by Dancer, Jack
"I know what you said. Call the other nearby stations and see if these two men were taken to any of them. Do it. Immediately. This is a national-security issue," the rider demands. The sergeant starts making calls, and the rider paces the floor, thinking. Where the hell could they be? Then it dawns on him, and he turns to the sergeant again.
"Who is the fat detective? The plainclothes?"
"There is no fat, plainclothes detective here, Señor. I am the only fat policeman in this station. I am the front-desk sergeant, Señor, fat and sarcastic as all front-desk sergeants, but unlike all, I am kindly at heart," he says going back to his phone calls.
What the hell is going on here? Who were those men? If not policemen, who? Without another word, the rider stomps out the door, furious.
The desk sergeant drops the phone back into its cradle. "Fucking Cesid."
thirty-three
18:00 Hours, Wednesday, 3 September.
The Hotel Arts.
“I talked with Nanette today, over lunch, while you were out scouting for those guys, remember?”
“Yeah and?”
“And I told her about the incident on the train with the dead guy.”
“Why? I thought we agreed, we'd keep that between us?” I say.
“I know, but now they're looking for us, and Nanette's bugging the shit out of me wanting to know why. She knows, Tucker, or at least, she knows something's going on. Come on. Two guys show up, as the police at the Fira looking for us, and you don’t expect people won’t be concerned? We can’t ignore them. We’ve got to tell them something. She just wants to help. She's afraid for us. I thought I should tell her what happened on the train, and these two guys are probably looking for us because we witnessed the guy dying. I'm really scared with all this, Tucker, and I needed someone to talk to about it, so I talked to Nanette."
“Okay, so what exactly did you tell her?”
"Well, I didn't tell her about what we were doing on the train when the guy came crashing through the door and died on top of my naked body if that's what's got you worried. I wouldn't dare tell her about that. I just told her about the guy dropping dead in our compartment and the little doctor and her two weird helpers and how they kept us out of the whole thing. That's all.”
“Did you tell her the doctor’s name?”
“No.”
“Did she ask the doctor’s name?”
She thinks about it and says, “Yes, she did and I thought it was weird she’d ask for that detail, so I withheld it. I was thinking if we’re going to control this whole thing, we have to control the details too.”
I look at her and smile in admiration. Even though Monica knows nothing about the business with the lottery ticket, it was smart thinking to keep hush on the details. You never know how letting some thing’s out might come back and bite you later. You can always release information when you think it’s appropriate but you can’t put it back in the box once it’s out.
“And what'd she say after you told her all this?”
“She could hardly believe it, and she was shocked we hadn't said anything about it, until now."
"Did you tell her what I was doing while you two were having lunch?"
"You mean going over to the Fira to check the two stalkers out? Yeah, I told her."
"What'd she say about that?"
"She actually started thinking maybe they were cops after all and was afraid you might get arrested. So, what did happen, and who’s this guy Dick you mentioned?"
"He's a private detective. I hired him to follow those two guys and to keep them away from us."
"They're still out there?"
"I don't know. I left with Dick still watching them. I don't know what happened afterwards. I just sent him an email with the photos I took of them and asked him if he's done anything with them."
"Done with them? What's he going to do with them?"
"Find out why they're looking for us."
"And how's he supposed to do that? Just walk up and ask them?"
"I don't know and frankly; I don't care how he does it, as long as he can get answers. He came highly recommended. I think he has methods."
"Methods? Who recommended him?"
"I found him through my attorney," I say.
"How does your attorney . . . never mind."
"So, has anyone heard anything from Terry or Ebba?" I ask.
"No. I called Terry's cell twice and left messages, but she hasn't called back."
"You think they're okay?"
"I'm not all that worried about them. They're big girls. I expect they'll call or show up before long," she says.
"You're probably right. Still, it's pretty weird just to disappear like that. Maybe we should call the police just to see if they've been reported in an accident or something."
"They probably wouldn't tell us anything. We're not relatives."
"What if we have Captain Pat call and make inquires. If he calls the police he can say he's missing two flight attendants and he has a flight to make. They'd probably be more likely to help him."
“Sure, that might work.”
"So, call Pat and ask him to do it," I say.
"You call, Pat."
"Pat hates me. He's not going to do it for me, but he'll do it for you."
"He's going to want to know where we are and where we're staying since we're not at the Fira anymore."
"Oh, yeah. Okay, call Nanette then and ask her to call Pat."
"That's a better idea." And she does. Nanette agrees.
I locate the Barcelona phone book and go to Hospitals. There are several pages, so I rip out a few and split ‘em up with Monica.
"Here, you start with these, and I'll call the others. Let's just see if either of them has been treated or admitted."
We spend the next hour talking to every hospital in the city and nothing. Nanette calls back and tells us Pat found nothing with the police either, but they'd keep their eye out and would call him if the girls showed up.
"Apparently, one woman Pat was talking to volunteered to stand in as an FA, and he snagged a date with her when she gets off later tonight. Can you believe that?" Monica says.
"Damn, that guy's good. Is Nanette going to tell everyone else about the train incident?”
“I asked her not to.”
“Did she offer up any advice?”
“She said to wait and see who these two guys are. If they're police, then we should just go to the Barcelona police and give them the story. We didn't do anything wrong.”
“Except, leave the scene.”
“A lot of people left the scene. What about all those people gawking at us in the doorway? They left the scene.”
“I don't think it's the same thing. It was our compartment.”
“But, the guy died of a heart attack. It's not like somebody murdered him.”
“I hope not.”
“Whaddaya mean you hope not?”
“I mean, I hope the doctor was telling us the truth about how the guy died.”
“My God, Tucker. What're you saying?”
“I don't know but with these same two guys - her guys - down here looking for us. It's more than nothing. And posing as policemen? That's really off the grid.”
“You think we might have unwittingly gotten ourselves mixed up with a bunch of bad people?” she says.
“I just can't figure what the hell it is they'd want from us?” I say diverting.
As if I didn't know. And I hate myself for not telling her what they're after - at least what I think they're after. And if they're really after what I think they're after, then she's got a stake in this too, which only makes me feel much more of a rat not telling her.
Actually, it'd be kind of fun to tell her about the lottery ticket just to see her freak out at such an insane piece of luck. Forgetaboutit. Telling her would only double the chance of losing it. It's got to stay a secret. And a secret's not a secret if you tell anyone. Anyone! Just one person and it's not a secret anymore. How many peo
ple have even one secret they've never told another soul? Few, I'd bet. But, I do.
She moves into my line of sight, her eyes arresting, "Is there something you're not telling me, Tucker?”
Uh oh, she's asking like she knows the answer already and just wants to hear me say it. Impossible. She can't really know. She's baiting me. Forget it, I'm not biting.
“Whaddaya mean?” I ask back a little incredulous, "Not telling you what?”
“Just answer the question,” she says.
“Why would you ask me such a thing? What do you think I'm not telling you?”
“If I knew I wouldn't have to ask, would I?”
“Then let me re-word; what exactly makes you think I'm not telling you something?”
“Just some things you haven't explained,” she says.
“Like what?”
“Like who arranged for us to move into this hotel, and whose name is the room under?”
“I arranged for it through someone else, and I think it's best we leave it there, considering all that's going on. I took a few extra precautions. When things clear up, I'll tell you if you really care. In the meantime, don't worry about it. I'm just trying to protect us,” I say.
"You don't trust me to know, is that it?"
"No, that's not it. I don't want you to break under torture is all."
"What? Torture! Have you gone and lost your mind Blue? If you think that, then you'd damn well better tell me right now," she says.
"You're not going to like it."
"Goddammit, Blue."
"Okay, you got me. You got the hotel room."
"What? Me? Explain buster."
"I borrowed your credit card and got the room for you."
"You what? You stole my credit card?"
"Borrowed."
"So, now these animals who are trying to find us and kill us are going to come after me, is that it?"
"Yep, you're the bait. As soon as they snatch you, I'm outta here. Sayonara baby." I gave her a big smile and a little wave.
Her face takes a downturn and out of nowhere she starts crying.
Holy shit, what have I done? Oh, for crying out loud. Tears? She's turning on the tears? Women! Goddammit! Their ultimate weapon.
I can hardly move watching this display.
Goddammit, now I'm feeling like shit. It was a joke for crying out loud. Now I'm feeling worse than shit. And I did this? Heartless bastard. Do I have no empathy for someone else's feelings? How can I be such an asshole?
I step over, tentatively, and take her into my arms and pull her into me. She takes hold of me like someone would a life raft, her face burrowing into the crook of my neck, helpless tears, warm and moist, spill across my heart like rain on thirsty ground and now all I want to do is protect her, keep her and . . . love her?
I do don't I? Damn right I do. God, how could I hurt her like this?
“I'm sorry, Tucker. I'm just a little scared with all this,” she says over heaving sobs.
"It's all right, honey. Just let it out, let it go. Everything'll be okay, I promise."
"I'm sorry. I think it's all getting to me," she says pulling away wiping her tears.
"It's okay, really. I don't blame you. It's all too weird. None of this should be happening. We haven't done anything wrong, and here we've got two guys looking for us for whatever reason, and whatever it is can't be good. Then there's Terry and Ebba missing. Only God knows where they are. It's all just piling up. It's just all so crazy. The only good thing about any of it, as far as I'm concerned, is you and I are together. Maybe not under the best of circumstances but, still, I'm glad we are, because I've really missed your company."
"You mean it Tucker? Really? You've missed being with me?"
"Of course I mean it."
"I've missed you too." And with that she wraps her arms around me again, and kisses me with more passion than I can remember anyone kissing me. She takes my breath away, this woman.
“Dick, the private investigator got the room.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?”
“Because I wanted to play with you a little - you know, tease you some, and it got out of hand and you got upset. But it also got you into my arms and kissing me.”
“Say you’re sorry then,” she says.
“Sorry that it got you kissing me? Sorry, I’m not sorry.”
***
“Tucker, I've been thinking,” she says.
“About what?”
“About those two guys.”
“What about 'em.”
“Maybe we should drive up to Perpignan and go to Paulo's funeral - see who shows up. Maybe Libica will, and we can confront her about all this.”
“And if she doesn't?”
“I don't know, maybe we can still learn something. Talk to some of the other people there, people who knew Paulo. I don't know exactly, but it might be worth a trip.”
"Maybe."
"Tell you the truth I'd really like to get in front of that little bitch and ask her just what the hell she wants with us and why she's sending her two goons down here to stalk us.
"Might not be such a bad idea. Maybe we should just confront her face-to-face, in public, and see what she has to say for herself. God knows we need something to come of all this. Let's think about it. When was it the paper said the funeral would be?”
“Friday morning.”
"And which church?"
She walks to the other side of the room where the newspapers are piled on a chair and starts picking through.
Jesus Christ, what a perfect ass! What I'd love to be doing to that right now.
She pulls out the L'Independant. "The Catedral de Sant Joan Baptista de Perpinyà with burial in the church's cimetière following services," she reads.
"Before we do anything, we need to find out what happened to those guys she sent down here. Maybe Dick's found something out." Though I'm not sure I'm ready to bring that subject up with Monica just yet.
"So, give him a call and see," she says.
I pull out my wallet and Dick's card and dial.
"Dick's Dicks? You're kidding. That's his name?" she says looking over my shoulder at the business card.
"The name of his agency. Yeah, pretty funny, huh? Maybe it doesn't translate in Spanish the way we're reading it."
"No, I'm pretty sure it translates."
Dick answers and tells me he has the boys in custody, but he doesn't yet know why they've been stalking us. He says he's giving them a day or so to think their situation over. Wants to let 'em stew a little before putting them under the lights. Whatever that means.
"Holy shit Tucker. You sure this Dick guy knows what he's doing?"
"No, not really. All I know is he came highly recommended. Apparently, he had some history with the Franco regime, and he runs a very effective private eye agency."
"Franco? You're kidding? Tucker, this guy might be some kind of psycho torturer."
"I don't know about that. Hmm, wouldn't that be something? Then it's probably a good thing he's working for us and not them. All I care about is he gets answers from those two guys. Don't forget, these guys aren't down here because they're the Welcome Wagon. They're down here to hurt us."
"Yeah, it would appear that way. I just don't want this guy to get us into more trouble than we've already got."
"I don't think we'll have a problem there. As far as my business with him goes, it's technically through a local attorney here in Barcelona - an attorney my attorney recommended. At least, there's some arms-length."
"Christ, Tucker. How'd you manage to do all this in just one morning?"
"I'm a good multi-tasker, baby."
"Well, I for one am impressed."
"You know it could be a little tricky going up there on Libica's turf,” I say.
“Dangerous you mean?”
“Yeah, which is why you're not going.”
“Hey. Wait a minute buster, this was my idea.”
thirty-four
> Thursday, 4 September.
Day Tripping Barcelona.
"Something's happened to them. This is ridiculous," I say rolling over to a barely waking Monica.
"What? What's ridiculous? Leave me alone, I'm sleeping," she moans rolling over onto her stomach, pulling the sheet over her head.
"Terry and Ebba. Something's happened to them, something's wrong. They should've shown up by now. At least, they should've called," I say getting out of bed, "We've gotta do something."
"Try calling them again, then."
"I will," hopping over to my cell on the dresser and nearly tripping with one foot through my underwear and the other entangled.
"Maybe you should put them on first, then get your cell," comes a voice from under the sheet.
I ignore it.
"What's Terry's number?"
The bed sheet speaks, and I dial - nothing, not even voicemail.
"Nothing, not even voicemail."
"Try Ebba. And be sure to give her my regards while you're at it. Tell her the Hotel Arts is just spiffy."
Spiffy? I ignore that one too and dial. Nothing. No voicemail there either.
"Zip there too."
"Call the rooms at the Fira," calls out the bed sheet.
I do. Nothing.
"We need to go to the police and report them missing. Something's happened," I say.
"No, what we need to do is go to the Fira and find Juan," she says coming off the bed and going into a full body stretch to the ceiling, oblivious that she's stark naked. Or, maybe not?
Christ, what a body. And how tall! My God, how can she walk around in that thing without molesting herself?
Her words from last night still ring, "No, Tucker. We're not going to do that. I'll sleep with you. I'll even blow you, but we're not going all the way."
Going all the way? What is this, high school? Whatever.
Though I can't say I have any complaints about last night. It was all it could be - except the one thing - but that'll come. Keeping that one little thing out of reach like she does only makes me want her that much more, which has probably been her intent all along. But I'm wearing her down, I'm sure. Tonight, dammit, I'm going through that door if it kills me.