Read Online Bloodline by Jeff Buick - Free Book Online

levels of crime and violence. But people kept coming, and Caracas kept growing. Now the city spread like a cancer over the steep hills, the roads slicing across the sharp ridges and the houses multiplying and filling every gorge and canyon. Eugene directed the driver to an industrial section of town where even the ranchitos refused to take root.
    The tile factory was a dreary building in a cluster of similar windowless concrete buildings. Nothing grew here without a monumental struggle against the pollution and the onslaught of poorly finished cement. Trucks and factories belched dark, sooty smoke into the air and Eugene’s nostrils and eyes stung from the acrid smog. He considered rolling up the windows, but the taxi lacked air-conditioning and the heat would be unbearable in less than a minute. The cab came to rest in front of a nondescript set of doors with a small sign hanging askew above the upper jamb. Stenciled onto the weather beaten wood was Cerámico Cuidad. City Ceramic. Eugene slipped two twenty U.S. dollars from his pocket and ripped them in half. He handed one half from each bill to the driver and re-pocketed the other two halves.
    â€œWait for me,” he said, turning and heading for the entrance.
    â€œ Sí, señor, ” the driver said, clutching the two twenties. Forty dollars for this fare was excellent pay. He would wait however long his client was in the building.
    Inside, Eugene found himself in an administrative bullpen with numerous employees, mostly younger women, at their desks, filling out forms or talking on the phone. One of the women at a desk off to one side, attractive with long hair and piercing brown eyes, glanced up and smiled.
    â€œCan I help you?”
    He weaved through a couple of desks to where she sat. “Yes, please. I’d like to speak with Pedro Parada.”
    Again, the smile. “Sure. I think he’s on the floor. You want to follow me?”
    â€œThanks.” Eugene fell in behind the woman as she moved through the tangle of desks to a door against the back wall. A wall of sound hit them as she opened the door and entered the shop area. It was a cavernous room, perhaps two hundred square feet with a thirty-foot ceiling, and filled with machinery and conveyors for forming and packaging ceramic tiles. The antiquated equipment was labor intensive, and workers were plentiful, watching the machines, adding oil and adjusting relief valves to keep the internal pressure constant. One corner of the room, where the tiles were formed and kiln dried, produced enough heat to keep the entire room sweltering. The woman rounded a large conveyor that bound the finished tiles in cardboard and rolled them down to waiting pallets. She pointed to a group of men working on one of the machines.
    â€œPedro is the crew leader for maintenance,” she said. “They’re working on one of the hydraulic units.”
    Eugene nodded and smiled. “Thank you.” He walked the last few yards to the group of men and waited until one of the four noticed his presence. He pointed to Pedro, who had his head down and was tightening a new hydraulic line with a wrench. The man tapped Pedro on the leg and he looked up. A broad grin spread across his face as he recognized Eugene. He dropped the wrench and stuck out a greasy hand.
    â€œEugene, my friend,” he said, rising to his full height of five feet eight inches. He wore a short sleeve shirt and his muscles bulged against the material as he shook hands. His forearms were thick and well defined, his skin dark brown from the sun and his mestizo heritage. He wore his dark hair short and neatly combed back from a broad forehead and prominent cheek bones. His smile was glistening white against the soft brown of his skin.
    â€œHello, Pedro,” Eugene said, ignoring the grease and accepting his friend’s hand. Both men had strong grips.
    Pedro motioned to his crew to finish the repair and steered Eugene toward