Klempner
975 Words
Klempner
Over the next day or so, I visit a dozen establishments, all chosen for having been header addresses on invoices received, and apparently paid, by Finchby.
I find myself calling by two more bar-restaurants, a ladies’ shoe shop, a bookseller, a cut-price budget outlet, two fruit and veg stalls and a liquor store.
None of them seems even remotely likely as an export outlet for organised criminals. The only even slightly illegal behaviour I encounter comes from my last call: a jeweller.
By now, my doubts are sprouting. I’m almost out of options and I’ve found nothing that takes me any closer to tracking psycho-Juliana.
WTF’s going on here?
In the jewellery store, the proprietor skulks at the back. Then, seeing me browsing his stock, thinking I might find something for Mitch, he tries to pass off a locket, gold-plated but base metal, as the genuine article.
He cringes satisfactorily as my fingers grip his neck, squeezing just enough to cut off his air for a few seconds. I’m not serious about doing him any real harm, but I leave his store of over-priced crap whistling.
But still, my disquiet crawls…
What am I missing?
I arrived in Sao Paulo believing I had plenty of leads to track, as I first thought, Baxter, then his blood-besotted paramour, Juliana. But I’ve used up my leads and I’m rapidly running out of ideas.
Juliana’s still out there, shrieking for my blood. And she’s as likely as not to go looking for her own peculiar brand of vindictive entertainment with someone else connected if it’s not actually with me.
Mitch…
Jenny…
Think…
A quick check of my messages: a confirmation from Hickman that all’s well over there...
Wearing the ring?
A warm glow, having nothing to do with the weather, floods my chest and face.
What to do?
Walking… That’s how I think best…
The body strolling out, running on autopilot, letting the mind roam at will.
I don’t try to concentrate on the problem in hand. Instead, letting my thoughts drift, I wait for inspiration to well up from the subconscious backburner.
How to find one woman in a city of twenty million?
But nothing suggests itself.
I don’t do it consciously, but looking around, coming to, I find I’m standing outside Antonio’s. The old man cracks a smile and hastily wipes down a tabletop before pulling out a chair and, brows raised, offering out a palm to the seat.
I’m not fooling myself that the beer clears my thinking, but nothing else is working for me. I might as well enjoy a drink. “Obrigado. Sim.”
Antonio beams as I make my way to the table, then scuttles off, returning in under a minute with a glass jug, dripping condensation, and a plate of lupini beans.
The cold beer is perfect. The first couple of gulps slide down my throat. Slipping the skin from a bean, I chew the salty nibble, tossing the skin to a nearby pigeon Another swallow and I’m reflecting that the moist heat I enjoyed when I first arrived in Brazil is beginning to annoy: close and cloying.
Never thought I’d miss the northern winters…
That mountain…
The views… The clean air…
Be honest…
I’m missing Mitch.
More than that. I’m missing all of it. My daughter… My granddaughter… The casual camaraderie of her two husbands…
Three husbands?
Where does Haswell fit into that?
?
How the hell do I judge that one?
Mitch…
What are you doing now?
Enjoying life with Jenny I hope.
I tap open the mobile, into my images, download one of my favourites.
There’s very little in my files of this kind. I enjoy travelling, playing the tourist, but seldom bother with the camera. I prefer taking the time to see the places I visit: capture them in my head. The few times I’ve bothered taking snaps, the result never does justice to the original.
But this one is different.
Mitch looks out at me. I don’t think she knew I was taking the photo. Indeed, I made a show of simply fiddling with my phone, looking up some file or other. So, she looks at me, head a little inclined, lips a little parted, eyes questioning…
Those glorious eyes… Greener than any gem I could give her. Greener than Spring leaves. Greener than glacier waters…
I could lose myself in those eyes…
I come to with a start: Antonio leans across, setting a basket of bread on the table. His eyes crease, if it were possible, even more. “Very beautiful lady, senhor. Your lady?”
“Yes...” I tap the phone closed, but his words warm me inside. “… My lady.”
“Lady here? Sao Paulo?”
“No, not here. Far away.”
“You go home to lady soon?”
“Yes, soon.”
He smiles. “You very lucky man. But she lucky lady too, I think.”
“I hope so.”
“You want outro cerveja, senhor? Café? Vinho?”
“Café. Obrigado.”
He nods and totters off. Half a minute later the hiss of steam tells me my coffee is on the way.
One day… After all this is over…
Mitch…
You always wanted to travel…
All those books… Those places you’ve never seen…
Where would you want to go?
?
Jenny?
Would she want to come? For part of the time, maybe…
A holiday? Travel as a family…
?
?
James might help.
He’s encouraged her to forgive and forget.
…
Forgive, anyway…
*****
The coffee strong and fragrant, washes away my doubts and clears my thinking, although granted, it leaves me with my problem.
How to find Juliana?
And what is the significance of the invoice addresses?
I let my mind freewheel, caffeine lubricating the gears.
What's the connection?
?
?
Back to basics...
Finchby’s invoices...
Taken from his own files…
Supply addresses from legitimate businesses…
… Listing women, children… Human cargo.
???
That can't possibly be what went through the customs checks...
Duplicate documents then?
Same references. Same monetary values. Different cargo.
That would seem logical: A parallel accounting system: one for the outside world, one for private records.
Yes, that works. Any competent criminal could make that work. And doubtless, with the money involved, they’d have accountants and bookkeepers… Perhaps even customs officers and tax inspectors on the payroll.
But none of that gives me the connection to Antonio’s bar or any of the others.
Why here?
Frustrated, mind spiralling inward…
Damn the coffee…
… I order another beer.
*****
- Writer
