by Dancer, Jack
Oh, God no! She's going to castrate me! I can feel her pulling at me, and now I can smell something burning. Flesh! It's my flesh she's burning. Oh, God no!
When she returns her hands are covered in blood.
“You're a gelding now Señor Marti. Your wife should be glad. She won't have to be bothered with anymore brats from you. So, you see, Señor Marti, I've done you and your wife a great favor. Now, take these,” she says and stuffs Paulo's testicles into his mouth, “and taste yourself, Señor Marti. Get a good taste of yourself because it'll be your last meal.
“Tomorrow, I will see you again. The NMBA will have worn off, and you'll be in great pain. Just keep in mind, Señor Marti, pain means you're alive, so be glad for it. Tomorrow, I will ask you where you've hidden the ticket, and you will tell me. You'll have tonight to think it over. I want you to think about your wife and your children, Señor Marti, because if I don't have that ticket, the next thing you'll be witnessing will be your wife and children hanging from this ceiling in front of you while I remove parts of their bodies.
Until then, I will bid you adieu and sweet nightmares.”
twenty-two
16:00 Hours Tuesday, 2 September.
The Fira Palace Hotel.
“Hey, Bluesman. What happened? Couldn’t make it a week before they threw you outta the country?”
“Naw I'm still here. I just bought a new iPhone, so I figured I'd give you a call and pass on the number.”
“Okay, shoot.”
I rattle off the number to the first then start with the others.
“Wait. How many cells do you have?”
“Four.”
“You startin' a call center?”
“Mike, there's a lot I've got to tell you, most of it so unbelievable you're gonna shit bricks. You'll never believe what we’ve gotten ourselves into here.
“You're in jail? And who is we, you and Ebba or the chick you picked up in New York?”
“No, I'm not in jail, yet, but it's not outside the realm of possibility. Suffice it to say, at least for the moment, I'm involved in a man's death, and I'm gonna make over 100 million euros because of it.”
“You're drunk aren't you? What time is it there? Let's see, seven o'clock here, nine hours ahead there. Four o'clock? A bit early to be drinking isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I intend to get sloshed as soon as possible. Maybe if I pass out, things'll be different in the morning.”
“Before you say anymore, give me the other cell numbers before you forget."
I rattle each off, then give him the contact numbers for each cell plus the latitude and longitude coordinates I recorded at the Devil's bridge.
"What's the lat-long for? Never mind, what else?"
“I have some bank account numbers and safe-deposit box numbers I want you to take down.”
“What have you gone and done man? Forget it. Go ahead.”
I give him the numbers, banks, and contact information for De La Guarda and Fernandez.
“Okay Bluesman, what're you doing over there that you need a Swiss bank account, and lawyers?”
“I won the Spanish lottery.”
“Get outta here.”
“€120 million euros.”
Silence.
“Are you there?”
“No.”
“It's crazy man but I'm giving it to you straight. I picked up this girl; Monica's her name, in New York at JFK and we flew to London; then we took the Eurostar to Paris and caught a train to Barcelona. We had a private compartment, and we're in the shower; doing the nasty, and the train does this lurch and throws her out of the shower onto the floor when, out of nowhere, some guy comes crashing through the door and lands on top of her. He's dead from a heart attack. When he falls, he drops a newspaper, and I pick it up. When we get to Barcelona, and I'm unpacking, there's the newspaper. I'd forgotten about it. I go to pick it up and out falls this lottery ticket. The newspaper was the issue listing the winning lottery numbers, and this ticket was the big winner - 120 million euros. Can you believe it?”
"I'm having some difficulty."
“So, I put a call into Saul and run all this past him to check the Spanish laws on cashing in a lottery ticket. I can do it, and collect anonymously even. Don't have to be a Spanish citizen either. Anyone can win.”
“And that's why the lawyer over there and the bank accounts.”
“Exactly.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Me either, but it's true.”
“And the dead guy?”
“He's dead.”
“Duh. I mean, how'd you get outta that?”
“There was a doctor there, and she pronounced him dead from a heart attack. When we got to the next station, she covered for us with the police, and they took him off.”
“Whaddaya mean covered for you?”
“She told 'em it was a heart attack, happens all the time, and that's it.”
“You're one lucky SOB on that one. So, no one knows about the ticket?”
"No one except you and Saul."
"What about the girl?"
“Monica? She knows nothing. Haven't told her anything about it yet.”
“Yet, so you’re planning to?”
“Yes, but for now, no.”
“What about Ebba?”
“Hell no.”
“Does Ebba know about Monica?”
“She knows we trained down through France together.”
“Uh oh, she trying to kill you?”
“Not yet. So far, she thinks we just traveled together. She has her suspicions, but that's all.”
“But, you did this chick all the way down through France, right?”
“Well . . . sorta.”
“Whaddaya mean, sorta? You either did her, or you didn't do her.”
“Yeah, I did her,” I lied. No time for detail now.
“Attaboy. Jesus, Tucker, this is the craziest story you've come up with yet. You sure you're not drunk?”
“I'm not drunk, Speed.”
“Drugs?”
“Yeah I'm shoot'n heroin. No, this all really happened, man. It's crazy. I know. I can't believe it myself. I'm really freaked out here and I'm flying by the seat of my pants. As much as I want to tell somebody, there's nobody over here I can trust. I'm afraid if I say anything, just as soon as I open my mouth, someone'll push the button in the box, and I'll drop dead.”
“You mean, Button-Button?”
“Yeah.”
“If that was it buddy, you'd be dead now 'cause you just told me.”
I grab my throat and start making choking sounds.
“So, you're dying now, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Call me back when you're done."
twenty-three
18:00 Hours, Tuesday, 2 September.
Scruples, The Fira Palace Hotel.
Monica.
“Oh, great. Just what I need more of,” I say as Ebba comes walking through the door.
“What?” Terry says swiveling her bar stool to see for herself.
“The Boar,” I say hiding behind my drink.
She walks up, plops down on an empty stool and exasperated, calls to the bartender, "Shot of Dewar’s straight up, please; I mean, por favor. Make it a double.”
“Ready to unwind, Eb?” Terry asks.
“Ready to skin Tucker is what I'm ready to do.” The bartender brings the drink. She picks it up and empties it with a single throwback. "Another, please . . . por favor.”
The bartender eyes her then pours. She sips and sets the glass down.
“Gracias.”
“What has Tucker done now? We haven't been back long enough for him to get into too much trouble,” says Terry.
“Time is not of the essence when it comes to Tucker; and it's not what he did so much as . . . he's just disappeared, the son of a bitch,” she spits.
“Disappeared?” I say.
Ebba lifts the glass and takes another sip.
>
“Yeah. While I was turning the rental car in downstairs, he went on to the room, and by the time I got there he’s already gone.”
“Gone where?” Terry asks.
“Good question, around the block, I don't know. He left a note he was taking a walk around the block and would be back shortly, but it's been nearly two hours now.”
“Must be a long block,” I quip.
“Anyhow, I left him a note to meet me down here.”
“We haven't seen him,” says Terry.
“He'll show up,” I say.
Ebba finishes her drink and signals the bartender for a refill when Juan comes through the door. He spots us and walks up smiling his pearly whites.
“Hello ladies,” he says.
“Hey, Juan,” Terry and I return in unison.
“And who is this lovely señorita?" Juan asks turning to Ebba.
“This is Ebba, Juan; she's another flight attendant traveling with us,” says Terry.
Ebba extends her hand, "Nice to meet you, Juan.”
Juan makes a small show of lifting Ebba's hand and kissing it like in the old movies.
“Oh, my,” says Ebba, "I love these Spanish gentile-hombres.”
“My pleasure, Señorita Ebba.”
“She would be a señora, Juan,” says Terry.
Ebba cuts Terry a sharp look then back at Juan with a smile and laughs, "That's okay Juan, señorita will work just fine.”
“My pleasure,” Juan says.
“This your night off, Juan?” I ask.
“It is. Actually, I have been looking for you ladies today.”
“We were out driving down the coast - all of us,” says Terry motioning to the group.
“Well, I'm glad I found you because I have arranged for something very special I thought you might enjoy.”
“And what's that?” I ask with some suspicion.
“Well, you remember how much you enjoyed Juan's Special Sauce last night?”
“Juan's Special Sauce?” Ebba says suggestively.
Jesus, what a nasty bitch, I think.
“It's a sauce Juan invented. We had it last night when we ordered the paella for dinner, and it was fabulous,” says a gushing Terry.
“Thank you, Señora Terry,” says Juan.
“No señorita for me, Juan?” Terry asks feigning disappointment.
“Forgive me, Señorita Terry,” Juan says blushing with apology.
“That's okay, Juan. I love you anyway,” says Terry.
“So, what's the deal, Juan? Why have you been looking for us?” I ask.
“Yes. Well, my brother-in-law . . .”
“And I thought you weren't married, Juan,” says Terry feigning disappointment.
“Excuse me?” Juan says not understanding.
“You said your brother-in-law, so she thinks you're married,” I try to explain.
“No, Señora, I mean, Señorita Terry. It is my sister's husband you see.”
“Oh,” says Terry, "then that's okay.”
“Go on, Juan,” I say a little frustrated with the off-tracking conversation, "what is it you want to tell us?”
“Por favor, please, I wanted to tell you my brother-in-law is the owner of a fine restaurant in Rambla de Catalunya, and he has offered to have you ladies to dinner tonight. No . . . how you say . . . cost . . . at no cost. He has even given me the restaurant's limousine to bring you. I promise. It is a very special thing. The restaurant is one of the most famous in all of Spain. It is the Els Quatre Gats. Maybe you know of it?”
“Wow,” says Terry, "When do we go?”
“What about me?” asks Ebba?
“Oh, yes, Señorita Ebba, you are welcome to come too.”
“But, what about, Tucker,” I say, "isn't he supposed to meet us here?”
“Tucker, oh yeah. Well, he's not even here, the douche,” says Ebba under her breath.
“It's okay. He may come too,” says Juan.
“So, when do we go, Juan?”
“Now, if you would like. I have the car waiting outside.”
“It's only seven o'clock,” I say looking at my watch, "I thought you Spanish didn't start dinner until nine or ten.”
“Si. That is true, normally. However, this is a special event, and my brother-in-law have prepared for you on American time, so you can arrive early. If you need thirty minutes, I can wait for you.”
“Okay, that would be good. Thirty minutes. That gives us a little time to freshen up. Then let's meet down here in thirty, okay?” says Terry.
“Sounds good,” I say.
“Good for me. I'll leave Tucker a note to come to the Els Quatre Gats if he ever returns,” says Ebba throwing down the rest of her drink and staggering to her feet.
“Looks to me like you're going to need some food pretty fast anyway, Ebba,” I say.
“Looks to me like you're going to need some drink pretty fast, Monica,” she snaps.
Bitch.
“Oh, boy,” says Terry.
“We have plenty of both," says Juan, "I will wait for you ladies at hotel reception.”
“Okay. Thanks Juan. We'll be down in a jiffy,” says Terry giving Juan the full body scan.
As Juan departs Terry says, "That is Juan hunk a man.”
“Sure is. So is his sauce as good as you say?” Ebba says with a cocked eyebrow and all the innuendo.
“Better,” says Terry, "but just remember Ebba, you've got Tucker. Juan there belongs to Monica and me. We saw him first.”
“And all along I thought we were sharing,” Ebba says glaring at me.
“Me too,” I say, "Come on Terry, we can still share.”
“I'm not sharing shit,” says Terry.
"Neither am I,” says Ebba, "anymore."
twenty-four
19:00 Hours, Tuesday, 2 September.
Scruples, The Fira Palace Hotel.
Monica.
“He still hasn’t shown, so I left him a note,” says Ebba stepping into the car as Juan stands holding the door. "Wow, this is quite the ride. There's enough room in here for a dance contest.”
Juan closes the door behind her then slides into the driver's seat, "So, what do you think ladies?”
“Fabulous, Juan,” I say.
“Yes, he is,” says Terry. "We love it Juan,” she says as he maneuvers the long black Town Car from the curb of the Fira's front entrance.
“The Els Quatre Gats is only ten minutes away, and just so you will feel like real VIPs, I will roll up the divider window while I will be your chauffeur, and the glass dividing the front of the limo from the rear hums its way upward.
Ebba leans forward and says across Terry to me, "Okay, Monica. It's just us girls here now so tell us the real story with you and Tucker on your little Paris detour. Did you fuck him or did he fuck you?”
“What? Are you kidding?” I am so stunned she would just blurt it out like that. I'm at a loss for words.
“Whoa there, Ebba,” says Terry just as astonished.
“Whoa nothing. I know this slut fucked my boyfriend on that little detour they took. You think I'm stupid?” Then turning back to me, she says, "Didn't you. You fucked him didn't you? Admit it.”
I swear if I had a gun, I'd shoot the bitch.
Instead, I look her straight in the eye and say, "Yeah; I fucked him, what do you think? I fucked your boyfriend until his balls turned blue but before that I sucked him. I had his cock right there in my hand, and then I swallowed all of him, and he loved it. Yeah, I fucked him, Ebba you boar. So, what are you going to do about it?” I opened the car door and jump out (while the car was stopped at a traffic light of course, I'm not stupid).
I'm out of there and slamming the door behind me. I'm so mad I could spit lead. I don't bother looking back until I'm nearly to the end of the block, and when I do, all I see is the limo's brake lights come on, then off, and on again. Some very unhappy commotions are going on inside that car. It then speeds off and out of sight. I feel bad for Terry, lea
ving her like that. And poor Juan, God only knows what he must be thinking.
I keep walking, blocks and blocks. I'm fuming. It seems like forever before I finally calm down, and then I realize I have no idea where I am. I'm totally lost, and it's getting dark but all I can think is how glad I am to be away from that bitch. Poor Terry, I shouldn't have done that to her. I should have just grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out behind me.
Oh, well, she can take care of herself. She's a big girl. Boy, am I going to be hearing it now. Guess I'd better grab a cab and get back to the hotel. Maybe Tucker'll be there. Oh, shit he's going to croak when he hears about this. Maybe I'll even take one last shot at him. That'll really get Ebba's goat, the bitch.
twenty-five
20:30 Hours, Tuesday, 2 September.
The Fira Palace Hotel.
Tucker.
When I get back to the room, it's empty but there's a note on the bed.
Tucker,
We've gone with Juan to his brother-in-law's restaurant, Els Quatre Gats in Rambla de Catalunya. Get a cab and come over when you read this.
Ebba
p.s. "We” means me, Terry, Monica and Juan. See you there.
I'm finding it difficult to believe after being stuck in the car all day, these three could possibly go out to dinner together without a catfight. And who is this Juan guy? And, Els Quatre Gats? Odd name for a restaurant. Okay fine. I wash my face and brush my teeth and, after hiding the two cell phones and the safe deposit keys up in the bathroom's drop-down ceiling, I leave the room to go downstairs and catch a cab.
On my way to the stairwell, a door opens. A tall figure I see out of the corner of my eye leaps out and grabs me from behind and twists me around until I lose my balance. Stumbling back through the open door, we fall face down across a bed, them on top of me.
“What the . . .” I push out with the last of the breath that's knocked out of me after a paralyzing blow comes down on my back.
Something binds over my wrists, and my arms are pulled straight out to the sides. A knee twists into my spine, and something tightens around one ankle, then the other, and my whole-body stretches when my legs are pulled as far apart as my hips will allow. It's like I'm on a rack, drawn and ready for quartering. I feel like da Vinci's Vitruvian Man, only prostrate, pinned like an insect to a mounting board.