Chapter 30
Alfonso
XIII was a small four-star hotel set back from the Puerta de Jerez and surrounded by a thick wrought-iron fence and lilacs. David made his way up the marble stairs. As he reached for the
door, it magically opened, and a
bellhop ushered him inside.
“Baggage, señor? May I help you?”
“No, thanks. I need
to see the concierge.”
The bellhop looked hurt, as if something
in their two-second encounter had not been satisfactory. “Por aquí, señor.” He led Becker into the lobby, pointed to the concierge, and hurried
off.
The lobby was exquisite, small and elegantly
appointed. Spain’s
Golden Age had long since passed,
but for a while in the mid-1600s, this small nation had ruled the world. The room was a proud reminder
of that era–suits of armor, military
etchings, and a display case of gold ingots from the
New World.
Hovering
behind the counter marked conserje was a trim, well-groomed man smiling
so eagerly that it appeared
he’d waited his entire life to be of assistance. “En qué puedo servirle,
señor? How may I serve you?” He spoke with an affected lisp and ran his eyes up and down Becker’s
body.
Becker responded in Spanish. “I need to speak to Manuel.”
The man’s well-tanned face smiled even wider. “Sí, sí, señor. I am Manuel.
What is it you desire?”
“Señor Roldán at Escortes Belén
told me you would–”
The concierge
silenced Becker with a wave and glanced
nervously around the lobby. “Why don’t you step over here?” He led Becker to the end of the counter.
“Now,” he continued, practically in a whisper. “How may I help you?”
Becker began again, lowering his voice. “I need to speak to one of his escorts
whom I believe is dining here. Her name is Rocío.”
The concierge let out his breath
as though
overwhelmed. “Aaah, Rocío–a beautiful
creature.” “I need to see her immediately.”
“But, señor, she is with a client.”
Becker nodded apologetically. “It’s important.” A matter of national security.
The concierge shook his head.
“Impossible. Perhaps if you
left a–” “It will
only take a moment.
Is she in the dining room?”
The concierge
shook his head. “Our dining room closed half an hour ago. I’m afraid Rocío and
her
guest have retired for the evening.
If you’d like to leave
me a message, I can give it to her in the morning.” He motioned to the bank of
numbered message boxes behind him.
“If I could just call her room and–”
“I’m sorry,” the concierge
said, his politeness evaporating. “The Alfonso
XIII has strict
policies regarding client privacy.”
Becker had no intention of waiting ten
hours for a fat man and
a prostitute to wander down
for breakfast.
“I understand,” Becker
said. “Sorry to bother you.”
He turned and walked back into the lobby. He strode directly to a cherry roll-top desk that had caught his eye on his way
in. It held a generous
supply of Alfonso
XIII postcards and stationery as well as pens and envelopes. Becker sealed a blank piece
of paper in an envelope
and wrote one word on the envelope.
ROCÍO.
Then he
went back to the concierge.
“I’m sorry to trouble you again,” Becker said approaching sheepishly. “I’m being a bit of a fool, I know. I was hoping to tell Rocío personally how much I enjoyed our time together the other day. But I’m leaving
town tonight. Perhaps I’ll just leave her a note after all.” Becker laid the envelope
on the counter.
The concierge looked down at the envelope
and clucked sadly to himself.
Another lovesick
heterosexual, he thought.
What
a waste. He looked up and smiled. “But of
course, Mr. …?”
“Buisán,” Becker said. “Miguel Buisán.”
“Of course. I’ll be sure Rocío
gets this in the morning.” “Thank you.” Becker
smiled and turned to
go.
The concierge, after discreetly
checking out Becker’s
backside, scooped up the envelope
off the counter
and turned to the bank of numbered slots
on the wall behind him. Just as the man slipped the envelope into one of the slots, Becker spun with
one final inquiry.
“Where might I call a
taxi?”
The concierge
turned from the wall of cubbyholes and answered. But Becker did not hear his response.
The timing had been perfect. The concierge’s hand was just emerging
from a box marked Suite
301.
Becker thanked the concierge and slowly wandered
off looking for the elevator.
In and out, he repeated to himself.
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