Fleeting Visions

by Rene Natan

  He knew how to get things done and get rid of anybody who stood in his way.

  Camilo rubbed his hands together. Yes, indeed, he had a lot to be proud of.

  The operation he’d ordered on Miriam Danton’s house has been successful; the threat Louis posed, eliminated.

  He turned around and stopped in front of his oak desk.

  The phone rang, and Camilo snatched it right away. It was Vicente.

  “What’s the fucking matter with you?” he barked into the phone. “I’ve left you three messages already.”

  “I had to take care of the girls. When I arrived here, there were two clients waiting, and the girls didn’t do nothing, since Gisela wasn’t in.”

  “I’ll rework her ugly face.”

  “No need,” Vicente replied. “There was a robbery at her house in London, and she was killed.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I listened to the radio while I drove here.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Just yesterday. Gisela’s neighbors heard screaming and saw a man and a woman, one on each side of Gisela, dragging her inside. Instead of calling for the police, two of them went to see what was happening and entered the house. After a quarter of an hour, when the two neighbors didn’t come out, a third neighbor called nine-one-one. By then, it was too late. The two men who had entered the house to help Gisela were out cold, Gisela was on the floor in a pool of blood, and the assailants had left from the back door. A-Channel London was there before the police and the ambulance arrived.”

  “Fucking broad! She was ugly and stupid. I told her to set up camp here, where we could provide protection.”

  “I know. But she was anxious to go back to her house.”

  “Of course. She had her own clientele at home and wanted to make some extra.”

  Vicente was silent for a while, as if afraid of speaking. “The girls will be okay for today, but you have to find another supervisor—and quickly. The new girl hasn’t worked yet, for one reason or another.”

  “Mother—” Camilo slammed the phone down and finished his expletive without an audience. Now that the threat posed by Louis had been eliminated, another snare had surfaced. He extinguished his cigar, grabbed his coat, and left the penthouse. Time to take direct control of the situation.

  The vacation crowd made driving on Highway 7 slow, and Camilo was in a hurry. He didn’t like to be controlled, either by people or events. And in the last few days, the actions he’d taken were due to the existence of Louis, the stupidity of Rose Miller, who’d taken the sick girl to the hospital, and the snooping the police had been doing around his secluded property. Shit! He didn’t want to relocate so soon, didn’t want to hire that idiot, Gisela, and didn’t want to ask one of his men to blow up Miriam Danton’s house. Vicente wouldn’t have done it, and so he’d asked Paul Finsey, who’d spent a year in Afghanistan and was familiar with explosives, to do it. Camilo didn’t know him very well and hoped he’d covered his tracks well.

  When he arrived at his new house, Vicente was standing on the threshold, waving The London Free Press. Camilo skirted him and walked inside. In quick steps, he reached a spacious room. A gray carpet with red flowers covered most of the floor. A dark wood table, unpolished and reminiscent of Mexican country style, lay in the middle. A twelve-bulb chandelier hung over the table, almost hovering. In a corner, close to a patio door, stood a coffee table and two big upholstered armchairs. Camilo slumped in one of them and addressed Vicente, who had followed him. “What’s so important in that rag?” he asked in an acrimonious tone.

  “The report of an explosion on Waterloo Street.” Camilo didn’t react and Vicente continued, “The house was almost completely destroyed, two dogs were incinerated, but there’s no report whether or not there were people injured in the accident. They called in Public Safety Canada because they suspect it might have been a terrorist attack.”

  Camilo threw his arms up. “A terrorist attack? That’s ridiculous! Do they say anything else?”

  “Nothing more. National security is invoked. It will take up to ten days to determine the kind of explosive, where it came from, and the dealers of that chemical in our region.”

  “What?” As Vicente shot him an inquisitive look, Camilo looked the other way and quickly changed subject. “How is it working out with our new connection at the police station?”

  “Can’t say yet. I took him out for lunch, and we talked about this and that. I called myself a novelist who wants to write a police thriller, and I asked him if he could help. He didn’t bite right away. He’ll call me if he has time, he said.”

  “Hmm. It’s not going too fast.”

  “These things take time. I have to sound out the ground before I make an offer.”

  “Are you sure our old connection can’t help us anymore?”

  “He’s retired. He’s had nothing to do with headquarters since last month. Apparently, he took a tour around the world.”

  “But he’s the one who gave you the name of this new member, right?”

  “Well…he suggested I try him out, but he wasn’t sure if he was…how did he put it? If he was available, that’s what he said. So, I have to be careful, or we could blow our whole operation.”

  Camilo groaned. “Let’s go to talk to the new girl. I’m so upset it won’t take me more than a few minutes to convince her to go to work.”

  “One more thing,” Vicente said. “Next Tuesday I have to go to Toronto and get my leg checked. They want to run some tests. I won’t be back until Wednesday night.”

  “I can’t understand why you can’t have all the work done in London. Why Toronto?”

  “They specialize in the kind of prosthesis I have.”

  “I’m running out of people,” Camilo muttered. “Maybe I should reconsider joining the Big Game.” The Big Game was an active group up west that wanted to expand in Ontario. Camilo preferred to be independent and never took their offer into account.

  “It may be worth reconsidering. I think they’re the ones who get the most girls from abroad. They’re getting really big. We have connections in only three places and have to work hard to get our girls. They recruit from all over.”

  “More chance to get caught,” Camilo said. He gave Vicente a penetrating look. “Be sure you’re back by Wednesday.” Vicente assented, and Camilo watched him hobble away.

  Was Vicente eager for more action? It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned the advantages of expanding on the current activities.

  Vicente…he’d met him at a fair in Ciudad Juarez where local vendors advertised their products of spices and condiments. He still remembered how proud he was that he’d studied in the States and graduated there. Camilo had liked the young man’s attitude; he answered questions when asked, but never tried to be in the spotlight. He’d met him again, a few months later, at another exhibition. He needed a manager, somebody to oversee and coordinate the different activities that were going on in his company. He offered him a job and expected Vicente to be enthusiastic about going to work in Canada, but the man had played cool and said he had to talk it over with his boss.

  Camilo was down to recruit new girls, and he had to spend a lot of time bargaining with their parents. While only two years before, several parents were happy to get rid of their young daughters, now they were demanding, and wanted to be paid in cash, and right away. Camilo had stayed in Ciudad Juarez longer than he expected, and one day Vicente had come looking for him, ready to accept his offer. Camilo needed somebody like Vicente, who was well-known for his social and organizational skills. The man presented himself well. He was tall, slim, with bright brown eyes, dark hair, and a friendly predisposition. Camilo hired Vicente, even if the man’s recent prosthesis required periodic medical supervision and wouldn’t allow him to run fast or for long. Vicente had done some homework and knew of a Toronto clinic that would take care of the checkups he needed.

  Vicente had proven to be a valuable asset, but there
was always something that puzzled Camilo. It was his reticence to open up, as if he had a secret to safeguard.

  Twenty-five

  Stevenson found Louis asleep on the guest room’s bed in his clothes, an empty glass in his hand, a dish with a banana peel on top of his stomach. He removed the remnants of the meal, laid an afghan on top of the boy, and turned off the light. He went to the family room and poured himself a rye whiskey. The couple who’d come to see his house hadn’t been interested, in spite of the fact he’d lowered the price from the three-hundred thousand the real estate agency suggested to two hundred eighty. That was a bit of a disappointment.

  He sat in the recliner, letting the Crown Royal linger on his mouth to fully appreciate its flavor. He thought about Jocelyn, and then about what to do with Louis. He began wondering if asking Jocelyn’s help was an excuse for seeing her. He liked the woman, but it was more than that. He was attracted to her; there was a hidden side that intrigued him, and her eyes expressed excitement far more than her words. He’d regretted being married when he met her the first time, and now that he was free he didn’t know how to court her. Is courting still in use? he wondered. Well, he’d think about that later. The immediate issue was how to hide Louis in a safe place. He knew of several official locations, but none of these would do. If there was a mole at headquarters, Louis would be done with in no time.

  The refill of whiskey didn’t add much to finding a solution to the problem. He went to sleep at two in the morning and tossed in bed for another hour.

  When he woke, he was only a little rested. After plugging in the coffeemaker, Stevenson rubbed his eyes for the third time. The percolator gurgled, and Stevenson poured himself a cup. As usual, he subdivided the problem at hand into different phases. The first consisted of giving Louis something to do today and tomorrow; the second, the most critical one, would be to find a solution for the next ten days. The third phase, if everything went well, would be to convince him to testify. Hopefully, by that time the mole hidden at headquarters, if any, would be discovered, and Louis could go to one of the safe places the government owned. Well, his garage and back yard could use a good cleaning, and he was sure Louis wouldn’t mind the job. That would keep him busy for a day or two.

  He needed a place for the following days. He thought about his parents, who owned and cultivated a four-hundred-acre parcel of land near Melbourne, in Middlesex County. It had been in the Stevenson family for three generations, and Gordon’s parents had hoped their only son would get an education in agriculture or a related field, so that he could modernize the operation, make a good living, and, hopefully live close to them. Gordon, however, had had enough of crop rotation, fertilizers, and the meager revenue arising from farming. He’d decided to break away from the family tradition. After two years of college, his sense of adventure brought him to the police academy and, once admitted, he got excited by the program, by the idea of contributing to keep the country safe, and by the training with weapons and surveillance gadgets.

  The farm would come in handy now. He could stash Louis at his parents’ place. They always hired temporary help in the spring and summer. They wouldn’t mind finding work for Louis.

  He heard noise and turned around. Louis was standing under the arch that separated the kitchen from the family room, his bare toes sticking out of the oversized pants the hospital had given him.

  “Here you are,” said Gordon and moved to pat the young man on the shoulder. “I’ll cook some breakfast, and then you’re going to give me a full report of what happened to you since your uncle died.”

  Louis nodded, averting his eyes, then moved inside the kitchen and stood beside the Formica table. “I lost everything; the dogs—Crumbs really loved me—and my motorcycle; all gone.”

  “Money? Did you have your wallet with you?”

  “Yes. It’s still in my dirty pants.” For a moment his face lit up. “I have close to four hundred dollars.”

  “Oh, good.” Stevenson opened a drawer underneath the stove and got a frying pan. “Bacon and eggs this morning. We have a day of hard work in front of us.”

  ***

  It was mid-afternoon when Stevenson sent Louis to work in the back yard. He needed time to digest the information Louis had given him and think about his next move. Clearly, the young man knew a lot about Camilo’s illegal operations—the drug trafficking and the prostitution of minors—but all this, while it was serious enough to threaten Camilo Estorbar, was probably not sufficient to send him to jail. After all, it would be Camilo’s word against that of an eighteen-year-old. He needed something more substantial. Louis had answered all the questions he’d thrown at him, and the only issue still unexplored was the woman who’d confronted Gisela Cunnigham a few days ago. The only other avenue he could follow was shadowing Camilo, starting at his legal residence in downtown London, and hope it would take them to the place where he’d relocated his illegal business. This might take days, Stevenson thought with dismay. He had only ten days to keep Louis’ whereabouts undisclosed.

  He reset the video he’d made with Louis’ statements at the beginning and played it back. The only good link they really had was Gisela Cunnigham. Had she been alive, she’d have taken them directly to Camilo’s new headquarters. He placed a call to Primo to find out if the search of Gisela’s house had provided any clue of where she’d been or was going. Nothing. The house had been turned upside down; even the mattresses had been slashed by those who had assaulted Gisela. Clearly, they were searching for drugs or money. Gisela’s little address book contained only a few addresses that had been checked out. No lead had sprung up so far, unfortunately.

  Stevenson poured himself another cup of coffee, sat on the sofa, and pondered the situation. The paucity of the elements available made him sigh. Setting up a watch at Camilo’s office in London would produce results, he was sure, but it would take time—time he didn’t have. He’d ask Louis to describe the woman who’d confronted Gisela to the police’s artist and see what the artist could come up with. That was the only lead they had—a tenuous lead indeed.

  He was drinking his third cup of coffee, when he thought about a person Louis had mentioned only in passing, one Vicente. He called out for Louis, who was working outside.

  Stevenson asked him if he could be more precise about Vicente. For a moment, Louis remained perplexed. “I don’t know what he does. I know he’s a kind of second-in-command, so to speak. He often leaves because of a problem with his leg, and then Camilo gets upset. His last name is Perdiz. Camilo can’t understand why he has to take two days off every time he needs a checkup.”

  “What’s the problem with the leg?”

  Louis shrugged. “An implant? Something artificial, I believe.”

  “A prosthesis?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “I see. If you remember anything more about him, or about any of the people you met, let me know. We have to gather as much information as we can.” He smiled at Louis, who seemed contrite that he couldn’t contribute anything more substantial. “Go watch TV if you want, son. You’ve worked enough for one day.”

  Stevenson didn’t lose any time. He logged on to his computer and hooked up to the Police Information Portal. His search using the name Vicente Perdiz didn’t give him any result, not even an address. He wondered if the man was in the country legally. Louis had confirmed he was the man driving the Lincoln Mercury when Camilo had threatened him with a razor. So, the man didn’t have a driver license, at least not under that name. Interesting, Stevenson thought, and turned off his computer.

  Then he contacted his parents and asked if they could keep Louis at the farm for a week or so. He finally called Jocelyn and invited her for supper.

  Twenty-six

  Jocelyn brooded over Gordon’s invitation. She shouldn’t have accepted, she told herself as she toweled her hair dry. The invitation looked innocent enough, but seeing Gordon reminded of her indecision and incapacity of living her feelings. She fel
t inadequate, and more so because of her efforts to look the opposite. After Brad’s death she’d gone back to the emotional stage of her teenage years. Romantically speaking, she was a vulnerable woman. Instead of finding a compromise between her feelings and reality, she kept escaping any situation that would put her to the test—and, to make things worse, she had a vague sensation that Gordon had captured her dilemma.

  She dressed in jeans, an Adidas long-sleeve blouse, and a pair of heeled boots. She grabbed the bag with the few clothes she’d gotten for Louis at the Salvation Army and drove to Gordon’s place. She tried to coach herself to enjoy a supper she didn’t have to cook and forget about her problems.

  Guided by a wonderful aroma of cooked meat, Jocelyn walked around Gordon’s house and into the back yard. Standing on the veranda, Gordon was flipping hamburgers on the grill; Louis stood close to him, sipping a Coke. The salutations were brief. Louis thanked her for the clothes and asked about Miriam’s status right away.

  “Not much improvement,” Jocelyn said. “She asked twice about the dogs, and I hadn’t the heart to tell her the truth. She knows of an accident at the house and asked me to contact the insurance for repairs. She doesn’t know that her house is just a pile of debris.”