by Dancer, Jack
“You know what Pat, I really can't say. (You asshole; you know exactly why.) It was one of those spur-of-the-moment things. Neither of us made your flight and the Air France flight was booked, so rather than sitting in the airport all night, we decided to catch the flight to London. We figured we could make it across the Atlantic. After that, all we had to do was head south.”
“So, from London you took the Eurostar to Paris then trained the rest of the way?” Randy asks, transparently dismayed.
“That's about it,” I say.
“Sounds like fun to me,” says Nanette.
“Me too,” Lisa chimes in.
“Well, I can assure you it was an adventure I could've done without,” I say. “Actually, it was a nightmare of a trip. The train was uncomfortable and slow, and it was impossible to sleep with all the stops and the noise.”
“And besides, Monica's married, and you had your girlfriend waiting in Barcelona, worried sick about you,” jabbed Ebba.
“Right, yes, that too,” I acknowledge. Without even looking, I could feel Ebba's eyes burning into me.
“Next time, Tucker, take me. I'm not married,” blurts Lisa, obviously well schnockered.
“And that's why you're not married, Lisa,” Ebba strikes.
“Look who's talking, I don't see a ring on your finger, Ebba,” returns Lisa.
“Now girls. Retract your claws,” says Nanette as her right hand moves onto my thigh giving it a squeeze. Oh, shit.
“I wanna be though,” says James.
Lisa turns to him and asks, “You wanna be what, Jimmy?”
“I wanna be married,” he says sullenly.
“You wanna be married? I thought . . .” says Lisa.
“I wanna marry Steve,” James cries.
“Not that old song again,” says Lisa, “you know that's never going to happen as long as you two live in Georgia.”
“I know, but I can't leave Mother,” James says.
“Honey, she's dead. Buried. What do you mean you can't leave her? You can go to San Francisco and do what you want. Marry Steve,” says Lisa.
“Don't even say that. I still can't leave her. I shouldda had her cremated. At least then I couldda taken her with me,” James says.
“Yeah, she'd have been portable,” says Pat.
“It's still illegal in San Francisco too,” chimes in Randy.
“That settles it,” says Pat before mumbling beneath his breath. “Shoot me if I have to hear any more of this.” He gets up and goes to the men's room.
Now another hand has found my other thigh. Ebba's.
Oh, Jesus Christ. You've gotta be kidding.
The first hand, Nanette's, moves to my crotch, and begins to circle causing me to flinch in surprise. Ebba's hand retracts.
“So, how 'bout that guy who won the La Primitiva?” I blurt out and Nanette's hand retreats.
“What guy?” Randy asks.
“What's a La Primitiva?” asks Ebba.
“The lottery, the Spanish lottery,” I say.
“Oh, right, so how much did it pay?” asks Lisa.
“120 million.”
“Wow, that's a lot of dinero,” says James breaking out of his sullenness and getting back into the group.
“So, who won?” Randy asks.
“I did.”
Stunned silence. No one says anything. Everyone's blank faced, staring at me like I'd just told 'em I was into bestiality. They don't know me well enough to know if I'm joking. It's the advantage of being the new guy; the one no one knows, and no one's going to be the first to laugh at, in case they turn out to have guessed wrong and end up looking the fool themselves.
“What?” Pat asks walking up taking his seat not having heard, but seeing everyone's tongue has a cat hanging from it.
“He's kidding,” says Ebba elbowing me in the side.
I smile without saying anything more.
“Guess that means you're picking up dinner, eh, Tucker?” says Randy.
“Why not pick up the whole restaurant?” laughs James.
“And me with it,” slurs Lisa holding her glass up in toast and giving me an exaggerated wink.
James turns to Lisa and says, “You need to slow down on that sangria girl. It's turning you into a slut.”
“Turning?” she says back to James then breaking into a laugh. Everyone joins in.
“You know, Tucker,” pipes up Pat, “if you think about it, you may have just passed up on one of the all-time great opportunities to make every man's fantasy come true.”
“What do you mean?” I ask as naively as possible, knowing exactly where this is going.
“Well, think about it. By pure happenstance, you've inadvertently found yourself traveling in the company of a perfect stranger. By the way, what does Monica look like? Is she beautiful?” Pat asks.
“Yes,” everyone affirms in unison, everyone. Even Ebba's head is nodding slightly.
“Neither of you actually knows the other, right? And you met by chance, right?”
“No, Ebba introduced us before the flight. Or, rather she introduced Terry and Terry introduced Monica. You know how it goes,” I say.
“Whatever. The thing is, no one knows you're with each other or even suspects you're together. And there's no reason they should.”
“And your point is?” I ask.
“I guess what I'm trying to say is, seems to me, you were in the perfect situation, with a perfect stranger to have a real go at each other with no possibility of anyone discovering you, and you blew it,” he says.
“Now just a minute there, Pat” I come off clearly pissed. “First of all, she's married . . .” I start to protest.
“Tucker, I'm not saying you did anything. All I'm saying, and apparently unbeknownst to you, is that you two were in the perfect situation to pull off a fantasy that has probably crossed everyone's mind at one time or another, but rarely does anyone get the opportunity to pull it off. And no possibility of consequences since no one has a clue or a reason to suspect anything. That's the beauty of it.”
“But Pat, there's only one fault with your logic,” I say.
“And what's that?”
“It wasn't perfect because nothing happened.”
“You're missing my point. It would've been perfect had you taken advantage of it, but I guess you missed the boat.”
“Not true,” chimes in Randy, “it was perfect because we'll never really know whether he did or not. Only he knows.”
“And Monica,” says James.
“And me,” whispers Nanette into my ear.
I turn to Nanette and give her a quizzical look, then back to Pat, and, clearly annoyed, say, “Actually Pat; it seems to me if someone wanted to cheat on their spouse, whether it be, in your vernacular, a layover, or a long-term affair, you're the one in the ideal position. So, I don't get why you'd think it was such a rare opportunity. I mean what could possibly be a more ideal cover for cheating than a job flying and spending nights out, all over the world. If that's the sort of thing you're into, I mean.”
”Or, to cheat on your husband,” says Lisa “if you have one that is, which I don't by the way. Did I mention that?”
“Yes,” everyone says in unison.
Ignoring Lisa, I continue with Pat, “Personally, I never cheated on my wife. I'm divorcing her instead. However, I understand it's a pretty common practice in your business, at least that's what my sources tell me,” nodding toward Ebba.
That comment triggered a blush of guilt blooming across both their faces.
So, they did! Pat has been screwing Ebba over these last couple of nights. That's it. He's pissed because I showed up and ruined his fun.
“Honey, in this business everybody's screwing everybody,” pipes up Lisa.
“Jesus Lisa. You don't have to expose all of our secrets,” reprimands Randy.
“Secrets? Are you kidding Randy? You're married, and you're as big a skirt chaser as anyone I've known in this business. And I've been a stew goi
ng on eighteen years. And Pat, why are you busting Tucker's chops for something you don't know anything about? You're married too and you and Susan, also married, have been carrying on for how long now? No one at this table can claim sanctimony, no one,” says Nanette.
“Amen,” says James.
“Except James, he's a nun,” laughs Lisa.
“In my other persona, I'm known as Mother Angelica.” This gets a laugh, and the tension drops a notch.
Nanette leans into my ear again and whispers, “Remember Evelyn, the FA on your flight to London? She's a good friend of mine. Stop by room 225 later tonight, and I'll tell you all about it.”
I think my heart just stopped beating. I'm stunned, speechless. My face is fainting pale, blood’s receding like an outgoing tide. Ebba tries to recoup ground by turning on Pat.
“She's got a point there, Pat. After all, how long have you and Susan been carrying on? Ten years? In fact, I'm surprised she isn't on this flight. What happened?”
“She flew Rome this week,” piped up Nanette.
“So, Tucker. How 'bout all that money you're going to collect on the lottery?” James asks.
“Yeah, who was it that did win?” Randy asks.
“I don't know actually. I don't think anyone's claimed the prize yet, but someone, somewhere is apparently holding the winning ticket,” I go on in hopes of deflecting everyone's attention and Nanette's hand, but the hand remains.
“So, how much is it worth,” asks James, trying to break out of his sullenness and get back into the group?
“A hundred something million,” I get out just before Ebba's hand startles me again on its return. “At least, that's what I understand.”
Oh, shit again. Just as I feel it begin moving toward my crotch; I spring backward off the bench like a Jack-in-the-box in the hopes of diverting a potentially life-threatening collision of groping hands. I only meant to stand and excuse myself to the men's room, but in my enthusiasm, I lose balance and fall over backwards, taking nearly the entire table with me before meeting the immovable tile floor with a full body slam, that even Hulk Hogan would admire.
The restaurant's lighting - gymnasium florescence - is now dimming a bit more romantic, not that it makes any difference to me at this point, because as I'm turning blue, everything else is tunneling black with every face of every person, every chicken, porker, bovine, every slimy snail in the Taverna La Tomaquera tonight, all peering down on me with such disgust you'd think I was the cause of gravity rather than its victim. At least, that was what had nearly happened.
“Excuse me, I need to find the men's room,” I say and the two hands vanish like yesterday.
“Over there hombre,” Pat says pointing to the far side of the restaurant.
“Thanks, be back momentarily.” And I escape to the little room marked Hombres, just like Pat said.
Returning to the table, I lean over Ebba's shoulder and tell her I've got to return to the hotel before I faint from lack of sleep. Fortunately, she acquiesces without argument, and we excuse ourselves from the group, drop cash on the table as our contribution to the meal, thank everyone, and leave without further molestation.
“Why are you so jumpy?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“When I put my hand on your thigh you came off the bench like you'd sat on a firecracker. What was that all about?”
“If I told you I'd have to kill you.”
seventeen
Afternoon, Monday, 1 September.
Perpignan, France.
The Raven.
“This death is a simple, myocardial infarction. Report it as such and have the official papers to me within the hour. Hand deliver a copy of your report to Chief Laurent. He's expecting it. I've already spoken with him. We will remove the body for a time and return it for the funeral Friday morning. Find a John Doe and tag him as Paulo Marti. Place him in a refrigerator and lock it securely. Do not let anyone under any circumstances inspect the John Doe.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“You will receive your usual compensation.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Bag the corpse. Drusus and Tiber will have the van ready in fifteen minutes at the rear entrance for transfer.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
***
“But Mama, why did you have to kill the man? We could have done that for you? Why did you want to do it yourself?”
“Because I wanted to.”
“But you put yourself at such risk. You shouldn't be doing things like that yourself. It could expose you.”
“Sometimes you have to take risks, Drusus. Did you get the photos from that man?”
“Yes Mama.” He holds up the camera and shows her.
“Give it to me.” He hands it back to her and she fumbles in a bag and brings out a notebook computer and a USB cord and connects the two devices. When the computer boots up she taps on the keyboard to transfer the photos from the camera. Nothing.
“There are no photos on the camera,” she says.
“Check for the memory card Mama,” Tiber yells back.
She turns the camera every which way until she finds the memory card slot.
“It's empty! There is no memory card.”
“What?” says Drusus?
“Just what I said you idiot. There's no memory card. You didn't check that the memory card was in the camera before you took it?” she yells.
Drusus slaps Tiber on the arm and says, “You took the camera. You didn't check for the memory card?”
“I took it and handed it straight to you. I was busy punching the guy out. You should have checked!” Tiber protests.
“Goddamnit you two. What have I raised, two idiots?” Drusilla yells.
“It's Tiber's fault Mama.”
“It is not. It's your fault.”
“Shut up, both of you. You're both at fault. You're both idiots and you just may have gotten your mother killed this time.”
“I'm sorry Mama. We'll find that guy and get those photos back, I promise,” says Drusus.
“We will Mama. I promise too,” adds Tiber.
A few minutes pass in silence.
“That bastard!” Drusus exclaims. “Do you think he was working with Marti, Mama?”
“Yes. Obviously he was.”
“Then, he was also a special agent like Marti. Damn. Mama, these people were after you. Do you think this was a setup all along?”
“What did you do with the man? Did you kill him?” she asks.
“What man Mama?” Drusus asks.
“The photographer, idiot.”
“No Mama. You didn't say to kill him. You just said to get the photos.”
***
“Take him into the operating room. Remove him from the body bag and lay him on the table,” she says.
“Do you want us to undress Marti, Mama?” asks Tiber.
“No. Do not touch him except to move him. Do not take his clothes off and do not remove anything from him. Do you hear? Nothing!” she screams and walks out.
“Yes Mama,” they say in unison.
“This is creepy Tiber. I wonder what she's going to do to this poor bastard,” Drusus says.
“I don't know and I don't want to know. Just do as she says and leave the guy here.”
They've dropped me on the table. I hear a heavy door slam. It echoes; everything echoes. The room is tiled and there's a large light suspended above me. Operating room. She called it an operating room! Oh no. What is this maniac woman going to do to me? Cut me open? Does she even know that I'm alive? That I can hear and see everything? That it's just I can't move my muscles. I can't move anything?
I'm alive Goddamnit! How do I tell her I'm alive before she starts cutting?
The door opens and closes again with an echo, like a meat locker. Minutes pass, then hours. Marti falls asleep.
eighteen
20:30 Hours, Monday, 1 September.
The Fira Palace.
Monica.
“You should’ve seen the look on his face when I showed him the tickets I’d bought for the stretch from Carcassonne to Barcelona and said, ‘read ‘em and weep buster.’ He was already bummed that our little monkey business was coming to a premature end with Portbou, but when he saw I'd gotten a private compartment for the remaining trip; he was so stunned he actually pointed to the ticket where ‘Compartiment privé lit’ was printed and asked me if ‘privé’ meant ‘toilet.’ He'd apparently told the ticket agent in Paris, he didn't want ‘privé’ because he didn't see any point in paying a premium for a compartment with a toilet. He didn't know he was turning down a private compartment. When I told him it meant private compartment, you’d have thought I told the poor man his dog died.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Terry laughing away says, “Serves him right.”
“Actually, when I said to him, ‘yes, private compartment,' I looked him in the eye and said, 'bummer huh?'“
“Oh, Christ! Ha, ha, ha. You’re a cruel, girl,” Terry says still laughing.
“It was worth it just to see his disappointment. Ebba was quickly turning into the Grinch, who stole his Christmas. And boy was he hopping mad. His mind was flying in all sorts of directions trying to figure out how to avoid getting off in Portbou. It was hilarious. He was desperate trying to figure a way around that woman. He was going to tell her we missed the stop at Portbou because we’d fallen asleep.
“Then he was going tell her our train ran into trouble in Narbonne causing a two-hour delay; and that it was the last train of the day, so we couldn’t risk not taking it; otherwise, we'd lose another whole day. He thought about calling Ebba back and telling her he’d made a mistake, and it was the French side of Portbou where you should meet us and not the Spanish side.
“He was even going to blame the mix up on the cafe owner in Carcassonne, which might’ve worked except when he tried to call Ebba back, she didn’t answer. We tried your room, but there was no answer there either, so we figured you two were already on your way. We tried to come up with other excuses for missing Portbou, but nothing seemed airtight enough. Finally, we had to catch the train, or we’d be stuck in Carcassonne holding two worthless tickets. So, we did. I had fun watching him squirm and kick himself for what he was going to miss out on. And if I couldn’t have him at least I’d have that.