La Mora Parte 5: ¿Ya tenia La Mora enganchado otro pez?

5

—Estoy buscando a “El Pollo”—les dije.

—¿Quién lo busca?—ladró el que parecía más jóven…le apodé “Mucho que demostrar”.

—Un amigo de La Mora—respondí.

Los tipos me quedaron viendo y pensé que me mentarían la madre; cuando de repente la ventana trasera se abrió.

—¿La Mora?—preguntó El Pollo. Aunque no estaba seguro que fuera él, pero sino ¿quién?.

Era pálido y suave como un osito de peluche, cabello rubio a ras y sus ojos como un par de lagos alpinos. Una nauseabunda balada pop sonaba en los altavoces de la camioneta Escalade.

—¿La conoces?

—Nos conocimos en Los Ángeles, apenas la semana pasada.

—¿Neta, la topas?—Pollo sopesó, revisando el Rolex en su muñeca.

Mi hombro se salió de su sitio. Los tipos me habían torcido el brazo detrás de mi espalda, revisaron que estuviera libre de armas y me aventaron dentro del gélido estómago de la camioneta.

La Escalade avanzó y Pollo sonreía mientras bebía un Redbull.

VERSIÓN EN INGLÉS

5

A woman who’d been engaged to the Poet, fled to LA with a trustafarian, only to throw away her golden ticket for a weekend with me? The more I learned, the larger La Mora loomed.

La Roma was the same, but with more reclaimed wood.

I passed the cafe Cicatriz. Everyone was young, hot, European. I promised myself never to step foot there.

Outsite Pollo’s mezcal bar, tucked away on a quiet street behind the fortress of the US Embassy, was a black Escalade, its body so waxed I caught my reflection in it. I smiled at how thin I looked.

The bar was all blond wood and polished concrete. Hipsters drank IPAs at plastic tables, orange zest perfumed the air.

Can I help you? a gringo waiter asked me in poor Spanish. He had a close cropped beard, shampoo commercial curls, the body of a demigod beneath his apron. I despised him immediately. Would you like a table?

Anything else? asked the waiter, removing the emptied glasses.

Is Pollo in? I asked.

No, he said and I hated that he wasn’t impressed I knew the owner’s name.

Just the bill, I said.

Outside on the street, desperate and buzzed, I wobbled towards two toughs now buffing the Escalade.

I’m looking for Pollo, I said.

The duo rang out the rags in their hands, eyed each other, then me.

Who’s looking? barked the younger one. Too Much To Prove, let’s call him.

A friend of La Mora, I said.

The toughs stared at me and I was waiting for them to tell me to fuck off when the back window slid down.

La Mora? asked Pollo. I wasn’t sure it was him, but who else could it have been? He was pale and teddy bear soft, buzzed blond hair, eyes like a pair of alpine lakes. A nauseating pop ballad purred from the Escalade’s speakers. You know her?

We met in LA, I said. Just last week.

Did you? Pollo mused, checking the Rolex on his wrist.

My shoulder tore from its socket. The toughs threw my arm behind my back, patted me down, tossed me into the Escalade’s frigid belly.

As we swerved away, Pollo smiled, sipped a can of Redbull.

Arte: @b0mbay_

Dirección: @andresxestrada

Edición - @casualencountersz