Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

a lower altitude, enabling passengers to see the green and gold expanse of the land below. Further on, as the plane reduced altitude on the approach to San Sebastian’s airport, the Bay of Biscay glistened in the diffused light of the midday sun.

The runway was on a long spit of land along a river at nearby Hondarribia, located on the Spanish-French border—although it was known as the San Sebastian airport. After a smooth landing the women proceeded through customs and collected their bags. There were directions in both English and Spanish to car rental and buses. They debated about how they would get to Pamplona, considered renting a car, and decided against it due to their tight budget. The buses were outside, parked along the curb, and some of them looked quite worse for wear. The conclusion was that a bus was all they could afford, and so they exited the airport and walked the length of sidewalk in front of the building. Taxi drivers motioned to them, but they did their best to ignore the waves, whistles, and the open passenger doors with eager drivers ready to usher them inside. Several of the buses were marked for Pamplona, and Valerie said that without further thought they should just pick one and get on.

At that moment, a dilapidated van maneuvered into a small space between two of the buses the women were considering. The driver honked several times quickly, jumped out of the van, leaving it double-parked. He then presented himself to Valerie and Olivia. He was clean-shaven, and in spite of the rakish straw hat he wore, they could see that his head was shaved. He wore loose-fitting pants that seemed to be covering some kind of heavy boots. Both women stepped back in response to this assault on their attention.

Lenny smiled at them and spoke. “Good afternoon, ladies. I’m from your hotel—the guesthouse—Gestión Alojamientos,” he said, the heavy Manchester accent causing him difficulty. “They sent me to bring you.”

He had expected to have a rather a long wait watching for the women to exit the airport. Since they had arrived earlier than expected, he would have to ‘wing it.’ Valerie thought it was rather strange that an Englishman with a definite Manchester droll would be working for a Spanish hotel, especially considering his terrible accent. But she knew the English had been the largest group of expats in the world, probably because of the size of England’s kingdom before it began to shrink.

Olivia, always the one to question, asked the man why her friend hadn’t been notified that they would be met at the airport. His answer came easily. The van had been in disrepair and had only come back from the mechanic that very morning. It was expected that transportation would not be available, so it couldn’t be promised. Both women were satisfied by his explanation, and feeling the fatigue that always accompanies travel, they decided the van would be more comfortable than a bus—but not by much, from the look of it.

As he started to gather the bags and put them in the van, the man called out to say they should call him Joe. Lenny liked the idea of deceiving them—using an alias. His story was that he only worked for the hotel a few hours a week, to collect passengers from the airport, and the rest of the time he was a bartender. He was burly and handled everything as if it were merely a few empty boxes. He ushered them into the back seat and went around to the driver door, hurled himself up into the seat and started the engine.

“There’s no air conditioning—it’s a luxury in these parts—not too hot today though.”

The women looked for seat belts, but there were none. Olivia warned Valerie to be careful not to drop anything in the hole that gaped between them on the seat. Olivia turned to her and whispered, “If this van is any indication of our accommodations, we’re in trouble.”

“Maybe this is a case of ‘can’t tell a book by its cover’ — if we’re lucky. I think we’ll have to make the best of it because the town is no doubt booked up for the running of the bulls.”

“Just so it’s clean—no bugs or creepy crawlies. That’s all I care about.”

Olivia stopped talking and looked out the window at the green hills and ocean. Within a short while they had turned south and the landscape slowly became more arid. Their driver was quiet. The van bounced along, jarring the women with every bump in the poorly maintained road. They settled back and relaxed as best they could, each daydreaming a bit about what they believed would be a fantastic week of celebration and people watching.

The heat of the day had accumulated in the metal of the old van, and the temperature inside was extremely disagreeable. Clothing stuck to their backs and perspiration glistened on their faces. Finally the scene began to change. Buildings were closer together, with homes and businesses lining the paved streets. Lenny slowed the vehicle as they entered a more congested area of the city. Pamplona was decorated for the running of the bulls. Strips of red flags were strung high across streets here and there, a symbol of the traditional red kerchiefs worn by those who participate in the running of the bulls. Men, mostly young, were strolling in the timeless costume of white pants and shirt with a red kerchief tied either around their waist or neck. Valerie and Olivia settled back and enjoyed the sights, assuming that they were being taken to their accommodation. They soon noticed that their driver had left the town center behind and was driving through what appeared to be a residential neighborhood. It seemed feasible that a guesthouse could be located in such a place, so they just continued to observe. Before long Lenny stopped the van in front of an old house. He proceeded to drive over the curb and