CHAPTER ONE

Apartment of Israel Bolaños

Guantánamo, Cuba

September 2008 A.D.

"I might be getting addicted to piercing, actually."

Bethania Garciaparra cringed at that. She was a girl in her late teens with raven-black hair and dark eyes and skin. She seemed to have an aura of innocence around her, but Clarice Fernández knew for a fact that Bethania was anything but innocent. Bethania sat across from Clarice at a kitchen table in a dark, dirty apartment in downtown Guantánamo, Cuba.

"You know—well, obviously—they use that gun to pierce your ears, right?" Bethania asked and Clarice nodded her head. "Do they use that to pierce your nipples?"

Clarice shrugged. "I don't fucking know, to be honest. I haven't used a piercing gun since my first ear piercings. There's only one way to go—a needle. Pretty much all of my piercings have been done with a needle. The five in each ear—except for the ones at the tip—my right eyebrow, my lip, my tongue, each one of my nipples, my bellybutton, and the one right here," Clarice pointed to the barbell she had through the webbing between her thumb and index finger on her left hand.

"Ow," Bethania said. "They can pierce that?"

"They can pierce anything," Clarice answered. "I originally went in to get my clit pierced, but I pussed out at the last minute."

The man lying on the couch sat up and looked over at Clarice and Bethania. Vicente Gutiérrez was a common fixture at Israel Bolaños's apartment, often passed out on the couch or the floor. He must have been awake and sober for once, because he had sat up straight when he had heard the word 'clit'.

"Sorry for interrupting your wonderful conversation, ladies, but why would you get your clit pierced?" Vicente asked.

Clarice shrugged. "I don't know why. I thought it would have been cool, you know?"

"Wouldn't it hurt though?"

"That's why I didn't go through with it. I had to get something done, so I got this," Clarice said and held up her left hand where the finger webbing had been pierced. "Next time, next time, I'll go through with it."

The door to the apartment opened, and Israel was standing there, his keys in one hand and a paper bag in the other. He walked into the apartment and put the keys in his pocket as he shut the door with his foot. Israel was a tall, willowy man with a dark complexion. His brown hair was thick and curly and went in every which direction. His bear was in a similar state, and he wore ratty, old clothing that had seen better days.

He walked between the table Clarice and Bethania were sitting at and the couch Vicente was laying on. He stopped for a moment, and looked at Clarice and Bethania and then at Vicente. "Nice to know you guys know how to get in when I'm not around," Israel said.

"It's a gift," Clarice answered.

Israel nodded his head. "Or so I've been told," he said. He snapped his fingers in Clarice's general direction. "That's right; you were here to see me. Come back in my room...I have it there."

Clarice stood up and followed Israel into the small bedroom of his apartment. He stepped aside and let Clarice go in first, and he followed her in and closed the door again with his foot. He set the bag down on the floor, and as Clarice turned around, he grabbed her and brought her in for a kiss.

"Fucker!" Clarice shouted in English, pushing Israel towards the wall. Using one arm, she had him pinned against the wall. She pulled a knife from her belt and held it to Israel's throat. "Listen here, you fucking cocksucker. If you fucking touch me one more time, and I swear to God I will cut off your cock faster than you can say Bangkok."

Israel stared at Clarice for a moment before looking down at the knife to his throat. "Well?"

"It won't happen again," Israel stammered out.

"Good," Clarice said, sheathing the knife and letting Israel go. "Now, whatcha got?"

Israel rubbed his neck as he walked over to his closet. He rummaged through it for a few moments, and Clarice kept an eye on him ready for anything. Israel was generally a nice guy, but when he was high—which he probably was—he was pretty damn unpredictable.

"Here," Israel said. He set three bags on the bed. He pointed to the first bag. "This is your pretty normal shit, except that it was made in France of all places but some fucking niggers. This second one I like to call Unicorn."

"And particular reason?"

"No. I just liked the way it sounds." Israel paused, and had a look on his face as if he was trying to remember what he was saying. Finally, he pointed to the third and final bag. "And I just got this fucker in this morning from Miami."

"Pinzón," Clarice said, picking up the third bag. On it was her family's logo—a red oval with two lines coming out of the ends and then four triangles surrounding it.

"How'd you know?"

"Where'd you get this?"

Israel scratched his chin, thinking. "Some American dude named Homer and a French chick named Serafina. I think."

Clarice held the bag in her hand, looking at it. This was the closet she had ever been to her uncles in well over a year. She shook her head, forcing the memories out before they could rise up again. She put the bag back down on the bed.

"How much for this Pinzón shit?" she asked.

"Eighty-five," Israel answered.

"Bullshit," Clarice declared.

Israel shrugged. "Hey, if you can find a cheaper way to smuggle drugs in from Miami, I'd love to hear it."

"I'll take it."