fifteen
Santiago’s Package
The intercom connected to the security gate beeped, so I walked over to it and pressed the tiny green button. “Yes?”
“There is a delivery driver here with a package for Mr. Bolsonaro. Should I allow him in?” The man’s southern accent was difficult for me to understand sometimes, especially through the tinny speaker.
“Did you say there was a package for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please, allow them to come inside.” I let go of the button, then realized I hadn’t thanked him, so I pressed it again. “Thanks, Jimmy.”
I hadn’t ordered anything, and didn’t have a clue what it could be. Diesel was the shopaholic, and boxes for him arrived several times a week. He was at work and wasn’t due home for another two hours. When he arrived, we were going to see an exhibit of Man
