by Owen Parr
I could make out a few of the offerings such as tortilla and croquetas, but the rest might as well be in German. The waiter slid over to me and asked, “¿Que le puedo ofrecer, señor?”
I opened my palms, raising my shoulders, pretending total ignorance, I replied, “Do you speak English?”
“A little,” the waiter replied.
As I expected, Sofia Stevens turned to look at me, and said in a sexy tone with a slight accent, “Perhaps I can help you. Do you know what you want?”
Turning to my right, and looking into those mesmerizing sea-coral green eyes, I replied, “Ah, thank you. I was going to order two cortados and two bocatas de jamón to go.”
Sofia smiled and said, “To go? No, you need to experience the tapas and some wine, right here. Is someone waiting for you?”
“No, just my driver,” I replied.
“In that case, allow me to order a couple of tapas for you and a glass of wine. May I?”
I smiled back. The plan was working. “How can I say no?” Then pointing to the empty stool between us, I said, “May I?”
Sofia tossed her long red hair back with a quick twist of her head, “By all means,” she replied. “Have you ever had bull testicles?”
I smiled. “Ah…no. Can’t say that I have.”
“Bolas de toro!” shouted the man to my left.
I turned to face him. Dressed in a suit, he looked a bit disheveled for this time of day. His eyes were red, his tie undone. He looked back with glazed over eyes and smiled at me. “Amigo, you eat las bolas de toro?”
I turned back to look at Sofia. “Don’t mind him. He sits there everyday espousing philosophical rants about life, winning, and losing.”
“But, he’s drunk,” I said looking at my phone. “It’s only noon.”
“Yes, well, he’ll sit there downing tequilas ‘til three in the afternoon, and then he’ll eat, get up, and go back to work like nothing.”
“Amigo!” the fellow called out again.
“I take care,” said the bartender.
“Joder,” he said to the bartender. “Amigo, do you know why we fear death?”
I rolled my eyes as Sofia said, “Ignore him. He’ll answer his own question, and then he’ll ask another, and so on. We can move to a table if you want.”
“No, no. This is fine.”
“I suppose testicles are not your first choice. We’ll skip them for now.” Then turning to face the waiter, she said, “José, prepara unas gambas al ajillo, una orden de boquerones, y una de chorizo Ibérico. Tambien una botella de Sierra Cantraba, Tempranillo, por favor.”
“Sounds like a lot of food. All I recognized from that order was José,” I said, and then added, “By the way, my name is Giancarlo Perego,” I said, extending my hand.
“A pleasure Mr. Perego. My name is Sofia Puig de Stevens,” she said, gently shaking hands with me. “I hope you like shrimp, anchovies, and sausages, plus wine.”
“Please call me Carlo. I do, but I doubt I can eat all you ordered. Can I have the pleasure of your company and share, Señora Stevens?”
“Call me Sofia, and I’m not going anywhere,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Is this your first time in Barcelona?”
“It is, and it’s a beautiful place.”
“Are you visiting for pleasure?”
“No, not really. I’m a freelance writer looking to write an article on American expats who are entrepreneurs.”
Sofia gave a quizzical look. “Expats?”
“Americans who live abroad, outside of the US, are referred to as expats, or expatriots.”
“That’s a bit of a bad name. My husband would be one, but he’s still a patriot.”
“I agree,” I replied. José opened the bottle of wine in front of us and began pouring into a glass decanter. Then I asked, “What does your husband do?”
“My husband is a senior partner at Wetherly Stevens. It’s a very old investment firm, originally opened in New York City.”
“And he’s retired here?”
Before she could reply, José served a sampling of the wine in a full bowl glass. Placing in front of Sofia, he said, “Señora.”
“José, let Señor Perego try it.”
José moved the glass over to me and smiled. “Señor.”
I picked up the glass and brought it to my nose, taking a careful sniff of the aroma, “Ah, fruit, fruta.” I said, smiling.
“There’s more to it. Taste it,” Sofia said.
I did, taking in the taste before I swallowed. “It’s like a dance taking place on my palate. I taste spice, coffee, a little cinnamon. It’s delicious,” I said, motioning to José to serve it.
Sofia smiled, satisfied that I liked the wine. “You’re quite the connoisseur.”
We were off topic, and I needed to get back on plan. “So, your husband is retired?”
“Oh no, he’s still very active. He runs the operation here in Barcelona. The main office is in New York. As long as he’s healthy, he wants to work. He might be a good subject for your article. Who are you writing for?” she asked as she rubbed her left elbow with mine.
“Well, being a freelance writer, I write, and then I offer the article to magazines like Forbes and Fortune. You think your husband would be open to an interview?”
José began to bring over the tapas one at a time, starting with the boquerones—anchovies.
Sofia leaned over so that our shoulders touched and looked at my nose. “Did you box when you were younger?”
“Ah, I see you noticed my broken nose. Yes, I did. Not very well, though.”
“Amateur or professional?”
“Mostly amateur. Maybe three fights as a professional. But, I did pick up a moniker, which was not very good for my career as a boxer.”
“Which was?” she asked. Those eyes were sparkling like gems.
“Canvas Back,” I replied, grinning. “’Cause I spent most of the time with my back on the canvas.”
She laughed. Sofia wrapped her left arm behind my back and pulled me in closer to her, which surprised me. Smiling, she said, “About the interview with my husband, I can talk him into anything. I’ll ask him tonight. By the way,” she began, still with her arm wrapped around my back, “where are you staying?”
Looking at those sea-coral green eyes, I knew I could quickly get in trouble if I didn’t hold back. “Right around the corner at the NH Barcelona.”
She didn’t let me go. “Maybe we can have dinner tonight. Would you like that?”
“That could be very nice. I can start the interview then.”
She displayed a wide grin. “No, I didn't include him in my plans for dinner.”
“Oh, I see. Did you have a place in mind?”
“Does the Hotel NH Barcelona have room service?”
5
My iPhone rang, startling me out of deep sleep. Groggily I looked at the ID caller and the time. It was Marcy, and it was six in the morning. I answered the call with a cotton mouthed, “Hello.”
“Sleepyhead, wake up,” she said, way too eager for this early.
“It’s six in the morning, everything all right?” I asked, taking a sip of water from a glass on the night table.
“Oops,” she said. “Well, it’s midnight here. Sorry, you want to go back to sleep?”
“No, that’s fine.”
“I woke you up an hour earlier than I usually do. If you want to grab another hour, I can call you back.”
“No problem, my love. I’m always eager to talk to you. How are you?”
“I’m good. How was your day yesterday?”
I put the call on speaker so I could get some coffee going. “I’m meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Stevens today. He’s agreed to an interview with Giancarlo Perego, my freelance writer alias.”
“What time are you doing that?”
“They’d asked me to meet at their home for lunch, about two in the afternoon.”
“What’s your plan there?”
“Ask q
uestions and take notes, which is what I do as a detective. Except for this time, I’m pretending to be a journalist.”
“And after that?”
“After that, I leave tomorrow morning for a long day of flying. I go to London, Philly, and finally Savannah. There were no other flights Agnes could get me on tonight.”
“Hopefully Sevens can start filling in the blanks.”
“I hope so, cause I’m anxious to get going with this. This is a beautiful city, but I’m not here as a tourist. Hopefully, you and I can visit together,” I said as I took a sip of my morning coffee.
“Are you still glad you flew out there?”
“As you said before, if I don’t do this, I’m going to regret it down the road. So, yes, but I’m bored with the reconnaissance part of it. I’m not good at sitting around twiddling my thumbs. I’ll get excited as soon as I can start with the interrogations.”
“Any señoritas make a pass at you?”
“All the time,” I said, laughing. Then in a melodic tune, I added, “But I only have eyes for you.”
“You better, Mancuso, or else. Love you. I’ll call you tomorrow morning before you take off.”
“I love you too, Marcy.”
When I was seventeen, a year after my dad passed and Captain Johnson became a mentor of sorts, he turned me onto the Sherlock Holmes series. I fell in love with the character. His powers of deduction, his many disguises, and his attention to details taught me a lot. I learned that the obvious was not necessarily what was. Looking beyond that was his forte. Later, when I joined the New York Police Academy, not only did I continue reading the Holmes novels, but I also began research into Arthur Conan Doyle and the psychology he used in creating the character and the plots. I was fascinated by what I learned, incorporating many of the Holmes’s traits into my detective work when I became an officer, and later a detective with the homicide division. So, I was hoping to continue with my Perego disguise and dig for clues.
It was my last day in Barcelona, and I agreed to let Octavio drive me around the city to some of the magnificent historical sites and architecture Barcelona had to offer. His tour was immensely enjoyable, and like a typical tourist, I took more pictures than necessary.
At precisely 1:55, Octavio pulled up at the Stevens’s villa in Catella. The home was a spectacular light-green, two-story villa on the coast overlooking the Mediterranean. Octavio told me that that homes in this coastal town that were similar to this villa, cost between two million and six million euros—approximately three million to seven million dollars, give or take.
I knocked on the villa’s front door, and a lady servant in an impeccable blue uniform opened it. “¿Señor Perego?” she asked, smiling.
“Sí,” I replied.
“Un momento. La Señora viene enseguida. Pase por favor,” she said, pointing to a foyer entrance.
My rapid translation and her pointing told me that Mrs. Stevens would be here in a moment and that I should wait in the foyer.
A few minutes after, Sofia Puig de Stevens slowly strolled into the foyer. She wore a long, tight, red gown that displayed her full features and left nothing to the imagination. Her long red hair mimicked her body movements and accentuated those sea-coral green eyes. A coral necklace matching her radiant eyes hung from her sensuous neck.
“Carlo, how good to see you again.” She smiled. “My husband will be right with us. Follow me.”
I did as she instructed, walking into a sprawling living area with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the Mediterranean. I could see Sofia’s decorated in the French cottage style by the furniture and décor. I could also tell Mr. Stevens’s alpha-male dominance in classical paintings of the Spanish Renaissance masters: Bermejo, Burregete, Ordonez, and El Greco, all hanging in the living room.
“Thank you, I’m looking forward to speaking with you both,” I said as we reached a sitting area.
She stopped unexpectedly, and I bumped into her. She smiled again and said, “I don’t know why I agreed to set this meeting up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was crushed by your rejection yesterday. Not many men turn me down as you did.”
I looked around and lowered my voice. I said, “As I explained, I’m married and committed to a monogamous relationship. Please don’t take it personally. Like they say, ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’”
“Well, perhaps another time, in another place. For your information, my husband and I have an understanding. He has his boys, and I have my men. In his position and in this community, an openly gay relationship is not the norm.”
I felt as if my jaw had dropped to the floor. I didn’t know what to say. This information would surely be priceless if, in fact, I was a real journalist. Lost for words, I asked, “Can we sit down?”
“Have a seat. ¿Vino? Or, you look like the single malt scotch type. May I get you one?”
“Ah…yes, thank you. A single malt, neat, would be fine.”
Sofia walked over to a bar in the living area as her husband, Richard Stevens, came down the stairs.
“Amor, this is Giancarlo Perego,” she said, turning to look at him as she poured my single malt.
“Ah, Mr. Perego, I’ve heard a lot about you. I trust you two had a good time yesterday,” Stevens said, extending his right hand.
I stood and shook hands with him. Your wife is the hottest Catalonian in Barcelona was what I was thinking. I replied, “A pleasure to meet you, sir. Thank you for allowing me to visit. And yes, we had a wonderful tapas brunch. Mrs. Stevens is quite the hostess.” I wanted to make it clear that his “good time” remark didn’t happen.
Stevens looked me up and down, which did not make me feel too comfortable. “Please call me Richard, or Ricardo, as Sofia calls me. May I call you Giancarlo?”
Please call me uncomfortable. “Yes, by all means. Carlo is fine too.”
“¿Italiano?”
“Second generation Italian-American.”
Stevens, or who I thought of as the Monopoly Man now that I was close and personal, asked, “I saw you looking at my art gallery. Are you familiar with the masters?”
“That’s quite the collection you have. That El Greco has to be worth a fortune,” I said, pointing to the oil on canvas.
“Ah, it’s one of his lesser-known works. Supposedly painted right after his famous ‘The Assumption of the Virgin.’ So, you do know about the masters.”
“As a result of my mother, who was an art history major. Instead of reading books to me at night, she would show me the pictures and talk about art history. I was always fascinated by the paintings.”
“Good for her,” Stevens replied.
Sofia came over to us with a silver tray and two drinks, “Here you are, boys. One single malt and one Gibson.”
“Aren’t you joining us, Sofia?”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. I want to make sure about lunch. In an hour or so?”
“Ask our guest. I took the day off.”
I looked at Sofia and smiled. “Any time is fine with me. Thank you.”
“That scotch you’re drinking is an eighteen-year-old Aberlour from the Speyside region in Scotland,” Richard said. “I don’t think they have that in the US. It’s made mostly for the French market since it’s finished by aging in wine or sherry casks.”
I sniffed the malt. “It does have a distinct bouquet of wine and sherry, yes.”
“So, tell me, who are you writing for?”
I smiled. “Anyone who will buy my articles. I freelance, and I’ve had articles published in Esquire, Forbes, Fortune, and others. You can check some of those articles on my website—Carlo Perego, one word, dot com.” For the casual researcher, my bogus website, set up by Agnes once before, would be more than sufficient. However, if anyone researched the actual magazines’ archives, Carlo Perego would be nowhere to be found. The hoax worked in the past, and I was not concerned that Stevens would do a deep dive to check me out.
“Let
’s get started before our lunch is served,” Stevens said.
I got started with the typical background questions: Where did you go to school? How did you get interested in investment banking? Where did you meet Mr. Wetherly? Some of the questions I knew the answers to, but I wanted to establish a link between his responses, any falsehoods or embellishments, and his body language as he replied.
After a few minutes, I could tell he was straightforward and open. No discernable body language quirks that I could pick up. I wanted to get to the time in 1997 when my dad was murdered.
“You mentioned you started the partnership with Mr. Wetherly in 1969. What do you remember from back then?” I asked, working my way up on the calendar.
“Hah, 1969.” He paused, closing his eyes. “Well, I remember Joe Namath beat the Baltimore Colts in the Super Bowl and became the MVP of the game, for one thing. As far as the stock market is concerned, we couldn’t have started our company at the worst time; the market began a downturn in December of 1968, and it did not bottom out until October of 1969. I think the drop for the year was around eighteen to nineteen percent. Check my numbers, if you plan to use them, but the Dow Jones Index closed at about 985 in 1968, if I’m not mistaken, and by October of 1969, the Dow Index was like 800. Like I said, not a good year to open the doors to a new firm.”
“I guess not. Tell me about October 1987 when the market crashed.”
“Dreadful day that was. The year before, 1986, the Dow Index climbed about forty percent. The same year OPEC failed as a result of low oil prices. However, the stock market soared, we were in a bull market, and the saying, ‘a bull market climbs a wall of worry,’ was very evident then. The markets continued their climb until August of 1987 when we began to see the cracks in the ice. Finally, on Wednesday, October 14, the Dow Index dropped a record 3.8% percent. On Friday, it fell another 4.6%, a new record. Then, the ice broke on Monday—Black Monday it was called—the drop was over twenty-two percent that Monday.”