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

by Dancer, Jack

  “Okay, well, I can do that. I give one hell of a massage and you sure look like you could use one,” Pat says with a playful grin, taking another swig of his whiskey.

  “I don't think so, Pat.” I look him over. Drunk. "Maybe some other time.” Still, he doesn't look bad, pretty good actually. Any other time and I might consider it. "Besides, I'm married.”

  “That didn't seem to get in the way of you and Tucker.”

  “Pat, you need to get a hold of yourself. You're drunk. You don't want to say something you might later regret.”

  “Hey ya'll, what's going on?” James interrupts, walking in with Lisa.

  Saved by the bell, I'm thinking.

  I stand and slide down a couple of stools from Pat and say, "Hey guys, come and join us,” offering them the two empty stools between Pat and me. James takes the stool next to me, and Lisa, the one next to Pat, and I can see he's not very happy about it. The bartender walks up and takes their drink orders. Pat orders another double Jack Black. I stay put.

  “So Jimbo, what brings you here? I would've thought you'd be down in the Ramblas doing a little Rhumba with the boys,” says Pat.

  “No. Tonight I came straight here with, Lisa,” says James emphasizing "straight.”

  “You're going to straighten ole James here out Lisa? Is that it?” Pat asks.

  “That'd be a challenge,” says Lisa looking James over, "think you'd be up for it, Jimmy?”

  “Honey, I can get up for it anytime but not tonight. I'm occupied.”

  “Occupied doing what?” I ask.

  “Doing my nails and moisturizing honey. Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday nights I moisturize all over with goat's milk,” he says.

  “Goats milk?” everyone says in unison.

  “Where do you find goats milk?” Pat asks.

  “Oh, that's easy. Hang around here long enough, and all sorts of old goats will come through those doors. You just have to be ready.”

  “And willing,” Lisa says.

  “Ugh! And totally faggotted up.”

  “You're right, Patrick, and ‘up’ is the operative word,” says James smiling and raising his glass of wine in toast.

  Everyone laughs at James’ joke. Even Pat shakes his head in amusement.

  "We didn't interrupt anything barging in, did we?” James asks hopefully.

  "No, you didn't James,” I say.

  "On the contrary, you actually did, James,” says Pat. "I was just telling Monica here with all the hectic traveling she had to endure on those trains through France, she deserves a nice massage to work out all the kinks and . . ."

  "And you're the best masseur in Barcelona?” finished Lisa.

  "How'd you know?” Pat asks with a slur and an unplanned sway atop his barstool.

  “Ah, your transparency maybe?” Lisa says. "You don't remember, Pat?"

  "Remember whaaa . . ."

  "You used that same line on me when we flew Madrid last year.”

  "I did? I didn't think I knew you before this trip.”

  "Yep, and I'm truly hurt you don't remember.”

  "Did it work?”

  "Nope. Could this time though,” she says with a wink.

  "Lisa!” James exclaims mocking shocked.

  "It will?” Pat asks.

  "I don't know. Why don't you give it a try and see?” Lisa says.

  "Try what?” an increasingly confused and drunken Pat asks.

  "Never mind. Come on, Pat, I'm taking you to bed,” she says putting her arm around Pat and walking him to the door.

  " ‘Bout time,” says Pat cooperating.

  "What's your room number?”

  "621 I think. Or, is it 261? I dunno someth'n wif sex, I mean sex, uh six.”

  "You can sleep it off in my room tonight then,” says Lisa on their way out.

  Pat looks at Lisa and slurs, "Know whaa, Monica?"

  "Lisa. I'm Lisa."

  "Okay, but can I play your harr-Monica t’night?"

  "Now you're getting me mixed up with, James. I'm Lisa,” and with that Pat leans on her, and they both stagger out the door.

  I turn to James and say, "That was totally unbelievable."

  "You mean, Patrick?"

  "No. I mean, Lisa."

  “Oh. Don't worry about her. She'll probably get him to his room and into bed, screw his brains out, and tomorrow he won't remember a thing. She'll take a few snapshots, and Patrick will end up her submissive for life.”

  “What?”

  “He'll end up being her submissive.”

  “As in . . . are you saying she's a dominatrix?”

  “Par excellence, honey,” he says raising his wine glass again.

  “Holy shit!”

  Jesus Christ Nanette, where'd you find these people, I’m thinking?

  “Hey, he's lucky. He'll get it for free. People pay a lot of money for that sorta thing and with Lisa, the currency will prob'ly take a whole ‘nother form. Remember what Shylock said in the Merchant of Venice?”

  “The pound of flesh which I demand of him is dearly bought, tis mine, and I will have it,” I quote.

  “Honey, you ah good.”

  “English lit major, Wesleyan. Good for quotes, not much else,” I confess.

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “Holy shit. Now I feel bad for him,” I say.

  “Don't. I'm told Patrick's an A-1 asshole anyway. Brings it on himself. Besides, he's used to it.”

  “How do you know that? I didn't think you knew Pat.”

  “I don't. Nanette filled me in.”

  “So, what's he used to?”

  “Lisa won't be Patrick's first. He's been down that road many times.”

  “What? You mean Susan?”

  “No darling, I mean Nanette,” he says.

  “Nanette? You're kidding.” You have no idea, I'm thinking.

  “Honey, when it comes to good ole, wholesome perversions, do I look like I kid around?”

  “No, suppose not.”

  “Then you sup'ose right. Things aren't always as they appear you know. Truth be known; people are seldom as they appear.”

  “I am exactly as I appear,” I say.

  “You sure ‘bout that?”

  “Of course I'm sure. Just what are you insinuating, James?”

  “Don't get your fiery red up honey, I'm not insinuatin’ anythin’. But If I were to insinuate anythin’, it might be while you appear to be a happily married woman with a loving family, prob'ly a soccer mom, in the PTA, all that.”

  “I happen to be president of the PTA,” I say a little defensively.

  “See. That's what I mean. That's what you appear to be.”

  “But, that's what I am.”

  “But, you're much more, and you know it.”

  “How do you mean, more?” I ask warily.

  “Well, let me just say, there's more to you than meets the eye.”

  “Should I take that as a compliment?”

  “Course honey. What I mean is, you're all those things, but you're a woman too, you lucky bitch. And you're human. And we humans have faults, and sometimes we might go off the plantation and, under certain circumstances, do things . . . things we might not normally do or even expect to do, like take a train trip with a complete stranger for the sole purpose of having a little . . . strange maybe? That wasn't exactly on the agenda was it?”

  “Strange? Aren't you the dirty little mind,” I say pretending miffed.

  “Hey, you kidding? I'm jealous. Besides, it's only natural, honey,” he says giving me a little comforting touch, "We've all done it, and if we haven't, at least we've all fantasized about it. Everybody wants some strange every now and then, and if it happens to come along, and all the stars are in the right order, what do we do? We go for it,” he says all happy with himself.

  “So, why do you think that is? I mean, why is it having someone new is so alluring?” I ask egging him on.

  “Because it's like doing it for the first time all over again, and y
ou know as well as I do, honey, that nobody, and I mean nobody, forgets their first time.”

  “Yeah. It is like that I suppose. My aren’t you are a fountainhead of relationship knowledge.”

  “A regular dear Abner, I am,” he says with pride.

  “Then, let me ask you something else, Abner.”

  “You go right ahead, honey, 'cause, there's nothin' I love more than hearing myself talk. Sometimes I even surprise me. Go ahead," he says with a flick of his wrist and crossing his legs, "let's see what I have to say next.”

  I laugh, "Okay, question number two. For five hundred dollars.”

  “Oh, Lordy, I love game shows. You mean I can win money?”

  “Pretend money, honey,” I say.

  “Pretend away then!” he says mocking all excited.

  “Question number two.”

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  “Would you zip it?”

  “Sorry. I just get so excited,” he says all giddy-gay-like.

  “Question number two.”

  “Five hundred dollars. Sorrryee, couldn't help myself.”

  “How is it a man can come on with such focused interest, make you feel like you're the only one who exists, work up such passion and then, on the turn of a dime, just up and walk away as if it never happened; even see you again, and act as if nothing ever took place, be so detached? How is that?”

  James raises his index finger to my question like a conductor's baton and says, "Because for men, it is not so much the act itself, as it is the hunt. The act merely signals the win, the capture if you will, the prize of the hunt, the trophy. But, it is the hunt that is most important, because it is the hunt where the glands awaken and overpower the man, possessing him like a demon . . .”

  “Oh, puhleez.”

  He continues without missing a beat, ". . . driving him on and on, building to a crescendo until he finally captures his prey.”

  “Or not,” I say.

  “Spoiler,” he snips, and without breaking his rant, "He's won and the hunt's over. After the climax, what's left? Just doing it again. Which he will of course and gladly so, but doing it again is just . . . doing it again. Still winning, but the hunt part’s gone, over, kaput. The second time and the third time and every time afterwards would be feasting. Good, even excellent but not quite the same. Another 'first time'," he finger quotes, “requires conquering a new prey. The key word here is 'new.' I know you don't wanna hear this, but this is the way it is. First times come only once.

  "Men and women are different creatures.” He waxes on. “Women are the possessive ones. From their point-of-view once they've 'allowed' (he finger quotes again) themselves to be caught; they then expect they've purchased an equity position.”

  “That's bullshit.”

  “Not really, honey. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying ya'll are engaged in some kind of premeditated commercial transaction. All I'm saying is, for the most part - not always - but for the most part, when a woman gives herself to a man, she expects to have garnered a . . . sorta rightful position, and she's owed a measure of fidelity. Now he can't just run off after another skirt. And he won't if he's more interested in keeping the one he's already won than he is in taking a chance on not catching a new one.

  “Come on, you know as well as I do; men are dogs. Once they've caught and devoured the rabbit they nap on their full bellies. Then just as soon as they're hungry again, what happens? They're off to the races looking for new ground to plant their seed. And it's when that happens that women complain they've been used, and they have, except for one thing.”

  “And what might that be, o' enlightened one?”

  “They've also used the man; you see. So, it's really pretty much a two-way street. That's what people do. They use each other.”

  “I could punch a whole lot of holes in what you're saying, you know.”

  “The Swiss cheese may have many holes Grasshopper-et, but trust me in what I'm telling you, because I am uniquely qualified to know these things.”

  “And how is that, pray tell?”

  “Because, you see my dear, while I am a man, I am also one of the girls.”

  “Yeah, suppose you got me there.”

  “And allow me to add one more thing, honey. When you find yourself in a situation where you need assistance, some help from a friendly source, let's say, I want you to know I am available for you anytime, night or day.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, James, though I must confess, I haven't a clue what you're talking about.”

  “I fully understand. Much of the time I am entirely clueless myself. Perhaps it's the old queen in me babbling away over nothing. Perhaps I'm just being a little overprotective, you know. But, just in case it's not nothing, just remember, I've got your back.”

  “Okay. Well, that's good to know. Thank you James. I really appreciate it.” Is this guy beyond fruitcake, or what? Got to be one of Nanette's.

  After telling James good night, I'm thinking it might be fun to make a swing by Nanette's room for little "girl-talk?”

  twenty-seven

  Tuesday, 2 September

  Somewhere in the Pyrenees.

  The Raven & Paulo.

  “Good morning! Rise and shine. It's a new day and only good things are going to happen today," Drusilla sings her way into the operating room where Paulo is still half lying on the table and half hanging by his ankles. But Paulo doesn't answer because he can’t. He’s passed out.

  Walking up to the man, the little doctor checks his eyes and his breathing. "Well, you're alive. Now, let's bring you around. But first let's make you comfortable," she says.

  She goes to the control panel and presses the button lowering Paulo's legs to the table and there she removes the cabling and flips him over onto his back. She secures him to the table and inspects his wounded scrotum.

  "No so bad," she says, "You'll live. Now let's bring you around and see what you have to say for yourself."

  From a medicine cabinet on the back wall she retrieves a bottle and a patch of cotton, places the saturated cotton over Paulo’s nose until he comes to.

  "Good morning Señor Marti. And thank your lucky stars because this morning you awaken alive."

  "Where am I," he utters then the pain hits him like a cattle prod and his body stiffens. He screams in agony.

  "You are alive Señor. Maybe not so well, but you're living, and should you so choose; you can remain that way."

  She removes a syringe from her lab jacket and injects Paulo. "This will help relieve the pain Señor Marti." He pees himself and screams again.

  “Oh God, what are you doing to me!"

  "It is not I, Señor Marti. You just peed yourself and the urine has gone into your wound and because urine contains a great deal of saline, the salt is aggravating the wound and causing you extreme pain. Next time, don't pee on yourself," she says with a laugh, "But, wait just a moment because the injection I just administered to you will take away all that pain and you'll be just fine again."

  "You are a sadist!" he screams.

  She smiles, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, Señor Marti."

  "My God, you are insane too!”

  "Now, now, Señor Marti. There's no need to resort to name-calling. You’ll get nowhere with that. And considering the situation you're in I would think you'd want to be as nice as possible so I, in turn, will be nice to you. Don't you think?"

  "What do you want from me?"

  "You know what I want, Señor Marti, the lottery ticket of course. Now we can go about this the hard way or the easy way. It's your choice. But let me be honest with you up front. Either way, you are going to die. Understand? The question is whether or not you want to sacrifice Michelle and Annabelle and Lillie for the ticket as well."

  Her words hit Paulo like a sledgehammer, his wife and children? She will kill his beautiful wife and his two babies? God no. This can't be. Paulo begins to cry, uncontrollably.

  "Now, now, Señor Marti," the little
doctor says patting him on the arm. "It doesn't have to be that way. You can save your family. All you have to do is tell me where the ticket is."

  "I do not know where the ticket is."

  "Now see, that's exactly what I'm trying to help you avoid. Telling me you do not know is exactly the thing that will bring certain death to your family. So, would you like to try again and this time tell me the truth?"

  "But I am telling you the truth. The ticket was in the newspaper I was carrying when I fell into the Americans' compartment on the train. I dropped the newspaper. As I lay on top of the poor woman and even after, I could hear everything around me. I could see the newspaper lying there in front of me. But I couldn't do anything about it because I couldn't move a muscle. I couldn't even speak."

  "I know all that, Señor Marti. I was the one who injected you with the NMBA. I know what your capabilities were and were not."

  "NMBA? What is that?"

  "Neuromuscular blocking agent. It is a paralytic that renders you unable to move or speak. All of your senses are perfectly normal except the sense of touch. Actually, you might have a small sense of touch and feeling but for the most part, no. Though you can hear, see, and smell perfectly well, those senses are not affected. Think of it as anesthesia awareness, a perfectly horrible experience as you now well know.

  "So, where is the newspaper?"

  "The American took it. As he was packing his bag he reached down for the newspaper and put it in his bag. I doubt he had any idea about the lottery ticket," Paulo says.

  "Damn! I should have seen that. Those damned Americans have it. I should have never let them go," she says to herself and runs out of the room leaving Paulo to conjure the most frightening thoughts for the remaining day.

  twenty-eight

  08:00 Hours, Wednesday, 3 September.

  The Fira Palace Hotel.

  Like a victim of a multi-car pileup, my brain crawls its way out from under the wreckage that was last night, into the horizontal slats of the morning sun, streaming through the window blinds like a jumpy silent film. My body lays as prostrate as a corpse on a morgue slab, yet oddly, a happy and satiated one considering the inflictions endured from the adroit hand of Mistress Nanette. Confusing. My brain tries to piece together the scattered remnants from last night. How did I get here? And, where am I? Where's Nanette? Ebba?