Sunday, 10 May 2009


(Wolverine's head, my fingers)

She was the Letician police’s greatest asset. In this small port town in the south of Colombia, the town which is the fiefdom of Jose Rodriguez Gacha, she was the only ray of sunlight in a world clouded by the white powder which is the downfall of our nation.

In a bar on the east side, in this town where cocaine trafficking is at its most fervent, we would meet once a week at seven o’clock sharp and she would disclose to me secrets from El Mexicano’s mouth itself and these reports I would transfer to my commanding officer and thus we had a semblance of control over Gacha’s movements.

I can never forget the first time I saw her. We were conducting a raid on a Letician brothel and in one of the rooms she lay, barely conscious, obviously high on the drug. Later, at the station, we could not fathom what to do with her. She had no name, no address. The one thing she did have though, was beauty, plenty of it and to this day I cannot picture that face without an increase in heartbeat. Such beauty that the very gods must visit her in her dreams to enjoy her company. We were under pressure from the capital regarding Gacha, and in an act of desperation rather than intelligence, we decided that we would send her to Gacha and possibly charm him.

It was not at all difficult to arrange a meeting. Gacha was famous for his womanizing ways and kept a harem at his palatial mansion on the outskirts of Leticia. Soon she began to work her magic on him. What we had conceived as a long shot had actually come off. Gacha found his feet wandering more and more towards her room each night. Soon she was his mistress and was always near him. Slowly, she became privy to the most vital information about his drug operation, and along with her, so did we. Little by little, we began to chip away at Gacha’s empire and had reached a stage where the governor wrote us a letter of commendation for our efforts.

It was seven ‘o clock sharp and there she was at the allotted booth. She wore a blue dress and a pretty pink hat with a flower in it. I was surprised at her posture, but assumed that she must be tired or something. As I went closer and looked into her eyes, I felt a knot in my stomach, for in her eyes I saw death.

The Letician police’s greatest asset, I shall always remember her as ‘mi pajaro cantor pequeno’, my little songbird. She died when someone crushed her throat.

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