because there are cameras. Cameras he doesn't control. Cameras watching him. Cameras recording everything he does. And no way in hell is he screwing up. They already fired the kid from the afternoon shift for taking too long in the bathroom. Imagine what they'd do to him if he sold booze to two preppy kids who look like they snort coke during Sunday mass. He knows it: they wouldn't just fire him. They'd bury him. Lock him up. Crush him. Because those kids look like the sons of the power players who can destroy you without lifting a finger.
"I'm really sorry, guys," the clerk says, voice tight. "It's not that I'm being a jerk. I really can't."
"You broke-ass loser," Joaquín snaps. "My tips are worth more than your entire bloodline's net worth since they crawled out of caves. Sell us the damn beer, you piece of shit."
"I can't, man. Please… understand," the clerk begs.
And then, without thinking, Tato spits in his face. Direct hit. Spit and phlegm, thick and disgusting. Pure, undiluted contempt. Joaquín bursts out laughing. They both do. Loud, open-mouthed laughter. The kind you let loose when you're a smug little prince, doing something cruel and knowing there won't be consequences. A Joffrey Baratheon kind of joy. And the clerk? The guy doesn't do a damn thing. He just stands there. Powerless. Eyes fixed on the nearest camera. Everything is on record. But what those boys did doesn't even count as an infraction. Not even enough to warrant a slap on the wrist. They're still model citizens. Hell, they might even deserve a medal. A commendation. The keys to the city for acting like good little rich boys. Now, on the other hand, if he'd reacted… Oh, then yeah. An unforgivable crime. A monstrous act. And if you push it, a premeditated assault with murderous intent. The full weight of the law. Condemnation. "Electric chair! Gas chamber! Lethal injection!" the boys' mothers would demand. And what's more, before carrying out the execution, they'd push for the guy's castration. Make the poor bastard suffer like William Wallace. Medieval-style agony.
Tato and Joaquín walk out without the beers. The clerk wipes his face and keeps working. Doesn't go to the bathroom. Doesn't even nod off for a second, though every now and then, sleep hits him like a sack of cement. And that's how it goes until six in the morning. Serving rich night owls who treat him like he's not even human. Like he's a robot. An automaton that scans, gives change, and only opens his mouth to say "Welcome" and "Thanks for your purchase." And then what? Then his shift ends. And he goes home. To the other side of the city. Where his wife and baby are waiting for him. And then what? Sleep? Nope. Not a chance. Now it's his turn to watch the baby while his wife goes to work. She works cleaning. Floors, bathrooms, hallways, buckets of vomit and dried blood. She does it at a public hospital. Got the job thanks to a friend who "knows" one of the men in admin. ("Knows" in this case means the friend fucks him, that she's one of his side pieces.) And so that's where she works, the clerk's wife. Takes home sixty percent of her pay. Mandatory deductions here and there. And on top of that, she has to give a cut to the guy who "got" her the job. The good man who was "kind enough to give her a chance."
Back in the Porsche, Tato turns to Joaquín.
"Let's head downtown. We'll definitely find booze there and besides…"
Tato grins. Joaquín knows exactly what he means. Blow. Coke. Snow. Joaquín moves inside the car like they're at a rave. And Tato follows suit. Both of them moving like they've got electronic music pumping through their veins. And when they finally stop dancing around like a couple of idiotic rich kids, Joaquín says:
"Step on it, man. Let's get the hell out of this boring-ass place."
Tato fires up the engine. Then he takes off up Fitzgerald Avenue. The Porsche speeds toward downtown Miraverde. Blasting through the speakers: Take Me Out by Franz Ferdinand.