Fleeting Visions Page 4

  Louis dialed the switchboard of the brothel and asked if he could speak with Selina. He had to wait a few moments and explain what his interest in that specific girl was. He played the part of the interested client, hoping nobody would recognize his voice.

  Finally, Selina came to the phone. “How are you? I heard they’ve beaten you up.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “I’m okay. I was at the hospital, but now I’m out. How are you?”

  “So-so, I have pain all over and they want me to work all the time. When do you come back?”

  Louis didn’t want to lie. “I don’t know. I may have to go away for a while, but I’ll come back.” He looked around and saw that his boss was gesturing to go wait at a table. “Have to go, Selina. Take care.”

  At the end of his shift, Louis had forty-five dollars of wages and twenty-three from tips in his pocket. Not enough for a bus up west, he thought, but a few more days at that little diner would do the trick. The boss was nice to work with, and the pay was good. Whistling the tune of Bryan Adams’ Everything I Do I Do it for You, Louis started to walk back to the Mission.

  He was halfway there when he heard tires rubbing against the curb. He glanced back and saw Camilo’s Lincoln Mercury coming at him. From the passenger’s window, Camilo brandished a razor.

  “You thought you got away, eh? Nobody does! This is for you!” he shouted.

  Louis took off at a run. The Lincoln bucked against the curb and advanced on it on two wheels. Vicente was a terrible driver; chances were he’d smash the car before catching up to him. He kept running toward safety. As he turned into the Mission driveway, he heard the squeal of the brakes, and the door opened. Camilo was out, blocking the way to the entrance.

  A horn blared, and a car stopped behind the Lincoln. Camilo turned around to approach the newcomer, as several people came out of the Mission, and outside lights were turned on.

  Jocelyn stepped out of her car and stood a few feet from Camilo. “What are you doing with that razor?” she asked, staying out of reach. “Are you threatening Mr. Louis Saura? I saw you going after him on the curb.”

  Camilo rushed inside the car. Vicente moved forward and turned around. There was no way he could go back on the road, however, since Jocelyn’s Chevy barred the passage.

  The Mission’s manager came out of the building and talked briefly with Jocelyn, urging her to free the driveway. She moved her car to the road, let the Lincoln take off with its wheels squeaking, and drove close to where Louis was standing. She got out of the car and took the bag of clothes she had with her. To a flabbergasted Louis, she said, “Detective Stevenson and I got you some clothes.” She handed him the bag.

  “Thanks.” Louis didn’t move.

  For a moment, they looked at each other, no words spoken. Then Jocelyn said, “I could take you somewhere else. I know of a place where you can spend a few nights—if you’re happy with a bed in the basement. It may not be safe for you to hang around here,” she said with nonchalance.

  “Yes, yes, p—please take me there. Can I grab my things? It will only take a minute.” He deposited the bag Jocelyn had given him on the passenger seat and ran inside the building. He was right back, carrying a backpack and a garbage bag. He slipped into Jocelyn’s Chevy without an ounce of hesitation.

  Jocelyn drove in silence, from time to time glancing at the young man. Louis had opened the bag with the clothes and looked at them; he’d taken off his cheap shirt and replaced it with a Maple Leafs jersey.

  He rummaged into the bag and said, “There are even two pairs of shoes!”

  “In case you plan to walk to the Yukon.” Louis laughed, and Jocelyn added, “Stay out of sight for a couple of days. Stevenson will give you a call in case you want to talk. By that time he’ll know a lot about the owner of that fancy Lincoln that was chasing you. I memorized its license number.”

  They arrived at an old house on Waterloo Street. “Tell Mrs. Miriam Danton that Jocelyn sent you. I’ll give her a call later. By the way, the YMCA is not far away if you want to have a nice swim.” Louis was ready to open the passenger’s door when Jocelyn asked, “Were those two men the ones who beat you up?”

  Louis avoided looking at Jocelyn and got out of the car.

  ***

  The door of the two-story house opened before Louis finished climbing the four steps in front of the entrance. A middle-aged, heavy-set woman stood on the threshold, her eyes following Jocelyn’s car disappearing toward the downtown area. Louis stood there, not knowing what to do.

  “Jocelyn sent you?” the woman said and scrutinized the young man from head to toe. She wore a polka-dot dress so long it almost covered her black slippers.

  “Yes.” His heavy backpack slid off his shoulders, and Louis grabbed it before it touched the ground.

  “Come in then. What’s your name?”

  “Louis Saura.”

  “Call me Miriam. The only space I have available at the moment is in the basement. You’ll have to share it with my dog and the last of her pups.”

  “I don’t mind. I like dogs.”

  “Hmm. Good.” She motioned Louis to walk in and, shuffling her feet with effort, she preceded him inside. She stopped at the top of a staircase. “Down there you’ll find a bed and a dresser. The washroom is on this floor, down the hall.” She pointed to the end of the corridor. “Did you have supper?”

  Louis shook his head. He ate a sandwich, courtesy of the owner of the diner where he’d worked, but his stomach was rumbling with hunger.

  “Put your stuff away and come to the kitchen. I just cooked spaghetti with meatballs.”

  Louis murmured a “thank you” and ran downstairs. The furnace, a washer, and a dryer took up most of the space on the left; a multitude of small boxes, a huge wooden box, old books and journals covered one wall up to the ceiling; the bed was under the staircase. On the bare mattress a golden retriever and a pup were taking a nap. As Louis approached, the pup jumped off and began barking softly and wagging his tail. Louis threw bag and backpack on the floor and bent to pet him. In no time, the mother joined them, sniffing suspiciously at the newcomer.

  “Come up, you guys,” Miriam shouted from above. “Come get your supper.”

  Louis made the staircase two steps at a time and walked into the kitchen. On the Formica table stood a pitcher with water, two dishes with pasta, and two glasses.

  “Dig in,” said Miriam. She filled two metal dishes with kibble and set them on the floor.

  Louis sat opposite Miriam and made a quick sign of the cross. He cleaned his plate in big slurps while Miriam ate her small portion of spaghetti slowly. The main noise was the rattling of the metal dishes the dogs dragged around as they ate.

  Discreetly, Louis looked around. There was a big stove with an oven underneath, a microwave, a fridge, and a counter along one wall. A small window had green-and-yellow drapes; the light fixture hung low on the table, but the single bulb didn’t provide much light. The place was fairly neat, yet Louis felt a sense of discomfort. Who else was living with Miriam? Who was this woman?

  Without saying a word, Miriam rose and poured milk for Louis.

  “Thanks,” Louis murmured. “What are the dogs’ names?”

  “Goldie and Crumb.”

  “Come here, Crumb,” Louis called, and the pup jumped onto his lap and licked him. “Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Louis said after a while. He made Crumb sit on his lap and petted him.

  “He was the smallest of the litter. I sold the others, but him, I couldn’t even give away.”

  “He’s cute, though.” Louis sipped his milk with his free hand.

  Miriam left the room to return with a set of bed sheets, a pillow, and a blanket. She deposited them on the table. “After you wash the dishes, you can come watch TV,” she said and walked out of the kitchen, followed by Goldie.

  Louis quickly cleaned up the table and did the dishes. Guided by the sound, he entered the living room where Miriam sprawled on a big recliner. He was fla
bbergasted by the number of stuffed owls that sat on shelves, and by the two wolves who gnashed their teeth as they stood on guard near the fireplace.

  “I think I’ll be going to bed,” he whispered. “Tomorrow morning, I plan to walk down to the YMCA and have a swim.” No reaction came. “Thank you for everything,” he said and strode out, followed by a wiggling Crumb.

  Five

  The driveway leading to The Tranquility Resort Complex wound left and right along a small incline before reaching Camilo Estorbar’s property. A one-story building and a row of motel units occupied the front of the estate, surrounded, at the back, by a thick and large wooden area. Far behind this area were small cottages on the right, a large construction shaped like an old-fashion barn on the left, and a flat building that looked like a maintenance shop at the back. The motel was Camilo Estorbar’s legit business, run independently of what was happening in the other part of the property. The six small, fancy cottages were exclusively used for entertaining the brothel’s customers; the maintenance building was the living quarters for the sex workers, and the barn served as a garage and office for Camilo Estorbar’s illicit activities.

  Camilo drove around the vast property, took a narrow gravel road that cut through dense woods, and approached a fenced-off clearing. He clicked the remote, and a gate opened onto a parking lot reserved for his special clients and the staff. Camilo entered the barn and parked inside, Vicente in the passenger seat.

  “I wonder…” Camilo started, and then remained pensive. Nobody moved. Camilo continued, “I didn’t want to work with the big group that operates up west. Perhaps I should reconsider. Now I’m at the end of the line in terms of getting girls.”

  Vicente, who was ready to open the passenger door, drew back his hand. “When I joined your operation, you had more people working for you and you intended to expand. What changed your mind?”

  “I’d have liked to become a top gun.” He lifted up his right arm and made a fist with his hand. “Yeah. I surely would have liked that. Power! Control! But when I examined what the group up west proposed, I discovered they had a ton of rules and regulations. In particular, they wanted me to have an acceptable image, portray myself as a family man. In other words, get married.”

  Vicente laughed. “That would scare anybody, right?”

  “You bet. I like to be free.” He paused. “I always thought I could take care of my own business, but Louis may create troubles. And our connection at the police station has retired.” He sighed. “I’d hate to leave this place. The motel in The Tranquility Resort Complex attracts legitimate business and justifies all the traffic in the area. The location is convenient, so close to the city. This setup made me a ton of money, considering the paucity of the investment. I thought we could keep going forever.”

  “Maybe we should anticipate our move up north,” Vicente said.

  “The new site isn’t completely ready yet, and we’d need to inform our customers of the change through our website. We should find a reliable person for that, since we lost our—what is he called? Ah, Webmaster.” They climbed out of the car, moved a working bench sideways and descended the staircase hidden underneath.

  The downstairs sported a bar counter, a desk with computer equipment, and a filing cabinet. Camilo sat behind the desk; Vicente approached the bar, poured double rum and served it to Camilo, then went back to the counter and poured tequila for himself.

  “Maybe we should forget about Louis—he’s too much trouble. First, he loses the package, then he takes off,” Vicente said.

  “No! He’s still very good for the business, and we can’t let people screw up and get away with it. We have to keep up our reputation. We should get him, make him work as much as we can, and when we have no customers, lock him up.” He pounded his fist on the desk, making his glass rattle. “He has to learn who the boss is.”

  Vicente jiggled the ice cubes in his glass. “I smell trouble. The woman who barred our way at the Men’s Mission may report the incident to the police.”

  Camilo shrugged. “We have lawyers for that kind of stuff.” He took a cigar from his pocket, freed it of the sleeve, and lit it. “Let me check my email and see what the market situation is. See if there’s anything interesting going on in our business. Our customers are getting impatient.” He tossed his briefcase on the desk. “Put the money we collected today in the safe; then contact our friends at Falcon Lake and find out when they make the next delivery. Keep them under pressure. With us, they have a sure market to place their drugs. In exchange, they have to supply us with the girls.”

  Vicente’s cell rang, and he opened it on the second ring. He listened attentively, put a hand on the speaker and whispered, “It’s Rose. One of the girls is very sick; she wants to take her to the hospital.”

  Camilo snatched the phone away from Vicente. “Can’t do that. They’ll ask a ton of questions,” he barked into the speaker. “Call our doctor.”

  The answer was so loud, even Vicente could hear it. “That fucking doctor isn’t available!”

  “Wait. I’ll see if I can find him.” Camilo closed the cell. “Where’s Brian Hoffman?”

  “He’s in Bayfield, ready to receive the girl coming across the lake. You sent him there. You said you wanted to be sure the girl we get, this time, is strong and healthy.”

  “Oh, ah. Nothing we can do, then.” He looked at Vicente. “Call Rose back and tell her to make the sick girl drink plenty of water. That’s all.”

  “But—”

  Camilo raised his hand. “No buts. That’s final.”

  ***

  At the YMCA, Louis swam for a full hour, enjoying the contact of the water. He felt invigorated by the exercise. He was alive and well, and soon he’d put miles between himself and his troubles. He jumped out of the pool, dried himself , and got dressed. Whistling his favorite tune, Everything I Do I Do it for You, he walked to the food counter, rejoicing at the thought of a good breakfast. He stopped cold. Seated on a table was Detective Gordon Stevenson. Louis closed his eyes, for a second hoping the vision would vanish. It didn’t.

  Stevenson’s voice resounded loud and clear. “Got scrambled eggs, sausages, and toast in this container.” He tapped a large Styrofoam box. “For a meal on the fly.” He rose. “Last night, they took a girl to the hospital in severe condition. She’s been sexually abused so badly they had to sew her up quickly or she’d bleed to death.” He gently pushed Louis toward the door. “I want to find out if you know her.”

  Louis took his place in the cruiser, the box with the food in his lap. “What’s her name?” he asked.

  “Don’t know. Somebody put her in a wheelchair and shoved her through the door of the emergency.” Stevenson kept quiet for a while and then asked, “Last night you were chased by a car that belongs to one Camilo Estorbar. What’s his business?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Did you steal from him?”

  Louis jerked his head toward the detective and shook it vigorously. “No!”

  “Why was he after you?”

  “It-it’s a long story.” Louis deposited the box with the food on the floor.

  “Come on, son. Talk!”

  “He, he s-said my uncle owned him money and I had to pay him back.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen thousand.”

  “Fifteen thousand! For what?”

  Louis shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  They had arrived, so Stevenson parked the cruiser and gestured Louis to get out. “Take the food with you,” he said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Take it anyhow. We don’t know how long we may have to wait.” He put a hand on Louis’ shoulder and guided him toward the hospital’s spacious entrance hall. He waved at Lopes, who was standing close to the Tim Hortons’ counter and told him, “Don’t let this young man out of your sight. We need him, but I don’t know when.” He motioned to walk toward the elevator when he turned around and said to Lopes, “Buy him a glass of
milk, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lopes replied, and lined up behind Timmy’s last customer.

  Louis looked around, waited for Lopes to give him a carton of milk, and sat at a table. He sipped the milk and slowly opened the box with the food. He couldn’t eat; there was a knot in his stomach. Why did the detective think he’d know the sick girl? Had he found out about the girls working at The Tranquility? Who was the girl at the hospital? He knew them all by name, but he was only friendly with Selina and Dolores. Selina…sweet Selina, she was the one good thing that had happened to him after his uncle died.

  ***

  Officer Nick Primo was seated in a chair of the waiting room, leisurely leafing through The London Free Press. Stevenson stood in front of him, and Primo quickly folded the paper.

  “The young woman is out of surgery and was just taken to intensive care,” Primo said. “We won’t be able to see her yet. They’ll let us know when we’re allowed in the room.”

  “Any word on her condition?”

  Primo shook his head. “Want a page of the newspaper?”

  “No. I’m going to see if there’s a video showing when and how this woman arrived at the hospital. Maybe we’ll get a glimpse of the person who took her in.”

  “I already got it,” Primo said with pride and extracted a video from his coat pocket. “There’s a room where we can go and watch it. I know where it is.” He rose and preceded Stevenson along the corridor.

  They played the recording until they identified a section they believed was pertinent to their case. A woman wearing a long skirt and a dark hoodie had entered emergency, swiftly grabbed a wheelchair, and exited. The same woman returned moments later, pushed the wheelchair through the sliding doors, and retreated. Of the woman’s face only the chin, the mouth and part of her nose were visible. Even if she was somewhat hunched, she looked like a tall woman. It was impossible to distinguish any other features. In the wheelchair lay a very small person, her head reclined on one side. Stevenson reached for the iPhone that had recently replaced the old-fashioned little book he used for scribbling notes and checked the times; the one on the video and the one the hospital had given him about the arrival of the unidentified patient coincided. He’d ask to have a copy of the tape, work on it with the image processing tools available at headquarters, and try to get an ID of the person who had taken the wheelchair. If they ever found her, she’d have to answer a lot of questions.