Fleeting Visions

by Rene Natan

  But why didn’t Alvaro answer? Charles dialed his number one more time, to no avail. Well, there was no time to lose. If Alvaro had gone away, he had to act directly. He knew where Camilo’s business office was located. With that resolution, he jumped into the red Corvette­, his wife’s wedding gift, and drove off. Two and half hours later, he was at the entrance of the high-rise building where Camilo had his official headquarters.

  The round atrium was stunning. The walls, painted green, showcased abstract paintings; the central light fixture was a composition of geometric shapes; black-and-green marble tiles covered the floor in a concentric pattern; in the middle, stood the superintendent’s dais. The man, wearing a dark blue uniform, announced him promptly, and Camilo came to the phone, asking Charles who he was and what he wanted.

  The harsh tone Camilo used to address him reminded Charles he was dealing with a callous criminal. Only Helenita’s image, enslaved by invisible but nevertheless powerful chains made him mumble an answer.

  “What kind of business you said?” Camilo asked.

  This time, his voice was clear. “I’m in import-export—condiments and spices, from Mexico mainly, and I was told you’re an expert in the field.” That was the official advertising of Camilo’s business.

  “Come up then.”

  The superintendent pushed a couple of buttons, and the doors of a lift opened. “Push penthouse. It’ll take you directly up to Mr. Estorbar’s office.”

  On the top floor, Camilo stood on the threshold, hand outstretched. “Come in, come in,” he said. He pointed inside, to the corner formed by two large contiguous windows. The sun cast afternoon rays through one; long drapes with arabesques prevented any light from sneaking through the other. “A drink?”

  “Too early for me,” Charles said and took in the environment. A colorful rug lay under a low table and four chairs. Another rug matched the pattern of the drapes. The rest of the visible floor was set in okra and beige titles. The office must have been decorated by one of the expensive outfits in town, Charles thought as, on Camilo’s invitation, he sat in one the chairs.

  Camilo deposited soft drinks on the table in front of Charles, took a tumbler that was lying on the bar counter, and sat opposite Charles. “I don’t mind sipping rum any time of the day. So, do you have a question for me or you just need some consulting?”

  Charles had thought of what to say as he was driving from Toronto to London. Now he wondered if it was suitable. He had nothing else in mind, so he recited the little speech he’d prepared. “As I said, I’m interested in Mexican cooking, and I often visit the country and savor some of the local dishes.” He paused, trying to read Camilo’s face. He couldn’t, the man’s face seemed carved in stone. “In one of my trips, I came in contact with Mr. Alvaro Luzardo, who claimed to know you well.” He paused again, hoping to be on the right track. “He told me, well, not in many words, of course, that you can help men to find companionship, not permanent, just…” He stopped as if trying to find the proper words. “Transient, if that is the right word.”

  Camilo finished his drink and seemed to assess the man in front of him. “I don’t know any Alvaro Luzardo.”

  “But you must have heard of The Adjuster! He can put people in contact with each other so they can find solutions to their problems. I was told he’s very good.”

  Camilo closed his eyes and went to the bar counter to refill his glass. “Do you have sex problems, Mr. MacMillan?”

  Charles was flabbergasted by the directness of the question. He hesitated for a moment, embarrassed. “Well, not really, but at times…you know what I mean.”

  Camilo nodded. “Any special age group?”

  Charles didn’t let the occasion slip by. He immediately fired away, “The younger, the better.”

  Camilo laughed. “I may be able to accommodate your request.” He paused to sip his drink. “But I’d have to gather some information on you, Mr. MacMillan. You understand, what you ask is, well, what should I say? A bit out of the ordinary. I have to be careful in this kind of business.” He rose, making clear the meeting was over.

  Charles was disappointed, but thought insisting could give Camilo the creeps. “When do you think you can give me an answer?” He didn’t move and looked at Camilo as a man in need would. Slowly, he deposited his business card on the low table.

  “A couple of days.” Camilo inched toward Charles and patted him on the shoulder. “I know how you feel, my friend. I’m sure we can do business together.”

  Thirty-six

  In awe in front of the red Corvette, Lopes hardly heard his cell ringing. It was Stevenson, asking how the surveillance was going. The Task Force had decided to gather a bit more information on the comings and goings at the Estorbar penthouse before interviewing him. “Estorbar has a visitor. A man from Toronto, according to the license plate of his Corvette.”

  “Got the number?”

  “Yes, sir. Should I try to engage him in conversation when he comes down?” Lopes was eager to learn, and was happy to use an expression the sergeant often used.

  “If the occasion arises. I’m sure you know about that car and its performance; speed, test track, things like that. Get a feeling for the man while you talk about his car. Don’t push it, though. Stay away and walk toward the car as if by chance.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lopes didn’t have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later, the visitor walked outside. Lopes leisurely ambled toward the Corvette. Then the noise of an engine. He was still a few feet away when the car swirled around and took off like a rocket. No way could he follow. Lopes, disappointed, explained what happened to Stevenson, and asked what he should do.

  “Are you sure the visitor went up to the penthouse?”

  “Yes, sir. I was behind him when he asked to be announced to Mr. Estorbar. The superintendent called Mr. Estorbar and pushed the key to activate the elevator to the penthouse.”

  “Okay. See if you can enter the garage and find out if the Lincoln is still parked there. The garage is the location acquired by our last signal. It’s possible the battery of the tracking devise went dead. If so, go back to the front of the building and wait. When Mr. Estorbar takes off, follow him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lopes waited until a car drove by and used the remote to open the garage’s heavy door. He stayed flush to the wall and sneaked in before the door reclosed. He found the level where the Lincoln was parked. From the open area on his side, he saw a red smudge on the road far away from the building. He couldn’t clearly distinguish what it was, but it looked like the red Corvette. He was going to take a better view from a different angle, when a Checker Limousine stopped in front of the building’s entrance.

  With a smooth hop, Mr. Estorbar entered the passenger side, and the cab sailed away.

  Disheartened, Lopes called Stevenson and reported what had happened.

  “Check the Lincoln and then go home. You’re done for the day.”

  ***

  Charles MacMillan was not satisfied by the meeting with Camilo Estorbar. He wouldn’t wait for his call. He couldn’t. Helenita needed him now. Clearly, the place where Camilo kept the girls was somewhere else in the country. He’d find it and get his daughter out. He drove frantically for a few meters and stopped where he could monitor the Estorbar building. He wasn’t prepared, however, to see Camilo taking a taxi. He followed. He kept a three-car distance as the cab took off for the north of the city. It stopped at a mall, and Camilo paid the driver and disappeared from sight. Charles sighed. There was no way he could find out where Camilo went. The mall, Masonville, was huge, he noticed. As he turned to return to the main drag, he saw a row of taxis stationing in the neighborhood. Maybe Camilo would take one of those when he finished shopping. Charles decided to wait, even if the hour was late. He called his wife and left a message that he wouldn’t be home for supper. Fifteen minutes later, Camilo approached the first taxi in line. Charles didn’t know what to think. Was the man afraid of being followed or had
he just gone for a quick errand? He decided to follow him again. It was getting dark, so the color of his car wouldn’t be as noticeable as in daytime. About an hour later, the city limits of Stratford appeared to his left, but the taxi continued straight on. After a few miles, the cab turned onto a gravel road, which wound to the right and up a small incline flanked, on both sides, by thick shrubs. When Charles saw the roof of big buildings drifting in sight, he stopped.

  His anxiety propelled him forward, but, partially because of his cowardly nature, and partially because he needed a plan before facing Camilo in his criminal cove, he resisted proceeding any further. He looked at his GPS, took a piece of paper, and copied down the coordinates of the location.

  He’d come back after he’d devised a plan of action.

  ***

  The meeting of the Task Force was brief but to the point. Camilo had escaped surveillance; clearly he had found out of the tracking device. There was little they could do until they received authorization to tap the phone line Louis used to call Selina a long time ago. Those calls were rerouted internally, and, until now, the police hadn’t been able to find their destinations. Finally, a visit to Mr. Charles MacMillan, the registered owner of the Corvette, would be in order. His office was in the building where the Lincoln had been parked days ago, and MacMillan’s visit to Estorbar’s office in downtown London indicated the two men knew each other. The research on MacMillan’s background hadn’t revealed anything suspicious, and his frequent trips abroad, to Mexico in particular, were justified by his trade.

  Stevenson and Lopes drove to Toronto early in the morning, hoping to arrive at MacMillan’s office early enough to talk to somebody in his office.

  The beautiful red-haired woman manning the desk at the entrance received them with a big smile. Stevenson flashed his badge and introduced Constable Lopes, saying they’d like to talk to Mr. MacMillan without specifying the reason. The woman was polite, but had only conventional answers for them, describing her boss as a very busy man, and her job as a pleasant one. She offered them coffee, which they declined, and invited them to wait in the nook close to a large window.

  Stevenson slumped in on one of the chairs reserved for the guests and looked at the journals lying on the close-up table. Taste & Travel Magazine, Cooking with Colors, and Cooking with Spices attracted his attention. He perused one journal after the other. Lopes had gone to the underground garage to check up on the possible presence of the Corvette. It wasn’t there, he reported to Stevenson as he returned.

  Finally, a handsome man opened the glass door and neared the receptionist’s desk. After exchanging a few words with the woman, he approached Stevenson and Lopes and invited them to his office.

  “What would be the reason for your visit?” MacMillan asked as he tossed his briefcase on the desk. He stood and didn’t invite the officers to sit.

  “Well, we hoped you could help us solve an important case.” Stevenson sat in front of MacMillan’s desk and gestured Lopes to do the same. “We know you’ve been in contact with Mr. Camilo Estorbar.” Stevenson was aware that the field in which they both operated justified a relationship. So he phrased the next question more precisely. “Which kind of transactions did you do with him recently?”

  “Zip. None. And I’ll never do any business with him.”

  Oh, oh, Stevenson thought. There’s some resentment I can exploit. “Is he not a trustful person?”

  “Trustful? He makes himself out to be an expert in condiments and spices. He knows nothing about them.” MacMillan sprawled in his leather chair.

  “But then, why did you go to see him yesterday afternoon?”

  MacMillan folded a piece of paper onto itself until he shaped it into a perfect cylinder. “I hoped he could give me some information on a person who lives in Mexico.”

  “And that person would be—”

  “A private matter.”

  “Maybe we could help you.”

  “If I need help I’ll let you know.” MacMillan stood and walked to the door. He opened it.

  Stevenson put his card on MacMillan’s desk, rose slowly, and moved to the door. “By any chance, do you know if Mr. Estorbar has a residence in the country, I mean, outside London?”

  MacMillan hesitated and then said, “I think he has, but I don’t know for sure.”

  “Thank you. I left my card on your desk, in case you’d like to contact us, and help you trace the person you’re interested in. We have pretty good contacts in Mexico.”

  When they were out of the building, Lopes said, “We didn’t conclude much.”

  “Not much, you’re right. But a few important things have emerged. MacMillan has a very poor opinion of Camilo; he went to see him only because of Camilo’s connections in Mexico; he knows or suspects that Camilo has another place where he handles his business.” Stevenson paused. “My guess is that our Mr. MacMillan has or had an affair in that country and can’t handle the consequences of it directly.”

  ***

  Camilo hadn’t made a few steps inside his house before Rose shot up from one of the upholstered chairs and ran to him, a piece of paper in her hand, an air of urgency on her face. “Somebody had to go shopping,” she said with authority. “This is the list. I couldn’t find Vicente, and his phone has been cut off.” In her long black dress, with white ruffles around the neck and the sleeves, she looked imposing, almost elegant.

  Camilo snatched the paper from Rose’s hand, threw the package with the tie he had just bought at the Masonville Mall on the closest chair and went to the kitchen. “Vicente has left.”

  “Left? He was the best person we ever had, knowledgeable and dependable.”

  “The police followed him, and he got scared.” Camilo buttered two slices of rye bread and put a couple of lettuce leaves on top of a slice of turkey. “I have to reorganize the entire business. How is it working out with the new girls?”

  “I have my hands full. They’re rough, they don’t shave, don’t know how to move—if you understand what I mean—and they play dumb. Vicente knew how to speak to them, in Spanish, of course.”

  Camilo munched on his sandwich. He felt like kicking Rose out of sight, but he needed her. “I have a new person in mind to replace Vicente. We’ll talk it over tomorrow morning.”

  “But…”

  “Go now, go. Don’t make me more upset than I already am.” He pointed toward her bedroom.

  Rose grumbled but left, her high-heeled shoes resounding on the floor.

  Camilo took a beer out of the fridge and sat in one of the chairs. He couldn’t believe Vicente left him, even if he could never figure out what made him tick. He got scared, Camilo thought, or somebody paid him more. The group up west? Vicente was always in favor of joining it, but Camilo wanted to be his own boss. Oh, well, he could do without Vicente. He’d raise the salary of his accountant, a veteran who’d served in Afghanistan. Stuck in a wheelchair, he was satisfied to have a job and never asked any questions. New blood was coming from his father’s hometown. Three men would be here tomorrow. He’d called them after the attempt to eliminate Louis failed. One would help Rose with the management of the girls, another would take over the kitchen; the other was a hit man he’d hired to go after Louis. Louis! It was only a question of time before the boy called Selina. All calls asking for her were rerouted to him or Rose. He’d catch him, and probably soon. And this time there would be no failure.

  He finished his beer and reached for the little round dish full of mixed nuts. He got a handful, and then another. Things are falling into place, he told himself. Now he had to decide what to do with the fellow who came to see him. Was he really a new client? He was well-dressed and probably would pay for the premium services—sex with two girls at the same time. He’d mentioned he knew The Adjuster, but Camilo had never met him, even if he’d heard of him. Was it possible The Adjuster was one of Vicente’s contacts?

  Possible.

  Camilo looked at the business card the man had left in his office
. MacMillan was his name. He should send one of his goons to find out about him. He got out his cell and placed a call.

  Thirty-seven

  Louis threw his baseball cap onto the ground, upset about another lonely evening in store for him. They’d confined him in the attic of a house where an old couple lived. He worked on a farm all day, and when he got home, there was nothing to do except watch TV. He’d found a couple of channels that broadcast music—not always the kind he liked, however. He had a bike, and he had to pedal hard to go to the closest town—twenty kilometers away. No phone, no computer, no company.

  Jim Thompson, the guy he worked with the last few days, tapped him on the shoulder. “Why that long face?”

  Louis hesitated to say anything, then ventured, “I have a curfew. I have to go home and stay home.”

  “Oh, that’s sad. Such a beautiful evening! Can’t you go out for a couple of hours? Say that we worked late? We can go have a hamburger and a beer.” He winked. “Maybe dance with a girl.” Louis liked Jim very much. Together, they drove a machine that combined picking, threshing, and winnowing to harvest wheat. Louis enjoyed the work and had been flabbergasted to discover the computer aboard the combine could calculate the amount of grain harvested, right on the spot.

  “It’d be great,” he said and sighed. A couple of hours wouldn’t be that bad. Nobody would find out. His spirits suddenly up, he said, “Okay, let’s go. I’ll toss my bike on the back of your pickup, so you don’t have to take me home.”

  A short while later, Louis found himself in a strange new place. There was a long counter where they served drinks, tables on one side of the hall, games and three pool tables on another side, and, in the center, a dancing floor. Three TV sets flickered on the walls, each tuned to a different event. Louis sat at one of the tables with three of Jim’s friends. They were drinking beer, but Louis stuck to a Dr. Pepper. The hamburger he’d ordered was juicy and tasty, the French fries filled his plate, and the onion rings were delicious. Normally, Louis cooked his meals in a very simple way; what he ate now was exceptional and wonderful. Jim was dancing with the same girl for the fourth time and left him with his friends. They talked mostly about baseball. Louis cleaned up everything on his plate and pushed it away. The music stopped and Jim returned to the table. He took his cell out, clicked on it a few times, and then said to Louis, “Look here. Aren’t they gorgeous?”