by Dancer, Jack
"True, very true. Tell me, Dick, what about this place in the El Raval? Am I going to get killed walking around there?"
"Killed, maybe. Raped, more likely. It is not a good quarter of the city, Señor. It is becoming more popular with the tourists, yes, but it is still a very dangerous place. I would suggest you have protection. I, or my men, of course, will be nearby for you, but still, I would highly recommend you have something a little more personal."
"Raped?” I ask a bit astonished.
"It is a rather queer quarter of the city, Señor. But, more than that, it is a place where the ground is fertile for the harvesting of every imaginable sort of sexual deviation,” he says.
"Should I shop for women's attire before I go there?"
"Ha. Maybe a policeman's uniform you should wear, or a priest's habit."
"An authority figure, huh? Which one is scarier do you think?"
"Ha. You're a funny man, Señor Blue. No, none of that," he says his hands animating. "To be left alone, to be sure you are left alone, it would be best if you simply appear unstable . . . more unstable than those around you that is. They are, after all, just a bunch of babies looking for attention. Still," he says pondering, "I would recommend you carry personal protection."
"Such as?” I ask.
"Something a little more certain," and he passes me his sandwich bag - minus the sandwich. When I take it, it's surprisingly heavy.
"What's this?" I say peeking inside at the small pistol and box of ammunition. "Holy shit," and quickly close the bag and hand it back, but he won't accept it. "I can't take this. I'm a foreigner. They'll put me under the jail."
"Better than being put under the ground," Dick says in all seriousness. "These are dangerous people, Mr. Blue," he says nodding to the IndyCat, "They are not looking for you to welcome you to Barcelona. They are looking for you to do you harm. Make no mistake about this."
For some uncanny reason, his words hit me like an epiphany, scattering all the demons of doubt and uncertainty that've been eating at me. And it scared me to the bone. Why now? I don't know. Maybe it just took someone saying it aloud to me, someone who's able to see straight to the point, see the situation for what it is - that these guys are out to do me harm. Simple. What he doesn't know is that it's even worse. A hundred and twenty million times worse. If it'll get these guys the lottery ticket, they won't hesitate to kill me, and Monica.
I slip the bag into my camera bag. "Okay. You're right. I thank you."
"You will be more comfortable with this; I assure you," he says patting my hand, "It is very small, but very powerful - a Smith & Wesson Airlite .357 with crimson trace. It is made of titanium, very light, very concealable. It has a built in crimson-red laser beam for aiming. It is very accurate. Take it as my gift to you. It may save your life.”
"Thank you. Just pointing the laser may be enough to discourage someone,” I joke despite the hairs on the back of my neck dancing a Quick Step.
"Maybe," he says not impressed, "But, in case you need more, you have it."
"I'm sorry, Dick; I don't mean to be flippant," I say.
"You are frightened, Señor Blue. It is perfectly understandable. And you joke to help yourself to remain calm. That is also perfectly understandable. Do not feel ashamed, Señor, please. It is better you be frightened. It can save your life to be frightened. You will not let things go unnoticed so easily."
"I believe that's called paranoia."
"And who is to say they are not after you? Right?"
"You're a very astute man, Dick. I think we'll work well together," I say in all truthfulness.
"Astute yes. Astute enough to know there is more to this than a simple heart attack on a train, Señor." I don't answer. "But, it is okay. You do not have to tell me everything just yet if you are not comfortable, and I can see you are not yet comfortable. I am a patient man, Señor, and you are my client. I will need to know what it is these men want from you so I can help you. But, if it is something illegal you are involved in, then . . ."
"I can assure you I have done nothing illegal, nothing at all."
"Be that as it may. I do not want to compromise your situation or put you into a position where you are more exposed to harm from these men. I will take care of them, Señor. I will remove them for you for at least the remaining time you are in Barcelona. They will cause you no further concern."
"Thank you, Dick."
"But, you must also understand, Señor, that if I am to determine what their business is with you as you say, then I will most likely discover the very thing you are not telling me."
"I understand. Just let me know whatever you discover."
"Very good, Señor."
"You have my cell phone number from Fernandez?"
"Yes."
"I'll then leave you to your work and check into the Hotel Arts,” I say standing and collecting my bag. I extend my hand again, and we give it one more pump. "Thanks very much for your help, Dick. I'll be in touch."
"Señor Blue, one more thing. When you decide to use the El Raval apartment, if you will call me ahead of time I will have someone to escort you to the premises, at least the first time,” he says.
"That'll be fine. That move could very well occur sooner than later."
"I will wait to hear from you, and in the meantime I will keep you informed on these two desperados,” he says nodding in the direction of the IndyCat.
"Perfect. And I'll email you the photos as soon as I get back to the hotel."
"By the way, what are you going to do about your missing girlfriend?" he asks.
"I don't know there's much I can do yet. It's too early to go to the police. I guess I'll just wait and see if she shows up."
"And if she doesn't?"
"I've got a spare."
***
The Rider.
The rider remained to watch the fat man at the table after the American had taken his leave. He watched him pull out his cell phone and make a call. Before he ended the call, a police car spun around the corner and up to the front of the IndyCat, a second, coming from the opposite direction skidded up to its rear, effectively blocking the IndyCat in. Two patrolmen bounded out of each car and up to both sides of the IndyCat rapping sharply on the windows with their batons and quick-motioning for the occupants to get out. They did, but not without complaint. When the cops grabbed the boys and spun them around to assume the position, their verbal abuse ratcheted up severely until the batons came down on their skulls, and they went quiet and limp. They were handcuffed and shoved into the police cruisers - one boy to each. When the cruisers drove off, the fat man slowly raised himself from the table and casually walked to the IndyCat, opened the driver's side door, climbed in and drove off.
"Cops, fucking cops," the rider says to himself as he slipped his helmet on, wincing at the pain when the helmet's face mask pushed his wraparounds against the purple and yellow bruise under his eye. He presses the starter button, and the Ducati awakens with the purr of a powerful cat. And like a cheetah - a cat that can hit 40 mph in three strides - the Ducati is already rounding the end of the block in search of Tucker. Another couple of quick turns, and the rider spots Tucker climbing into a taxi on the Avinguda del Parallel. He follows the cab to the Hilton Hotel on Avinguda Diagonal where Tucker exits the cab and enters the hotel.
Why the rear entrance? he wonders. And he has a key. He must be staying at the Hilton and not the Fira. Strange. Surely the Libica boys thought he was at the Fira. Why else would they be there? Did the Americans pull a fast one and change hotels? Must have. They must have known the Libicas were looking for them. Someone's helping them out. The fat man. Is this man police?
As the rider ponders these questions he starts to leave but notices the taxi has not yet departed and the driver remains standing outside the cab smoking a cigarette as if he's expecting the American to return. And they do, both the man and woman and this time with luggage.
They're leaving. Where to? Are they leaving be
cause they have the ticket and are now frightened because of the Libica boys? They must be.
thirty-two
16:00 Hours, Wednesday, 3 September.
The Hilton Hotel.
On my way back to the hotel, I call Monica and tell her to start packing. "We're moving. I've got another hotel lined up where the room's registered under someone else's name."
"Where?" she asks.
"Hotel Arts"
"Oh, wow. That's a very nice place, Tucker. I've been wanting to stay there, but I always get stuck at the Fira."
"Good, well now's your chance."
I hear the room phone ringing in the background. "Hold on, Tucker, let me get this," she says.
"No. Don't pick that up, Monica. Is it the room phone?" I ask speeding up my pace.
"Yeah, so?"
"Who's got that number to call you?" I ask.
"Oh, shit."
"Just pack up your stuff. I'll be there in five minutes."
"Okay."
I pick up my pace but then decide it'd be more than five minutes, so I stop and flag a cab.
"Take me to the Hilton, the rear entrance," I tell the cabbie.
"Si Señor."
When we arrive, I give him a fifty-euro bill and ask him to wait ten minutes, and I'll be back for him to take me somewhere else. He agrees.
The rear entrance to the Hilton is locked, but my room key card gets me in. At the room, I knock twice before sliding my key card into the reader and opening the door. Monica is standing at the other end of the room, her arm raised with an iron in it ready to throw.
"You gonna kill 'em, or press their shirts with that?" I ask.
She drops the iron.
"You scared the you-know-what out of me. What happened?"
"I'll tell you all about it on the way. Right now, let's get out of here. I've got a cab waiting for us outside the rear entrance."
"I put your toiletries and the scotch in your bag. You're ready."
"Okay then let's go."
"Aren't you gonna pay the room?"
"Not right now. Later. Besides, if anyone else comes looking for us, they'll think we're here."
"Like who else?"
"I don't know. Anyone else that weird little doctor might send down."
"Why are they looking for us?"
"I don't know," I say but think, the winning lottery ticket I found, of course, though I can't tell you about that yet.
"So, how're we going to find out, Tucker? This is ridiculous. We can't just keep hiding like this."
"I've got someone on it. We should know something soon."
"Who? Who do you have on it? What are you talking about?"
"I'll explain once we get to our new room okay? Let's just get the hell out of here first."
When we're out the door, the driver sees us and opens the trunk of the car. We throw our bags in and get into the cab.
"Where to, Señor?"
I show him the key card envelope to the Hotel Arts.
"Rear entrance," I say.
"Very good, Señor," he remarks, like I've got good taste.
Fifteen minutes later, the driver swings into the hotel's parking garage attached to the rear of the hotel and pulls up to a door that opens onto a bank of elevators.
I hand him another fifty-euro bill, and he jumps out and retrieves our bags from the trunk, all smiles, and good cheer. As we roll our bags up to the door, Monica says, "You just gave that guy fifty euros for a ten-minute ride? And you were complaining about the taxi from Gatwick to Waterloo?"
"I didn't complain about that."
"Ha. Maybe not out loud but it was pretty evident you weren't happy about it."
"I'm not happy about this either but circumstances have changed a bit, don't you think?" And I'm sure as hell not going to tell her it was two fifties I gave the guy.
"Yeah, now it's more about saving your ass than just getting some, huh?" she says.
"And one should preclude the other?" I say with a roguish smile.
"Oh, brother."
We get lucky and walk right up to an empty elevator car. I slide the key card through a reader inside the car and punch the button for the Club floor and hold down the close-door button. The doors close and I keep the button depressed.
"Club? Oh, my. Why are you holding down the close door button?"
"If you keep the button pressed the elevator becomes an express, no stopping."
"Really? I didn't know that."
"Read about the trick in some novel, so I tried it, and it works."
The elevator doors open and we step out into a small reception area where an attractive young lady is seated behind a granite-topped desk. She greets us and pressing a button a bellman appears to take our bags.
"May I have your room key, sir?" says the bellman.
I hand it over, and we follow him down a long corridor to room 1650. He slides the card through the reader and with the familiar click the door opens like Ali Baba.
"Please, make yourself at home, sir, and Madame," the bellman says with a slight bow and a wave of his arm.
Inside a fabulous suite unfolds. The entire outside wall of the two-bedroom, two-bath suite is plate glass serving up a panoramic view of the crystal blue Mediterranean. Fabulous.
The bellman puts away our bags and asks, "May I get you anything, sir?"
"Yes, a bucket of ice, please."
"Si Señor." He retrieves the ice bucket from the small bar area and leaves the room. When he returns I hand over a ten-euro bill.
"Thank you, Señor. Enjoy your stay."
I turn my head and Monica's on the bed, lights out. Her head’s tucked into the pillow and her body folded into a fetal position. I go through the closet and retrieve an extra blanket to cover her. She wakes but just enough to say, "I'm going to take a little nap for a minute, okay?"
"Okay. I'll take a shower.”
When I come out, she's still sound asleep, so I go to my laptop, open it and power up. While it's coming to life, I attach the camera and begin downloading the photos I took of the IndyCat earlier and email them to Dick with a quick note asking him if he's done anything with the IndyCat boys. But, my most important question to him is, why are they looking for us? Please respond as soon as possible. Oh, and p.s. thanks again for arranging the accommodations.
I check for any emails from my missing ex-girlfriend Ebba. None. Putting the laptop away I hear the shower starting up and notice Monica's no longer in bed.
I'm beat. I need a drink so I go to the bar and perform that five-hundred-year-old ritual of swimming a few ice cubes in the waters of life - my fine single-malt scotch. The first sip signals my mind to prepare for evacuation, but it’s the all-important second sip before it gladly does. Along with a fine Cuban Montecristo and there's no better coupling in the human experience, other than real sex of course.
I plop myself into one of the club chairs, push off my shoes and lay my sore dogs across an ottoman. Stresses and tensions fade like yesterday. It's time to relax and savor the moment if only for the insidious whining of Monica's blow dryer - the fairer sex's counterpart to screaming leaf blowers and weed eaters yanking the peace out of every Sunday afternoon.
When the noise finally ceases Monica comes out of the bathroom and approaches with a quick gesture correcting an errant hair like a preening bird.
“Tucker?”
“Yes?”
“There's something I've gotta tell you, and I think you're not going to like it.”
Uh oh.
***
The Rider.
When the taxi departs the Hilton the rider follows it down Carrer de Numància thinking, train or plane and becoming more and more nervous about how he's going to stop them. If he tries arresting them it would only ruin his plans, maybe, but that might be his only choice.
When the taxi takes a left on the N-340 he thinks, train station, and they wouldn't be flying back to America, which would make an arrest his only option. Still, skipping out of B
arcelona on a train to any other part of Spain or even France would inevitably make his job more difficult too.
To his surprise the taxi passes by the Estación de Francia without even slowing and continues on Avenue del Litoral. Where in the hell are they going, he wonders? His question is answered when the taxi turns into the parking garage attached to the rear of the Hotel Arts and the two Americans head straight to the elevators without even checking in.
They already have a room established? Someone is definitely assisting them; the fat man, no doubt.
The rider spins back toward the Fira Palace to the Carrer de la Guardia Urbana - the police station behind the hotel and cruises the block in search of the IndyCat, but nothing. Parking the bike he walks into the police station and up to the front desk where the sergeant on duty eyes him suspiciously.
"So, which is it? You were mugged? Or, you fell off your bicycle?" the desk sergeant asks with typical desk sergeant sarcasm.
The rider pulls a wallet from his leathers and displays an identification card to which the sergeant quickly changes his tune. "Yes sir. I apologize sir. How may I assist the Cesid? (Spanish Intelligence Service)
"Two men have just been brought in. I want to see them," the rider says.
"No one has been brought in today, Señor," the flustered sergeant says.
"What do you mean? Two men were arrested in front of the Fira Palace only moments ago. I saw the entire procedure. They must be here," he demanded.
"I am sorry, Señor, but they were not brought to this station."
"Then where else would they have been taken?"
"If they were arrested near the Fira Palace, they should have been brought to this station, but they are not here. Maybe they have not yet arrived," the sergeant says.
"They must have arrived by now you fool. I have already been to two hotels since the arrest. You think it would take them longer to drive three blocks?" the rider says.
"No, Señor. I am not saying that. I am simply saying ..."