Short, Long, and Longer Short Stories

Covert Americans and Las Ramblas

Poole

My khaki colored, tight shorts pressed and bent into my vagina. I hoped he would not notice the thin layer of flab constricted by the hem on my developed thighs. I’ll stand up when he comes and rearrange myself. Another vodka on the rocks and desire to stand will be lost. My destiny in Barcelona at this hotel, with its peaceful brown and blue ambiance, is alcohol oblivion. It is a peaceful thought. There is too much glare from background lights. Indirect lighting on liquor bottles is pretty, but too much for a small bar. I’ll move. I do not want to talk to that enclosing man. Owen, where are you? My leg impatiently shook. You have never let me down. You know I can run circles around you. Don’t mess with me...you simpleton ... you …

“Owen!” I put my head down. Don’t show relief or happiness to have company in a foreign country.

“Poole!”

That’s me. I’m not going to talk. Let him talk. Something’s not right. “You smell like shit!” I talked.

“Trish, I didn’t want you to wait.”

“You look a mess.” I looked up and down. He was close to me.

“Trish, I had trouble getting here.”

“You’re alive. That’s all that counts.” I raised my head, ready.

“Come, sit in the lounge. It will be more comfortable for you. How are you, Trish?”

I didn’t want to say. A late clandestine rendezvous was the most fucking, ridiculous, asinine thing ... I don’t even have a room yet.

“I’m waiting for my room since eight o’clock.”

“I’ll go talk to the receptionist.”

“They’re cleaning my room now.

“I’m sorry. The travel agent told me this was the best in the area of Ramblas. It’s supposed to have a pool.”

“Forget it, Owen. There’s no pool here. Have you gotten everything I need?” I didn’t tell him.… I lied even to myself … that ... that fuck of a second husband banged me up and left me to deal with it myself … and I’m still recuperating. It hadn’t been easy after three loved children, to deal with the abortion. That monster. What a mistake. Money and power are going to be scrambled, and I would do it.

“Trish, are you up to this? How was your trip?”

He is talking and bending closer. “Relaxing. Thank the ETA. I left Portsmith, England and arrived by ferry in Bilbao. They picked me up in an air conditioned Mercedes and delivered me to this wood bar...the Rivoli Ramblas Hotel.”

“You look wonderful after such a long drive.”

I knew he was lying because my eyes were baggy, my legs were starting cellulite, and I was not fully recovered from the abortion. I tried. The woman supported me and I was shooting better archery. I can’t let them down. But that asshole …”

“You need a rest.”

Finally, he was right. He didn’t know what happened. Owen always appeared simple. I put my head down again. I talked too much, thought too much, and I feel so much.

“Poole, I have done everything you asked this past month. I assembled an excellent team. Puerto Petro, that’s your present destination. It is an hour ride east from the Palma airport by bus. From there you’ll sail down to Palma, Mallorca, the Balearic capital. Don’t dress outstandingly.”

He knows nothing about woman’s clothing. “Do you have my flower pot? Is it safe?”

“Of course. And here. Take this camcorder. Do your homework. I’ve spent four days surreptitiously photographing Mallorca, Palma, the Nortica Club, the harbor, Port Nous, and the bay. There is a large security force! Felipe is sailing this week. Next week, his father sails. Let’s be strong. Let’s get the job done.”

Sometimes he talked too much. I wish he would just hold me and shut up. I remembered when we had our FBI “rah-rah” sessions before we hit an American diverse group and how we all backed each other up. Owen didn’t have it now. He’s too low gear, or is it me? Do I make him act differently? What does he think of me? He’s talking.

“I have a meeting with the Devil at midnight on Ramblas.”

“You’re leaving? Who?”

“Yes. The Devil. The Devil and his followers.”

“You Fuck!”

“That’s uncalled for. God, you’re spunky. Get some rest. I’ll talk to the clerk.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Ambassador.”

He left me. The automatic glass exit doors opened and closed sideways against yellow marble walls. He always left me just when I wanted to communicate. Bullshit. I communicate well. He smelled like he fell in shit. Why is my leg still shaking?