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

by Dancer, Jack

  “Got lucky didn't you?” says Monica.

  “Looks like it,” I say thankfully.

  “We all got lucky,” says Nanette.

  “Amen,” says Monica.

  “I take it Ebba's lost her fan base?” inquires James.

  “Ever tangle with a wild boar, James?” asks Monica.

  “Only once and that was at one of my alma maters, the University of Georgia. And in this particular case, it was game day with the University of Arkansas. The Razorbacks they called themselves; an atrocious name. It was my English perfesser who dubbed them the 'Wild Boar Oxy-moe-rons.' " That got a chuckle from the group.

  James went on to wax, "Peter was his name . . ."

  "Who? The wild boar?” asks Lisa.

  "No, you silly girl. The perfesser. Had a terrible crush on that man . . . Peter was his name. And honey did he ever . . ."

  "More coffee anyone," interrupts a waitress waving a pot of fresh brew.

  "Yes, please," everyone quickly responds in sync cutting James off, glad for the interruption.

  “Think I'm going to the buffet,” Monica says rising from her seat.

  “Me too,” I say joining her.

  At the buffet, I whisper to her, "Nice job. I guess we can drop any further pretending now, huh?”

  "There's only one pretending here, Tucker. You. If you had even a single shred of honesty and integrity about you . . . you'd . . . Oh, I don't know. Just stay away from me, okay?"

  "Hey, wait a minute. What was all that about me trading in for a newer model? Now this? That's your idea of honesty and integrity because, frankly, you're starting to sound kinda coo coo for Cocoa Puffs."

  That stops her. She doesn't say a word, just stands there, on the verge of tears, looking at me. Now I feel like a heel. She turns and walks out of the breakfast room. She doesn't storm out, just casually walks out.

  What the hell was that all about, I ask myself? I let a minute pass then follow.

  "Hey, Tucker is everything okay?" Nanette calls on my way out.

  "You're a woman. You tell me."

  twenty-nine

  10:15 Hours, Wednesday, 3 September.

  The Fira Palace Hotel.

  Walking out of the restaurant and passing by the gift shop, my eye catches a newspaper headline. One of Spain's national newspapers, El Mundo, and it reads, One Million March For Independence. I take the paper and stepping inside decide to buy copies of all the other Spanish and French newspapers while I’m at it, to see if there might be anything on the guy who died on the train, maybe an obituary. On my way out, someone in the lobby says, "policia." I turn and it's the two young colleagues of the doctor's standing at the front desk, one holding out a wallet repeating, "policia."

  Holy shit.

  Casually turning away I beeline it for the stairwell where two steps at a time I blast through the door on the second floor and quick-step my way to the room where I grab my rolling bag from the closet, throw it on the bed and start packing.

  Uh oh. Monica.

  I rush to the door connecting our two rooms, throw it open and nearly run through the same door locked from the other side. I start knocking and yelling in a loud whisper, "Monica, Monica, open up."

  When the deadbolt unlatches and the door opens, Monica’s standing there red-faced, and eyes wet from crying. There’s no time for this.

  "We've got to get out of here now," I say.

  "What’re you talking about?"

  "Those two guys from the train? They're in the lobby. They're showing badges, claiming they're police. You know as well as I do; they're not police. They've got to be here looking for us. Don't ask me why. I don't know. But whatever the reason, you know it can't be good. We need to get out of here, now. Find another room somewhere. Come on, pack your things."

  Without a word, she starts packing while I go back into my room and finish my packing. When I think, I've gotten everything; I drag my bags into Monica's room.

  "Damn.”

  "What?" she asks.

  "Forgot something," and I run back into the room and into the bathroom and climb onto the toilet seat lid to get the phones. But the lid slides sideways and snaps off nearly throwing me to the floor.

  "Shit." I climb back up, this time placing one foot on each side of the toilet bowl and reach through the ceiling tile to collect the two phones. Chargers are already in my camera bag. I shove one phone in each of my two pant pockets, get down, and nearly collide with Monica coming through the connecting door. "What was that noise? I thought you fell."

  "Almost did, but I'm okay. Let's take the stairwell and go out the back entrance. When we get to the street we'll flag a cab.”

  On the way down I tell her I feel like someone skipping out on the hotel bill.

  "We don't have a bill.”

  "Right. So, why do I feel guilty?”

  "It comes natural to guys who fool around with married women.”

  "Thanks. I feel better already. Wait. I'm still confused about that.”

  "Move it, Tucker. We've already gone through that. Let it be.”

  When we hit the ground floor we hightail it through the GymFira and out the back door onto Carrer Lleida. I wave down a cab and tell the driver to take us to the nearest Hilton Hotel pronto. The guy probably thinks we're skipping out on our bill at the Fira. Fuck him, I can't be bothered.

  I turn to Monica, "I've got a Hilton Honors card. Gotta get those reward points you know," trying to make light of the situation.

  She gives me a tight smile then says, "Get us a nice suite, and I'll double those points.”

  "Ooh la la,” I say using her line.

  "Retract your tongue, Blue, you're drooling."

  thirty

  12:00 Hours, Wednesday, 3 September.

  Hilton Hotel, Barcelona.

  It turns out the Hilton's on Avinguda Diagonal, only a couple of blocks from the Bank of America. Convenient. I tip the driver, and a porter stands ready to take our bags.

  "I'll check us in and meet you inside if you'll see that he gets everything.”

  "No problem."

  The hotel's lobby is huge, very contemporary, minimalist. It's a white out, everything's white. Even the reception desk is lacquered white and appears to be hovering a few inches off the white marble floor on a cushion of yellow-tinged neon light. It's very cool and reminds me of the white room in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

  "May I help you Señor,” the young lady behind the desk asks in English.

  How is it they automatically know you're American?

  "Yes, I'd like a room, a suite if one's available,” I say.

  "Do you have a reservation, sir?"

  "No. I'm sorry I do not. This is a rather spur of the moment thing. I'm a Rewards member if it makes a difference,” I say handing over my Hilton Rewards card.

  "I see. Mr. Blue,” she says inspecting my card.

  "Do you have a suite available?"

  "Yes, I believe we do,” she says tapping her keyboard.

  "That'd be great."

  "How long do you expect to be staying with us, Señor?"

  "Five days, maybe a week, I'm not exactly sure at this point."

  "I will put you down for a week, and you can let us know if you need to checkout sooner. Would that be acceptable?"

  "That'd be fine."

  "I'll need to see your passport and have an imprint of your credit card sir,” she says smiling.

  I hand over both.

  "Would you prefer a city view or a harbor view, sir?"

  "How about a view of the harbor." Maybe I'll find a boat and we'll sail off into the sunset with a boatload of money and leave all this insanity behind.

  "My pleasure.”

  Monica walks up just as the young lady hands me the key cards in an envelope with the room number marked on it.

  "I have you in a King Alcove Suite, number 1209, Señor Blue. You may reach the room using those elevators over there (she points) and I will have your bags sent up immediately. I
hope you'll enjoy your stay Señor and if there's anything I can do to make your stay more pleasurable, please call on me. My name is, Consuelo,” she says with a lovely smile.

  "Thank you, Consuelo.”

  "My pleasure, Señor Blue."

  I turn and walk toward Monica who's standing within earshot and take her hand in mine.

  "Ooh, Señor Blue,” she mocks as we're walking toward the bank of elevators, "if I can make your stay even more pleasurable, please let me know, and it would be my most generous pleasure to come to your room and fuck your brains out.”

  "Should I go back and tell her,” leaning into her and whispering, "you've already got it covered?”

  "Not if you want to cover your bets."

  I'm not even sure what that means. "So, what are we doing here? Starting over?" I ask.

  "We're here because we're hiding from the bad guys."

  "That's it?"

  "Isn't that what you told me?"

  "Yes, it is what I told you," I say.

  "And it's the truth, isn't it?"

  "Of course, it's the truth. You think I'd make something like that up?" I say and I think I'm getting a little perturbed with the attitude here.

  “Had you asked me two days ago, I would have said no. I would've believed anything you told me, but I'm not so sure anymore."

  Uh-oh. She knows about last night with Nanette.

  "And what've I done to make you unsure?" I ask.

  "Why don't you tell me?"

  "Tell you what? How can I tell you something I don't know?"

  Jesus Christ, you'd think they could just come out and say it. But no, we gotta play these guessing games. Course, she thinks I should already know what the problem is but I don't, not for sure. And I'm not going to get sucked into guessing either because the problem she's having could be any one of several things and it'd be just my luck to guess the wrong thing and give her something else to have a problem with. If I had to guess I'd guess it's about last night with Nanette. Somehow she found out about that. I don't know how but it's immaterial. Women have their ways. For all I know Nanette could have called her and given her a blow-by-blow report on the whole thing. Who knows?

  I don't know what else it could be. No, wait. She started acting weird yesterday on the drive so it must be about Ebba. Me, being with Ebba. It's the whole jealousy thing is what it is, plain and simple jealousy. That's why she got into it with Ebba on the way to the restaurant. That's what's eating her. And now that Ebba's not around - and just where the hell is she anyway? - she's taking it out on me. Women! There's no way to win with ‘em.

  But there's also one other possibility. She found out about the lottery ticket. No. That's an impossibility. There's no way she could know about that. Besides, if she knew anything about that you could bet your ass she'd have said something by now.

  No, it's got to be either Nanette or Ebba.

  "You'll figure it out, Tucker. I have faith in you."

  "Faith huh? Isn't that the thing you have when there's a total lack of rational reasoning?"

  "Yes, but it's the best I can do until you give me something better."

  "Like a confession?"

  "Do you have one?"

  "Not one I'm willing to give - at least not at the moment."

  "The truth will set you free, Tucker."

  "You know, that can sometimes be the biggest lie of all. There are times when the truth can only cause pain and heartache, and that's when the truth is evil. Look Monica, I don't know what's caused you to suddenly have such a low opinion of me, I really don't. I haven't done anything to hurt you in any way - at least nothing I'm aware of. I told you earlier how I feel about you and I don't know what else I can say to you. You can believe that or not. It's entirely your choice. The only thing I'd ask of you before you jump to conclusions about me and my integrity or honesty, is: ask yourself if there might be some reasonable doubt you should consider before passing judgment.

  "Better yet, if you have a problem with me why not just man-up and tell me what it is and let me answer for it instead of beating around the bush and making it a guessing game. You may think I should just somehow know what the problem is but give me some credit that I'm maybe not that smart. I'm a guy and you should know good and well you can't expect me, or any guy for that matter, to automatically know or understand what's ticking away in any woman's mind. We're just not that smart. You’ve got to lay it out in front of us and hope we can even get it that way. You got to get real honey. I'm telling you how I feel. There's no mystery to it. It's very plain and very simple. And if I've fucked up somewhere along the line, you’ve got to tell me so I can answer for it.

  "If you'd rather we get separate rooms, or that I remove myself altogether, then just say so, and I will. The only thing is, given our circumstances at the moment, and the real possibility that it looks like someone is out to cause us serious harm, it might be best that we stick together and see our way through this. Afterwards we can go our separate ways if that's how it has to be."

  She steps up and puts her finger to my lips shushing me, and then taking my hand into hers says, "let's go to our room."

  ***

  At suite 1209, we're greeted with a breathtaking, David O. Selznick, panorama of hundreds of anchored sailboats stretching over Barcelona's harbor nearly to the horizon, where the aqua Mediterranean joins a clear blue sky.

  The suite's seating is an elegant grouping of white club chairs surrounding a lacquered white coffee table. There's also a simple but stylishly matching white enamel desk projecting from the wall. And the bedroom is no less spectacular, with a king bed dominating, the same minimalist flair as the hotel's lobby, perched upon a pedestal, hovering over a yellow glow.

  "This is quite a step up from the Fira,” Monica says.

  "Should be. It costs about ten times more,” I reply.

  "So what's ten times zero?” she says sarcastically.

  "Oh, yeah. And worth every centavo too."

  "Think of it this way. It's like the train. No one knows where we are again,” she says.

  I put my arms around her and pull her close. "Got that right, and they're not gonna know either.” I lean into her to give her a kiss just as the doorbell rings.

  "A doorbell? Now that's the cat's meow,” she says.

  "Better be the bellman meowing,” I say and go to the peephole while she slips into the powder room.

  When the bellman rolls in our bags Monica let out an, "Ooh la la."

  "The Señora, she must have found the powder room, si?” he says with a smile.

  "Looks like it.” I slip him a ten-euro and ask him to fetch a bucket of ice.

  "Si Señor. Mucho gracias."

  ***

  "I hope you can read these things better than me," I say dumping the bag of newspapers I'd collected at the hotel gift shop.

  "We'll figure it out. Just check for the obits first," she says.

  "How do they spell obits in Spanish and French?" I ask.

  "In Spanish it's esquelas and in French it's nécrologies."

  "You are good. I knew you'd come in handy," I say and she gives me a punch in the arm.

  "And what exactly are you handy for?" she says.

  "I can finish drywall."

  "Oh, boy."

  Dividing up the newspapers we go through every page of every paper until finally, Monica runs across write-ups on the train incident in La Vanguardia and El Periodico de Catalunya. In both instances, the articles are brief, noting only that a passenger died from a heart attack suffered on a French SCNF train on Monday between Narbonne and Perpignan.

  One of the papers I had was the L'Independant, the local paper for Perpignan.

  "I think I might have found something here," and hand it to Monica to read.

  "Says the passenger had been identified as, Paulo Marti, age thirty-five, married and the father of two small children. Marti was apparently traveling from Carcassonne to Barcelona - according to his train ticket - when he suffered a
massive heart attack somewhere between Narbonne and his hometown of Perpignan. Marti was a hometown rugby hero at Lycée François Arago, a Perpignan high school. He went on to the Sorbonne where he earned a degree in law before joining the French army and advancing to the rank of Capitaine," she paraphrases. "Says he held several unspecified positions. Wonder what that means?”

  “I don’t know,” I say not even hearing her because my mind is on the wife and two small children left behind, now without a husband and a father. How awful. God, how awful. I wonder if they even knew about the lottery ticket? Guess I’ll never know but one thing I do know is they’re going to get some of this lottery money, at least enough they’ll never have to worry about having whatever they need. They deserve that and I’ll make sure they get it. It’s the least I can do. Besides, there’s enough to go around for everyone, more than enough. Those poor children, even money can’t replace a father but it’s better than nothing.

  The article goes on to mention a medical doctor of local renown who was present during the incident and made every effort to save the man's life, but without success. Requesting anonymity, the doctor's name was withheld. Emergency personnel had transported Marti from Gare de Perpignan to the Centre Hospitalier de Perpignan where he was pronounced DOA. Perpignan authorities reported the death to be of natural causes and do not intend to investigate the matter further. Marti's funeral is scheduled for Friday, September 5th at the Catedral de Sant Joan Baptista de Perpinyà with burial in the church's cimetière following services.

  "Well, there you have it,” I say, "The only thing missing is, why those two boys . . ."

  "They're hardly boys, Tucker."

  "Men. Why're they down here looking for us?"

  "Did they say they were looking for us?"

  "Well, no. I didn't hear them say our names but . . . why else would they be at the Fira if not looking for us? And why are they passing themselves off as the police?"

  "I don't know. What're we going to do? We can't stay locked up in this room for the next week and a half. They're going to find us eventually, don't you think? I mean they'll end up talking to someone in our party at the Fira. What'll we do then? This whole thing is just too weird."