The next day they went to the PTI rally in Coyoacán. It was easy to find—they just walked towards the square festooned with red banners, pictures of Lenin and Trotsky, and a suspiciously high number of probable secret policemen.
Elena Alcatruz found Jimmy almost immediately. “I was hoping to see you at the bar last night…”
Jimmy gulped. “I wanted to but I got held up by work.”
“Oh, work…well, we’re here at a worker’s rally! Come let me get you some punch.”
Don’t drink the punch! mouthed Geronimo.
Jimmy took the glass that Elena offered him. He nervously took the tiniest sip possible. “Cheers,” he said, smiling wanly.
[Honestly, I should have charged people Stability to stand in the middle of an open square under the noonday Mexican sun and NOT drink a cold glass of punch, meta be damned.]
Jimmy made his excuses right after that and he Geronimo and Ruby went in search of Javier Luna. They found a bunch of musicians smoking joints behind the open-air stage.
“Let me have a puff,” said Jimmy.
It was pretty clear that only one of Sus Hermanos was in fact Javier Luna’s brother. Ruby approached them gushing admiration. “I’ve heard so much about you,” she purred.
“Really?” said Javier. “Where did you do that?”
“At that bar, La Paz.”
“Whoa, blancas ricas are coming there now? We have to start playing there again.”
[Flattery use by RP.]
Ruby smiled slinkily as the band pressed closer to her. “So you’re here playing for Brooks now. I didn’t think you were his kind of band.”
“Oh, he’s so crazy! He’s obsessed with this next album, says it’s going to change the world! He was going to send it up to Los Angeles, but now he says he’s got bigger things in mind.”
“Who knows? He’s really excited about meeting Senor Trotsky. His people are all crazy, you know. They’re like a cult, they all take that Nectar.”
“Oh, really? They have it up in the States too.”
“Yeah, it makes you feel good, maybe too good. We still play for Leticia. She must have had some plastic surgery, she’s always wearing a veil. Should have gone up to California, I hear they all get that done there.”
“No that’s a dirty lie,” said Ruby, self-consciously fingering her nose. “What kind of music do you play for her?”
“Some kind of weird jazz, I guess. Like, something based on the Internationale? And other…weirder stuff.”
“Do you know where you were recording?”
Luna and the rest of the band looked around quickly. “They always keep us blindfolded,” muttered Luna.
Geronimo scowled and crossed his arms. “It would be beneficial,” he hissed, “to tell us what you know.”
[2-point Intimidation spend by GP.]
“Look, maybe you might kill us, but Brooks will definitely kill us…”
“Okay, okay, we think it’s at an old villa on Moctezuma and San Pedro. It’s all run into the ground. I think they bought the house next door and tunneled below it, because the studio is in the basement or underground.”
“Very well. You may play tonight,” said Geronimo.
Dr. Orange went off in search of Trotsky. He finally saw Lev Davidovich and a tall American-looking man duck into a tent. He pushed through the crowd and came in through the tent flap to discover Trotsky and the American having a heated argument in French.
“Non,” said Trotsky, “non, monsieur, ce que vous direz est illegal, immoral et irrationnel! Ces capabilites ne signifient rien! Dites-lui, Julius! Le communisme est sur la liberte de l’esprit de l’humanite! Contre les desires de Monsieur Stalin, il n’est pas pour devenir une machine!”
The other man turned slowly to face Dr. Orange. "Forgive me, but this was a private conversation I was trying to have with Comrade Trotsky.” He extended his hand. “I don’t think we’ve had the chance to meet. I’m Jonathon Brooks, First Secretary of the International Workers’ Party of Mexico.”