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

by Dancer, Jack

  I leap off the bed and scour the room for a place. Nothing. I go to the bathroom, open the medicine cabinet door, close it. I lift the toilet seat, drop it. I look up. The ceiling. It's one of those drop-down tiled ceilings. I stand on the John and push up the corner of one tile and slip the ticket and the newspaper behind it, then drop the tile back into place. This oughta do until I can figure something better.

  I don't know what the laws are in Spain, but it seems like most lotteries pay out the prize money to whoever's holding the ticket and, right now, that's me. Holy shit! Is it possible I could collect on this ticket and walk away with 120 MILLION EUROS? Would that be insane, or what?

  Can't be, can't be, can't be, I keep thinking to myself. Think, think, think; what should I do about this? Can anyone play and win? What about foreigners? Does simple possession qualify a winner? Must you have purchased the ticket yourself? What's the deadline for claiming the prize? How much time do I have? I need to get answers, and I need 'em fast. But, I can't tip my hand on this now. I need someone who can get me the answers, someone I can trust.

  Speed. Yeah Speed. I'll call him and have him get the answers. If anyone can, Speed can. I reach for the phone, pick up the receiver, and start to dial. This is out of country. How do I make the call? I drop the receiver back onto the cradle and pull out the drawer on the bedside table to find the directions. Nothing.

  I go to the desk and pull that drawer and a large black, leather-bound book with the Fira Palace logo embossed in gold on the front appears. It's the operating instructions for everything in the hotel, room service menus, the Fira Gym and yep, telephone dialing instructions. Skimming down the page I find International dialing. Nine for an outside line, 011 for United States, then area code and telephone number. I lift the receiver and begin to dial. Wait. Ebba could come walking in any minute. Shit. How can I do this? Email, yeah email. I check the black book for the hotel's Wi-Fi connection. Call the front desk for password, it says. I do and get the password. T-H-E-F-I-R-A. Wow that's original.

  I boot up the laptop and log onto the hotel's web site and go to my Hotmail account and write a quick email to my attorney Saul Goldstein and ask him to get me answers. Then it dawns on me, could there possibly be a connection between the dead lottery winner guy and the good doctor? Could the two be linked? Could it be the dead guy is dead because the good doctor was after his winning ticket? That somewhere along the line things went south, and the guy ends up crashing through the door to our compartment?

  Seems awfully coincidental that the good doctor would happen to show up on the heels of the dead guy. And why would she go through the trouble of deflecting the Perpignan police so Monica and I wouldn't be involved? She didn't know us, yet she jumped right in and came to our rescue, first with the conductor and then the police - she and her two colleagues who just happened to be available to execute a near military precision escape for us into the good doctor's compartment leaving her alone with the dead guy. So she could search him for the ticket! Holy shit!

  I'm getting paranoid for nothing. I try to calm down but right now, my crazy, racing mind is saying, “maybe, could be.” Is this lottery ticket going to open up a world of shit that I’m in no way prepared for? Maybe. But a hundred twenty million euros can be a pretty thick cushion. This is €120 million euros we're talking about for Christ's sake!

  Screw it. I'll take my chances with the money. Anonymity is what I need. That's the way to play this - keep everything anonymous. Better yet can I use a proxy to make the claim and can the winnings be electronically transferred into an offshore or Swiss bank account? Jesus, I think I'm gonna need a lawyer, a local lawyer to help me with this. Maybe a local firm can act as my proxy. In my email to Saul I ask him to recommend a local firm. He has plenty of connections. Maybe a local bank too or a branch of a Swiss bank - even better.

  I shoot off the email and ask Saul to get back to me ASAP. I tell him that I've come into possession of a winning lottery ticket, but I don't mention the size of the winnings. No sense in dropping that bomb just yet.

  And what about Monica? She was just as much a part of this as me. It's only fair that she should get a share of the winnings too. Especially, if all of this involves that little Doctor Libica and she ends up coming after us, it'll be both of us, not just me. Oh, no! That'll put Monica in just as much danger as me. If that's the case, she'll damn sure be entitled to a share - half, I guess.

  Oh, what am I thinking? That little doctor might not have anything whatever to do with this, probably doesn't. Need to keep a calm head here. Maybe it's best that I don't say anything to Monica about any of this just yet. Yeah. Besides, I need to see what Saul finds out first. It might be that I can't collect at all.

  I hear a keycard slide through the door lock, and the door opens. It's Ebba.

  sixteen

  20:30 Hours, Monday, 1 September.

  Taverna La Tomaquera, Barcelona.

  The evening is balmy. Warm air washes over us like silk as we walked the streets under a waning full moon and a dusting of stars. It would've been a lovely evening for a stroll through Barcelona's Poble Sec barrio had the stormy, high-pressure system threatening acid rain walking next to me hadn't been along.

  For a walk that should taken around ten pleasant minutes to the Taverna La Tomaquera, on this evening it takes thirty because along the way Ebba cannot shut up with the complaining about Terry and Monica having bailed from her crew dinner plans. Finally, I say; “enough is enough” and turn back toward the Fira.

  “Where're you going?”

  “Back to the hotel. I've had enough of your complaining about them. I'd rather eat alone in the hotel in peace than ruin a good dinner having to listen to you go on and on. Who cares if they're not coming? What's the big deal?”

  “It's just rude is all.”

  “They're tired. They didn't want to come.”

  “Monica was tired you mean.”

  “Whatever. Monica's tired. Hell, I'm tired, and I don't blame her for not wanting to come. I'd rather be sleeping too.”

  “Sleeping with her, you mean?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “So, you think I slept with her? Is that it? Is that what's gotten you all riled up?” And I'm thinking, if you only knew how much I'd like to sleep with her, how hard I tried to sleep with her. Okay, I guess we had a little nap before Portbou; I admit. I suppose 'sleep' is not exactly the right word but . . . well; we know what we're talking about here.

  “Well, didn't you?”

  “No.” Technically speaking it was just a short nap.

  “So, you didn't sleep with her?”

  “Exactly how were we to do that on a packed train? Wait. Come to think of it I did sleep with her; that is, if falling asleep while sitting together qualifies.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  See?

  “Oh, so what you're really asking me is, did I screw her?”

  “Well, did you?”

  “I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.” Sodomize maybe.

  “So, you didn't?” she asks pissed but I can see that confusion's creeping in.

  “Maybe you should ask her.”

  “So, you tried. Is that right? You tried to fuck her?” Still pissed but I can also see it wouldn't take much for her to break into tears and my heartstrings take a pull.

  Christ, now I wish I'd never gone there. May as well be married.

  “Are you going to keep this up?” I ask giving her my best expression of exasperation.

  “And why should I ask her? What would she say? Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you I screwed your boyfriend, by the way.”

  “She'd say she's married.”

  “That doesn't stop a lot of people.”

  “It stops some people. It stopped me when I was married. Didn't it stop you when you were married?” Yikes, that caught her off guard. Now her fury's visibly giving way to embarrassment, guilt. She averts her eyes, saying nothing. ”
Maybe she takes her marriage seriously,” I continue on, giving her a pass but now wondering if Monica is in the throes of a divorce like she said or was she just playing me. Christ, I don't know what to believe.

  “And you came to that conclusion while giving it a try, didn't you?” she retorts.

  I stop walking and turn her to face me. “Look, if you're going to keep this up, I'm going back to the hotel and ordering room service.”

  Taking me by the arm, she starts walking us. “No, you're going with me to dinner. Are you really that tired?”

  “What?” I'm not listening now. I've shifted a hundred twenty million euros away.

  “Didn't you get some sleep after I left the room?” she asks.

  “Tried but I couldn't seem to fall completely asleep.”

  “Too much on your mind?” She's probably thinking that I'm thinking about Monica, and she'd be right, partly.

  “Too much train,” I say . . . still €120 million euros miles away but also wondering if I should expect to be hearing from the good doctor anytime soon.

  Had we not spotted the jumping tomato and yawning snail on the sign over the entrance of Taverna La Tomaquera, we could've easily walked past the small nondescript building cornering Carrer de Margarit and Carrer de Magalhaes. Except for us, it seems no one's out taking a stroll tonight. Just about every building we pass has its windows barred, and steel security grilles rolled down over the front doors, sure clues why it's so quiet around here.

  All that changes once we pass through the double, glass-and-wood doors and into the bright lights and frenetic atmosphere of Taverna La Tomaquera where waiters are shouting and rushing about setting out hearty platters of meats and carafes of wine on long wooden tables covered in red-checkered tablecloths. And the aromas! Oh, my God. The aromas of grilled meats wafting from the open kitchen have set my saliva glands off like a starter's pistol, reminding me just how hungry I really am.

  Ebba spots a table occupied by five people, two waving us over. The other flight-crew members we're to meet up with tonight, of course. We walk up all smiles, and Ebba makes introductions.

  “So, you're the lost one who's finally found his way down to Barcelona,” says one fellow standing up and offering his hand. Ebba introduces him as Captain Pat, the pilot. I remember him standing in the plane's doorway back in New York with Ebba and Nanette waving good-bye.

  “That I am,” I say shaking Pat's hand.

  A second fellow stands alongside Pat with his hand outstretched, “Hi. I'm Randy, First Officer, and I'm sorry I missed the opportunity to advise you ahead of time that we have direct flights to Barcelona these days,” he kids.

  “Yeah, I tried for that, but was thrown off the plane, and you flew off without me.”

  At that point Nanette, the stunning brunette FA that'd been so friendly on the plane back in New York stood and interceded, “And for that, Tucker, we're all very sorry. It's the downside with flying on a companion pass if (she looks directly at Ebba) you haven't been given one with the proper priority.”

  Ebba took the jab, but before she could respond, another fellow seated at the table stands.

  “Hi, Tucker. I'm James, also an FA, but flying with a different crew this trip. Just joining these jokers for dinner. And, (pointing at the woman sitting next to him) this is my sidekick, Lisa. She's also with me crewing the other flight.”

  Lisa remains sitting but proffers her hand, “Hi, Tucker, like James says, I'm an FA too but my FA stands for, Finally Available.”

  Everyone laughs, and James clarifies.

  “Lisa's recently joined the ranks of the newly divorced, Tucker, so you need to stay clear of her. She's like a sixteen-year-old with the new drivers license, trying to test drive everything.”

  Everyone laughs.

  “Am not,” she says slapping James on the arm. “I'm picky. Okay, maybe not that picky. I am sitting here with you after all.” Everyone laughs again.

  “Nice to meet you both. So, all of you know each other?” I say.

  Pat and Nanette, who are sitting together, separate, and Nanette pats the bench next to her and says, “Here, sit, Tucker.” I do, and Ebba sits on the other side of me. Pat moves to the end.

  “Actually, I've never met James or Lisa before tonight,” says Pat.

  “I know them quite well though,” says Nanette turning to me.

  “With over 10,000 flight attendants alone working for American, it's pretty impossible to know everyone,” chimes in Randy.

  “When I heard we were coming to Taverna La Tomaquera tonight I invited James and Lisa to come along,” says Nanette.

  “We've never met either I don't believe,” Ebba says extending her hand out to James and Lisa.

  “So, how many different crews are there in Barcelona at any given time?” I ask no one in particular.

  Captain Pat takes the lead and says, “American runs flights almost daily.”

  “Eastbound flights run Thursday through Saturday,” interjects Nanette.

  “And westbound flights Wednesday through Sunday,” says Pat.

  “Wow. So, how many people crew a single flight?” I ask.

  “Eight to eleven,” says Ebba.

  “So, at any one time there may be as many as forty crew members staying at the Fira Palace?” I ask.

  “Oh, no. Planes are disembarking from several different airports in the States throughout the week and when you add all that up, you're talking about dozens and dozens of crew at any one time,” chimes in Randy.

  “Yeah, there's probably another half dozen, other than us, scattered around this restaurant tonight,” Nanette says.

  “Popular place,” I say.

  “Very,” says Randy.

  “So, have you all ordered?” asks Ebba to no one in general.

  “Nope. They won't serve the table until everyone's present and seated,” says Pat.

  “So, where're Terry and her companion? They aren't coming?” asks Randy.

  “No, they bailed on us,” complains Ebba. “Monica was tired, so they stayed in tonight.”

  “Too bad. They're missing out on what's probably the best Catalan restaurant in town,” says Pat. Turning to Ebba and me, he says, “If you two are game we were discussing the menu and thought we might order a little of everything, the tapas, grilled meats, sausages and share it all. That okay?”

  “Sure,” we both say.

  “Some caracoles,” chimes in Randy.

  “Ugh. You can count me out on those,” says Lisa making a sour face.

  “Snails,” offers Nanette leaning into me.

  “Got it,” I say to her and to the group in general, “I'll go for the snails.”

  “Good. Another slugger. You'll love 'em, Tucker. It's the restaurant's specialty. Lots of garlic though,” says Pat.

  “Sounds good. Keep the vamps at bay.”

  “Not this vamp buster. I like my snails doing the backstroke in garlic,” says Ebba.

  Nanette leans in front of me and says to Ebba, “You just like the backstroke Ebba, admit it.”

  Everyone gives a little laugh.

  “Do I hear a note of jealousy?” Ebba kids back.

  “Okay, you two. Retract your claws. No cat fights until after dessert,” says Pat.

  Nanette and Ebba both laugh and hiss at each other with friendly humor; I think.

  “Can we start with some pan con tomate and quail's eggs for the table?” asks James.

  Everyone murmurs agreement.

  Nanette leans into me again and explains, “The pan con tomate is wonderful if you haven't had it.”

  “I'm not sure I have,” I say.

  “Well, its very simple, just toasted bread with garlic and tomato spread over it, but the way they do it, here is really special,” she offers.

  “Sounds good.”

  Just like on the plane in New York Nanette is particularly attentive and friendly. Maybe it's nothing, but I think I might be sensing some negative vibes coming off Ebba sitting on my other sid
e. Hopefully, it's all just my imagination. Between Ebba and Monica, I've got enough unstable dynamite on my plate.

  The waiter appears, and Pat places the order for the table, including a couple of pitchers of Sangria. Once into the meal and disposing of Sangria pitchers numbers five and six Pat says, “Ebba said you and Terry's friend . . . what's her name?”

  “Monica,” says Ebba.

  “Yeah, Monica. When Ebba called earlier today suggesting we all get together for dinner, she said she and Terry were heading up to . . . where? Ebba?”

  “To Portbou.”

  “Portbou Spain?” asks Pat.

  “Yes.”

  “To pick you and Monica up at the train station there and drive you down to Barcelona. She said after you'd missed the flight out of New York.”

  “I didn't miss. I got thrown off, remember?” I say.

  “Right. After you got thrown off, and Monica missed,” he continues, “you two caught a flight to London, and you've been training all the way down through France? Is that right?”

  “Yeah, pretty crazy, huh?” I say.

  “Oh, I don't know. I suppose it depends on what Monica looks like,” Pat says through a grin.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Nanette asks, throwing Pat a warning shot.

  “Nothing. Just picking up on what Tucker's already said about it being crazy. You know Nan, a lot of times it's women who cause men to do crazy things,” says Pat.

  “Amen,” says Randy raising his glass of sangria in toast, “I'll drink to that.”

  “Here, here,” joined in James raising his glass in salute, followed by Lisa raising her glass.

  Nanette looks at Lisa and says,” Lisa, put that glass down.”

  “Okay,” Lisa says lifting her glass and downing what remains then slamming the empty on the table. “Fill me up, somebody.” Breaking everyone into laughter, including Nanette, who's shaking her head at her friend's antics.

  “No, really, Tucker. What made you two decide to take such a crazy detour?” Pat asks again.