by Dancer, Jack
A couple of blocks later, I put in a call to Jose Fernandez and after a couple of rings, he answers. I remind him who I am and tell him I need his help. The pause I get from the other end sounds like quarters dropping through a vending machine at the rate of about a hundred a second. Lawyers.
I'm not paying for niceties so I get right to the point and tell him I need him to get me another hotel room under someone else's name, someplace nice.
"Done,” he says.
Second, I tell him I have a couple of threatening looking guys following me, and I want to hire a top notch private detective agency - a full-service one - to follow these guys and find out who they are, and that I'll probably require other services too. "Just let 'em know this could be a lucrative job."
"I have just the guy. He's not cheap, but he can provide you with anything you need, no matter how unusual. Actually, he specializes in the unusual.”
"Perfect. You have my cell phone number. Have him call me ASAP. I want to meet with him in thirty minutes at (I look at my GPS map and give Fernandez the cross streets). I know this is probably out of the ordinary Joe but . . ."
"So far, Señor Blue, everything with you has been out of the ordinary,” he says with a laugh. "I do not expect anything less."
"Good. Then I'll try not to disappoint you,” I say. "By the way, what's his name?"
"He goes by Dick. His firm is called Dick's Dicks."
"You're kidding."
"No Señor. But, I assure you, he is no joke."
"I'll take your word for it. (What choice do I have this late in the game?) I'd like to ask another favor of you if I may?"
"Of course, Señor."
"I'll need another place to stay in addition to the hotel room. This place needs to be out of the way and by that I mean in a seedy section like El Raval, a place where anyone with a concern for their own safety would not likely go, at least on purpose. I'd also like it to be a nice, comfortable place."
"And what about your own safety, Señor?"
"You don't have to concern yourself with that. I'm sure Dick can help me there."
"As a matter of fact, Dick maintains an apartment in the El Ravel section I think you'll find not only comfortable but with many unique features you may appreciate. If the apartment is available, I'll have him bring a key and directions."
"Mucho gracias, Joe. We'll talk again later,” I say and hang up. I look over the GPS map again and pick up my walk toward the Fira.
Fifteen minutes pass and the cell's vibrating. It's Randy.
"Hey, Tucker. Nanette called and gave me your number, said you wanted me to look around for those guys."
"Yeah, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, Randy, I'd really appreciate it."
"Who are they anyhow?"
"I don't know but I don't think they're policemen."
"I didn't think so either. They seemed more like thugs."
"Great."
"So, Tucker what've you done to attract such characters?"
"Honestly Randy, I don't know. We did run into some trouble on the train coming down here, but I have no idea if these guys have anything to do with that or not."
"What sort of trouble?"
"A guy had a heart attack in our train compartment and died."
"You're kidding."
"No. We didn't want to make anything of it, so we haven't mentioned it to anyone."
"And what happened?"
"Well, to make a long story short, this guy came crashing through the door of our compartment clutching his chest and dropped to the floor and died. I go on to tell him about the doctor and her colleagues and that maybe her motivation is to get us out of the way and now I’m concerned, but that’s about it.
"It might be best if we go to the Barcelona police and let them know what's happening, but first I'd like to know if these guys are the same two from the train. If they are, then I'd be very concerned that something's not right with this whole affair, and I can at least give the police some information that might prove useful. So you see, it'd be helpful to me if you could just take a look around and see if these two are hanging around the hotel and let me know. Can you do that?"
"Sure. I'll look around and call you right back."
"Thanks Randy, I really appreciate it."
"No problem." He hangs up, and I keep walking toward the Fira. A few minutes later my cell rings again and the phone number displayed is the same as the last - Randy's.
"Tucker, there's a black Suburban parked on a small street that T-bones into Carrer Lleida, right across from the front entrance of the hotel, and those two guys are in it. They couldn't be more obvious. The small street is called Carre Mare de Deu del Remi. It's a narrow, single-lane, one-way street, and their car is the only vehicle on it. They've apparently closed-off traffic with safety cones one block back. If you were to approach the car from the rear, they probably wouldn't even notice you because they're glued to the front entrance of the hotel. To come up from the rear you need to take Carre Font Honrada to Carre Mare de Deu del Remi and turn west toward the hotel. They're at the end of the block."
"Got it. Thanks, Randy. I'll check 'em out."
"Let me know if there's anything else you need me to do. I'll probably be here in the hotel for the rest of the day."
"Thanks, I will."
When I get to the Placa d' Espanya, I take a left on Avinguda del Paral-lei and rather than taking a right on Carrer Lleida on the other side of the giant Fira d Barcelona (Barcelona's huge trade fair institution) which would lead me to the front entrance of the Fira Palace, I walk another block or so and make my way down Carre Font Honrada until I come upon Carre Mare de Deu del Remi, two more blocks down where the bright orange safety cones sit. I ease myself around the corner and sure enough a large black Suburban is sitting at the end of the street.
Now I'm wondering if these guys aren't cops or some sort of law enforcement. Who else would drive a more telling vehicle than a black Suburban? Then there're the safety cones blocking off a whole street, a small street, but still. Who can do that and get away with it if not the cops or a road construction crew? Or, I guess someone who doesn't have to worry about being harassed by the cops.
I pull out my camera and attach the long lens. On the corner, is a deli and a sign outside with pictures of sandwiches, and they're making me hungry. I step inside and order up a Jamones and Quesos (ham and cheese) sandwich with an ice water and take both outside to a little table on the sidewalk. Perfect. I can sit facing the direction of the Suburban and set my camera on the table pointed in that direction. I can see two figures bobbing around inside the car. I power up the camera and, using the viewfinder display, focus in on the license tag and snap off a couple of shots then sit back and take a bite of my sandwich. I pick the camera up and displaying the shots I just took I see the license tag is a vanity tag. IndyCat.
A kid on the sidewalk is walking this way. Could be a street urchin or just some kid skipping school, who knows but he's got me in his sights so I expect he'll be asking me for money. When he's just about to open his mouth, I say to him, "Wanna make some money?"
"Si Señor."
That got his interest.
"See the black Suburban down there,” I point, and he looks.
"Si."
"I want you to go down there and make those guys come out of the car and come this way. I'm going to take their picture (I motion to the camera), but I need to see their faces. You go up and pound on the back of their car and make 'em come out. When they do, run back this way, okay? Your money'll be on the table."
"Si."
"Now you've got to get both of 'em out of the car and facing this way okay? If only one gets out, then you gotta go back and pound on the other guy's door and make him come out after you too. Got it?"
"Si,” he says with a grin stretching from ear to ear. He can't wait to do this. I know he's thinking, piece of cake.
"You can run fast?"
"Like the wind, Señor."
I pull my wallet out and lay two five-euro bills on the table and say, "Okay?" He nods, and I shoo him off.
The camera's laying flat on the table so even if they see me; they won't see me shooting them.
The kid walks nonchalantly up the middle of the street toward the Suburban. Halfway there he leans over and picks two stones from the gutter. When he reaches the car, he starts pounding on the back window with the stones, yelling something I can't understand.
Jesus, he's going to bust the damn window.
He must have startled the hell out of those guys inside because both doors fly open and both of 'em spring out. But, the kid's quick as a fly on meth and is already half-way back down the street running this way before they even reached the rear of the Suburban.
I've got the camera set on continuous shooting, and shoot 'em both about thirty times, including the kid running in the foreground with the biggest smile you ever saw. The kid flies past the table doing about sixty and snatches the two bills from the table like he was snatching the gold ring, then disappeared around the corner.
Just for looks, I jump up and yell something at the kid shaking my fist then sit down. I want the two hombres to think the kid stole money off my table. They turn around and get back into the Suburban. The driver kicks a rear tire. They’re pissed.
While all this is going on a rather overweight fellow walks into the deli. Now he's coming out with a sandwich and a coffee, and he steps over to my table. Without saying anything he sets the coffee and sandwich on the table and takes a seat.
"Buenos dias,” I say unperturbed.
"Buenos dias,” he says back, unwrapping his sandwich and his eyes lock on mine. His mouth cracks a small smile. I return it.
There're only two tables out here and while it wouldn't be unusual for another customer to take a seat at your table, they'd usually say something or make a motion for permission first, just to be polite, and the Spanish are generally polite. This guy didn't ask anything. He just sits down.
As he peels back the wrapping and brings the sandwich up to his mouth, I say, "Dick?"
He pauses and the smile punches up, "Si,” he says, and takes a bite and chews, smile intact.
I lift the remainder of my own sandwich and take a bite, our eyes never leaving each other.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two small envelopes, one with "Club 1650” handwritten on one side and the other with a handwritten number, 24. He slides the Club over. I pick it up and examine it. There're two plastic key cards inside. On the other side of the envelope is printed the logo, address and phone number for the Hotel Arts.
The Hotel Arts is up by the Parc de la Ciutadella (Park of the Citadel), and it turns out to be a Ritz Carlton so Monica shouldn't be disappointed with the move.
"Gracias,” I say, and then he slides over the second small envelope with the 24. I pick it up, and I can feel two metal keys inside. On the other side is written an address, Carrer De La Riereta, 24 1/2.
"El Raval?” I say.
"Si."
"Gracias."
"You're welcome, Mister Blue,” he says in perfect English.
"Well, you are a surprise,” I say offering my hand. He takes it, and we give it a single pump.
"Who's the Suburban,” he asks nodding behind him.
"That's what I'd like you to tell me. Do you have an email address?"
He reaches into his pocket and extracts a business card with the name "Dick's Dicks” printed on one side. He hands it to me and on the other, side is printed Dick's address, Dick's phone numbers, and Dick's email address.
"I'll email you some photos I've just taken of the license tag - strange one that was. Do you have any idea what IndyCat might stand for?"
"Catalan Independence,” he says, "It's a movement."
"Ah yes, the million man, scratch that, million person march,” I say. "Well, I guess we can figure they're Catalan. That's one down."
"Do you know them?"
"Not really, but I did run across them recently on a train traveling from Narbonne France to Perpignan. I don't know their names, but they were in the employ of a Doctor Drusilla Libica. I met her on the same train. We met only briefly, but I was told these two came looking for me earlier today, claiming they were police, but I'm pretty certain they're not. The person who passed this information to me is staying in the hotel along with some others I'm with. I'm in Barcelona with my girlfriend who flies for the airlines, and these people are all part of the flight crew."
"And what is it, you want me to do for you?” he asks.
"I'd like for you to tail these guys. I'm concerned, they may catch up with me soon enough. I want you to keep me informed where they are at all times, and if they're coming close to me. I want you to intercede on my behalf, if necessary, and keep them away from me. I want you to do a background check on them and this Doctor Libica, who I understand lives in Perpignan. I want you to tell me everything you can about them, and I want to understand what they want with me."
"Why don't you just ask them?"
"Because I know they’re dangerous men, and I'm afraid I might not want to know the answer." I go on to explain to Dick about the train incident, the dead man crashing into our compartment and how Doctor Libica showed up with her two minions and saved the day for us. I didn't mention the lottery ticket.
"So you see, I can only think they're looking for us in connection with the incident on the train, but why exactly, I don't know. Whatever it is, it cannot be good with them down here posing as policemen when they're not. The other thing is, my girlfriend and another flight attendant went to dinner last night with a man they met at the Fira, a bartender, and they've not returned. No one's heard from them, and I fear something may have happened to them. And now, with these two guys suddenly showing up, I'm thinking there may be a connection, but I don't know for certain. I'm purely speculating at this point. One may have nothing to do with the other, but I'm not a big believer in coincidences."
"There are no coincidences,” Dick says flatly. "You say this Doctor Libica lives in Perpignan and these two work for her?"
"Right."
"Do you know the significance of Perpignan Señor Blue?"
"No, what is it?"
"Perpignan is the capital of the Pyrénées-Orientales, a region in France. That region is also known as French Catalonia. Perpignan is the capital of French Catalonia while Barcelona is the capital of Catalonia on this side of the Pyrenees. There are Catalans living in France, who want to break away and join the Catalans here in Barcelona to form an independent Catalan state. It is well underway here in Spain and will probably come to pass, but it is doubtful the Catalans on the French side would ever be allowed to secede.
"There is also a very hardcore group of Catalan militants on the French side, the Terra Lliure II, who operate throughout French Catalonia and the Pyrenees, with the intention of forcing a breakaway. The Terra Lliure II is a well-organized umbrella group representing several splinter groups. They also have a tenuous relationship with the Basque Separatists led by Pello Azaura. Some think the Terra Lliure II leadership is based in Perpignan with a woman known as, the Raven at the head. But, no one knows exactly who she is, her name or anything about her. There are no photographs of her. The Raven is a ghost."
As he says this, the thought occurs to me that maybe, just maybe this Doctor Drusilla Libica may be this Raven. I have no real evidence for that supposition and the likelihood of a connection is next to nil. But who knows? If they are one and the same person then I’ve got photos of her but I’m not about to make that leap with Dick, at least not just yet. I’ll need more evidence before going there. Still . . .
"So, where does the money come from?” I ask.
"Illegal activities - arms dealing, drug running, kidnappings, lottery scams. There are many and they are owned and operated by the Raven,” he says.
"Lottery scams?” I ask. Uh, oh.
"Yes. Spain is home to the biggest lottery in the world, the El Go
rdo - the Fat One. It's also one of the oldest, dating back to 1812. It's the Christmas lottery, and it can pay out hundreds of millions of euros and because anyone in the world can purchase a lottery ticket and win, there are many lottery scams."
"Just at Christmas?" I ask.
"No, there's also the La Primitiva, which runs continuously. It dates back to the mid-18th century, thus the name 'the primitive'," he says rather proudly.
"What about this Doctor Libica? Have you ever heard of her?” I ask.
"No, I do not think so."
"Well, I think that's where I'd like you to concentrate your research efforts."
"On this Doctor Libica from Perpignan?"
"And on these two guys in the Suburban. I think they're the ones to lead you to Doctor Libica. I understand you have a staff of employees."
"I do indeed have a staff of fifty-three - approximately one-third of which are dedicated to research - background checks, in-field inquiries and such - another third are field investigators,” he says.
"And the other third?” I ask.
"Administrative and caca putas, you know, the shit whores - those doing the real shit work.”
"Somebody's gotta do it,” I say.
"Somebody always does."
"I assume Fernandez gave you the rundown, and you'll be billing his firm directly?” I ask.
"Yes, that will not be a problem."
"That part usually isn't."
He looks insulted.
"I didn't mean it rudely," I say, "I'm also a business owner. My motto is: When in doubt bill it out."
"Very good, Señor Blue. Then we are brothers of the business world."
"Yes, we are, and I'm sure we share the same problems and frustrations of running a business too."
"No doubt, Señor. How many people do you employ?"
"It varies, but between sixty and seventy."
"You have as many children as I do."
"Ha. Yes, with all the same juvenile headaches, I'm sure."
"What kind of business is it you have?” he asks.
"Advertising agency."
"Excellent. We are really in very opposite kinds of business. You put clients in spotlights, and I keep them in shadows,” he says.