Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4)

by Dancer, Jack

  That takes me back and I notice Ebba flinching too.

  “Yeah,” is all I can manage?

  “Oh,” she says, laying her hand on my arm, “Terry’s friend, Monica, she didn't make it either.” Turning to Ebba, “Didn’t I see you introducing Tucker to them?”

  Ebba says to me, “You remember, the other FA (flight attendant) and her companion?”

  “Sure, I remember.” How could I forget? (Hell, she’s my new fiancé.)

  “Find Monica, she knows the ropes. She's probably at the Air France counter now,” Nanette says.

  “Or, the nearest bar,” quips Ebba pushing me out the door. “See you in Barcelona, Tucker,” she sings out before grabbing my arm and pulling me back with the threat, “you stay away from that Monica woman Tucker, you hear?” Then back into the plane she returns to stand next to the captain who has appeared and is offering a small wave good-bye.

  “We’ll save a seat for you on the return,” he says giving me the thumbs up.

  “Gotta get there first.”

  Back through the Jetway I pass the woman who’d hijacked my seat and start to give her my, I'm not a happy camper frown, but on second thought, “A hundred dollars for your seat?”

  “Sorry, I'm going to my mother's funeral.”

  Ouch. “Oh . . . sorry.”

  That's how it is with these companion tickets. I don't know if every employee of the airline is eligible, but those who are, are given a certain number of passes each year. You might have five with S-1 priorities (the highest), eight S-2's (next highest) and so forth on down the line. The idea is to use the lower-priority passes for those flights you're pretty sure will have available seating and save the higher ones for flights that are likely to be tight - the popular destinations, like Barcelona.

  Still, it's a gamble because you never know for sure how a flight might turn out until the last minute. Revise that, until the plane is in the air. Ebba gambled an S-2 would get me onto this one, and while it did beat out Monica and others holding lower priorities, it couldn’t top the last-minute S-1.

  So, now I'm back where I started - standing at an empty Gate E-08 watching my fourteen-day getaway get away without me.

  ***

  The Raven.

  Unlike Jacques on the other end of the line, the smile on her face does not go away when she presses END.

  Looks like the little weasel might finally come through. Maybe the investment to plant him under Azaura's nose will pay off after all. That ticket is going to be my retirement. And who is more deserving? Azaura might think he is, but he will have to get up awfully early to beat this Raven to the prize. Serves him right too, the bastard.

  He talks a good game but that is all it is, talk and posturing. He says we are a team and the only hope for Catalan and Basque independence. He may think he has everyone fooled but not me. Not for a minute. I know what he wants and it is not freedom for his people. Oh, no. He wants my business, my empire. The empire my father created and I spent my life building.

  Over my dead body. Better yet, over his.

  The real fool will be the one standing on the platform in Barcelona waiting for a man with a lottery ticket that will never arrive. Oh, what I would give to see him, wondering what went wrong, and ten minutes away I'm claiming the €120 million.

  All right, Jacques, you weasel, get me the name, the time, and the station. I have a retirement to plan.

  three

  21:25 Hours, Saturday, 30 August.

  JFK International Airport, New York.

  As the plane taxis out to the runway, my cell phone rings.

  Ebba.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  “What was what all about?”

  “Your little thing with Nanette. What'd she mean see you in Barcelona?”

  “How do I know? She’s your friend, ask her!”

  “Ask her what? Why my boyfriend’s tongue was hanging to his knees?”

  “I don't know her from Adam; you're the one who knows her.” Though I can’t deny Nanette sparked visions of hotel rooms and massage oils.

  “I don't know her. She's a slut who collects men to eat. Okay, whatever. Just go to the Air France desk and book the next flight to Paris then connect to Barcelona.”

  “And if Air France is full?”

  “Get a hotel and try again tomorrow.”

  I pause.

  “It's up to you if you want to try again, Tucker.”

  “Air France will accept my companion pass?”

  “Yes, they will. Look, I'm sorry for all this, really I am. I need to go. Oh, and, Tucker,” her voice drops to an angry whisper, “you stay clear of Monica, you hear? You're supposed to be with me. Not Nanette, not Monica. Me, Tucker. Goddammit,” and she’s gone.

  My enthusiasm for this trip is vacating like a tenant making a midnight move. If I do make Barcelona what will I be walking into; a catfight with me the sacrificial mouse? The idea of re-booking on Air France, maybe making the flight, or not, chancing the same hit or miss to make a connection out of Paris . . . and if I get stuck?

  What the hell? I'll be in Paris, for crying out loud! Can there be a better place to be? Maybe I'll go to Paris and bag Barcelona. Wait! Aren’t I forgetting something?

  Sure enough at the nearest bar I meet Monica, for the second time. Perched on a barstool like an ornament, a cell phone pressed to her ear, her eyes scanning the room until they lock on me hovering at the edge of the fray. She folds away her cell, tosses me an inviting smile, and with one beckoning finger . . .

  Thank you, Jesus.

  I return the smile, and affirming with a nod, start making my way toward her.

  “You were on, what happened?”

  “Came back for you, what else?” And with that she jumps off the barstool, wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes me into her like I’d returned from the war.

  Holy shit.

  “That’s sweet of you to say. I’m glad you got thrown off.”

  “How’d you know?” I eye her. “You had something to do with that?”

  “Why? Would you be angry if I did?”

  “No, course not . . . you didn’t . . . How’d you do that?”

  “I didn’t. Nanette called. She told me what happened and asked if I would look after you.”

  “You’re kidding. You know Nanette?”

  Why would Nanette be taking such an interest in me, I wonder. That little encounter on the plane was over the top for sure but to call on Monica like she's passing the baton?

  “I was a flight attendant with Pan Am in a previous life as was Nanette.”

  “Guess I should consider myself lucky with such connections.”

  “Yep, you're with me now,” she says and wraps her smile around the slim cocktail straw of her drink, her green eyes dancing with mischief.

  I laugh. “Yeah, I suppose I am at that,” and even though the mere thought of Ebba induces shivers up my spine, how can I ignore this near perfect, albeit temporary, solution to the dating dilemma I was wrestling with earlier? S’pose I should be thankful and not look a gift horse and all, right?

  Still, I can’t shake the feeling all this is a little too convenient? Wait! Isn’t this exactly what I would’ve arranged myself if I could have? Why am I complaining? Okay, I’m not complaining. I’ve got to give up this cynicism business and let the good times roll. I’m on vacation. The important thing, now, is what’s in front of me. Remember? The woman I’m going to marry? Gotta keep my eye on the prize here.

  “So, Nanette said I should see you about catching an Air France flight to Paris and making a connection to Barcelona. Is that what you're doing?”

  “That’s one alternative.”

  “And the other?”

  “Find a hotel and try again tomorrow.”

  That set off a dozen wisenheimer remarks clamoring to jailbreak my mouth, so I divert. “Can I buy you a drink?” And I’m reminded that ten thousand years of hardwiring bridles ‘em not to come off as EAS
Y and don't start thinking this one’s an exception. Just remember, no matter what she says it’s all a dream, a fabrication. Nothing’s real. Any minute Alan Funt’ll jump out and yell, ‘smile, you’re on Candid Camera sucka!’

  Her cell phone rings. She plucks it from her purse and checking the screen says, almost in afterthought, “I'm good, thanks,” then stands to take the call.

  “Hi Lloyd. No, I didn't make the flight. Full. Yes, I'm going to try to catch the Air France.” She turns her back and takes a step away seeking privacy.

  My heart sinks and falls out of my chest, splat, onto the floor. A ten-year-old sitting at a table with his parents has his eye on it and is moving into position to kick the thing like a soccer ball.

  “No,” I yelp jumping to my feet to stop him. She turns clearly wondering if I'm certified.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Sorry,” I say flushing a beet red before turning back to my barstool. “Tell Lloyd hello for me.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just kidding.” Idiot! Why the hell’d you say that I ask myself swiveling around to the bar and bartender. “Glenfiddich on rocks with a splash please.” S'pose I can forget any further designs here. Lloyd huh? Maybe Lloyd's her dad.

  A minute passes and she's still talking. Two minutes. Giggling now. I wait another thirty seconds before deciding to neutralize this with a call into Speed. Is this high school or what? Doesn't matter, fifteen or fifty, nothing changes. We're either preening and posturing to win them over, or we're working overtime to show our disinterest so they’ll think we've got boo-coo other choices waiting in line.

  Yeah but, this one . . . this one's special. And the dilemma I was facing earlier, the elephant in the room? That one’s now wheels up and airborne. Wait! Could the elephant now be . . . Hey, who is this Lloyd guy anyway?

  My cell's ringing through and Speed picks up. “Hey Bluesman. You’re not airborne? What gives brother?”

  “Hey Speedster. Yeah, didn't make the flight man. Got preempted by a higher priority at the last minute.”

  “So, whaddya gonna do?”

  “Catch the Air France to Paris and make a connection to Barcelona are my instructions. I dunno. I'm so tired of all this waiting. I've been doing this since six this morning, and it's now going on . . . what? Eleven?”

  “Eight for you brother. You started in San Diego, remember?”

  “Yeah eight, right. I'd like to see Barcelona, sure, but this flying standby is starting to suck.”

  “What the heck man? What else you gotta do? Catch the Air France man and go. A Paris detour; I can think of worse things. You might meet a hot little flight attendant on the way over, and you’ll be on a dream detour come true.”

  “I dunno man. I think I’ve met a couple too many already.”

  “Uh oh. Ebba bust you?”

  “S'pose you could say that.”

  “So, what bar are you hanging at now?”

  “The airport bar.”

  “Oh, yeah, that one. Sure. That’s my bar. There're only a hundred bars in JFK, Bluesman! Do you even know where you are?”

  “International terminal.”

  “Oh, yeah. One's there. Any chicks?”

  No surprise. Speed's right on point.

  Having both come out of long-term marriages at about the same time and now finding ourselves in this bizarre Neverland of mid-life dating; we are the Lost Boys. The blind leading the blind in a land where the one-eyed man is king, if only we could find him and learn. But we haven't, so we improvise because our prior dating experience dates so far back it's listed in Webster's under courting.

  Anyone who saw us might mistake us for a couple of girls because with almost every date, we're on speed dial, passing back and forth critical details, examining and debating every mile marker, comparing notes, and sharing our experiences in the hopes of obtaining even a minuscule of understanding the female mind. Every time we think we've uncovered some heretofore-secreted gem of knowledge and begin postulating a theorem; a subsequent female encounter cancels it, and we're back to square one.

  I can’t say we're not having a grand time of it though, and if we happen to commit a dating faux pas, unlike with marriages, there’s always another fish in the sea. If there’s ever a right time to be a kid in a candy store, for us, now’s it.

  “So, Bluesman, any chicks at the bar?”

  Monica's winding down with ole Lloyd, telling him she'll see him in Barcelona (hey; I thought you were with me; I'm thinking) so I sign off with Speed, announcing loud enough for her to overhear, “Okay Lucille, we'll talk again later honey,” so she'll be wondering who Lucille is. Funny enough, so will Speed. I hit END.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” she says.

  Right.

  “Yeah, flying standby on these companion passes can be a little nerve racking sometimes. You need to keep reminding yourself that most of the time you're getting on the plane and best of all it's free,” she says picking up without missing a beat. “Take a flight, like the one we missed.”

  “I tried.”

  “A first-class seat costs nearly five thousand dollars, and that's no chump change. Yeah, I know you tried.”

  “I guess we can put up with a little bumping now and then, huh?”

  “You betcha,” she says finishing off her drink.

  I signal the bartender, then turning to her. “You ready for another?”

  “Sure, Cosmo, please,” batting her eyes to show me she's cute. And she is. God is she ever.

  “Who could resist?” To the bartender, “and another Cosmo for the lady please.”

  Monica extends her hand to me, “I’m sure you don't remember my name, Tucker . . .”

  “Monica,” I say.

  “Oooh, right. You're good.”

  “You remembered mine. How'd you do that anyway?”

  “How'd you?”

  “I wanted to.”

  “Wow, you are impressive Mister?”

  “Blue.”

  “Oooh, Mr. Tucker Blue,” she says rolling it around in her mouth like she's tasting for smoothness. “I like it. Blood blue too?”

  “Through and through darling. Want me to open a vein?”

  “Not unless you want me to open one of mine and see who’s bluer.”

  “Holy moly girl. You are out there aren’t you? So tell me how does the Air France backup work?” I ask thinking that was weird. Who’s bluer?

  “They're American's codeshare partner.”

  “Codeshare?”

  “It's an arrangement between two airlines to share the same flight so if you've purchased a ticket on one airline and somehow miss it . . .”

  “Like we did,” I say.

  “You can go to the codeshare partner and they'll honor your ticket.”

  “Even a companion pass?” I ask already knowing.

  “Yep. They're treated like regular tickets. Well, they are tickets, only not purchased.”

  “So, you haven't checked out Air France yet?”

  “Not yet. I thought I'd liquor up first in case it's full. That way at least I won't give a shit,” she laughs and gives my knee a little touch.

  That's the signal. She's interested. The woman doesn't mind a little potty mouth either. She's not a prig. Good. Willing to lube up too. Another plus. Just keep drinking honey, I’m thinking.

  “You're not offended by a little potty mouth are you, Tucker?” she asks interrupting my leering.

  “I was potty trained long ago, Monica . . . Miss . . .?”

  “It's missus. With an “R” in the middle. M-R-S,” she spells and holds out her hand with a round-cut diamond about the size of Texas.

  “Wow, missus with an ‘R’ it is.”

  “Reyes. Missus Reyes,” she says.

  “Missus Monica Reyes. Okay. Well, nice to meet you again Missus Reyes,” taking her hand in utter disappointment and giving it a single pump, “And Mister Reyes?”

  “There’s no Mister Reyes. I kept my ma
iden name. Al's home with the children . . . at least he'd better be,” and the kid wallops my heart through the goal posts, and the crowd roars.

  “Is this where you get off Tucker?”

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I tear my eyes from the pull of hers and take a sip to collect myself before turning back.

  “Course not. Actually, I'm relieved.”

  “Why's that?”

  “Well, if you're taken, I won’t need to come up with a rock bigger than the one already decorating your hand.”

  “Wow, that’s quite a leap for someone you met only five minutes ago.”

  “I’m a champion leaper, and besides, it's been more than an hour now.”

  “Oh, right. Still . . .” she laughs reaching out and touching my arm.

  “It's a fault. I'm impulsive. No, marriage is a wonderful institution,” I say, “and one I've brushed with a couple of times, the last one a twenty-year-long brush.”

  “So I take it you don't date married women?”

  “Nope, fraid not.”

  “Not even to fool around?”

  “Mmm, you got something in mind?”

  “It's a hypothetical.”

  “Oh. A hypothetical. Okay, then the hypothetical answer is . . . can you repeat the question?”

  “Truth is, I'm divorcing,” she says ignoring my humor.

  “So you're still married.” This takes her back a bit.

  “I suppose. Technically, yes. I'm married. Well on my way to not being married though. Doesn't that count?”

  “For what?”

  “You know . . . count for . . .”

  “Not being married?”

  “No,” she says. “Oh, never mind.”

  “Yeah, it counts. Truth is, my divorce isn't complete yet either.”

  “Why you son of a . . . ” she pulls up catching herself. “So, why're you giving me such a hard time?”

  “Because I don't date married women. Divorcing women . . . well, that's another matter. Can't blame someone for wanting to date around while a divorce stretches out for years.”