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Authors: Tom Gabbay
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can find her?”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you or don’t you?”
“I can find out.”
“Roman…”
“Yes?”
“Are you selling information or services?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Everything has its price,” he finally said, avoiding the question. “But I’m not a greedy person. I’m certain we will come to an acceptable agreement regarding my fee.”
I forced a smile, but my patience was wearing thin. “If you think you’re gonna go on some sort of payroll on the off chance that you come up with something, you can forget it,” I said.
“And if I have already some information?”
“Then you’d better give it to me. If it leads somewhere, I’ll make sure you get well paid.”
“Why do you wish to find this girl?”
“None of your business,” I said. “Now don’t think I haven’t enjoyed our little chat, but it’s late and I’m tired.”
“Please excuse my intrusion.”
“Sure,” I said, and turned toward the hotel entrance. I think Popov stood there for a minute, watching me go in, but I didn’t look back. I headed for the desk, where I could ask the concierge to arrange for Alberto to pick me up in the morning. He’d given me the number of a neighborhood bar where messages could be left.
“Yes, Mr. Teller, I can phone him, of course, but…” The concierge coughed uncomfortably and nodded toward a bench in the corner where he’d installed a young girl who was wearing too much lipstick and not enough skirt. She was no more than sixteen, probably less. “She claims you are expecting her,” he said.
I looked at the clock behind the counter—twenty minutes after midnight. I’d completely forgotten about my appointment.
“That’s right,” I said, not interested in explaining myself. “Does she speak English?”
I stood my ground while I was treated to an extended look up the man’s nostrils. He finally gave up and beckoned the girl with his index finger. She skulked over to the desk.
“Fala inglès?” the concierge demanded.
“Pouco,” she whispered softly.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Fabiana,” she said, turning big brown eyes on me.
“Okay, Fabiana,” I said. “Come with me.”
I thanked the concierge for his help and felt the sting of his look in the back of my neck all the way across the lobby to the elevator.
F abiana was well practiced in her routine. I hardly had the door closed before she was in the bedroom, unclipping her bra and stepping out of her skirt. She was confused and a little concerned when I stopped her, and led her back into the suite’s small living room.
“I just want to talk to you,” I said.
“ Sim, senhor,” she replied, sitting down to await further instructions. She really was just a kid, and I hated to think what kind of further instructions she was used to getting.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s nothing to worry about. Do you understand?”
“ Sim, senhor, I understand.”
I took the newly acquired roll of bills out of my pocket, peeled a hundred off the top, and showed it to her. She looked at me like I was crazy, probably wondering what the hell she was expected to do to earn this.
“Just some questions,” I said. “About the man at the Imperial Hotel. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
“Sim…o Americano.”
“That’s right. Do you remember what happened that night?”
“Sim. A senhora entra—”
“In English, please.”
“Sim.” She nodded and collected her thoughts. “The lady comes in.”
“That’s right. And what happened then?”
She shrugged. “I go.”
“You left?”
“ Sim… I left.”
I handed her the photograph of Eva. “Is this the lady?” Fabiana took the picture in her hand and studied it very carefully for quite some time.
“Sim…Creio que sim.” She gave the photo back. “I think yes, this the lady.”
“Did she say anything to the man?”
Fabiana thought for a moment. “She say to stop…”
“Stop what?”
“What
“Perhaps.”
“Do you or don’t you?”
“I can find out.”
“Roman…”
“Yes?”
“Are you selling information or services?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Everything has its price,” he finally said, avoiding the question. “But I’m not a greedy person. I’m certain we will come to an acceptable agreement regarding my fee.”
I forced a smile, but my patience was wearing thin. “If you think you’re gonna go on some sort of payroll on the off chance that you come up with something, you can forget it,” I said.
“And if I have already some information?”
“Then you’d better give it to me. If it leads somewhere, I’ll make sure you get well paid.”
“Why do you wish to find this girl?”
“None of your business,” I said. “Now don’t think I haven’t enjoyed our little chat, but it’s late and I’m tired.”
“Please excuse my intrusion.”
“Sure,” I said, and turned toward the hotel entrance. I think Popov stood there for a minute, watching me go in, but I didn’t look back. I headed for the desk, where I could ask the concierge to arrange for Alberto to pick me up in the morning. He’d given me the number of a neighborhood bar where messages could be left.
“Yes, Mr. Teller, I can phone him, of course, but…” The concierge coughed uncomfortably and nodded toward a bench in the corner where he’d installed a young girl who was wearing too much lipstick and not enough skirt. She was no more than sixteen, probably less. “She claims you are expecting her,” he said.
I looked at the clock behind the counter—twenty minutes after midnight. I’d completely forgotten about my appointment.
“That’s right,” I said, not interested in explaining myself. “Does she speak English?”
I stood my ground while I was treated to an extended look up the man’s nostrils. He finally gave up and beckoned the girl with his index finger. She skulked over to the desk.
“Fala inglès?” the concierge demanded.
“Pouco,” she whispered softly.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Fabiana,” she said, turning big brown eyes on me.
“Okay, Fabiana,” I said. “Come with me.”
I thanked the concierge for his help and felt the sting of his look in the back of my neck all the way across the lobby to the elevator.
F abiana was well practiced in her routine. I hardly had the door closed before she was in the bedroom, unclipping her bra and stepping out of her skirt. She was confused and a little concerned when I stopped her, and led her back into the suite’s small living room.
“I just want to talk to you,” I said.
“ Sim, senhor,” she replied, sitting down to await further instructions. She really was just a kid, and I hated to think what kind of further instructions she was used to getting.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s nothing to worry about. Do you understand?”
“ Sim, senhor, I understand.”
I took the newly acquired roll of bills out of my pocket, peeled a hundred off the top, and showed it to her. She looked at me like I was crazy, probably wondering what the hell she was expected to do to earn this.
“Just some questions,” I said. “About the man at the Imperial Hotel. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
“Sim…o Americano.”
“That’s right. Do you remember what happened that night?”
“Sim. A senhora entra—”
“In English, please.”
“Sim.” She nodded and collected her thoughts. “The lady comes in.”
“That’s right. And what happened then?”
She shrugged. “I go.”
“You left?”
“ Sim… I left.”
I handed her the photograph of Eva. “Is this the lady?” Fabiana took the picture in her hand and studied it very carefully for quite some time.
“Sim…Creio que sim.” She gave the photo back. “I think yes, this the lady.”
“Did she say anything to the man?”
Fabiana thought for a moment. “She say to stop…”
“Stop what?”
“What
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