by Dancer, Jack
"Blue, you fuck . . ." At which point I sweep my hand across the table and accidentally-on-purpose brush Rakim's water glass into his chest soaking him completely.
"Oh, Rakim, I am so sorry," I say standing and stepping over to his side of the table, deftly palming the stun gun from my pocket and jamming it into his neck with two and a half-million volts of, Good Morning Barcelona!
The shock throws, Rakim, chair, and all, back onto the concrete ground grasping his neck like he's choking; his whole body shaking and his legs thrashing like death throes.
Boy, the water sure must've jacked up the octane for an extra punch of Mister Edison!
"Help," I yell. "I think the man's having a seizure." As three waiters come rushing over I lean down to Rakim and say, "You get my lady friend back to me safe and sound within 24 hours, and you'll live. Don't and I'll fuck you over until you beg me to kill you. Have a nice day asshole." And I walk back across the street to the Mini and sit watching the amusement until he eventually comes to his feet pushing the waiters away. He looks around and spots me. When he takes a wobbly step in my direction, I give him a smile, flip him a bird and drive off.
***
The Rider.
The rider shoots the Ducati across the divided Ramblas and through the outdoor cafe onto the opposite side of the avenue then screams down Carrer de l'Hospital and through two traffic lights, nearly running down three pedestrians on their way to work, before he spots the Mini turning left at the roundabout at Rambla del Raval.
He follows, hanging back a block or so, until he sees the Mini make a right onto Carrer del Sant Pau then leaps ahead just in time to see it take another right turn onto Carrer de la Riereta. He follows, and when a garage door on the left side of the narrow street opens, as if by magic, the rider pulls over and watches the door lower behind the car. He keeps an eye trained on the door so as not to lose track of it among the many that punctuate the eternal wall of connected buildings lining Carrer de la Riereta. When he rides by, he studies it and sees it belongs to number 24 1/2.
So this is where the American is now staying, he says to himself.
***
The impossibility for Miguel De La Garda to arrange for the bank to have cash ready for me by two o'clock this afternoon is miraculously overcome with a substantial, additional fee for service and a sizable donation to the man's favorite charity. It also got me the use of the bank's limo and driver for the afternoon, plus the company of his personal secretary, the beautiful Claudia. Don't get the wrong idea here. I have no designs on Claudia. I only want Monica. I even insisted Claudia not come along, but De La Garda wouldn't have it. I think he didn't trust me and wanted Claudia there to see that I didn't steal my own money. Fucking bankers.
The moment I end the call with De La Garda my cell rings again. Nanette.
“Hi Nanette,” I say before she has a chance to say anything, “Listen, I'm sorry about being so short with you yesterday. It was a very bad day. I just needed time to myself. I hope you understand and don't feel offended."
“No worries, Tucker, I completely understand. What you went through on Saturday night with Monica and all . . . that must have been terrifying. I don't blame you for wanting to get away from it all. It's just so horrible, everything that's happened. Who would've ever thought?"
“Yeah, who would've? I've only just now finished making arrangements to pull the money together for the ransom payment."
“When are you supposed to do that?"
“Three o'clock."
“Oh, God, Tucker I hope everything goes well. Is there anything I can do?"
Yeah, I'm thinking, let the girls go because I'm pretty sure you're one of the flight crew scammers despite what that idiot James says.
“Come to think of it, maybe there is one thing."
“Anything, Tucker."
“If it's not inconvenient, would you mind if I came over this evening. Maybe we could just talk a little? Nothing more, really. I'm feeling kind of down, and after I do this ransom payment thing, I think I'd like to be around someone I know. Just company, you understand?"
“Of course. That would be wonderful. I would enjoy some company too. I'm worried about you. Don't get me wrong either, Tucker. I know you have feelings for Monica; I could see that Saturday night at the Hilton, and I could hear the sadness in your voice yesterday. I understand, believe me, I do. Yes, please come by. I'll have a little something for us to eat. About what time do you expect?"
“Would around seven thirty be okay?"
“Perfect, I'll see you then. Oh, Tucker?"
“Yes."
“Be careful today, okay?"
“I will. See you tonight,” I say and hang up.
God, I hope Nanette's not involved in this stuff. I really like her; she's a beautiful woman. I know; I'm a sucker for beautiful women. I'm a sucker for all women. Still, I hope she's not part of this because if she is, beauty's not going to help her. I'll cook her goose and throw her carcass to the dogs in a heartbeat if I have to. And what a waste that'd be.
I do a final check for any new emails that might've come in before I give Speed a call. One's waiting in the inbox with a video file attached.
I open the file and click play. The first thing that appears is the photo of the flayed girl and the Fahrenheit of my temper jumps about a hundred degrees. Following that, a video of Monica sitting in the same chair in the same tiled room appears. A ball gag is in her mouth, and her arms are bound behind her. She's completely naked. Her face is wet, tear-covered and etched in fear. She's screaming, but her screams are muted behind the gag. The video is choppy, but that's because it's interrupted every few seconds with the photo of the flayed girl cutting in, and each time it does a dagger pierces my heart.
Oh, my God, the crazy bitch is going to kill her!
After only 30 seconds or so the video ends with a still frame and the words:
48 hores per estar aquí amb butlleta. (48 hours to be here with ticket.)
A moment later, the frame burns away as if the filmstrip had jammed in the projector and overheated.
I push the play button again. Nothing. I go back to the email. It's vanished.
48 hours! I don't even know where she is. How am I supposed to be there if I don't know where 'here' is? I'm going to kill that midget! Perpignan? I've got to go back to Perpignan?
I'm beside myself. I’m angry as hell and scared outta my wits for Monica. I've got to do something, but what? I call Dick again and tell him what happened.
"I am sorry, Tucker. I know you are upset but please get ahold of yourself and believe me when I tell you she will not do anything to harm Monica and jeopardize her chances to get the lottery ticket. She may be a psycho, but she's not a stupid one. She hasn't gotten as far as she has being stupid. Besides, you have nothing to lose giving her the ticket if what your secret agent friend . . . what's his name?"
"Rakim."
"Yes, Rakim. If it's true, the ticket is counterfeit. Let her have it. It is counterfeit isn't it, Tucker?"
"That's what Rakim tells me."
"But, you do not believe him? He says he wants the ticket to bait this Doctor Drusilla Libica again and capture her. But, you are unsure and think he may be telling you this, so he can get his hands on the 120 million for himself, no?"
"The thought has crossed my mind."
"Of course, it has, because this amount of money is powerful enough to turn anyone into a liar, a thief, even a murderer. I do not blame you for not trusting this man that the ticket is not genuine. It would be difficult to trust even one's self with that kind of money, much less anyone else, wouldn't you agree? Of course, you would," he says answering his own question and with a laugh at his witticism.
"During your interrogation of the two IndyCat boys, they never mentioned the lottery ticket?"
"No, Tucker. If they had I would have told you this," he says with an edge.
"I know you would have, Dick. I only bring it up because I think it substantiates w
hat you just said: That no one can be trusted with that kind of money. I think those boys were never told Paulo was carrying a lottery ticket. I think their mother, Drusilla, didn't trust them enough to tell them."
"Ay Caramba! You are right my friend! That is exactly why they never mentioned it. They do not know about the lottery ticket. That has been bothering me ever since you told me about the ticket. Why had they not said? They couldn't because they did not know! Señor Tucker, you should be a detective. If you ever find yourself wanting employment, please come to me, Señor, and I will happily employ you with Dick's Dicks anytime."
"Thanks for the compliment, Dick, but I don't think I'm cut out for that much stress. I'm barely hanging on as it is."
"You are doing fine my friend. So far, I think you've handled yourself remarkably well, and I am proud to be servicing you."
I know what he's saying, but sometimes the way it comes out gives me the freakin' willies.
"Thanks, I appreciate the vote of confidence, Dick; I really do."
"So, Tucker. Getting back to the video message, you were told to meet where exactly in forty-eight hours?"
"It didn't say. She probably thinks we already know, or we should be smart enough to figure it out. Or, she's just having fun adding another level of stress for us."
"She is a sadist after all so what can you expect?"
Rakim knows; I think to myself. But, after this morning, I doubt he'd be very cooperative. I could kick myself now for what I did to him.
I move on and tell Dick about my encounter with Rakim this morning, and that I'd probably blown any chance to gain his cooperation.
"I fully understand your anger, Tucker, but do you think maybe you are allowing your anger to get in the way of your efforts?"
"I think in this case I did."
"But, it was not a total loss because during your encounter with this Rakim, you were able to place one of my small GPS trackers on him, no?"
"Yes, I did."
"Have you checked to see where he may be headed now?"
"No, I haven't. I'll do that as soon as we hang up."
"There might be a slim chance he will go to the location where Señora Monica is being held. If not now, then maybe later."
"It's possible I suppose. I'll check his routes periodically and let you know if I notice anything that might be useful. So, I take it Giuseppe was not successful with the boys last night?" I ask, hoping I'll hear otherwise.
"No, Señor. I am sorry. It seems the boys were more attracted to Giuseppe than repelled. They saw Giuseppe more as a prize than a threat."
"Wow. They've really adapted to their new lifestyle quickly."
"Like ducks to water."
***
Damn Bluesman! How do you keep getting yourself into this stuff? People go their whole lives without anything happening, and here you can't get through one measly two-week vacation without stirring up kidnappings and ransom payments and crime lords, scratch that, crime ladies leading guerrilla armies and secret agents and guys dropping dead and beautiful women falling in love with you or flogging you, women laying themselves out for . . . what? . . . Nakasumi?
"Nyotaimori."
"Yeah, that. I mean, Jesus, Bluesman. When does it ever stop?"
"Are you finished?" I ask.
"No. I have one last question?"
"Fine. What?"
"Where do I sign up? No. Seriously, Tucker, I want your life."
"What are you talking about? You have my life. You listen to practically everything; see practically everything. You're so plugged into my life right now and everything I do; I can feel you in my underwear."
"Okay, Bluesman. That's enough. We don't need to go there. We are best buds, always have been, always will be, but I have my limits sir and being in your underwear is one of 'em. Besides, I like my silks, and I know you only go for those Jockeys, so we have some serious differences here that need ironing . . ."
"Wait. How do you know I only go for the Jockeys?"
"Ah. Er. Could we change the subject? Say, "How 'bout those Mets?"
"You're a nutcase you know that? I'll tell you, if I didn't have you to talk to these days, I swear to God, I'd lose it."
"Let me give you some news, Tucker my man; you lost it long ago buddy, and it hasn't been seen since. I think it left just to save its own sanity."
"Ha, ha. Yeah, you're probably right."
"Okay, Bluesman. I know you didn't call to have phone sex, so whaddaya need?"
"This guy, Rakim. I told you about him."
"Marti. Cousin of Paulo. Cameraman, voyeur on the train. Secret agent guy in Perpignan. And the asshole that refused to say where Monica is being held. Yeah, what about him?"
"I met with him this morning for coffee."
"I know that, Tucker. You Tasered the guy and told him he'd better come up with Monica, or you'd kill him."
"How'd you . . ."
"Did we forget we're your see all, know all, Facetime pal?"
"Ah shit. I did forget. So, how's that working anyway?"
"Not bad. Better if you'd keep your arm from blocking the buttonhole lens."
"Yeah, I gotta remember that. Say, how'd you like the apartment? Is that one super duper George Jetson pad or what?"
"Super duper? George Jetson? Dating yourself a bit eh?"
"Watch it, Speed or I'll dock your paycheck."
"Yessah massah, you iz right, I'z sorree 'bout dat."
"Oh, Christ already."
"It was awesome man, really. I've been playing around with the IP cameras and audio. Everything's on steady record, and I'm nearly tied into the security system, and the safe room support systems. Should have all that completed by end of day. I gotta tell you too, that Tanya chick is one sweet little hottie, Tucker. And she's definitely got the hots for you ole buddy. Caught her sniffing around in your bed when you were out to the Fira yesterday. She didn't do anything. She's harmless, and if you ever decide you want to sponsor her man; she can stay at my place."
"Maybe pay her share of the rent in massages?" I say.
"Oh, my God, Tucker. Don't even go there."
"Okay, Speed, back to this, Rakim guy. I need you to do a full background on him. Where does he live? Wife, kids, family, the works. I expect I'm going to see some trouble from him, and I need something to neutralize him. I tapped him with one of Dick's little GPS transmitters this morning, so he should be showing up on the tracking service. I'll pass along the website and passcode for the service and the transmitter I.D. so you can check his routes out."
"Ten-four."
"And remember, this afternoon, we've got the ransom drop. I've got Dick and his men covering with a video feed I'll be passing up to you. Hopefully, everything will go without a hitch, and we'll get a fix on who's behind this flight crew scam. I've got a meet with James Culpepper, the Homeland Security agent, this evening at the Fira to see what he's got and then afterwards I've got a dinner date with Nanette at her place."
"You're not going after the vixen are you, Tucker?"
"No, I'm trying to figure out if she's behind this flight crew bunch. I think she might be, but I don't have any hard evidence. I'm hoping to get something tonight."
"Just be careful with her one buddy and please don't forget to wear the lens, so I can watch your back."
"No problem. I think that's it for now. Oh. How are we with the email and fax service and the printers?" I ask.
"Materials go out to them by end-of-day. We should be in position to make first contact early Wednesday morning and ready to distribute and post everything else by Wednesday evening. I'm talking with the laser people and the air force later today. Hey, get this. I just may be able to get us an airship too. One with an animated lighting display. How'd you like one of those?" He says.
That'd be great but back up a second. What do you mean, air force? Whose air force?"
"Sorry, that's my Speed-code man. By air force, I mean all those guys that'll be flying overhead. You know, pulling
banners, dropping the leaflets, reward currency. Those guys."
"Got it. And they're wildcatters right? Untraceable?"
"Yeah, all freelancers. Got to be brother. Law's gonna be down on them like hungry fleas on a bloodhound. These guys'll be taking off from different private fields in northern Spain, even France, and returning to even different private fields from where they took off just to keep the cops off track. Some are even using the Balearics."
"And if they get busted?"
"Don't worry, it ain't coming back home here to roost, brother. That's why they're being paid the big bucks - to keep their mouths shut. Besides, I've got three layers built between us so none of them knows where any of this leads back. That's the beauty of the Internet, dude. This operation is designated under my new code word: A-EYE-YOU. Stands for A-A-I-U, "Anonymous Aggregators Is Us."
"Ha, ha. You're a trip, Speed. I hope you’re paying these guys with some anonymous coin too."
"Bitcoin, brother. Currency of choice for creative collaborators.”
"Or, conspirators," I say.
"I like mine better."
"Euphemisms R Us."
"Hey, I like that too."
"Knew you would."
"Now, you still sure you want to do this, Tucker? I mean, once we plaster this Drusilla bitch's face up for the world to see, she's gonna come after you with guns blazing you know."
"That's the idea. I only hope it'll lead to Monica's safe release and not her end."
"You're taking a big chance with that, Tucker."
"I know. But, if the midget wants to get out safely and with a lot of money - retire in peace - she'll give up this bullshit and take the deal."
"It's a hell of a deal. I'd take it."
"Damn right you would if it meant you could retire rich."
"And with your life."
***
When I arrive at the bank, I go straight to De La Guarda's office where he, and Claudia are waiting for me. They have a small nylon bag of euros ready.
Claudia greets me first. “Welcome back, Mister President. It's so good to see you again."