Chapter 28
Señor Roldán was sitting behind his desk at Escortes
Belén congratulating himself for deftly sidestepping the Guardia’s
newest pathetic attempt to trap him. Having an officer
fake a German accent
and request a girl for the
night–it was entrapment; what would they think of
next?
The phone on his desk buzzed loudly. Señor Roldán scooped up the receiver with a confident
flair. “Buenas noches, Escortes Belén.”
“Buenas
noches,” a man’s voice said in lightning-fast Spanish. He sounded nasal, like he had a
slight cold. “Is this a hotel?”
“No, sir. What number are you dialing?”
Señor Roldán was not going to fall for any more tricks
this evening.
“34-62-10,” the voice said.
Roldán frowned.
The voice sounded
vaguely familiar.
He tried to place the accent–Burgos, maybe? “You’ve dialed the correct
number,” Roldán offered
cautiously, “but this is an escort
service.”
There was a pause on the line. “Oh… I see. I’m sorry. Somebody wrote down this number; I thought it was a hotel. I’m visiting
here, from Burgos. My apologies
for disturbing you. Good nigh– ”
“Espére!
Wait!” Señor Roldán couldn’t
help himself; he was a salesman at heart. Was this a referral? A new
client from up north? He
wasn’t going to let
a little paranoia blow a potential sale.
“My friend,” Roldán gushed into the phone. “I thought
I recognized a bit of a Burgos accent
on you. I myself
am from Valencia.
What brings you to Seville?”
“I sell
jewelry. Majórica pearls.”
“Majóricas, reeaally! You must travel quite a bit.” The
voice coughed sickly. “Well, yes, I do.”
“In Seville on business?” Roldán pressed. There was no way in hell this guy was Guardia;
he was a customer with a capital
C. “Let me guess–a friend gave you our number? He told you to give us a
call. Am I right?”
The voice was obviously embarrassed.
“Well, no, actually, it’s nothing like that.”
“Don’t be shy, señor. We are an escort service,
nothing to be ashamed of. Lovely
girls, dinner dates, that
is all. Who gave you our
number? Perhaps he is a regular. I can give you a
special rate.”
The voice became flustered. “Ah… nobody actually gave me this number. I found it with a passport.
I’m trying to find
the owner.”
Roldán’s
heart sank. This man was not a customer
after all. “You found the number, you
say?”
“Yes, I found a
man’s passport in the park today. Your number was on a scrap of
paper inside.
I thought perhaps it was the man’s hotel; I was hoping to return his passport
to him. My mistake.
I’ll just drop it off at
a police station on my way out
of–”
“Perdón,” Roldán
interrupted nervously. “Might I suggest
a better idea?” Roldán prided himself on discretion, and visits to the Guardia had a way of making his customers
ex-customers.
“Consider
this,” he offered. “Because the man with the passport
had our number, he is most likely a client
here. Perhaps I could save you
a trip to the police.”
The voice hesitated. “I don’t know. I should
probably just–”
“Do not be too hasty, my friend. I’m ashamed to admit that the police here in Seville are not always as efficient
as the police up north. It could be days before this man’s passport is returned
to him. If you
tell me his name, I could
see that he gets his passport immediately.”
“Yes, well… I suppose there’s no harm…” Some paper rustled,
and the voice returned. “It’s a German name. I can’t quite pronounce it… Gusta… Gustafson?”
Roldán didn’t recognize
the name, but he had clients
from all over the world. They never left their real names. “What does he
look like–in his photo? Perhaps I will
recognize him.”
“Well…” the voice said. “His face
is very, very fat.”
Roldán immediately knew. He remembered the obese face well. It was the man with Rocío. It was odd, he thought, to have two
calls about the German in one night.
“Mr. Gustafson?” Roldán forced a chuckle.
“Of course! I know him well. If you bring me his passport, I’ll
see he gets it.”
“I’m downtown
without a car,” the voice
interrupted. “Maybe you
could come to me?” “Actually,” Roldán hedged, “I can’t
leave the phone. But it’s really not that far if you–”
“I’m sorry, it’s late to be out wandering about. There’s a Guardia precinct nearby. I’ll drop it there, and
when you
see Mr.
Gustafson, you can tell him where
it is.”
“No, wait!” Roldán cried. “The police really needn’t
be involved. You said you’re downtown,
right? Do you
know the Alfonso XIII Hotel? It’s one of the
city’s finest.”
“Yes,” the voice said. “I know the
Alfonso XIII. It’s
nearby.”
“Wonderful! Mr. Gustafson is a guest there
tonight. He’s probably there
now.” The voice hesitated. “I see.
Well, then… I suppose it would
be no trouble.”
“Superb!
He’s having dinner with one of our escorts
in the hotel restaurant.” Roldán knew they were probably in bed by now, but he needed
to be careful not to offend the caller’s
refined sensibilities. “Just leave the passport
with the concierge, his name is Manuel. Tell him I sent you. Ask him to give it to Rocío. Rocío is Mr. Gustafson’s date for the evening.
She will see that the passport is returned.
You might slip your name and address inside–perhaps Mr. Gustafson will send you
a little thank you.”
“A fine idea. The Alfonso XIII. Very well, I’ll take it over right now. Thank you for your help.”
* * *
ask.”
David Becker hung up the phone. “Alfonso XIII.”
He chuckled. “Just have to know how to
Moments later
a
silent figure
followed Becker
up
Calle Deliciasinto
the
softly
settling
Andalusian night.
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