The waiting had made him edgy, and the parade of scantily-clad young Latinas had grown stale after a few hours. Adrenaline from the day’s events had faded, replaced by a crash, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. The stream of clients in the brothel had increased to full flow – unsurprising given that it was Saturday night. The diverse crowd comprised a mix of locals and visitors. One group in particular drew his attention – three obviously Colombian men hanging out in the lounge area with narcotraficantes written all over them. That also wasn’t surprising because the drug traffickers packed the kind of money that made a night at Carmen’s about as financially significant as a trip to a fast food restaurant for a Happy Meal. At nine forty-five, Carmen came downstairs and escorted Ernesto up to her third floor office. She explained that the trip across the border that night was a go, and that it was time to settle the tab before they went any further. Ernesto fished out a wad of cash from his backpack and carefully counted out forty-five hundred dollars.
