by Dancer, Jack
“DNA-rich. That’s rich. All right, you've got me. I can't deny it turned out to be fun. But, tell me honestly was there something in your background, your parents or siblings, your upbringing maybe, that might've lured you into this hobby? I know I'm prying, and you can tell me to get off it if you want, but really, I'm just curious. I wouldn't be asking you if I didn't like you. Maybe that sounds contrived too, but it's not. I just want to understand. I'm not judging, really I'm not,” I say as mildly and innocently as I can manage.
Clearly, she didn't like this line of questioning, but she seemed to soften up a little. I wasn't threatening. I'll bet no one's ever asked her these things. Most people wouldn't dare, but you know, sometimes people just need someone to talk to, someone they can even tell their secrets to.
“Well, if you must know, I did have a somewhat unusual upbringing.”
“Yeah?” I ask totally non-threatening.
“My parents were a strange pair. My father was very tall, and my mother was very small.”
“You took after your father.”
“I did as far as that goes. My father was a very kind man, at least from what I remember of him. I adored him. I was his little butterfly; that's what he'd call me,” she says almost dreamily.
“Was? Something happen?”
“He disappeared.”
“Just, disappeared? Like that?” I ask astonished.
“Yes. Mother said he ran off, but I don't believe it. I don't think he'd just run off and leave me with her.”
“What was she like?”
“What is she like? She still lives. She's the devil incarnate, the evilest woman I know.”
“Yikes, that's rough. What in the world did she do to you?”
"She'd lock me up in the dungeon and sometimes left me there all day and night.” Once she left me there for three days. She forgot I was down there. So she said."
“A dungeon? You're doing drugs right now aren't you? Tell the truth. You are, aren't you?"
"No, really, it's true," she says. "I know it sounds crazy, but it's really true. Mother has a bad temper, and she'd get mad at me for something then lock me in down there with nothing but Topper movies.
"Topper? As in Cosmo Topper?"
"And Clara and George . . ."
"And Marion. Yeah, Marion was hot."
"All three would play in a continuous loop. Drove me crazy. I know every line to every movie by heart."
"Cruel and unusual punishment if you ask me. And if you really think, I'm buying any of this you're nuts."
"I swear to God it's true."
"You swear to God you grew up in a medieval castle and your mother punished you, no, tortured you, with Topper movies in a dungeon? You really expect me to believe that?"
“Yes. An eleventh century castle in the Pyrenees.”
“Cool.”
“No, not cool, Tucker. It was a nightmare. My mother is a bruixa.”
“A bruixa?”
“A witch, Tucker.”
“A witch. Okay. It's been fun over on this side, but now I want some of what you've been smoking. Hey, you haven't been visiting the Green Dragon have you?" I say in jest, but she seems to flinch. "You know this place?"
"The what?"
"Green Dragon. Never mind. Okay, so go ahead, break it out. I'm game. You're just having way too much fun over there on your side, and I want to be there. I want to meet Topper too."
“Are you talking about weed, Tucker?"
"Yeah. You smoked some before I came over right? And that's how you dreamt up this Bruixa-castle-Topper thing?" I kid.
"I'm not kidding. Really. You see; mother's a doctor, a surgeon actually, and sometimes the people in the village would have no choice but to bring their sick or maimed to her; there wasn't another doctor around for miles. Sometimes, the patients died or they'd just keep getting worse; they might even go missing . . .”
What have I gotten myself into here? This woman's goes on as serious as a heart attack.
“Like your father?” I dare to ask.
“No. Not like him. He ran off. And I don't blame him for running off, either. I think he just got to the point where he couldn't stand it anymore and left. At least, that's what I'd like to think he did, escape. I like to think of him living somewhere, Italy perhaps, with a kind wife and family, and he's very happy.”
“But, you don't really know?”
“No, I don't.”
“I take it then the castle wasn't his since he left, and your mother stayed?”
“It has been in my mother's family for generations.”
“It must cost a fortune to keep a place like that up. A lot of family money there, I suppose.”
“She has business interests.”
“Do you ever go back?”
“To the castle? No. Never.”
“You're Catalan aren't you, Nanette?
“Yes.”
“And old Catalonia, didn't it extend from Barcelona through the Pyrenees and into France?”
“Yes, the eastern part. The western side is Basque country.”
“And both of those are split between France and Spain right? I mean there're French Basques and Spanish Basques, right?”
"That's right, and Spanish and French Catalonians too."
“So'd you grow up on the Spanish side or the French side of the Pyrenees?”
“I grew up in boarding schools.”
“Oh. So, you summered at the castle in the Pyrenees?"
"Yes."
"The Spanish side or French?
“Spanish, but where I lived you could look south and see France.”
I had to pause at that. "Your world really was pretty upside down.”
She laughed. "More than you'll ever know, Tucker.”
“But, you got out. How'd you manage that?”
“When I graduated university, I came to Barcelona and joined Iberia as a flight attendant. A year later, I moved to New York and signed up with Pan Am. Unfortunately, it was the same year they shut the airline down. Never saw that one coming.”
“Bum luck. So'd you stay in New York or come back to Barcelona?”
“Stayed. I joined American and kept my New York base, but I kept my Barcelona apartment too. I work out of both locations.”
“Still?”
“Yes, I still have my New York flat, just a small studio.”
“That's great; I've always wanted to keep a place in Manhattan. Must cost a pretty penny to maintain both places. I know Ebba couldn't do that on what she makes.”
“My grandfather set up a trust for me when I was a very small, and that helps. I also do a little work on the side.”
“Really? Doing what?”
“Consulting, hospitality.”
“That's great. So, do you have siblings?”
“Two step brothers. We share the same mother but different fathers. Mother married again.”
“You ever see them?”
“Occasionally, not often. We're not what you'd call close. They're younger than me, and we didn't grow up together. Okay, enough about me and my dark past, how about some more pizza?”
“Sure,” I say and follow her into the kitchen where I take two more slices and refill my scotch.
"Look, I didn't mean to pry. I hope you don't . . .”
“It's all right. I've just never been big on digging through the past.”
“I understand. So, how 'bout those Mets?”
“What?” she looks at me like I've just spoken an unknown regional dialect of Martian.
“T'was a joke. A segue into something else."
"What something else?"
Cat's outta the bag now, I’m thinking.
"C'mon, living in New York you must have heard that one.”
“I'm not really much into American football,” she says.
Why bother? What's the point?
She takes another slice, and we return to the living room and our little no-touchy seating arrangement.
�
��Pizza really hits the spot,” I say. "Thanks for letting me come over. I've been so strung out lately over all this stuff. It's nice just sitting here and talking with you. Seems like everybody else keeps disappearing on me. Oh, shit. Did I just say that? I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . .”
“Yeah, what's with that anyhow? Does this portend I might be next?” she says kidding.
“God I hope not. I'm running out of money. And after this afternoon, it doesn't seem to be doing much good anyhow. I cannot believe somebody just swooped in like that and took it. It's unbelievable!"
"Probably going to be a pretty unbelievable story to the kidnappers too. How are you going to explain it to them?"
"I don't know. Tell 'em the truth I guess, what else?"
"God, I hope this doesn't mean the end for Ebba and Terry."
"Yeah, me too. What good would it do to harm them though? It wasn't their fault. Hell, it wasn't my fault what happened. And killing the girls sure isn't going to get them any more money. Maybe they'll give me another chance? Only problem is, my well's just about tapped dry now."
"We'll have to go to their families and see what they can put up. Probably should have done that in the first place."
"That'll take time and I'm afraid that's the one thing we have the least of. No. I think tomorrow I need to go to the police and report everything."
"Who do you think really did this, that doctor from the train? You think she's behind all this?"
"I don't know. I can see where she might be behind the episode the other night when Monica was snatched, but I don't see the connection to Ebba and Terry."
"But, what I don't understand is why they took Monica and not you? I mean, if you were both witness to that guy dying on the train, and she had something to do with that, and she's trying to eliminate both of you, why didn't those guys take you too?"
"I think they would have but in the middle of it all some vagabond that had taken up a spot nearby, jumped up and started screaming bloody murder, and it startled 'em so much they just scrammed with what they had, which happened to be Monica."
We continued batting around the events and the possibilities for a while longer, but neither of us could come up with any conclusions that made sense or any ideas showing much promise. After a while, Nanette asks to be excused to use the bathroom, and I asked if I could use her phone.
“I left mine in the car,” I say.
“You have a car?” she says surprised.
“Yeah, I got a rental till the end of the week. I wanted to at least drive around Barcelona and see some of sights while I'm here.”
She hands me her phone and walks away. I immediately go to the calls received list and start paging down. I see she and James had been trading calls all day long. James’ last call to her was at 5:26, just before I came to the Fira and her last call to him was 8:05 tonight, but that would've been the one she made while I was here. I scroll back and see she made another attempt to reach James at 7:14, and that would've been about the same time I saw her number come up on his phone on the drive over.
There's another number listed with multiple to's, and fro's this afternoon, but it's a number I don't recognize. The last call was at 3:06 this afternoon. Then there are multiple calls made until 7:20 tonight. I press "Call Back” and it goes straight to voicemail.
“Hello, this is Pau. Leave a message.” I press End.
I find the last call she made tonight and figure it's Pat's number and press "Call Back” just as Nanette walks back into the room. It rings once and goes to voicemail.
“Hey, Pat this is, Tucker. I'm on Nanette's phone and wanted to ask you a couple of questions but just call my number back in the morning or Nanette's, doesn't matter which. Wait, yes it does. Call us both.” I hang up.
“I guess I should have asked you what you wanted to know about him seeing James and Lisa escorted out of the Fira first, but I didn't even think about it before calling him. Stupid me. Oh, well, you heard. He's not answering,” I say looking up at Nanette.
She just stands there looking unconvinced. I hand over the phone, and she slips it into the pocket of her jeans.
“Thanks,” I say standing. "Think I'm gonna call it an early night if you don't mind. I'm pretty beat. Haven't slept much the last few nights, and I think it's catching up with me.”
“You can sleep here if you'd like to, Tucker,” she says.
Yeah, the problem is waking up. I might not; I'm thinking.
“I'd love to Nanette, really I would, but I think I'd get a lot more sleep not sleeping here.”
“I promise I won't touch you if you don't want me to.”
“It's not that so much as it is me not being able to keep my hands off of you, and I really need the sleep. Tell you what. How about if I take you to dinner tomorrow night and maybe a little dancing afterwards? Would you be up for that?”
“Sure, I'd love it,” her face brightens like a kid on Christmas.
“Okay, then I'll pick you up at what, nine o'clock?”
“Perfect, I'll be ready. What kind of dancing?”
“Well, I have to admit I'm not much on break dancing or hip hop, but I can hold my own with swing, Latin, even a Foxtrot or Waltz. Anything along those lines would be good for me.”
"Big band swing?"
"Perfect."
"Then I know just the place. I'll make reservations.”
“Great. I'll see you tomorrow night. And really thank you so much for having me over. The pizza was excellent, scotch too and of course, the company.” I lean in to give her a goodnight kiss and when I do she pulls me into her with a round of kissing that'd cause any man to surrender everything.
“Oh, my God. You're killing me here," I say pulling away on unsteady feet. "Can you please save this for tomorrow night?”
She gives me the pouty and says, “I don't know, Tucker. Maybe, maybe not. I'm not used to being turned down."
"I promise I'll make up for it tomorrow night."
"You'd better," she says turning back to her flat but throwing me one last fetching smile and an air kiss before vanishing behind the door.
You're an idiot, Tucker.
Another minute and I'd've thrown in the towel for sure and stayed. Guess at least this way I'll wake up in the morning.
Driving back to Dick’s El Raval apartment my mind veers from Nanette to Monica, and how much I'm missing her and wishing she were here to help me through all this mess. More than that I'm also scared shitless I might not be able to save her. I mean, look what's happened today for Christ's sakes. I couldn't even pay a ransom without getting ripped off. How the hell did that happen and who was the guy on the motorcycle? Everything seems to be falling apart, what with James dead and me being the most likely suspect. And, Nanette the vamp? What's with her and all those calls back and forth to James? Is it possible she's an agent too? No. Can't be. If she was she wouldn't be trying to get me into her bed. She'd be arresting me for his murder by now. Somehow though I know she's involved in all this. I just don't know how.
I pull the Mini into the garage and like a zombie; walk into the apartment and straight back to the bedroom. I’m so friggin exhausted. I literally fall onto the bed, clothes, and all and "ouch” on top of something hard I didn't notice lying there. I reach under my back and pull out a small, gift-wrapped box with an envelope and a note attached.
Found this on your doorstep.
Hope it's something nice and will lighten up your day.
Madame Bovarie.
On the outside of the envelope is handwritten,
To Tucker, Love Monica.
Oh, my God, my heart jumps. I tear open the envelope and find a card with three handwritten words:
I love you.
I open it and there are three more handwritten words:
Please save me.
Oh, Jesus no. With absolute dread washing over me, I unwrap what appears to be a jewelry box. When I lift the lid, I drop it like death, and a severed finger falls out onto the bed with a ri
ng on it and a round-cut diamond about the size of Texas.
fifty-two
06:00, Tuesday, 9 September.
El Raval Apartment.
Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack.
Goddamn those ducks. Wait. That's my cell phone. I sit up still half-dazed.
“Hello,” I croak.
“Did I wake you, Tucker?” The voice says.
“No, the ducks.”
“Ducks? What ducks?” The voice says.
My head clears . . . barely.
“Is this duck . . . I mean, Dick?” I say.
“Yes, Tucker this is Dick's Ducks,” the voice says.
“Ducks? Fuck're you talking about?”
“I'll call back in two minutes. In the meanwhile, wake up, Tucker. I have important news,” he says and ends the call.
“What?” I say into my now dead phone. I drop it and two minutes later the quacking starts up again.
“Hello?”
“Are you awake now?”
“Yes, Dick. I'm awake.”
“Have you had your coffee yet?”
“No, I haven't had time; you just woke me.”
“Okay. I'll call you back in twenty minutes. Have your coffee. I want you fully awake to hear what I have to say . . .”
“Wait!” He's already gone, so I get up and drag myself to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.
Quack, quack, quack.
“Hello.”
“Have you had your coffee now?”
“Yes, and I’m fully awake.”
“Good. Now listen carefully to what I have to tell you. Are you sitting down with your coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Take another swallow, then I'll tell you.”
“Just tell me.”
“Take a swallow first.”