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

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Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4) Page 48

by Dancer, Jack


  “Ha, that must've been funny.”

  “It wasn't really, at least not at the time.”

  “No, I guess not. Sorry. Did the bum have a gun?”

  “No, he had a cell phone.”

  “A cell phone? Figures. Everybody's got a cell phone, even the bums. So, what'd he do call the cops?”

  “No, he called someone else and had a car come pick me up.”

  “What? He called a car service for you? You're kidding?”

  “Well, sort of car service but not exactly. It was a car service I had on hire. I can't really get into it right now. I'll tell you about it later, when I get a little further down the road on this, okay? Just trust me for the time being. I've had to take some unusual precautions with all that's been happening; you understand.”

  “Sure, Tucker. I understand. I just can't believe these fuckers grabbed Monica. What are you going to do about it? Are you still paying the ransom for Ebba and Terry? Do they want more money now that they've stolen Monica too?”

  Pat is not a hard guy to read. He's really an open book. Like I say, he may be an asshole, and he may say a lot of inappropriate things, but what comes out of this guy, you can bet on, is the truth. I can tell just from how he's reacting right now this is the first time he's heard about Monica getting snatched and wouldn't you figure if he were involved in any of this, he'd already know and be doing all he could to fake like this is news to him? Well, it is news to him because he didn't know anything about it. Nanette knows about it because I told her over the phone today. You'd sure think if Pat were a part of this flight crew bunch, he'd know. But, I guarantee you he knows nothing. James is full of shit about Pat being involved, which probably also means he's full of shit about Nanette not being involved. Besides, he sort of showed his cards on her when he brought up Evelyn.

  Why is James so hot on nailing Pat as part of this? Is he just hoping Pat is, or is he setting Pat up to take the fall because he doesn't like him? There's one way to tell.

  “Say Pat how'd you like to help me out with this kidnapping thing?”

  “Name it, Tucker. I'll do whatever I can. But you know we're going to have to go to the police with this though, right?”

  “I know, but I want to wait until I've paid the ransom. I hope that'll get 'em back. If it doesn't then, yeah, we'll have to let the police know.”

  “There's something else. I've gotta call the company tomorrow and tell 'em, I'm short two FAs and to send replacements. I've got a plane to fly back on Saturday, and I can't do it short two FAs. When I call, they'll want details, and I'll have to tell them. They'll want to know I've gone to the police on this too.”

  “Sure, I understand, but right now all you know is you haven't seen the two FAs. None of us have. None of us knows what happened to them, actually. Sure, I got the ransom email from Ebba, but it looked more like a joke than anything else, so I couldn't really take it seriously. Think you might be able to hold off a day or two before calling the company? I mean, are the FAs supposed to report in every day or are they just supposed to show up at flight time?”

  “Actually, they're only supposed to show up at flight time.”

  “So, you don't have to say anything until then, right?”

  “Yeah, but if they were to discover I knew they'd been kidnapped and didn't do anything to report it, to them or to the police here in Barcelona. I dunno, Tucker; it wouldn't look too good for me.”

  “Okay, so what if we give it until Wednesday. I'll be paying the ransom tomorrow, and I'll also be demanding they release the girls within 24 hours. If the girls don't show by Wednesday morning say, then we call the company and the cops. I'd sure like to see if this ransom works first.”

  “Okay, I guess I'm good with that. So, what is it you want me to do?”

  “Can you be available for three o'clock tomorrow?”

  “Three? Damn. Tucker, that's about the only time I can't. I already promised James I'd do something for the little faggot then.”

  “What’s he wanting you to do? Never mind, that's none of my business,” I say.

  “It's not that. I don't care. He wants me to pick something up for him and deliver it to someone; that's all. Said, he's in a jam, and it's really important, and he's paying me a hundred bucks to boot, so I figured hey, no big deal. I can always use another Benjamin. To hell with him, I'll call him and tell him something's come up. I'd rather help you get the girls any day.”

  Holy shit! That idiot James is setting Pat up to take the fall.

  “No, no, don't bother. I don't have to do this at three o'clock; it can wait. What about Tuesday morning? You available then?”

  “All day man. I can help you with anything you need all day Tuesday. I can help with anything tomorrow night too if you need me.”

  “Okay, appreciate it, Pat. I'll give you a call. Say, you want something to eat? I'm starving.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I wave over a waiter, and we order up dinner. While the waiter's here, I ask him to use my cell phone and take a photo of Pat and me shaking hands. Pat's happy to oblige. We're buds now.

  Once I've gotten back to the El Raval apartment, I email Pat's photo to Dick to let him know this is probably the guy who'll make the ransom pickup tomorrow and to look out for him, but not to intercept the money until he's already handed it off to the next person. He's to have a live video of the transfer from the time it leaves the trunk of the car. I'll be watching everything from my cell phone and will signal him when to make the interception.

  Everything's set. The next big question is: Who will Pat hand off the moneybag to?

  forty-seven

  Evening, Sunday, 7 September.

  The El Raval Apartment.

  Back at the apartment in the El Raval I'm on my knees hovering over the toilet bowl vomiting my dinner with Pat. The smell's so disgusting I dry heave two more times before pulling the flush handle and falling to the cold tile floor. My breath stinks and my whole-body shudders as a cold dark despair grips me in its fist. My vision collapses to pinholes and fills with tears streaming through like broken plumbing, and I start heaving like when I was a child trying to catch my breath when I couldn't stop crying. Everything's in free fall, crashing down on me, a crushing, paralyzing feeling of helplessness.

  It's all disintegrating before me, everything I've lost, everything I want, Monica, everything, and there's no way out. I've finally reached the end where anything I do, it seems, everything I do, comes back and destroys something more. I'm cornered, and there's no escaping the mounting guilt shackling me. Let's face it. I'm fucked. I'm a dead man. And, the thing about it is, I've done it all to myself beginning with meeting Monica. Poor Monica. God, I wish I could've saved you.

  Why did it have to come to this before I finally realize how much you really do mean to me. Now you're gone, and all because of that Goddamn lottery ticket and my greed. I haven't even cashed it, and it's already cost me everything, including you. You're all I want, all I've wanted all along, but I'm too blinded by my own greed to see I'd already won all the riches I'd ever need when I found you. To have had you all this time only to lose you because of a Goddamn ticket, and probably a counterfeit one too.

  How could I have done this? How could I have let it all come to this? How could I have finally found love and then let you slip through my fingers so easily? What a fool I am?

  And in the meantime what have I done to myself? Let me count the ways so far.

  It's conceivable I could be implicated in the death of a man, Paulo. There's no question I willingly left the scene of a death, a hit and run, and I ran. And even that would've been a flight across international borders, at a minimum evading the Perpignan police. Then there's the case of three missing women, two of whom I've been carrying on affairs with, and all three missing because of me. How do I explain that? And why wouldn't it be that I was the kidnapper all along? There's no proof of anyone else pulling it off. And what about the flayed girl whoever she is? Am I responsible for
her death too?

  I can just see the interrogation continuing, "Then there's the matter of the banking activity, Mr. Blue. Opening a checking account in Barcelona and a secret numbered account in Switzerland, two safe deposit boxes. Why would an American who's in Barcelona for a two-week visit need such a thing?

  And how do I explain the three hotel rooms? The Fira Palace where I'm not a registered guest, the Hilton where I didn't bother to spend even a single night and then the Hotel Arts where my room, there, is registered under whose name? (I don't even know.) And now the apartment in the El Raval? Why would anyone need to make all of these moves if he wasn't trying to hide something, Mr. Blue?

  To top it off, how do I explain being in a room, butt naked with three women, two of whom are hanging from the ceiling and me whipping one with a cat of nine tails? The third I've beaten up with my fists then raped like a dog. And all of this recorded on video and posted on the Internet! How the hell am I to explain all that? Let's face it; I am fucked to the end of the world.

  Someone's standing in my doorway now, Madame Bovarie, and someone else hovering behind her, Tanya.

  “Señor Blue, Señor Dick has informed me about all the stress you have today and suggested I help you to find comfort, to relieve your stress.”

  “I appreciate it Madame, but I'd rather be alone. I have a lot of thinking to do; you understand?”

  “Of course, Señor. Have you eaten today?”

  "Actually, I have. Then again, I guess now, I don't have it anymore."

  “We have brought you a tray, nothing elaborate, but something to help bring you out of the depressing state you are suffering. Please, Señor, indulge a mother who knows when her son needs nourishment. It is only a bowl of brou de pollastre, Catalan style of course. Think of it as our grandmother's chicken soup. And an entrepà de pernil i formatge, a simple ham and cheese sandwich and an excellent cava rose.

  “Thank you Madame. I could use something; I suppose.”

  “Tanya will remain here to feed and soothe you, Señor Blue.”

  “That won't be necessary, Madame, but thanks, Tanya.”

  “Señor Blue, we are all very sensitive to the loss of Señora Monica from last night and of the grief, you are suffering. Tanya is not here to replace the Señora; she is to make you more comfortable. After you have had your fill, Tanya will bath you and prepare you for a nice massage to relieve your tired muscles and remove your tensions so you may enjoy a good sleep tonight. There is no obligation for you to have sex with Tanya, none at all. Please don't even think of her being here, she is simply here to make everything comfortable and relaxing for you. If you do not wish for her to share your bed tonight that is quite okay. She will just tuck you in and leave you if this is your wish. But, please, Señor Blue, eat, drink, take a warm bath, and enjoy a nice relaxing massage to help your troubles disappear, at least for tonight. Tomorrow you will be reborn, and you will be in a much better state of mind to make the difficult decisions confronting you. Take my word for it, Señor Blue, please. You won't regret it. I promise.”

  “I suppose you're right, Madame. I'm at the worse for wear right now. It all sounds very lovely, so I'll do as you say. But, I hope neither you nor Tanya (I look at Tanya standing next to the Madame in a sheer nightgown holding a tray) will be offended if I pass on tonight. Most of what's troubling me is I've fallen in love with Monica, and I'm feeling very helpless to do anything to save her. I’m afraid for her safety; you understand,” I say.

  “Perfectly, Señor, I am very acquainted with love and the breaking heart which is a large part of why I would like to help you to find your way out of your depression and into the light of clarity. For you to bring yourself into a good mental state to save the Señora you must first attend to the needs of your body, then your mind will find its way.”

  “Thank you Madame for all your concerns and your attention. I will let Tanya bring me back from the dead tonight.”

  Madame bids goodnight and walks from the room and out of the apartment. Tanya places the tray across me as I remain lying in bed, and without saying a thing; she begins spooning the delicious, warm soup into my mouth. I want to look at her; she is so beautiful, but I close my eyes and accept the food and drink instead. When she pours a glass of wine for me, she says, "Madame has given me this small dose of Valium for you, to help you relax.” She holds up a little white tablet. "You do not have to take it if you would rather not, but I would recommend you do, to relax you before the bath and massage and to enhance a euphoric of peace of mind.”

  I take the pill and follow it with the Cava.

  “Thank you,” I say. She smiles.

  I've eaten everything and am a third through the bottle of Cava when Tanya rises from the edge of the bed and removes the tray.

  “I will run your bath now, Señor,” she says.

  “Thank you, Tanya,” I say and lay back into my pillow listening to the sound of the water filling the tub. The Valium is taking effect along with the drink. I can feel the stress beginning to subside a little, the tension falling away.

  “Come, Señor,” says Tanya. She offers her hand to help me out of bed. I'm already naked, and she walks me across the room and into the steamy bath where jets circulate bubbling water. She takes my hand as I slowly and carefully ease into the hot water. I dunk my head under, wetting my hair and face while Tanya kneels to the side of the tub sponging my chest with a soft flowery looking sponge. My eyes close, and she gently wipes across my face, and my neck before rinsing with warm clear water from her cupped hands.

  The sponge continues finding its way, across and around my groin and down both legs to my feet.

  “If you will sit up, Señor Blue; I will wash your back.” I do.

  “Please stand now so I may wash your backside and legs.” I do.

  She pulls the drain and stops the jets.

  “I'll turn on the shower now so you can rinse off."

  The hot-water racing over my back feels magnificent. She sends a second spray over my backside and between my legs using her hand to lift and separate for a thorough rinsing. I melt at her touch. Stepping out of the shower, she wraps me in a large soft towel and dries me off from head to toe, at one point brushing her head against me, causing a bit of arousal.

  “Now, Señor Blue, if you will follow me," she says, taking me by the hand and leading me out the bathroom across the hall, and into a second bedroom where a massage table is already assembled and draped with linen. Oils and perfumes stand ready in their heating jars on a side table. Candles barely illuminate the room and in-wall speakers push through a soft Mozart.

  Pulling back the top sheet Tanya says, "please, Señor, lay here on your stomach and place your face inside of the ring." It too is lined in white linen, but with a large enough opening that my face is not covered.

  “Please lift your feet, Señor." And when I do she slips a small oblong pillow beneath my ankles. She drapes a white top sheet over me then folds it down to my waist, exposing my back.

  “Are you comfortable, Señor?” she asks.

  “Very.”

  Stepping to the side, she says, "I know you do not want to have sex with me tonight, Señor Blue, as you told the Madame . . .”

  “I didn't mean to be unappreciative Tanya, I loved our time together this morning. It's just, right now . . .”

  “I understand, Señor. I do not take offense. I wanted you to know the techniques, I use to give massage, may seem a little unorthodox, and I didn't want you to think it includes sex if it is not your wish. But, I give deep tissue massage.”

  “Exactly what I like.”

  “And for me to give a good deep tissue massage, and because I am not a large person, I many times have to supplement my strength with my weight to apply adequate pressure where it is most needed. This requires for me to climb on top of you. I assure you I will not hurt you nor will the table collapse, but I will press my knee into your back. Will that be okay, Señor?”

  “That'll be fine. If
you start to apply too much pressure, I'll let you know. Go ahead and do whatever you'd like. If there's anything else I'd like you to try or certain places needing more attention than others, I'll tell you."

  “Very good. You have had many massages?"

  “Many. Usually once a week, so I'm pretty familiar with the various techniques."

  “Wonderful. Then we will get started."

  After the food and drink, the Valium and the hot bubble bath, I'm on the verge of sliding into the embrace of my self-induced coma. And I love these tables with the face holders. Drool to your heart's content.

  As the lights dim and a soft musical lullaby gently pulls me into a twilight of tranquil repose, the first drops of hot oil scorches across my naked flesh like a wake up shot of napalm. I flinch. Every muscle in my body tightens, on guard and ready for the next assault, prepared not to be blindsided by such an ambush again. When the hands of the goddess hovering over me slip into the silken oils and glide across my back like a lover's charms, every muscle throws in the towel relinquishing its guard and surrenders. Those hands, oh, those hands. Spreading glorious bliss over my welcoming pores, sucking it up like a believer at the rapture. Over my back, across shoulders and down the sides of my ribs to my waist, then two-thumbs reversing and pressing up the side rails of my spine throwing off tension like a boat cutting through a tight sea.

  More oil, and her hands pull another slippery grip down one arm where she lifts my hand and digs a hard thumb into the palm before attacking fingers and pulling them like roots one-by-one until knuckles crack, groaning their thank you. After thoroughly molesting one hand, she turns to its brother and gives it the same treatment as any fair-minded mother would.

  “Now, I'm going to climb on top of you and straddle you, so I can give you a deep tissue massage."

  “Okay," I croak.

  Straddling means sitting on my naked buttocks with her legs folded alongside and clamping me in an erotic vice. She rises to her knees, and leaning forward, pushes all of her strength and weight behind her two thumbs as they travel again up the rails flanking my spine. Up and over each shoulder blade to my neck where they dig into the base of my skull kneading away tensions I never knew were hiding in there. With her fingers spread over my crown, she moves through my hair like a human comb gently massaging my scalp. Her body is extending entirely over my own, a thin sheen of fragrant oil separating us, basting her warmth into me. A soft purring floats on her breath into my ear, stirring me like a promise.

 

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