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Overview
Elso Bari runs a restaurant in Chicago, and a sideline in private investigation. A stylish connoisseur of fine wines and gourmet cuisine, he’s also no stranger to the seedier side of city life. His debt to a powerful organization obliges him to investigate the suspicious death of one of its employees, a man with ties to international art trafficking. The trail leads Elso to Barcelona, where he becomes entangled in the hunt for a female contract killer who uses sex as a weapon—and is too smart to be tracked down by just anybody. Elso is comfortable moving in the shadows, but the deeper he delves into the criminal underworld, the harder it is to know whom he’s working for and whom he’s seeking, let alone why. Award-winning author David C. Hall navigates the murky waters of morality and transports the hard-boiled American thriller to the Mediterranean, giving a cosmopolitan twist to this action-packed tale of murder, sex, and betrayal.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781480423633 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Barcelona Digital Editions |
| Publication date: | 05/21/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | NOOK Book |
| Pages: | 188 |
| Sales rank: | 940,851 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Barcelona Skyline
By David C. Hall
Barcelona Digital Editions
Copyright © 2013 David C. HallAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-2363-3
CHAPTER 1
When the knock on the door came, Nicholas Southgate was sitting on a not very comfortable chair in a suite on the seventh floor of the Hotel Majestic in Barcelona listening to Così fan tutte on his iPod. He glanced at his watch, breathed a sigh, and pulled out the earphones. He stood, took a quick glance at his reflection in the mirror, smoothed his jacket and tie, and then, satisfied, walked unhurriedly out of the auxiliary bedroom and across the entryway to the door.
The woman had long, wavy, ash blonde hair—probably dyed, Southgate thought—and rather striking blue-green eyes. She wore a gray, belted cashmere coat, black medium heels, light gray nylons with a bluish tint, and a black dress that came down to mid-calf and clung to her figure without being obvious. She had on a good deal of makeup, as was to be expected, but Southgate thought she would do. Mr. McAllan didn't like it when they looked too tarty.
"So can I come in?"
Southgate stepped aside, catching a whiff of expensive perfume as she brushed past him, and then closed the door. Southgate hated the smell of perfume.
"You're American, if I'm not mistaken," he said.
"Is that a problem?"
"I was not aware that they were going to send an American."
"You wanted someone that speaks English," the woman said. "For what I'm going to do, do you really think it makes any difference?"
"Only that you might be expected to provide Mr. Smith with a certain amount of intelligent conversation," Southgate replied, with a nasty hint of a smile.
"He'll want me to talk to him about Lacan?" she suggested.
Southgate cleared his throat. "Lacan ..."
"French psychoanalyst," she told him, "disciple of Freud."
"Oh yes," Southgate said, faking it. They were still in the entryway, just inside the door. The wallpaper was a fleur-de-lis pattern, light blue on a cream-colored background. There was one Victorian style chair with faux silk upholstery against the wall, a murky landscape in oils above it in an elaborate gilt frame.
"No doubt the agency has briefed you on what you're to do," Southgate went on, "but if you will bear with me for just a moment, I'd rather like to go over it just once again. First of all, Mr. Smith does not, as a rule, like being touched."
"Oh, really?"
"They didn't tell you that?" Southgate snapped.
"Maybe I forgot."
"It would be advisable for you not to forget these things, Miss ..."
"Tracy."
"That's your given name?"
"You really think it's my name?"
"No, I suppose not," Southgate muttered. "You will be expected to follow Mr. Smith's instructions to the letter. Is that clear?"
"It's clear."
"I trust they've advised you," Southgate said, "that there may be some pain involved. I believe that was specified."
"I don't want any marks," she said.
"Nothing that can't be taken care of with a hot bath and a bit of body cream," Southgate assured her, with a faintly unctuous smile.
"Marvelous."
"You can scream if you like—I believe he rather likes that as a matter of fact—but not too loudly. This is a hotel, after all."
"Sure."
"If you have any problem with this," Southgate insisted, "it would be best if you tell me now."
"Listen, Mr...."
"My name is irrelevant."
"Listen, Mr. Irrelevant, I make my living doing this. I've met all kinds, and I know how to give them what they want. Just wait and see the happy smile on your boss's face."
"I can assure you, miss, that in all my years of working for Mr.... Smith I have yet to see what you would call a happy smile on his face. Now if you'll excuse me for a moment, I'll advise him of your arrival."
Without bothering to wait for her reply, Southgate took a cell phone out of his jacket pocket and pushed a few buttons.
"Excuse me, sir," he said into the phone, "the lady is here. She's American, I'm afraid, but she does not, however, seem to have that Midwestern twang that can set one's teeth on edge ... Yes, sir, very good, sir. Thank you, sir, thank you so much."
* * *
The sitting room had a big picture window with a postcard view of the city of Barcelona by night, the ragged outlines of the roofs of the Gothic Quarter, the massive hill of Montjuïc looming up off to the right, the Mapfre Tower with its gleaming, colored lights, then the dark curtain of the sea. The man sat slouched in an armchair with his back to the view, a white towel draped over his lap. His body was white and hairy, narrow-shouldered with a soft, round stomach, skinny arms with practically no bicep at all. His head was small and bird-like, with a long nose and negligible chin. His bright, eager eyes flicked over her body as he thrust out the remote control and turned off whatever he had been watching on the flat-screen television set.
"You can start taking your clothes off," he told her, in a surprisingly soft voice. "Put them on that chair there. Fold your things neatly, if you don't mind, I don't like mess."
"All right," she said, giving him a smile, sliding the coat off her shoulders. She put it on the chair, reached behind her to pull down the zipper on her dress.
"I assume that in America people masturbate in the shower, do they not?" the man said.
"Some people do, I imagine," she admitted, pulling the dress over her head, smoothing back her hair before folding the dress and placing it on top of her coat.
"You would do, wouldn't you? Obsessed as you are by cleanliness over there. Scrub, scrub, scrub, till the skin is raw. Must be quite stimulating in the end, I should think."
"Hmm," she murmured, slipping off her stockings.
"Don't look at me for God's sake!" he snapped, then switching at once to a tone that was almost amused. "You can look at the view. It costs enough. Though I don't happen to be paying for it, of course. Not paying for you either, for that matter. But that doesn't mean you won't have to behave. And if you don't, you will be punished. Though, of course, you may be punished anyway."
The man in the armchair laughed dryly, licking his lips as he watched her put her panties on top of the pile of clothes. She turned, naked, one hand on her hip and her right knee bent just a little, gazing over the top of his bald head at the city lights out beyond the window.
"You don't trim your pubic hair, do you?"
"Not very often."
"Perhaps we shall have to do something about that," the man said, grinning. "I believe there'll be scissors in the bathroom. But first our little shower. You'll leave the door open, of course. I trust you understand what you're to do?"
She smiled at him over her bare shoulder, heading for the bathroom. "Sure," she said.
* * *
Southgate sat in the entryway just where she had left him, eyes closed, engrossed in the music, but even with his earphones in place he heard the sound of the sitting room door opening. The woman wore a terrycloth hotel bathrobe that fell to a little above the ankles, her hair still wet from the shower. She looked a bit older without makeup, he thought.
"He's had an accident," she said.
Southgate removed the earphones and turned off the music. "I beg your pardon?" he said, not bothering to conceal his irritation.
"He hit his head in the shower," she told him. "There's a lot of blood. I'm out of here."
"Oh, my God!" Southgate said, standing up. He pushed past her, strode swiftly across the sitting room and through the open door.
The bathroom was still full of steam, the mottled glass door on the shower stall open and the old man's naked body sprawled across the white tiles, his forehead on the lip of the shower stall, a splurge of blood going pink on the wet porcelain.
"He's dead, isn't he?" Southgate said in a feeble voice, standing in the doorway, not wanting to get any closer.
"How should I know?" the woman said. "That's your problem anyway. Like I said, I'm out of here."
"Yes, of course," Southgate murmured. He was aware that he should probably do something, one of those things that people in television films do under such circumstances without even thinking about it, put his hand to the old man's neck and feel for a pulse, do a heart massage or mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But he could not bring himself to touch the old man's body, did not in fact even want to look at it, though it was fascinating, in a sickening sort of way. He was reminded of an exhibition of paintings by Lucian Freud at the Tate that he had gone to with a friend, those far too naked bodies like great chunks of meat hanging in a butcher shop.
"I'm going to have to make a telephone call," he said, stepping out of the bathroom and taking out his cell phone.
"Yeah, you do that," the woman said, "but first you better give me my money."
"Just a moment."
"I don't want to be here," she said. "I don't think you want me to be here either, do you?"
"No," Southgate admitted. He had the telephone in his hand but was still not sure who exactly he was going to call.
"All right then," she said, holding out her hand and snapping her fingers. "Come on, let's go."
"Very good," Southgate murmured, and for a moment he could not remember where he had left the envelope.
"I'm going to get dressed in there," she said when he had given her the money, pointing at the bedroom door. "Please make sure no one gets here before I'm out of the hotel. You do understand what I mean, don't you?"
"Bitch!" Southgate muttered, when she was out of hearing.
CHAPTER 2It was late when Elso Bari walked into the restaurant, a few melting snowflakes still glistening on the shoulders of his dark blue overcoat. After a week of sunshine that had everyone believing that spring had finally arrived, Chicago had turned cold again. Coming in from outside, Elso felt a pleasant sensation of warmth as he breathed in the rich medley of smells: lamb, seafood, wine, sauces, garlic, basil. The restaurant was on the ground floor of a three-story red-brick building on the city's Near North Side. It was a good area for restaurants, but this was a weeknight and most people had already left. There were just a couple of groups at the big tables in the back, a couple lingering over coffee and after-dinner drinks.
The hostess walked over to him with a couple of menus in her hand and the usual welcoming smile on her face. She was wearing an orange, ankle-length dress with a slit up the side to just above the knee. She stopped in front of him and cocked her head to one side, her long auburn hair trailing over her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she said. "We're full up."
"What about all those tables?" Elso said, pointing.
"They're all reserved. For gangsters and their molls."
"Do you serve those kind of people here?"
"As long as they don't spit on the floor."
Elso chuckled and took off his overcoat.
"So how're we doing, Sandy?"
"If you want me to run this place for you," she said, "maybe you'd better start thinking about paying me more money."
Elso shrugged. He was about thirty-five, with dark hair and blue eyes. He gave her a smile that was meant to be disarming. Sandy was familiar with that smile and still liked it, but she was not going to let it fool her.
"It seems like things are going fine," she said. "At lunchtime, like always. Evenings, we're full almost every night. Weekends, we've got reservations until the kitchen closes. But guess what? The numbers don't add up. And I'm wondering, now, how can that be?"
"Okay," Elso nodded, not smiling any more.
"What do you want me to do?" Sandy went on. "Tell him I'm going to break his balls? Look, the last time I weighed myself I was around one twenty. Oscar is like two hundred pounds, I'd guess, and he's still growing."
"Maybe I'd better talk to him."
"I think that'd be a good idea."
Elso took a look at his watch.
"There's a guy supposed to be coming to see me. Let me know when he gets here. Put him in the bar and give him whatever he wants to drink."
"Sure, boss."
When Elso walked into the kitchen, he noticed the moist, earthy reek of marijuana over the smell of food and the scent of soap from the dishwasher and caught a glimpse of the skinny second cook whipping his hand behind his back. They were serving the last desserts, putting food away, and wiping down the surfaces. Oscar, the chief cook, was stirring something in a saucepan.
"Hey, Elso, how you doin'?" the cook said, raising his head. "Hey, try this."
Elso took the spoon Oscar offered him, dipped it into the sauce, blew on it to cool it off, and took a sip.
"That's brilliant, Oscar. What is it?"
"King prawns and Iberian ham," the cook said, picking up a big wine glass and taking a sip of white wine. "That's the concept. There's more stuff, of course. It'll be a warm salad, served on a bed of fresh spinach and basil leaves."
"Beautiful. You're an artist, Oscar. Did I ever tell you that?"
"I think so," Oscar said, trying to stifle a smile.
"You got a minute? Have a drink?"
"Sure," the cook said, taking off his cap and an incredibly filthy apron smeared with blood and black grease stains. "You want something to eat?"
"Not really," Elso said.
"I got some beautiful clams. Spanish style. Garlic and white wine and lemon with a little sprinkle of parsley. Just a tapa?"
"Yeah, okay. A small one."
"Carlitos," Oscar told the other cook in Spanish, "dish up some clams for the boss. What're we drinkin'?"
"The Grenache Blanc, Topanga. If we've got any that's cold."
"Yeah, we got it."
They sat down at a little table next to the kitchen. The waitress brought out the wine, opened the bottle, and filled their glasses. Then she came back with a little plate of clams in sauce. Elso picked up a clam, sucked the juice off the shell, and bit off the clam.
"Very nice," he said, wiping his hands on the napkin. The napkin was made of soft cloth, but with a nice weight to it. One of the things Elso had noticed years before about good restaurants was that they always had nice heavy napkins.
"Like I was telling you, Oscar," he said, "you're an artist. And I really appreciate what you've done for this restaurant. Because in a way this restaurant is you. I mean, I'm the boss, I pay the bills, the salaries, the fucking taxes, but what really makes this restaurant work is you. Your ideas. Your creativity. Am I right or not?"
Oscar shrugged, embarrassed by his boss's praise. He weighed more than two hundred pounds and had long, permanently greasy dark hair that he only remembered to cut three or four times a year, but he still had the face of a little fat kid from a not very nice neighborhood.
"What I wanted to tell you," Elso went on, picking up another clam, "is that talent's not enough."
The waitress brought out an ice bucket, set it on the table at Elso's elbow, and poured each of them a little more wine before putting the bottle in the bucket. Elso raised his glass, Oscar did the same, and they clinked glasses and took a drink.
"It's good, this one," Elso said.
"Sure is."
"Of course, a white wine can never reach the level of a great red."
"No."
"The red will always have that depth, all those nuances. A good red is ... like autumn, don't you think?"
Oscar smiled. "I never thought of that."
"Cooks steal, Oscar. You know that?"
"I don't know," Oscar said without looking at him. "Could be."
Oscar picked up his glass and slurped some of the white wine. Elso had often been puzzled by how a man who could make such exquisite food could be such a slob in his personal habits.
"The way you do it," Elso went on after eating another clam, "is, say you order two boxes of prawns. You take one to use, the other you sell to the place down the street. I pay for two boxes, you pocket the money for one. And that's just one way, isn't it?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Barcelona Skyline by David C. Hall. Copyright © 2013 David C. Hall. Excerpted by permission of Barcelona Digital Editions.
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