Chapter 24
David Becker stood in a phone booth across the street from La Clínica de Salud Pública;
he’d just been ejected for harassing patient number 104, Monsieur Cloucharde.
Things were suddenly more complicated than he’d anticipated. His little favor to Strathmore– picking up some
personal belongings–had
turned into a scavenger hunt for some bizarre ring.
He’d just called Strathmore and told him about the German tourist.
The news had not been received well. After demanding the specifics, Strathmore had fallen silent for a long time. “David,”
he had finally said very gravely, “finding
that ring is a matter of national security.
I’m leaving it in your hands. Don’t fail me.” The phone had gone dead.
David stood in the phone
booth and sighed.
He picked up the tattered
Guía Telefónica and began scanning the yellow pages. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered to
himself.
There were
only three listings for Escort Services
in the directory, and he didn’t have much to go on. All he knew was that the German’s
date had red hair, which conveniently was rare in Spain. The delirious Cloucharde had recalled the escort’s name as Dewdrop. Becker cringed–Dewdrop? It sounded more like a cow than a beautiful girl. Not a good Catholic
name at all; Cloucharde must have been mistaken.
Becker dialed the first number.
* * *
“Servicio Social de Sevilla,” a
pleasant female voice answered.
Becker affected his Spanish with a
thick German accent.
“Hola, ¿hablas Aleman?” “No. But I speak
English” came the reply.
Becker continued in broken English. “Thank you. I
wondering if you
to help me?”
“How can we be of service?” The woman spoke slowly
in an effort to aid her potential
client. “Perhaps you
would like an escort?”
“Yes, please. Today
my brother, Klaus, he has girl, very beautiful. Red hair. I want same. For tomorrow,
please.”
“Your brother Klaus comes here?”
The voice was suddenly
effervescent, like they were old friends.
“Yes. He
very fat. You remember him, no?” “He was here today, you say?”
Becker could hear her checking the books.
There would be no Klaus
listed, but Becker figured clients
seldom used their real
names.
“Hmm, I’m sorry,”
she apologized. “I don’t see him here. What was the girl’s name your brother was with?”
“Had red hair,” Becker said, avoiding the question.
“Red hair?” she repeated.
There was a pause. “This is Servicio Social de Sevilla.
Are you sure your brother comes here?”
“Sure, yes.”
“Señor, we
have no redheads. We have only pure Andalusian beauties.” “Red hair,” Becker
repeated, feeling stupid.
“I’m sorry, we have no redheads
at
all, but if you–”
“Name is Dewdrop,” Becker
blurted, feeling even stupider.
The ridiculous name apparently meant nothing
to the woman. She apologized, suggested Becker
was confusing her
with another agency, and politely hung up.
Strike one.
* * *
Becker frowned and dialed the next number. It connected
immediately. “Buenas noches, Mujeres España. May I help you?”
Becker launched
into his same spiel, a German tourist
who was willing to pay top dollar for the red-haired girl who was out with his brother today.
This time the response was in polite German, but again no redheads. “Keine Rotköpfe, I’m sorry.”
The woman hung up.
Strike two.
Becker looked down at the phone book. There was only one number left. The end of the rope already.
He dialed.
* * *
“Escortes
Belén,” a man answered in a very slick tone. Again Becker told his story.
“Sí, sí, señor. My name is Señor Roldán. I would be pleased to help. We have two redheads.
Lovely girls.”
Becker’s heart
leapt. “Very beautiful?” he
repeated in his German accent. “Red hair?”
“Yes, what is your brother’s name? I will tell you who was his escort today. And we can send her to you
tomorrow.”
“Klaus Schmidt.”
Becker blurted a name recalled
from an old textbook.
A long pause. “Well, sir… I don’t see a Klaus Schmidt
on our registry, but perhaps
your brother chose to be
discreet–perhaps a wife at home?” He laughed inappropriately.
“Yes, Klaus married.
But he very fat. His wife no lie with him.” Becker rolled his eyes at himself reflected
in the booth. If Susan could hear me now, he thought. “I fat and lonely too. I want lie with her.
Pay lots of money.”
Becker was giving an impressive performance, but he’d gone too far. Prostitution was illegal in Spain,
and Señor Roldán was a careful man. He’d been burned before by Guardia
officials posing as
eager tourists. I want lie
with her. Roldán knew it was
a setup. If he said yes, he would be heavily
fined and, as always, forced to provide
one of his most talented escorts to the police commissioner free of
charge for an entire
weekend.
When Roldán spoke, his voice not quite as friendly.
“Sir, this is Escortes
Belén. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Aah… Sigmund
Schmidt,” Becker invented weakly.
“Where did you get
our number?”
“La Guía Telefónica–yellow pages.”
“Yes, sir,
that’s because we are an escort
service.”
“Yes. I want escort.” Becker
sensed something was wrong.
“Sir, Escortes
Belén is a service providing
escorts to businessmen for luncheons and dinners.
This is why we are listed
in the phone book. What we do is legal. What you are looking for is a
prostitute.” The word slid off his tongue like a vile disease.
“But my brother…”
“Sir, if your brother spent the day kissing a girl in the park, she was not one of ours. We have strict regulations
about client-escort contact.”
“But…”
“You have us confused
with someone else. We only have two redheads, Inmaculada and Rocío, and neither would allow a man to sleep with them for money. That is called prostitution, and it is illegal
in Spain. Good night, sir.”
“But–”
CLICK.
Becker
swore under his breath and dropped
the phone back into its cradle. Strike three. He was
certain Cloucharde had said
the German had hired the girl for
the entire weekend.
* * *
Becker stepped out of the phone booth at the intersection of Calle Salado and Avenida
Asunción. Despite the traffic,
the sweet scent of Seville
oranges hung all around him. It was twilight–the most romantic
hour. He thought of Susan. Strathmore’s words invaded his mind: Find the ring. Becker flopped miserably
on a bench and pondered
his next move.
What move?
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