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

by Dancer, Jack

  Duped again by these fucking Americans! These are not just tourists. They are part of a conspiracy, an organization, and a powerful organization. They are professionals. How the woman handled that urchin! It can only be. She is not just some American homemaker or airline stewardess on vacation. She is professional. He is professional. Who but a professional would carry a dummy wallet? But who is it they work for? Pello maybe? Is that why they were visiting the Green Dragon? There must be a connection. I must see where else they go.

  The rider pulls his helmet over his head gingerly so the facemask doesn't press the wraparounds into his bruised eye again. He sparks the Ducati to life and speeds off in the general direction of Las Ramblas to find and follow the Americans, but this time they've disappeared.

  ***

  "Let's get out of here. We'll get you another one." And with that we start backtracking our way to Las Ramblas.

  "Not this creepy alley again," she complains.

  "We didn't run into any trouble coming through before."

  She shoots me a look like that was the stupidest thing I could’ve said.

  "You first," I say pushing her ahead. She gives me the evil eye and swings her purse into position.

  "On second thought," I grin, and take her hand into mine, "Better we go together." And we walk back into the dark and wet Carrer Dels Escudellers, halfway down, just past Ryan's Irish Bar where an old derelict is leaning against one of the graffiti-ridden metal grilles, speaking in tongues, his head swinging from one side to the other spraying spit like a Rain Bird.

  "Oh, great,” Monica says stopping, "I'm not walking through a spit shower, Tucker. Let's turn around."

  "Wait a minute,” I say, "Maybe I can distract him, and we can make a run past him.” I reach into my pocket and bring out a handful of coins and toss 'em down the alleyway, clink, clink, clinking all over in front of the old guy and while he's bending down picking 'em up, we make a quick dash past him.

  Once out of range, Monica says, "Brilliant, Tucker. That was a totally nonviolent way to deal with the situation. You helped him and us at the same time. You're a saint, Tucker."

  "Hardly. My first thought was to take your purse and slug him, then run."

  "Remember what I told you about touching my purse?” she warns.

  "Then I was going to ask you to do it."

  "This is a Louis Vuitton purse, Tucker. You think I want the bum's slobber all over it?"

  "No wonder you wouldn't let the kid have it."

  "Now you got the picture.” We both laugh and make a dash down the Carrer Dels Escudellers and instead of La Rambla, we take a quick left onto Passatge d'Escudellers and follow it until it turns into Passatge de la Pau then take a right onto Carrer de Josep Anselm Clavé and around La Rambla into Passatge de la Banca where we're standing in front of the Museo de Cera.

  "Hey did you see where La Rambla turned into Rambla de Santa Monica? Did you make it do that?"

  "A saint can do many things, Tucker. Didn't you know that?" she says with her killer smile.

  "I also noticed there's a street called, Carrer de la Princesa too. So, you're not just princesa, you're a saint too?" I say, kidding her.

  "A woman has many powers, Tucker."

  "So, you're famous throughout Barcelona."

  "Yeah, except for one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "It's not me, Tucker!”

  "Okay, fine. But, can't we just pretend? I'll treat you like a princess," I say putting on my sincerest smile.

  "Tucker, you already treat me like a princess," she says giving me a peck on my cheek. "We can pretend if you want but just do me one favor."

  "Don't call you princess?"

  "Right. I don't need more little old ladies bugging me for autographs. It's embarrassing."

  "Okay, deal. But, on one condition."

  "No conditions Tucker."

  "That you give me an autograph."

  "Can I sign it across your bare ass tonight?"

  "That'd work just fine. Can you add, ‘with love’?"

  "Sure."

  “So, this is Nanette's special recommendation? A wax museum?" I say.

  "No, it's El Bosc de les Fades and that's . . ." she takes me by my arm and leads me around the corner. "Right here."

  “Oh, so what’s an El Bosc de les Fades?" I ask while opening the door for ladies first.

  “Forest of the Fairies. And no, it’s not a gay bar," she whispers as we walk through and into what appears to be a very dark forest. “Nanette said it's supposed to be pretty crazy."

  "If Nanette says so, then I have little doubt.”

  ***

  Still as a statue, and kneeling over the pond's edge, the nude little fairy spies Tucker and Monica pushing through the heavy wooden door of her enchanted forest, at least hers for this very purpose. She was but a child fairy, small and innocent, pure and virtuous. Well, that was the intended image at least. But, when Tucker turned and laid his eyes on her, a fierce blush washed over her slight green coloring, like a wave.

  Could he see, she wondered?

  She watched his eyes explore her nakedness like a cartographer mapping contours and depths, latitudes and longitudes, logging everything to memory. It made her uneasy. Then it made her mad.

  He’s staring at me like I’m a freak in a sideshow; she thought and bit down on her tongue for fear it would otherwise fly out of her mouth with an infantile, nah-nana-nah-nah-nah, but the metallic taste of blood in her mouth calms her like a suckling leech.

  From Tucker, she turns her eyes to Monica, seeing her for the first time. Oh yes, she saw her walk through the door, but she didn't really see her.

  La Princesa. Oh, my how beautiful you are.

  In that same instant, as if Monica had read her thoughts, those sparkling emeralds turned and fell on the little fairy like a sprinkling of fairy dust, giving her a mildly pleasant little jolt which triggered another hot blush to bloom across her face, and she feared it would give her away. But, soon enough it retreated down her bare chest and across her small paunch before nesting between her cramping legs like a small animal taking shelter.

  She nearly flinched but she didn't, and she wouldn't because a good human mannequin - and she was a very good one - can pose for hours with nothing more than the iron grip of will to sustain them. But, not always without consequences, like now; beads of perspiration sprout across her forehead and at the moment one solitary little crystalline sphere has trickled a path to the corner of her eye delivering a salty sting.

  Blink, and she's toast; cover blown, and the man will know for sure this little fairy’s not just another wax figure from the Museu de Cera across the way.

  She holds onto the blink like a mad Doberman on a leash and manages to squeeze out a single tear to dilute the invader and wash it harmlessly down the fissure between her cheek and nose and around the corner of her little fairy mouth until it's dangling precipitously from her pointy little chin.

  Tears on demand; no small effort for a psychopath who lacks even a smidgen of conscience. Then again, mimicking normal human emotions is every psychopath's special camouflage, isn't it?

  The rich American will regret he ever came to Barcelona. And what about the beautiful la Princesa watching him watching me? Doesn’t she see guy's a perv, staring at a naked child like he is?

  God my legs are killing me. Hurry up you two and move along before I cramp up and fall over into this damn pond.

  “The little fairy looks awfully real doesn’t she?” Monica says.

  “She’s not?” he says, “I thought for sure she was. Seemed like only a moment ago I saw her blush, but I guess I was mistaken."

  "The lighting's not all that great in here anyway. My eyes still haven't adjusted,” Monica says.

  "See the little up-turned nose and pointy chin. Sure looks like a fairy to me,” he says with a little disappointment.

  My nose turns up? Does not!

  "Fairies aren't real, Tucker.”

 
"That's not what I've been told,” he says.

  "Oh, Criminies," she says smiling a little exasperation and pulling me by the arm. ”Come on you're making me need a drink."

  "What about the little fairy? Shouldn't we offer to buy her one too?" he asks.

  "She's underage."

  No, I'm not! And yes, I'd love a drink about now, silently screams the little fairy.

  “Nanette said this place was a trip,” Monica says turning her head to take in the enchanted forest, the paper butterflies and grasshoppers, branches snaking throughout, will-o-wisp lights twinkling like fireflies.

  “And she was right," he says turning away just as the little droplet loses its grip on the pixie's chin and falls silently into the pond sending fairy-sized concentric ripples across its quiet surface.

  "Let's get that drink," Monica says taking Tucker's hand and leading him to the mystical, dark grotto-like bar that appears to be growing out of the trunk of a huge tree. Even the barstool-high tables surround huge gnarly tree trunks. As drinks are ordered the big lights blink off and the fairy lights dim, thunder booms and lightning cracks through the air.

  "So much for finding shelter to get out of the weather," Tucker says.

  As soon as their backs are turned the little fairy stands and disappears into a hidden alcove.

  “Well, that was one bizarro bar,” Monica says walking out the door and back onto Passatge de la Banca.

  “Bonkers huh? Good place to take the kids.”

  “We don't have any kids.”

  “Oh, yeah. Wanna go back and adopt the little street urchin we gave money to?”

  “We'll never find him again.”

  “There's plenty more around.”

  “Maybe we should get to know each other a little more before starting a family.”

  “Yeah, you're probably right.”

  “Does this mean you love me, Tucker?”

  “If I found the kid would you believe me?”

  “I believe you anyway sweetheart,” she says snuggling up.

  Sweetheart? This wasn't just sweetheart. This was sweetheart as in really sweetheart. Uh oh.

  "Can we go to Park Güell now?”

  "You command is my wish, milady."

  We catch a taxi and on the ride to Park Güell Monica points out all the people posting the same handbills we’d seen earlier for the missing girls.

  “Boy, they're really plastering those girls' face everywhere aren't they?”

  “Yeah, sure are. Of all the kids who must go missing in a city as large as Barcelona, I wonder why these girls are getting such prominent play?”

  The cabbie overhears us and explains. "These girls are Sophia De la Riva and Elena Basso, Señora, and they come from two of the richest, most powerful families in Barcelona and one is thought to be the niece of Pello Azaura. The rich and powerful always take precedent over the ordinary citizen.”

  “Suppose you're right,” Tucker says. "Still it's a shame some sick person has probably kidnapped them.”

  “There are many crazy, sick people in Barcelona Señor,” the cabbie says.

  “Yeah, we just ran into two of them only moments ago,” says Monica.

  “In Park Güell you'll be safer than down here in El Raval,” the cabbie says.

  ***

  On the ride to the Park Güell I try to spot the guy on the Ducati I was sure I’d seen several times earlier. It was too coincidental to see the same guy that many times and to spot him, not just on the Las Ramblas we’d walked up and down several times, but to see him on the narrow side streets too. I’m sure it’s the same rider. I’d recognize the bike anywhere. Plus, the same helmet and jacket. No doubt, this guy is following us.

  No way I’m telling Monica and worrying her, and no way I’m breaking away from her, leaving her exposed, to make a call to Dick either, though after how she handled the mugger in Tripi Square I’ve probably got more reason to worry about me than her.

  He's nowhere to be seen now. Maybe we lost him when we made those quick turns into the two narrow Passatges on our way to El Bosc de les Fades.

  Even so, it's worrisome that, after Dick removed the IndyCat boys, someone else is now tailing us. What's more puzzling is how they located us in the first place. Changing hotels twice didn't throw ‘em off track, apparently. So, how’d they find us?

  Wait, the Fira, of course. He must’ve been staking out the Fira and picked us up when we were there this morning. That’s got to be it. And if it is, then he shouldn't know about the Hotel Arts.

  Might be a good idea to mix it up a bit in the crowds at the park. Maybe even leave through a rear entrance.

  Still, it's worrisome. Got to get in touch with Dick and see if he’s got someone tailing our tail. Wait! What if the Ducati rider is Dick's man? Holy shit! That's probably it. And here I’m worrying for nothing.

  ***

  The gates of Park Güell are welcoming arms to forget your troubles and enter a world of fantasy and not just any fantasy either. This fantasy's more akin to Disneyland on LSD. Not the visitor but Disneyland itself.

  Stepping from the cab we're confronted with two large gingerbread buildings flanking the park's street side entrance. Passing through those, we come to the park's main entrance, the focal point, where two staircases flank a dragon made of colored tiles leading up to a fountain, the centerpiece.

  At the top of the stairs is the Sala Hipóstila a forest of 84 stone columns and above that a broad open space whose centerpiece is the Banc de Trenadis, a tiled sea serpent bench curving sinuously around its perimeter. We were told that to design the curvature of the bench surface Gaudi used the shape of buttocks left by a naked workman sitting in wet clay. Wonder what he had to pay them to do that? And it’s from this terrace you can view the main city panorama, with the Sagrada Familia and the Montuïc area visible in the distance.

  Walkways throughout the park's gardens are endless; one supported by twisting rock pillars that appear to be growing out of the ground like tree trunks and it’s near here where we find a small outdoor cafe and stop for a drink.

  “Is this not some kind of incredible place?” I ask Monica.

  “Fabulous. I've been here many times as a child, and it's always the most wonderful place,” she says, "Thank you for bringing me here, Tucker. Thank you for the whole day. I've never enjoyed myself more than I have with you today.

  “Me too. But I guess we'd better start heading back to the hotel. Maybe get a little rest before dinner? What do you think?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I'm beat. Could I have a little appetizer before we leave the room for dinner?”

  “What sort of appetizer?"

  “You.”

  Whoa. “That could be arranged as long as I can have a little appetizer too.”

  “I wouldn't have it any other way,” she says. "By the way, where are we having dinner tonight?"

  “That's a surprise. Should be an interesting one too. Just don't bother with getting dressed up.”

  “A down and dirty place, Tucker?”

  “Not at all but we might get a little food on ourselves.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  thirty-five

  Evening, Thursday, 4 September.

  Somewhere in the Pyrenees.

  The Raven & Paulo.

  Three maddening days and nights passing, and still he's shackled to the stainless steel table, unable to move so much as a single digit. Even the certainty the body he once inhabited - the one now as remote as if it belonged to someone else - has digits remaining, is in doubt. Straight ahead, a mere meter into the black folds of the curtain separating him from the room beyond is the extent of his vision. That he can hear is his only connection with the living world, the only evidence remaining that he is not a corpse.

  Yet for the last two and a half days, since the Raven removed his testicles, and he nearly went deaf from the screaming of his own mind; he has since heard nothing other than the grief wailing from inside. For it was the thoughts of his wife, Miche
lle and six-year-old daughter, Annabelle and three-year-old, Lillie, the loves of his life, that flooded him with a despair so paralyzing even the NMBA coursing through his veins could not begin to dull.

  It is also his love for his beautiful wife and the love his little girls have for their Papa that fires Paulo's determination to overcome the inconceivable circumstances in which he finds himself - the virtual exorcising of his physical world. In a moment of clarity, he comes to understand that his fight for survival will be on the battleground of his mental state; his mind being both his best hope for preserving his sanity and his greatest nemesis for losing it.

  He needs to pull his mind from the constant drift between the slipstreams of ever receding hope and crushing despair, so he throws it toys and games as one would toss to a child to keep it occupied and focused away from its terrible reality.

  A door opens followed by sobbing.

  "Sit them here, and tie their wrists and ankles to the chairs with these," says the Raven, the familiar sound of her words penetrating the black curtain and reaching Paulo's ears.

  "Now back to your posts and see that I am not disturbed," she says followed by the sound of footsteps receding behind the opening and closing of a door.

  Several minutes pass, then more footsteps, and the black curtain is thrown aside revealing the diminutive doctor covered from head to foot in surgical attire complete with mask and cap, rubber gloves and boots. She looks like Marty the Martian except in white. And she’s brandishing a large hypodermic needle.

  Shrieks go up from the two figures sitting upright and naked in straight-back chairs in the middle of the tiled room. They are young girls, teenagers. Both are bound and gagged and both wear faces contorted in a ghastly fear.

  "Señor Marti, good evening," says the Raven. "I hope you've had a restful time since our last meeting." She steps up to inspect the surgery she performed commenting, "I see your missing manhood is coming along nicely. Did you enjoy those little morsels?