by Dancer, Jack
“Here's to good friends who we all now know, probably better than we should, and thank you Nanette for hosting last night's soiree by the way. We're both still enjoying the residual pain." And we clink glasses.
Nanette steps over to the food. “Oh, Monica honey, this spread is beautiful it'll surely put everyone so much more at ease."
"It's not last night's but then, I'm not sharing again tonight," I say.
"Not even with me, Tucker?" Nanette says with a pout.
"Well . . . maybe," I stammer.
"Now, don't be selfish, Tucker," Monica says leaning over and giving Nanette a kiss on the mouth just to tease me.
"Holy Saint Jupiter. If you two don't stop I'm gonna lock the door and pretend no one's home."
"Men aren't the only ones who think two women having sex is hot," Monica says with her bad girl smile.
"Hey, I get it. I've always said I had one big thing in common with lesbians."
"Which is?" Nanette asks.
"We both love women."
"What's not to love?" says Monica turning to Nanette and both giggling.
Nanette breaks away and says, "Unfortunately, tonight we do have some business to take care of. Hopefully, we can come together and find a solution to this horrible situation with Ebba and Terry. Oh, my God, a tragedy beyond belief. And you got . . .” She turns to me, "a ransom note, Tucker? So, that confirms what has befallen them, right?”
“Well . . .” I say.
“The answer to that is yes and yes,” Monica says. "It is a ransom note, but it could also be interpreted as a joke too, at least in the context of some of Ebba's past behaviors, as Tucker will tell you. But, the one thing that makes it convincing is Terry's involvement. She'd never do this voluntarily. That we can be sure of.”
A knock at the door interrupts, and I walk over, take a peep through the spy hole for no surprises.
"Welcome to our humble abode,” I say to everyone waving them in and shaking hands with each, Pat, James and Randy and give Lisa a peck on the cheek.
"Give me your coats, and I'll lay them on the bed,” I say taking one light jacket from each and walking the armload to the back room while greetings go around.
Returning, I announce, "bar's over here, so please help yourselves. My I get something for you, Lisa"
"White wine would be nice, Tucker, thanks,” she says and while I'm pouring her wine the boys walk up.
"Gentlemen help yourselves. Hopefully, we have the bases covered."
"Very nice, Tucker, I must say, and quite a spread you have here,” Pat says.
"Food and suite,” Randy says rounding a three-sixty taking it all in.
"The view's fabulous, just look at that beautiful harbor and the sky, the stars. It's just gorgeous, Tucker,” says James gushing his way over like I'd created it all myself.
"Thanks James. It is a spectacular view."
"Exactly how many points did this upgrade cost you, Tucker,” says Pat walking up like he's my best friend.
"Blew the balance and more."
"I'll bet,” says Randy. "Good to see you, Tucker. Nice hideaway."
"You too Randy. Yeah, it'll do. Now I guess we'll have to find another one after tonight since it won't be a secret anymore. We've blown our cover."
"Does this mean you're not rooming with Ebba anymore?” says Pat with a little dig.
"Say, Tucker, your room at the Fira? The only view from my room is the back end of a large air conditioner,” yells over Lisa, "can I have your old room?"
"Fine with me Lisa but it's not my room. You'd better talk to Ebba,” I yell back, and you could hear a pin drop. I blush at my blunder. "Maybe later,” I say, "let's have some food first, and then we can get to that subject. Okay? This restaurant's self-serve everyone, so please, help yourselves before the hot things go cold, and the cold goes hot. And please, indulge, we have no way to keep leftovers."
It's funny how the very words, food and drink, can so quickly refocus attention - like switching out a brightly-colored toy in front of a baby. Everyone takes a plate and picks their way around the serving tables gathering their favorites then locating a chair, a couch, even a window sill, and settling in. Good cheer abounds.
"So, Nanette, you gonna take the chaw outta your mouth before you eat?” kids Pat.
Nanette flips him a bird.
Monica pipes up. "Don't mess with her tonight, Pat. She had a couple of molars extracted, and the pain meds are wearing off. I'd keep my distance if I were you."
“I'd like that dentist's name, Nanette, for my do-not-call list,” kids Randy.
She drops her fork to her plate and flips two birds getting a good laugh from the whole group.
“You want me to come chew it for you honey?” James asks.
Nanette's eyes roll exasperated. She's clearly had enough.
“You guys had better lay off unless you want your heads bit off, cause what's in her mouth is the last guy's head,” says Lisa eliciting a painful moan from Nanette trying not to come apart laughing.
Fifteen or so minutes of eating, drinking and small talk pass before someone asks about Ebba and Terry.
Pat's the first to respond with, “Yeah, Tucker it looks like you and Monica have gone to great lengths to get away from someone who's now gotten away for, what, five days now? Could've saved yourself a lot of money (he looks around the suite) this whole time and still had two rooms all to yourselves at the Fira.”
“Hindsight's 20-20, eh Pat?” I say not taking his bait.
Then Monica spat, “It was my idea to come over here, Pat, for your information. If you remember, I was in that limo the last time Ebba and Terry were seen. I came into Scruples that same night, having walked back to the hotel. Or, maybe you don't remember. You were pretty smashed. Ask Lisa she'll remind you. And had I not jumped out of that car, there'd no doubt be three of us missing right now instead of two. So, that's why we got this room, Pat - because I wanted it, for my protection. It turned out to be a pretty smart move too when we learned two mafia types came stalking for us at the Fira.”
“Stalking?” Lisa asks.
“Well, yes, there were two guys looking for us at the Fira, posing as policemen, then sitting out front all day waiting for us to show,” Monica says.
“How do you know they were looking for you and, Tucker?” James asks.
Randy raises his hand, "Because, I ran across them in the hallway at the Fira. They were knocking on Nanette's door. I told them she'd checked out. They said they were looking for Tucker and Monica. Said they were police but wouldn't produce any identification, and they were rude and nervous. They didn't strike me as real police. I didn't have Tucker or Monica's numbers so I called Nanette and told her about them. She said she'd call them and let them know."
"So, I called Monica," Nanette picks up, "and relayed what Randy had said and suggested they not return to the hotel until these guys were gone."
Monica picks up, “I told Tucker, and he went over to the Fira and photographed them sitting in their car waiting outside to ambush us."
"Ambush?" says Pat. "A little melodramatic don't you think?"
"No. Not at all Pat," Monica says. "We recognized them from the train. You see, there was an incident . . . and well; they were a part of it.”
Monica went on to take everyone through the events on the train, including Paulo crashing into our compartment and dying. I'd interject every now and then to clarify or expand a little on something, but we both pretty much stuck to the script we'd agreed on. Everything we told them was the truth, not all the truth, but enough, we thought, at least enough to stimulate group discussion and involve everyone in coming up with ideas. Turned out, not surprisingly, that all we'd done was to bring together a forum for blowing hot air because no one in the group was in a position to do the only realistic thing that could be done that might get them back - paying the ransom.
Naturally, whatever ideas were bantered around went nowhere because paying the ransom was the only sure wa
y to get 'em back and even that wasn't certain.
Should I have expected it to go any other way? No. Did I expect it to go any other way? Not really. I was holding out some hope someone might offer up a brilliant solution, but no. It's like taxes or anything else in life. You can only expect someone to pay who can. Simple. It's not a matter of fairness; it's a matter of who can pay.
So I figured, screw it, I'll pay, and afterwards, Monica and I'll disappear from Barcelona or even Spain altogether, wait it out until my divorce is final, which is only a month or so away anyhow, then claim the 120 million and go live the high life. Just pay and walk away.
I'm fed up with this whole thing, and I know I'm out of my league anyhow. I'll do my part then hand it all off to the authorities and let them deal with the rest of it which is what we should've done from the start.
How did I get myself into this situation? All I wanted with this whole damn trip in the first place was to see Barcelona and get laid. That was it. I didn't come looking for €120 million (though I'm not complaining), and I didn't come to fall in love. I sure as hell didn't come to get caught up in all this.
When the meeting broke up everyone went home. For Monica and me it meant back to the Hotel Arts.
It was a beautiful evening, so we decided to walk. As we talked about the meeting, recapping everything and agreeing the only thing we accomplished was to bring them into what little we knew and not alienate them, out of nowhere Monica says, "Why don't we just get out of here, Tucker, and go someplace safe where none of this can touch us? Just disappear and leave it all behind. We can start a new life together, just you and me. Forget all about this insanity. Who needs it?”
It just came out of nowhere, an unexpected turn from what we'd been talking about the last fifteen minutes, and I found myself agreeing with her. She's right. Why are we doing all this? We should just get out now while we can. Things couldn't get much worse.
Boy, was I mistaken.
***
The Rider.
Patiently waiting at an outdoor table at Piscolabis and nursing his third coffee, the rider stubs his cigarette out when he spots the two Americans leaving through the Hilton's revolving doors into the night air. He rises, pulls a small bankroll from his leathers, peels off three notes, and lets them float unceremoniously to the table. Without shifting his eyes from his prey, he slips into the anonymity of his helmet and skirts around the outside of the restaurant to the Ducati waiting among the knot of motorcycles parked along the sidewalk in front. He didn't expect to see them leave the hotel after their friends had, and wondered what they were up to, so he followed at a distance. When they turned down a small side street, he rode another block and circled around to watch them approach from a distance.
He'd just lit another cigarette when a panel van came bounding around the corner behind the Americans and jumped onto the sidewalk nearly running them down before screeching to a stop. Two men jump out and rush the couple, standing paralyzed in the van's headlights. One pulls what appears to be a weapon and fires at the man knocking him to the sidewalk where he begins shaking like an epileptic, while the other tries to grab the woman. But she takes a quick step back and then forward giving the man a swift kick to his balls and he collapses like a rag doll. The other man sees this and leaps at the woman giving her a hard right to the stomach folding her in two. He then grabs her in a headlock and drags her to the back of the waiting van. A bum that had been lying drunkenly on the sidewalk, against a door, leaps to his feet and starts screaming like a Japanese banzai, his head thrashing from side to side startling the bejesus out of the two men busily trying to force the woman into the van.
When the last man finally gets the rear door shut and is opening the front passenger-side door, the van is thrown into reverse, shooting backward into the street before leaping forward on peeling rubber in a crazy effort to escape the scene. The last man is hanging onto the flailing door for dear life, screaming for the idiot driver to stop.
From the depths of his filthy, threadbare trousers, the tramp pulls a cell phone and punches a two-digit speed dial. Within seconds a police car materializes out of nowhere and rushes to the tramp where the incapacitated man is still thrashing around on the sidewalk like a Tuna on a boat deck. Staccato strobes of cobalt blue paint the buildings.
Doors fly open and out jump two uniformed Barcelona police officers. They hurry to the prostrate man, lift him by the feet and arms, and carry him like a bag of flour to the police car where he's stuffed unceremoniously into the backseat. The two officers cram themselves in with him while the tramp takes the front passenger seat. The plainclothes driver spins the car around and is off with lights flashing and sirens wailing, back in the direction they came. The rider who has observed everything in utter dismay thinks he recognized the plainclothes driver as the fat man from the Fira Palace, but isn’t certain.
Now the rider faces a dilemma: Which car to follow? His gut tells him the prize, so he tosses the cigarette to the ground, throws on his helmet nearly knocking his wraparounds off then fires up the Ducati and shoots off in pursuit of the first car. Within seconds, he finds the car stopped, and the man who'd been hanging onto the passenger-side door kneeling across the front seat furiously screaming insults and beating the driver. He pulls the driver over to the passenger side then steps out, slams the door and takes over as driver. The rider had been lucky the tiff delayed the car.
For the next two hours, the rider follows the car and its occupants out of Barcelona and along a maze of secondary roads through the countryside in an obvious attempt to thwart any tails. For the rider, the chance of being spotted was pretty slim. The nearly nonexistent traffic during these wee hours and a quarter moon hanging high in a clear night sky, along with his clear wraparounds, allowed him to ride these familiar back roads much of the time without having to use the Ducati's one headlight.
When they reached the outskirts of Puigcerda, he’s now certain of their ultimate destination, so he turns around and heads back to Barcelona wracking his brain about the fat man. Who is this man, and what are the Barcelona police doing with this American? Are they working on behalf of the Raven, or this American? The whole incident he'd just witnessed, with the woman being violently snatched off the street and the man Tasered, only to be scooped up by the police, moments later, clearly appeared to be a coordinated effort, but what was with the bum? He can only be undercover.
There were other disturbing questions too. Why would the Raven grab only the woman? Why not grab the man and the woman? Is it the woman who possesses the ticket and not the man? Does she believe she can ransom the woman, for the ticket? That doesn't make sense either. She could not possibly believe the man will give up €120 million for this woman, can she? Or, was she intending to snatch the man as well, but the tramp, coming out of nowhere and interceding, spoiled the effort? It's the only thing that makes sense.
Now the man will only go deeper into hiding. Could that be why the police were involved? Or, was this a setup by the police, a trap to ensnare the Raven? No, that doesn't make sense. The Raven wouldn't expose herself. Not again. She already took that risk and failed. And she failed again when Druses and Tiber were scooped up. So, why are the police involved? This is out of their authority.
But the larger question is: Who is this fat man? He surely cannot be police. He must be protecting the American; maybe even hired by the American. It is the American, who is the key, this Tucker Blue. He has the ticket, and it is he who must be convinced to give it up. When the Raven learns she has failed once again she will be furious. She will have again underestimated this American. She will need an ally, an influential one, someone who can deliver the American.
***
I was sure I was being kidnapped just like Monica, but after less than a minute the car was pulling into a darkened garage and coming to a screeching halt. I could hear the unmistakable sound of nylon wheels running through the guide rails as the garage door closed. Still unable to move a muscle or even mak
e a protest, two uniformed policemen pull me out of the car's backseat and tote me up a few stairs then through a door and a couple rooms before dropping me onto a bed.
A face appears over mine, hovering; it's Dick. His mouth is moving and words are coming out, but there's a disconnect, a delay. It's like one of the many badly dubbed Japanese monster movies I'd watched as a kid. And if it weren't for Godzilla and Mothra, I probably would've never understood a damn thing the man was saying, but I’m putting it together.
"You are in the El Raval apartment, Tucker, and you are safe. We will retrieve your belongings from the Hotel Arts, and you will stay here under the protection of (and at this point another face comes into view, a pretty woman, 50’s I'd guess) Madame Bovarie. She will see you are well taken care of and comfortable,” he assures me.
"And Señor Blue for tonight you need to rest so I am going to give you two things to will help you. The first is Tanya (a beautiful young girl's face with a lovely smile replaces Dick's hovering noggin). She will stay with you tonight to keep you warm and comfortable. I am also giving you (Tanya extends my bare arm) a little something else to calm you and help you to sleep through the night. It is only a light sedative so no worry.” She slips a needle into my arm, and I can feel a warmth beginning to spread like an incoming tide. When she withdraws the needle, Dick says, "Tucker, I will come by in the morning, and we'll discuss your situation and what we need to do next."
"Monica,” I squeeze out.
"We will find her, Tucker. Do not fear. I already have men on it, and we will bring her back safe and sound. You just rest and relax right now and do not worry over anything. All will be fine. Get a good night's sleep and I will see you in the morning,” he says and disappears.
"Señor Blue, Tanya and I will now undress you and fit you snugly into the bed. Please do not worry a thing. Tanya will be right here with you. She is very good girl. My little hummingbird."
They prop me into a sitting position and take my shirt off, then lie me gently back down and while one unbuckles my belt and unzips my trousers the other removes my shoes and socks. Pulling at the cuffs of my trousers, they come off with relative ease, and I can feel the cool air washing across my bare skin.