Too Many Cooks

Chapter 9

The library had been a brainstorm. From the tax roll records Elora found out the residence address of Hector Estavan and from that she was able to use the library's computer to dig up a phone number, a car license, including make and model, and a place of employment. Armed with her newly gained information she arranged for a car rental and bought a road map for the greater Buenos Aires region.

The Estavan home was north of the city in an area called Olivos, one of the wealthier districts in the Buenos Aires suburbs. Elora followed her map and after several false starts, found the area and the street of the Estavan home. She spotted the number on a gatepost that boasted two concrete lions raised up on their hind legs; it was a formidable entrance to the low, rambling stone and stucco structure nestled in a grove of trees well back from the street. Elora pulled up to the front of the home, parked and went up to the front door and rang the bell. A moment later a young servant girl came to the door and asked her business. Elora asked if Mr. Estavan was home and with a look of total confusion and annoyance was told that not a word she said was understood. The servant closed the door and left Elora holding a fading smile.

She climbed back in the car and drove back to her hotel. A different tack was required. She would try and locate him through his business and to that end she changed into her teddy, poured a glass of scotch and curled up on the sofa with the telephone. A pleasant woman answered her call, listened politely and advised her that Mr. Estavan had been out of the country and wasn't expected back until the next day. Elora knew why too, Miss Ebony Keyes. She said it was extremely important that she speak with him and to her never ending series of surprises, was given his cell phone number.

This called for another drink and she brought the bottle to the coffee table, got comfortable again and dialed.

*****

Ebony sat on the toilet holding her head. She couldn't remember ever having such a night before. Hector had returned from the washroom, gulped his meal and hurried them back to his room where he proceeded to put her through more hoops than the NBA. Her body ached from head to foot and she was exhausted but she was also tingling inside from a spate of multiple orgasms so much so that she could barely remember where or who she was. Hector had proven to be a marathoner of the highest proportion. The night just never ended for him and in the morning he had showered, shaved and gone off for a run around the district. Ebony could barely walk let alone go running. She had bravely waved goodbye before collapsing on the bed.

She hobbled into the shower and turned scalding water on her skin, suffering the delicious pain of its stinging. When Hector returned, beaming and glowing like a stoplight, she was resting in her robe in a chair by the balcony door.

"You should have come, Ebony, it was magnificent. The flowers, the smells. Exhilarating." He peeled off his clothes and left them in a pile by the bed. Ebony stared at the instrument that he'd used to tame her and she shuddered as he walked toward her, bending down and kissing her head.

"I'm going to shower. Afterwards we can go shopping if you like or down for some food or..." His smile stretched beyond his face and his eyebrows danced luridly.

"Shopping might be nice," she said weakly.

The phone rang and he grabbed it off the dresser on the way to the bathroom.

*****

Terry sat uncomfortably in front of the desk of the man he would be answering to. Dark tinted glasses. A drooping, ratty moustache and wings of grey and dark grey hair swept back along the side of a wide head and held in place with what looked like bacon fat.

La Librería de Argentine turned out to be the home of a tabloid aimed at a stratum of readers enraptured with massive breasts and huge lipsticked lips pouting grossly at the camera. The editing requirements he'd worried about consisted of actually being in the studio where the photos were taken and spraying body makeup over moles and bruises and any other blemishes—not that any amount of undercoating could disguise some of the potholes in the models. Terry was devastated. The publishing area of his job was to take the company van and deliver bundles of the magazines to various sex shops around the city. He couldn't believe what he'd signed up for.