Cuandon had a good Saturday. He told me he’d run the airport scam twice, each time picking up the tourists by yelling the name of a hotel from the van window, then taking them up to the mountain shack until they paid the ransom which he calls a “travel fee.”
I was down in the Federal District learning a new golpista, the fake arrest.
Cuandon sat back with his beer while I explained it, smiling and shaking his head once in a while in amazement.
“It’s as easy as that?”
“Seems to be,” I said. “They are so afraid of police they will give up their personal information without hesitation. Bribes, too. All we need are the uniforms, which I can get for ten percent off the top. You won’t even need to shave your mustache.”
“Why are they so weak, do you think?”
“They aren’t weak, Cuandon. Just afraid.”