by Dancer, Jack
***
I'm not looking forward to driving with this pack down to Barcelona because, I know, I'm at best the kibble. I know how it is with women. They might love you, but that doesn't mean they won't have you for lunch, because they will, especially when there's another woman involved.
Despite the smiles and appearance of good cheer bantered about as we're walking out of Portbou's huge Quonset-hut-of-a-railway-station into the parking lot where Ebba's rent-a-BMW convertible awaits under the sunny blue skies of a near-perfect early September day on Spain's Mediterranean coast; suspicions hang in the air like the blade of a guillotine.
“Would you like to drive?” Ebba asks offering me the car keys.
“For the sake of everyone's safety I think not. I'm afraid I might nod off and launch us all on a Thelma and Louise.”
“So, you two didn't sleep much, huh?”
Watch out, I think to myself. Here’s the first booby trap.
“Like none. It was impossible with all the people on board, babies screaming, the constant stopping at every station, and the screeching of metal on metal. No. It was like trying to sleep on a New York subway. Impossible.”
“Maybe you should’ve gotten a compartment on a sleeper car,” she says matter-of-factly.
Booby trap Number Two.
“Actually, there were sleeper cars only they weren't exactly what you might expect. They were homeless shelters, forty bunk-beds to a car, big, nasty dormitories on wheels.”
“Really? I would've thought they'd be nice private compartments like you see in the movies. Well, at least you checked it out.”
Booby trap Number Three. Gotcha.
“Trust me. It wasn't the Orient Express.”
“Well, as grueling as the trip must have been, at least you didn't have to do it alone. That must have made it a little more comfortable, right? I would've hated to do all of that alone. You two were lucky to run into each other. At least, you knew each other. (She pauses and thinks about it.) Well, not really I guess since you'd only just briefly met at the gate at JFK.
“We figured you two might have met up after the flight left New York since Nanette had suggested you try to find Monica, but we had no idea what happen to you since we hadn't heard anything. We knew you didn't make the Air France flight. We checked with Air France on that when you didn't show up here by yesterday afternoon. When you called earlier today we were both floored weren't we Terry,” Ebba says turning to Terry.
Terry nods as if she's not taking Ebba's bait.
“Having each other to travel with and getting to know each other, that must have made the trip much more enjoyable. It's always nice when you can make new friends, don't you think?” she asks with enough arsenic lacing her words to make even Napoleon suspicious.
“Yes, it was quite nice we met up beforehand,” says Monica. “It made the trip much more tolerable than it would've been otherwise, enjoyable even, wouldn't you agree, Tucker?”
“Yeah, and . . .”
“And as far as making new friends go,” Monica continues with a near unbridled relish, “we certainly have gotten to know each other quite well, platonically of course. Wouldn't you agree, Tucker? I mean, how could you not get to know someone when you're attached to them at the hip for nearly thirty-six hours?”
Despite the plastic smile etched across Ebba's face, she’s so pissed she could eat glass and chase it with battery acid right now. Terry’s frozen to Monica's left, and I can only think that this brief moment of tension must be the same that the Earp brothers and Clanton's felt just before the shootout at the O.K. Corral.
Ebba turns to me, “At the hip, huh?”
“Figuratively speaking of course,” clarifies Monica dripping sarcasm.
“Of course,” returns Ebba.
No way, I'm getting into this, so I pop the trunk and throw the two rolling bags in as the felines retract their claws and take their seats - Ebba in the driver's seat, Terry cautiously slipping in behind her and Monica sliding in next to Terry. Shutting the lid of the trunk I glimpse Ebba's burning stare practically melting the rearview mirror.
I'm riding shotgun, and it's the one time I'm wishing I really had one.
Once we're underway much of the tension surrenders to the incredibly beautiful surroundings, we're passing through, though I can just barely keep my eyes open to enjoy it. Exhaustion has overtaken me like a body snatcher. If it wasn't for the retracted top of the BMW and the warm air slapping my face, I'd probably be fast asleep just as Monica appears to have achieved back there slumped up against Terry, eyes closed and head lolling.
Terry shoots me a look of total disgust. Like I’d sucked all the play out of her friend and left her with nothing more than empty remains. Come to think of it, Terry’s hasn’t said a single word to me since Portbou. Guess I can count on not making her birthday party list.
For the time being at least, Ebba’s traded the whole vixen slayer thing for talkative tour guide, though no one's paying much attention.
We drive through the little picturesque coastal towns of Colera and Llanca and then catch the N-260 then the AP-7 into Barcelona where we immediately get lost somewhere in Little Barcelona (La Barceloneta) or “Barthelona” with a lisp as one man we'd stopped to ask directions pronounced it.
The lisp is apparently a common manner of speech with the residents of Little Barcelona dating back to King Ferdinand I, who spoke with a lisp. Legend has it that, in deference to him; everyone began speaking the same way, so he wouldn’t discover he was an oddity believe it or not. Wonder what they’d’ve done had the guy been a stutterer?
We follow the lisping La Barcelonan’s directions until we find the Fira Palace Hotel located on Avinguda de Rius i Taulet between the famous Plaza de España and Gran Via Avenue in the heart of Barcelona. Driving up all I can think is this’ll be where I’m going to get castrated, and that it’s not a bad looking place.
***
No need for Monica or me to register since we're each rooming with our respective traveling companion so we follow them across the Italian marble floors of the hotel's shiny, ultra-modern lobby with its six clocks mounted above the reception desk - just to let you know that you're in a four-star, international hotel because no one looks at them to tell time - then up the elevator to the second floor and our rooms which happen to be located next door to each other.
“So, we'll meet in the lobby for Taverna La Tomaquera at, say, nine?” Ebba says to Terry as they're unlocking doors.
“Oh, I almost forgot about that. Let me run it by sleeping beauty here, and I'll call you,” says Terry.
“Okay, no problem.”
“Taverna La Tomaquera?” I ask closing the door behind us.
“For dinner tonight. It's a great little chophouse in the El Poble Sec barrio just down the road. We're going to meet some of the other crew there. You'll like it. Their specialties are snails and meats. It's a very popular place.”
“Slugs and steaks. Interesting.”
“I thought you liked snails.”
“I do. Just never considered the combination.”
“I suppose it does sound a bit . . .”
“Unique,” I offer.
“Right, unique,” she says.
“Sounds great, really. Right now though the thing I need most is to take a nice hot shower and wash off the last couple of days, then get a couple hours shuteye. Give me that and I'll do anything you want, okay?” I beg hoping to avert the bomb that I know she's about to explode. I can just hear it. I told you to stay away from that woman, Tucker, blah, blah.
“Okay, sweetheart. I'm just so glad you're here,” she says wrapping her arms around me and giving me a hug. “Yuck,” she pushes herself away grimacing. “You're stinky.”
“Told you.”
“Fine. While you do that I'm gonna walk down to the Grand Via and revisit a couple of stores I came across yesterday.”
“Have a good time,” I say and give her a peck on the cheek, then retrieve the s
mall toiletry bag from my larger carryon and head into the bathroom.
While shaving I hear the door close and the relief that no other odors, particularly those of the female variety, those that would surely rat me out to her highly tuned olfactory, begin emanating.
It wasn't that long ago, one morning maybe six months or so, when I'd met up with Ebba at a Fred Astaire studio for the free dance lesson. The offer designed to bait you in for the full enchilada. Ebba wanted to learn the Tango because she thought it was a sexy dance, and she wanted to be sexy.
Anyhow, it just so happened, I'd spent the prior night with another woman I was dating. When I showed up for the dance lesson, all was okay until I gave her the obligatory peck-on-the-cheek hello and that's when her humor slammed the door in my face and walked out. I couldn't figure it. We hadn't even begun the dance lesson, so I knew it couldn't have been my Molinete Counter Clockwise, and when I asked about it, she wouldn't say, so the lesson commenced and ended on the same sour note.
The poor dance instructor didn't have a chance selling us lessons, and it wasn't until months later, in the midst of some miscellaneous argument, that she resurrected the “morning after” incident and enlightened me that her sudden change in attitude was because she'd smelled the other woman on my breath. Oops. That's when I learned to be a little more cognizant of a woman's keen sense of smell and to take steps to either pass, or avoid altogether, any future sniff test.
I waste no time jumping into the shower and working up as much lather as I can, scrubbing every square inch and orifice until I'm clean as a baby awash in innocence. As I'm luxuriating under the hot water, a short burst of cool air punches through the steam, and a pair of arms encircle me from behind and work their way across my chest and down my stomach, pulling me back into a slick wet body fronted with a rather large pair of pressing breasts.
“You didn't really think I was going to leave you here to your own devices did you?”
“I didn't . . .”
“You didn't what?” she takes me into her hand and pulls me tighter against her with her other arm. “You didn't think that maybe you needed to put out a little something for me, for all the trouble I went through to rescue you from yourself and your little traveling companion?”
“I didn't . . .”
“You didn't what? Think about me?”
“No. That's not it. I'm just so bloody tired is all.”
“Well, forget it. You can take a moment and take care of me right now, and if you do a good job then, I'll let you go to bed and get some rest before I take you out and get you drunk and then bring you back here and make you finish working off your room and board - at least room and board for the first night. Now, turn around.”
When I do, she drops to her knees.
“What the hell is this, Tucker?”
“What's what?”
“This thing looks like it’s been put through a meat grinder; it's all red,” she says standing up and confronting me eye to eye.
“Whaddya expect? I've had to do a lot of wanking off over the last couple of days. You were supposed to have had me with you in your room, remember? We were going to screw like little Spanish rabbits the whole time? So, what do you expect? That's all I'm thinking about all the way down here, and all I can do is go to the head and wank the brat five times a day,” I say mustering as much miff-ness I can.
“You sure it wasn't someone else doing the wanking for you?” she says.
“Just for saying that I'm going to wank your ass right now,” I say turning her around and pushing her up against the tile wall, lifting her leg and ramming my sore self into her. I push into her hard, and she let's go with a surprised yelp at the wet squeaky resistance. Pushing again, and there goes another. One more time and I bury myself, and she’s yelling, “Oh, Tucker, fuck me, Tucker, fuck me; I've been really bad, Tucker.”
She likes to make noisy love, and I have to admit, it's a kind of a turn-on for me too, even if it is put on. Occasionally, I'll even participate with my own moans and groans and nasty talk - something I never did when married. But, that's the point of it all, isn't it? Doing things you never did before, trying things out and seeing how you like 'em. I mean, what's the point of dating around if you're not out there tilling up new ground?
The thing about long-term marriages, especially when you marry young, is, you don't do much in the way of experimenting. You'd think otherwise, being young and all, but just because you're young, doesn't necessarily mean you're inclined to adventure, at least as far as sex goes. Maybe it's because when you're young, you're more self-conscious about things and less likely to take chances, risk embarrassing yourself. So you play it safe. Or, maybe that's just me. All I can say is that the worst fear for me - at least when I was young - is humiliation. Especially when it's self-induced. And there's no better way to accomplish that than opening up to someone. And what can be more open than when you're stripped naked trying to impress a girl, even your wife, sometimes especially your wife.
It's strange, but it seems when it comes to trying out new things, especially sexual things, it's safest to do it with someone else, someone you don't know. Even better, someone you can figure on never seeing again. That leaves pretty much two options. Buy it or date it.
As for loud sex though, there's one time that stands out for me more than any other. It was in my riverfront condo, when the date I had in the sack literally started screaming out my name in the middle of making love. Over and over she'd scream, “Oh, Tucker, Oh, Tucker, I love it, give me more,” stuff like that. Now, all of this was just fine by me except for one thing. It just so happened that a hurricane was passing through at the time, and the building's power had gone out, and everyone had their windows and doors wide open to circulate the air during a very hot August. There was also a marina right below and many of the boats were live-aboards.
When the girl first launched into this joy of screaming, she startled the hell out of me. I'd never had anyone do that. Naturally, my first thought was that everyone in the building, let alone the marina, would figure all this ecstasy was emanating from my place. I didn't say anything to her because I didn't want to put the kibosh on our fun and chance her walking off in a huff. But, I also didn't ask her to stop because I also thought, what the hell? This could be a reputation enhancer. Maybe even encourage other applicants to come forward. So, I decided I really didn't care what anyone else thought. If they thought anything, the guys would probably be wishing they were me. And the women? Intrigued maybe?
Ebba's pretty good at role-playing these things so I go along as much as I can to hold up my end, but it's not working out as well as usual. I'm a bit mystified too. I can't seem to bring things to their normal conclusion, so I start thinking of Monica for inspiration. That helps a bit, but I'm still just too damn tired to make it happen. Seems to be happening for Ebba, just not for me. So, I do something I'd never done before and take a tip from the female playbook. I fake it. And by golly, it worked. At least, she didn't question my contribution and any evidence, or lack thereof, would've been down the drain lickety split. I'm happy, she's happy, the end.
And wouldn't you know, just like a guy, once Ebba gets hers, she's outta there. And boy, do I ever feel used. Thankfully, it's a fleeting moment because like a typical wife or girlfriend, on her way out, she turns back and hollers, “I'm taking a hundred from your wallet, Tucker. Fuckin's not free you know.” And with that the door to the room slams for the second time.
I wanted to tell her that I'd have given her two hundred if she'd've only let my sore member alone, but that would've surely brought on a DEFCON-1, and I'd like to think I'm not that stupid.
fifteen
18:30 Hours, Monday, 1 September.
The Fira Palace Hotel, Barcelona, Spain.
Still sprawled across the bed, I reach into my carryon to retrieve a clean pair of underwear before hitting the sheets when a newspaper falls out. El Mundo, the August 29th issue. It's the same newspaper I'd retrieved from the
floor of our compartment on the train - the one that the dead guy had clutched to his chest when he dropped by and fell dead on top of Monica. I'd forgotten all about it.
When I pick it up and unfold it, out falls an envelope. Course I figured it was some annoying junk insert you usually find in a newspaper or magazine and as much as I wanted to just wipe everything from the bed and climb between the sheets, curiosity gets the better of me and I pick it up and open it. Looks like a lottery ticket. Loteria Nacional is printed across the ticket's face in large bold letters along with La Primitiva. And a receipt is stapled to the ticket.
Taking a closer look at the newspaper, I see it's only one section - the section reporting the winning tickets from the August 28th drawing. Winners are listed in descending order from the biggest prize to the smallest with ticket numbers, amount won and the city where each winning ticket was sold.
Wow, the biggest winner is worth 120 million euros. Some lucky son-of-a-gun that guy is, I'm thinking.
I scan the rest of the winners, and they're no slouches either. The smallest was a hundred grand. Out of curiosity I check the ticket I have against the list.
Hold on. This can't be right.
I check again.
Holy shit!
“It's the winning ticket,” I say a little too loud and my hand slaps over my mouth to stifle any more uncontrollables from escaping.
Holy shit, Mother of God. Holy shit, Mother of God. The dead guy was holding this ticket and was probably on his way to claim the prize money. And now he's dead. Can't claim the winnings. And I've got the ticket. And no one knows I've got the ticket.
“Holy shit,” I scream into my five-finger gag.
Adrenaline's rushing through me like a hot fix, and fatigue vanishes like Alzheimer's last thought.
What do I do now?
Think; think. What do I do with this friggin ticket? Hide it somewhere, somewhere safe, at least until I can figure out what to do, but where?
