by Rene Natan
Primo’s cell rang, and he opened it right away. They could come to see the patient, but they wouldn’t be able to speak to her. Stevenson dispatched Primo to get Louis and relieve Lopes of his watch.
Louis shuffled one foot after the other. His face was pale, his eyes blinking. Stevenson motioned him to enter the room where the sick young woman rested—she hardly filled half of the bed. Her baby face was chalk white against the blue sheets, her dark hair spread over the pillow. Her eyes were closed, and for a moment, the only movement in the room consisted of the graphs a machine plotted on a screen close to the bed.
Stevenson focused on Louis’ face to detect any sign of recognition. “Do you know her?” he asked. Louis shook his head. “You sure?”
“Sure,” replied Louis, his voice expressing relief. “Can I go now?”
“Not yet. You have to give us an explanation why Camilo Estorbar was after you.” He shot him a severe look. “And it better be a convincing one.” He took Louis by the arm and led him out of the room and to the main floor.
Stevenson didn’t let go of Louis’ arm until he reached the parking lot and opened the passenger door of his cruiser. “Get in,” he ordered.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To headquarters, where I can make you talk.”
Louis hung on the car door with both hands. “I don’t want to go there.”
“If you don’t want to be taken to headquarters then get in the car and start talking. Why was Estorbar after you?” He pushed him inside and slammed the door. He took his place in the driver’s seat and turned his head toward Louis.
“I told you, he wanted the fif-fif-fifteen thousand he said he’d lent to my uncle.”
“What did he ask you to do to pay him back?”
Louis lowered his eyes. “A chore here and there, nothing of importance.”
The young man was lying, and Stevenson did his best to hide his frustration. He tried another angle. “What is his business?”
“He manages a fancy motel out of town.”
“Where?”
Louis didn’t answer, and this time Stevenson’s shout was a mere thunder. “Where? Answer!”
“Delaware.”
“Name?”
“The Tranquility Resort Complex.”
Stevenson put the car in gear and took Louis to his temporary accommodation on Waterloo Street. He stopped in front of the house and said, “Look at the facts, son. You were beaten badly when you went to the hospital, weeks ago; there’s a man out there who wants to hurt you. You have to stop running. One day you have to stand up and fight your enemy. And realize that my office is there to help you, not to hurt you.” As Louis didn’t move, he said, “Get out. You make me sick. I had enough of you for one day.”
Six
The whorehouse was in bedlam. Rose had done her best to keep Dolores, the sick girl, away from the others, but someone had seen her take the girl into her car and speed away. The rumor that somebody was very sick had spread quickly; two girls had refused to work and the other six had left their customers unhappy because of their rushed performance. When Rose returned, she had to spend an enormous amount of time placating the customers, promising refunds, and making sure they didn’t suspect what happened. It was morning now, and she was resting in her room, located close to the female prostitutes’ living quarters, when Camilo Estorbar rapped at her door and entered.
“Did you really take Dolores to the hospital?”
Rose got out of bed, grabbed the robe that lay on top of the bedspread, and slipped it on. “She was on the bathroom floor, unconscious. I couldn’t stop the bleeding.”
“Any other girls see her?”
“What do you think? A bathroom is shared by four girls in this cheap shithouse!” Her hair was in disarray, and her eyes were bulged out of their orbits.
Camilo slapped her face. “You’re fired!” he shouted and walked out. Once outside the room, he joined Vicente and ordered him, “Contact The Frog. She always wanted Rose’s job. She can have it. Cancel all appointments for today and tomorrow.” He laughed nervously. “It will give me time to scare the girls so bad they won’t dare talk about what happened last night.” He pushed Vicente toward the building exit. “And make sure the new shipment is here by the end of the week.”
Vicente trotted rather than walked in front of Camilo until they were out of earshot. He then made an abrupt stop, forcing Camilo to stop, too. “We have to talk,” he said in a low voice. Camilo didn’t reply, and Vicente repeated, “We have to talk.”
“About what?”
“I don’t want to be involved in this. I take care of the arrangements for shipping the girls and the distribution of drugs. That’s all. You and Rose run the whorehouse. I like it to stay this way.”
“I thought your role was to take orders from me.”
“When you hired me, I told you I wanted to stay out of it. You hired Rose; you fired Rose. You contact The Frog. I don’t want to have anything to do with her.”
“Come on, what’s the difference? You don’t mind being a pusher, but you refuse to be a pimp? A job is a job. It’s business.”
Vicente wiggled his weight left and right. “It’s poor business, the way you run this place. The girls can’t go out, they can only walk in that dry back yard that looks like an old Mexican prison courtyard—”
Camilo interjected, “That’s why I can make them believe that they’re still in Mexico.”
Vicente waved off his remark. “You make them serve up to eight clients a day, and you don’t take care of their health. The food quality is okay, since it comes from that fancy motel of yours, but the amount is scarce for teens who are still growing. Their living quarters are appalling. They only get cleaned once a week.” Vicente took a step back. “No wonder people don’t like to stick around. When I came to work for you, there were seventeen guys, now there’re only twelve.”
Camilo made a fist and threatened to use it. “Remember where you come from. One call and you go back to Mexico to milk the only cow your parents have.”
“You don’t know anything about my parents.”
“I know more than you think.” He raised his fist higher. “One call!” he repeated.
This time Vicente took a step forward. “Make that call and I’ll spill the beans. You’ll go to jail for a long, long time.” For a moment Camilo stood there, appalled. Vicente didn’t give him time to recover. He continued, “I’m going to have some rest. My leg is acting up.”
He limped away.
***
Vicente Perdiz went to what had been his home since he’d started to work for Camilo Estorbar, the last cottage reserved for the “lawful” guests at The Tranquility Resort. He unhooked the cell from his belt and looked at the text messages. There were three, all from the same sender, who used the name Assunta. Each was similar to the other. He dialed a number and the man at the other end answered promptly.
“Finally you called! What’s the matter with you? Don’t tell me you have no news about Helenita.”
Vicente breathed deeply, making sure to keep his temper under wraps. “Camilo doesn’t want to expand up west. Even worse, he’s now thinking of switching to boy prostitution. He had only one, but that one made him very good money. What can I do? It’s a hopeless situation.”
“What about the new shipment?”
“Only one girl—and she isn’t in the right age range.” There was silence at the other end. “Camilo is a paranoid SOB. I can’t understand how he could have been in business so long, and I don’t know how long he can last.”
“I never met him. Just got his name as that of a person in the trade we’re talking about; he was the only connection I had; I couldn’t and can’t do much searching or checking without compromising my position.”
“What about Helenita’s mother? Did you trace her?”
“Yes, but she wouldn’t talk to me, and I don’t want to go there. Too dangerous.”
“Well, I can’t do much
at the moment. In a couple of weeks we’ll get another shipment. I’ll try to go there, meet the girls, and check out things,” Vicente said.
“Maybe you should go down and talk to Assunta’s mother. She might give you more details.”
“I can leave for a couple of days, but not for a week, and that would be the time I need to talk to the woman and follow some tracks. The ones you had didn’t pan out.” Vicente paused. “You offered money to Assunta’s mother in exchange for information. Didn’t you get anything?”
“All she knew. That’s how I got the name of Camilo Estorbar and a phone number where Assunta lived. She was there, but didn’t want to talk to me.”
“Hmm. Let’s wait for the new shipment, then we decide what to do. Good enough?”
“No, but what else can I do?” There was a click at the other end of the line.
Vicente closed his cell and sighed aloud. Too many bosses, one more neurotic than the other. Life was tough.
Seven
The girl Louis had seen at the hospital was Dolores. Aware that Stevenson was watching him, Louis had kept his emotions at bay but his stomach was churning. Dolores was in bad shape. He hoped she’d make it.
He remembered well when he’d first met her.
There were no male prostitutes at The Tranquility when Camilo Estorbar had taken him to the resort and ushered him into the last suite of the six cottages. A brass coat stand, a vivid green rug and a framed mirror adorned the entrance. An arc separated the hallway from the large bedroom. A bar cabinet, two upholstered chairs and a low table provided a cozy nook for the guest. In the middle was a king-sized bed with an arabesque bedspread and a brass headboard. One night table was almost entirely taken up by a Tiffany lamp. As Louis looked around, first disoriented and then flabbergasted, two young women came out through the bathroom door. One was petite, with big brown eyes and dark ringlets that filled her forehead. The other was taller, maybe five-five, with straight hair and a pair of huge colorful earrings. They both wore blue jeans and T-shirts.
Even if clearly intimidated by Camilo’s presence, the girls smiled. “Dolores,” said one and pointed to herself and then, pointing to her companion, she said, “Selina. I speak a bit of English.”
“What are you doing dressed up like that?” Camilo asked, contempt in his voice.
“Did not know about guests,” Dolores said.
“Well, go change and see Rose. She’ll find work for you.”
Selina hadn’t uttered a word. She’d kept looking at Louis and Louis had given her a big smile.
His recollection of the first encounter with Dolores and Selina was interrupted by the vision of Dolores in the hospital bed. She looked sick, very sick. Poor Dolores. She’d been surrounded by people who didn’t care about her, who abused her. The same was true for Selina, Louis concluded with a loud sigh. He should go see her; maybe she was sick, too. Perhaps, they could take off together. He looked at his watch. It was just past three o’clock. If he walked fast he could be at the old house where he and his uncle lived in an hour.
When he arrived near the multiplex dwelling in Adelaide South, he proceeded with caution, looking around to see if Camilo’s car was in the neighborhood. He didn’t spot it, so he entered the old premises from the back door. His motorbike was still there. He picked it up, checked on the tires and gas and drove to his temporary home on Waterloo Street. He filled his backpack with a change of clothes and took the road that would lead him to The Tranquility Resort.
***
Rose packed her suitcases and lugged them into her Hyundai’s trunk. The money she’d made when running Estorbar’s prostitution ring had been good. Over the last ten years she’d accumulated about two million dollars—a good retirement fund indeed. It wasn’t because of what Camilo paid her; it was because several customers handed her big tips in order to have sex with the girl of their liking. It was a booming business. Men often confided in her about the troubles they encountered with women of their own age and Rose listened patiently. She’d learned that prostitution wasn’t only a satisfaction of the senses, it was mixture of placating needs, of the desire to be wanted, even at a price, and of exercising control over another human being. Both physiologically and emotionally, the little girls Rose managed were a good choice for almost any client, and she knew exactly which girl would be the best fit for a given customer.
Now it was time to see the girls one last time, even if she knew that several of them were happy to see her leaving. After that, she’d enjoy her much-earned retirement. She entered the large room where the young prostitutes were waiting for their supper. She swiftly announced her parting and helped herself to a cup of coffee. She sat in the middle, surrounded by the eight sex workers. “That’s it,” she said curtly. “You’re on your own.”
Silence reigned for a long moment. Three girls sat on the wooden floor, three shared the worn-out sofa, and two stood close to the counter, refilling the percolator. The large room was part of the prostitutes’ living quarters. Here they ate, watched the only TV channel available, and gathered in their rare free time. It was economically furnished. There were no windows, and the six light bulbs hanging from the ceiling provided scant illumination. Finally, one girl stood and neared Rose.
“What’s going to happen to me? I’ve been here—” She stopped to count on her fingers. “I’ve been here four years. I have only a bit of money. I went to school up to grade four. Where would I go?”
“You’re one of the lucky ones, Maria,” Rose said. “You’re good looking, and you’re a citizen of this country. You speak the language. Toronto is a good place to start. Vancouver is even better. You’ll be finished here in a year or two, since you’re already seventeen.”
One of the girls refilled Rose’s mug and whispered, “Dolores?”
“I don’t have fresh news. By now, you all know I took her to the hospital. That’s all.”
There was a knock on the double-lock door at the back of the room, followed by the noise of a dead bolt sliding. Maria walked to unfasten the latch from the inside. As usual, a cart with warm dishes, desserts and soft drinks was wheeled in; the girls all rushed to get their supper.
“I’ll be going,” Rose said and headed for the door. She waved goodbye, but nobody acknowledged her last greeting.
Maria waited until everybody had finished eating before gathering the paper dishes and throwing them into a garbage bag. She deposited it close to the door with the double lock.
“Let’s watch TV,” she said, and clicked on the local channel.
“Here is Detective Gordon Stevenson of the London Police Service,” the TV broadcaster said, and an enraged face took the screen. Almost at the same time the face of a young woman appeared in the left upper corner of the monitor. Rigor mortis had hardened her facial features, leaving no mistake that it was a cadaver’s picture.
“We don’t know who is responsible for the death of this young woman.” Stevenson paused as if he wanted to catch his breath. “But whoever they are, rest assured we’ll catch them and bring them to justice.” He paused again and wiggled his index finger in a menacing gesture. “And if you know anything about this young woman and don’t talk, you’re guilty of obstruction. We’ll catch you, too.” The small picture on the left corner replaced his and took over the entire screen.
“Do-lores!” the girls screamed in unison. Most of them put a hand over their mouth as cries and sobs filled the room.
“Listen,” Maria said, trying to overcome the noise. She didn’t make it, so she stood on top of a chair and shouted, “Listen you all! I have a way to sneak out. Remember: I was never here.” She walked out toward her bedroom.
There was another knock on the double-lock door and everybody became still. A second, stronger rap made the girls totally quiet. Then there was a voice, “It’s me, Louis. Open up.”
Eight
Stevenson waited until the TV report was over before heading home. He decided to walk, as he needed to shake off the rage nestl
ed in his body. Nothing was better than physical exercise. His home was a dwelling on Oxford East, only a couple of kilometers from headquarters. It was a four-bedroom house with a big back yard his wife had insisted on having.
His wife, Marta…she’d take off for months and stay with her parents or other relatives in Nova Scotia, come home for a few weeks, and take off again. Last time he’d gone to visit her at her mother’s place, Stevenson had asked for a legal separation, and mentioned the possibility of the divorce. Marta had gone into a frenzy, citing the holiness of marriage and its everlasting bond. She packed her belongings and came home with him, to leave after only two weeks. Her absence from the conjugal home was a fact, and Stevenson had decided not to accept the situation any longer. He longed for affection, companionship, and for a person with whom to spend his rare, but precious, free time. The situation had lasted five long years, and Stevenson thought there was no hope for change. When Marta was around in her rare visits, he felt lonelier than when he was home by himself.
It was really a sad situation.
Step by step he arrived home. The walk had worked its magic; now he felt at ease. He marched directly to the fridge and took a can of iced tea. He stretched out in his old recliner, pondering Dolores’ death and Louis’ enigmatic behavior. There wasn’t enough evidence to connect one with the other, and so there was no justification for shadowing Louis. Yet, his gut told him Louis knew more than he let on, whether or not he knew the deceased young woman.
