by Rene Natan
Louis shrugged. “Nothing.”
“What do you do in your spare time?”
“I like to work on engines, motors, that kind of stuff.” For a moment, his face lit up. “I built my motorbike with all kinds of spare parts I found in junkyards.”
Gordon noticed Louis didn’t touch his food, which was getting cold. Clearly, his presence distressed the young man. No need to prolong his discomfort. The man was probably in trouble with the law and needed care. He’d seen enough. Tomorrow, he’d contact the administration of Catholic Central. They’d know something about the boy and his late uncle.
“I’m going,” Gordon said and gently patted Louis on the shoulder. “I see you’re in good hands. No need for me to stick around any longer.”
Nicole walked toward him as he exited the room and gave him the photocopy of the document he’d requested. Gordon thanked her and moved toward the elevators reserved for visitors. While waiting for the car to reach his floor, he remembered Jocelyn Cardel worked at this hospital.
With a ding, the elevator door slid open, and he stepped inside. As he arrived on the main floor, he wondered if the woman was on duty. He turned to the left and stood on the Prescription Centre’s threshold.
Jocelyn spotted him immediately.
He lifted both arms to stop her. “I’m married,” he said.
Jocelyn kept coming, hair swaying around her neck. “I thought so. A hunk like you, and all the women in this town? I knew somebody had caught you on the fly.”
Gordon laughed at how direct she was.
“Need anything?” she asked.
“Actually, yes. On the sixth floor there’s a young man; name is Louis Saura. Dr. Wengler asked me to come over and take a look at him. He’s been beaten and probably sexually abused. He’s eighteen, so Children’s Aid can’t do a thing.” He paused and looked at Jocelyn. “You work as a volunteer at a place for the homeless, if I remember correctly. Maybe you can mention the Men’s Mission on York to him; coach him into going there—he’s in need of good meals for the next couple of weeks.”
“Sure. I’ll pay him a visit and see what I can do.” She grinned and cocked her head. “Are you changing jobs? Found out you aren’t tough enough for police work?”
Gordon wiggled an index finger at her. “Don’t count on it. I love my job and I’m good at it, and remember: if you’re guilty, I’ll find out and send you to jail.”
Jocelyn laughed and said, “But you’d have to catch me first.”
Stevenson turned and proceeded to the exit. Jocelyn was a stimulating person. He should tread carefully and remember his marriage vows.
On the road back to his office, he slowed to look at Catholic Central, the school where Louis had been enrolled. The main building was fairly old. It had been built in the fifties as a landmark of Catholic culture amidst the prevailing Anglo-Saxon majority. The recent addition at the front, of round shape, had given the construction a slick look. Stevenson stopped near the entrance. The school was closed for the day, it appeared. He stepped on the gas and went back to headquarters.
Four
Camilo Estorbar and Vicente Perdiz paced the large corner room in opposite directions. They were in the penthouse Camilo owned in London south. Suddenly, Camilo stopped and looked out. The view, extending for miles up to the thick green outskirts that gave London the name of Forest City, was spectacular. Camilo never ceased to admire it. He held a Havana cigar in one hand and a tumbler of rum in the other. He sipped on the latter, turned around, and looked at his partner. “Are you sure Louis isn’t in that dilapidated house where his uncle lived?”
“He hasn’t been there for the last four weeks. You own the place, so I had no problem checking it out. Louis has been there, since the bed had traces of blood, and so did the bathroom. Nothing in the cupboards except cans of beans and a box of cereal. Spoiled lettuce, fruits, and milk in the fridge. Nobody has seen him, but he can’t be too far, since his motorbike is parked just inside the back door close to the stairs going into the basement. He’s nuts about that wreck. He wouldn’t go too far without it.”
“You didn’t follow him when he left the penthouse?”
“Only for a few steps. He took the stairs one flight down, then stopped and waited for the elevator. There were several people ready to take the lift and some started to look at Louis with curiosity. He was bleeding, you know…so I turned around; I didn’t think it was wise to be seen coming from the penthouse.” Vicente paused. “I thought he’d go back to his old place, and he did. He must have cleared out a couple of days later.”
“But where did he go?”
Vicente laughed. “He can’t have gone far. He was in bad shape, and he has no money.”
Camilo took a long drag on his cigar. “When he comes back, we’re going to teach him a lesson. For good, this time.”
A trill from the lobby intercom made them jerk their heads. Vicente answered.
“Who is it?” Camilo asked.
“Rose.”
“Tell her to come up,” Camilo said and unlocked the door.
Rose Miller was middle-aged, with broad shoulders and an erect posture; she topped both men in height, and walked with secure strides, her silky pantsuit giving her an elegant aspect. She stood in front of Camilo. “We’re short of bodies. Two of my girls refuse to do overtime, and one is sick.” She unfolded the long scarf that hung at the front, displaying a double string of pearls. Her makeup was heavy, with bright red lips and black mascara on her artificial eyelashes; her short hair was fair with streaks of auburn.
“You’re the madam. Control your crew.” Camilo blew a breath of smoke in her face.
Rose coughed, fanned away the smoke with her hand, and took a step away from him. “I’m the manager. You provide the prime material. I need at least three new girls, around twelve if possible, fourteen will do, but petite—that’s the requirement.”
“You shouldn’t have fired The Frog—even if she was on the ugly side, she was still an extra body.”
“It had to be done. For one thing, she started to advance rights and complain about pay and conditions; it was going to rub against the others.”
“The others don’t even speak English!”
“They learn fast—especially about their so-called rights. And two, I caught The Frog typing on my computer trying to access some files. She had to go.” Rose nervously played with her pearl bracelet. “And two clients keep asking about Louis, when he’ll come back to work.” She looked around and turned toward Vicente. “He made us three times more money than any of the girls.”
“We’re just talking about him,” Vicente said. “He fucked up. We had to teach him a lesson, and now he’s disappeared. When we find him, he has to be punished.”
“Find a substitute then.” Without another word, Rose pounded on the carpeted floor with her high-heeled shoes and walked out.
After he heard the penthouse elevator open, Camilo said, “Rose is getting old. She can’t take the pressure anymore. We may have to replace her.”
“Not now. She knows how to keep everybody happy. Over the years, she’s assembled a group of steady customers—nobody too wild, everybody solvent, few new people. And she’s right that we need more bodies. We’ll get a girl next week and then nothing until next month, when we may get two or three girls. There’s so much demand south of the border, we’re lucky if we get any.” Vicente sighed. “It’s a competitive business.”
“Yeah, but we make five times more money than we ever made with drugs.”
“It’s also more dangerous. Our web designer left. He didn’t buy the story we’re advertising ballet lessons for young girls and boys.”
“I’m not concerned about finding somebody else. Next time we’ll make sure the photos are engaging enough to attract attention, but totally innocent-looking. Our customers will grasp the idea quickly. No need to be explicit.” Camilo stubbed out his cigar in the large crystal ashtray. “Let’s go see how the renovation to my motel is coming along.”
<
br /> ***
Gordon Stevenson flipped over the fax he’d received from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, RCMP for short, hoping to find something more. There was little about Jocelyn Cardel. Born in Vancouver, she’d gone to a post-secondary school at the University of British Columbia, where, at age twenty-six, she’d received a Bachelor of Science in Pharmacy. There was no mention of any activity in her life for the next three years, and Stevenson wondered whether she’d gotten married and dropped out of the work force. Then she’d served in a couple of drugstores in the North West Territories and, four years ago, came to Ontario. Her work record was impeccable. The story she’d told him about the mysterious package slipping off her hands was probably true. Stevenson drummed his fingers on the desk, a bit uncertain about what action to take. It appeared he had no reason to worry about her.
The report on Carlos Saura, Louis’ uncle, was also brief. Carlos and his brother, both natives of Mexico, had first come to Canada as seasonal workers, hired to pick apples in Ontario orchards. Carlos’ brother soon married a Canadian woman and settled in this country, and Carlos managed to obtain permanent residence status as part of his brother’s family. When Louis’ parents died in a car accident, Carlos, already in his forties, had taken care of Louis, barely two years old. He’d held jobs as a farmer’s helper and janitor in an elementary school; he was considered a handyman by his employers, as he was very good at fixing things—home appliances and bikes, in particular. Nobody in the family had a police record. There was nothing that could help police to find out what Louis Saura’s current troubles were.
Stevenson wondered about the young man. At the moment, Louis was staying at the Men Mission on York Street, but he probably wouldn’t be there for long. If, as he suspected, Louis was involved in something criminal, the boy would take off as soon as he was in stable physical condition. Gordon had to act, talk to him, and see what information he could gather before the kid disappeared. Intimidation wasn’t going to work, he thought; he needed to create a friendly atmosphere. His eyes fell on the fax he’d received about Jocelyn. He’d call her and see if she’d agree to accompany him to see Louis. The presence of a woman might soften the detective’s harder edge.
He called Jocelyn, explained the situation, and asked for her cooperation. Jocelyn agreed. Together, they’d take Louis out for lunch.
When they arrived at the Mission, they saw Louis Saura seated on the steps of the building’s lateral staircase, close to the rough murals that decorated the nearby wall, his head between his hands. Stevenson, with Jocelyn at his side, called his name. Louis jerked and stared at them with apprehension.
“You look good,” Stevenson said, lingering at the base of the stairs to be sure Louis wouldn’t feel intimidated. “You know Ms. Cardel, right? She gave you a ride to this place from the hospital.” Louis nodded and rose. “We came here to take you out for lunch. Will a Whopper do?”
Louis nodded again, and awkwardly descended the few steps. Without muttering a word, he followed them and climbed into the back seat of Jocelyn’s Chevy.
The information Stevenson had gathered at Catholic Central on Louis Saura was good. The boy kept to himself and was well-liked. He stuttered at times, but refused to go to a specialized clinic to get help. He’d leave the school premises as soon as the classes were over and rush to work at Food Basics on Oxford East. Nevertheless, he did his homework in time; his marks were in the high sixties. The vice-principal wondered why he’d dropped out, but after he received a call that Louis’ uncle had died and Louis was about to leave town in the care of another uncle, he’d stopped worrying. That was what Stevenson had gathered at the school. Louis’ neighbors hadn’t been very helpful either. There were only two neighbors in the multiplex home on Adelaide South. One was an old lady, and the other was an old couple who never left the house and got their meals through the hospital service. They described Louis as a cheerful, helpful, and well-mannered guy, in contrast to Louis’ late uncle, Carlos, who hardly said hello or good morning. Nothing important emerged on the boy’s family situation, except that Carlos, in the last year of his life, had been in poor health.
Jocelyn had kept a discreet eye on the young man, as she occasionally helped in the kitchen at the Mission. The information Gordon had heard from Jocelyn was similar to what he’d received at the high school. Louis kept pretty much to himself. He was courteous, answered questions when asked, but in the curtest way possible.
Louis waited until everybody else had started to eat to tackle his Whopper, from time to time popping a few fries into his mouth. He kept his eyes on the tray, ignoring both Stevenson and Jocelyn.
Stevenson was half way through his BK BIG Fish when he asked, “Louis, what was your uncle’s job when he passed away?”
“He repaired stuff.” Louis hiked his shoulders, took a long swig of his cola, and kept eating.
Stevenson changed tactics. “How much money did you make at Food Basics?”
Louis’ hand, which held a French fry, stood in mid-air. “W-why do you want to know?”
Stevenson waved off the question. “Did you and your uncle live on that money?”
“Pret—pretty much.” Louis resumed eating.
“Why did you quit school then? It wasn’t because of the money, clearly.”
Louis looked at Stevenson and then at Jocelyn, uncertain what to do, and Stevenson rode the wave. “You have to tell the truth, son. It’s the law.” Louis shook his head and lifted his tray, ready to leave, but Stevenson held him by the wrist. “Tell me at least what you plan to do next.”
“Going away,” Louis murmured, and set the tray back on the table, even though Stevenson had relinquished his hold.
“Nothing wrong with that,” Jocelyn said and smiled. “Maybe we can help you. Where would you like to go?”
Louis looked at each of them before answering, “Far away.”
“Toronto?” Jocelyn asked.
Louis shook his head. “Not f—far enough.”
“Where then?
“The Yukon.”
Stevenson patted his wrist. “Oh. Well, then you need our help. That trip would be pretty expensive.”
Louis remained silent.
“What about dessert?” Jocelyn asked. “I’m going to get the mud pie. What about you guys?”
Louis nodded and relaxed his back against the seat.
“You too, Gordon?”
“Sure. And coffee, please.” He glanced at Louis. He had no doubt the young man was scared. He’d been involved in something that hurt him, and wanted to clear out. Stevenson couldn’t blame him if he didn’t want to talk about it. Louis had no reason to trust him. His detective’s intuition told him Louis knew something that could help the police hunt down some criminals, but he had no way to convince him to cooperate. He sighed aloud and thanked Jocelyn when she deposited the pie and the coffee in front of him.
They ate their desserts in silence, and then Stevenson said, “I feel you’re aware of some criminal activities that have been going on around you, and you’re afraid to talk.” He took a card out of his pocket, slid it across the table, and said, “Give me a call if you want to talk or need help.”
Jocelyn did the same with her card. “You know I work at UH; I stop by the Mission when they’re in serious need for help. Call me anytime.”
Louis pocketed both cards and followed them outside.
After they dropped off Louis at the Mission, Jocelyn drove Stevenson to headquarters. “We didn’t accomplish anything,” Jocelyn said.
Stevenson shook his head. “Louis has been physically abused, but even the report from the hospital won’t do anything if he doesn’t talk. And he’s too scared to even look us in the eyes. End of the line. I thought your presence might soften up his attitude. Poor judgment on my part. Sorry I dragged you around for nothing.”
“How long do you think he’ll stay at the Mission?”
“Not long. He looks good right now. He still has a patch on his ear. Otherwise I
couldn’t see anything that would forbid him from taking a bus and heading west.” He waved goodbye to Jocelyn and was ready to climb out of the car when he saw a bag lying on the back seat. “We forgot to give him the clothes we’d gathered for him,” Gordon said.
“Never mind. I’ll take them to the Mission tonight after I finish my shift. It’s on my way home.”
“Oh, how come? I thought you’re living in Watford.”
“Yeah, I was. I loved the countryside, but this past winter convinced me to move into a small condominium in London east. I only have a tiny back yard; it’s a price to pay for avoiding the two-hour drive I had to do every day.”
Stevenson waved goodbye and strode out.
***
Louis counted the money in his pocket. Twenty-two dollars and five cents. It wasn’t safe to go back to work at Food Basics—Camilo and Vicente knew of the place. He took a walk on York Street, going into town. When he saw the sign “Help Wanted” in the window of The Friendly Diner, he entered, and offered his services. He could start right away, but would have to come back with his papers and references if he wanted a permanent job. Louis agreed and began waiting tables. Soon after, the work slacked off, and he asked to use the phone.
For the last month, he’d wanted to call Selina Belcor. She was one of the guests at the whorehouse, with other female teens snatched from their families in Mexico or Central America and brought into the country illegally. Selina was five-two, thin like a willow, with an oval face framed by a mass of curly dark hair. Her eyes seemed to take all of the upper part of her face, and her mouth was small and ruby-red. In the rare times they could be together, he’d taught her the basic words of English. They laughed together and, most important of all, they talked and dreamed of getting out of the brothel and freeing themselves of the invisible noose that Camilo, the big boss, waved on top of their heads. Louis had a bit of freedom, but Selina and the other girls weren’t allowed to leave the premises. They ate, slept, and satisfied their clients without roaming outside. At first, Camilo had convinced Selina she was still in Mexico, and that she wouldn’t have a chance to complain, as he was a big friend of the chief of police. But, little by little, Louis had revealed the truth and assured her that one day she’d be free—free to go where she wanted and be with who she wanted to be.
