‘Gino, how yer doin? You remember me, right? Charlie. A friend of Bill’s’.
‘H…h…hi. Yes, Charlie Lawson. Of course’. The man placed the newspaper on the desk and the half-finished cigarette down into a heavy-looking, chrome ashtray. ‘How can I help you?’ he said in a nervous tone. He looked towards the office door, but Eddie closed it.
‘By paying Bill what you owe him. Today. Now’.
‘The loan? Ah, but I need more time,’ the man said, as he sat down on the leather chair behind the desk. He smiled at Eddie. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Gino. And you are -’.
‘Someone who’s going to hurt you if you keep dishing out that bullshit,’ said Charlie before his younger brother could reply.
‘Charlie. Why the hostility? Bill will get his money. Business is a bit slower than -’.
‘Shut the fuck up, you lying snake,’ said Charlie, snarling. ‘That’s a brand new Beemer out the back there. A 635CSi, ain’t it? What did that cost? Thirty grand? Thirty five?’ He started moving the objects on Fallaci’s messy desk. ‘Where’s the keys?’
The sound of several heavy footsteps moving on the wooden pathway outside interrupted them. Eddie stepped to the window and looked out.
‘What is it?’ said Charlie.
‘Trouble,’ said Eddie.
A group of men appeared at the door. One of them, a tall shaven-headed man with cauliflower ears and a flat nose, walked up to Charlie, fixing his stare into his eyes.
‘What d’you want you ugly fucker?’ said Charlie. ‘A bleedin’ kiss?’ The man tightened his hands into fists and Eddie stepped closer.
‘It’s okay, boys,’ said the restaurant owner. ‘Mr Lawson and I were just having a friendly chat. Weren’t we, Charlie?’ Charlie did not answer as the Italian stood up and approached him. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were under a bit of pressure, Charlie’. He gave Charlie a knowing smile.
‘You’ll find out what bleedin’ pressure is if you don’t pay what you owe,’ said Charlie. The Italian ignored the threat.
‘I gather that things are getting difficult for you here in Spain. There are Scotland Yard detectives over here hunting wanted criminals, no?’ He picked up the newspaper he had been reading, and held it up for both brothers to see. The headline was in Spanish.
‘It says that the Spanish government wants to get rid of foreign criminals’.
‘Then you should be worried, you Eyetie bastard,’ said Charlie.
Fallaci laughed. ‘Oh, but the Spanish like me. I’m just a hard-working restauranteur’.
‘Who don’t pay what he owes,’ said Charlie.
Fallaci dismissed Charlie’s statement with a wave of his hand. ‘I understand there is also a famous TV reporter here looking for British who are, how you say…“on the run”. Yes? If you ask me, I think you and your friends need to be keeping a low profile’.
‘And I think you need to stick to the deals you make’.
‘Or what?’ said Fallaci, now with a grim look on his face.
‘Or you will regret it,’ said Charlie.
The enormous man with cauliflower ears took a step towards Charlie, but Fallaci signalled to him to stop. The Italian put his hands in his pocket and studied Charlie and Eddie.
‘Listen, I will try to pay Bill some money later this week. Five thousand, maybe. As a sign of good faith. Some more next month, perhaps. We shall see’. He grinned again, revealing pearly white teeth, while glancing at the biggest of his employees, Mr Cauliflower Ears, who shuffled to one side, grunted and pointed towards the open doorway. Eddie could see the veins bulging on his brother’s temple, but there was no point in resisting; the English brothers were outnumbered.
Charlie started towards the door and Eddie followed him, but Fallaci spoke again.
‘You are the long-lost brother. Edward, yes?’ Eddie halted, turning his head towards the Italian. ‘You should caution your brother about coming here and trying to threaten me. I’ve been here much longer than he has and I’ve seen a lot of shit. I have connections to important people in the area. Charlie should remember that’. The Italian signalled to the big goon to escort the brothers away.
Eddie walked to the doorway where Charlie stood grimacing. ‘Sounds like you need to tread carefully,’ said Eddie. ‘He seems to know people around here’.
‘Everyone knows people down here. He’s a nobody,’ said Charlie as they made their way out of the building and onto the path to the paseo.
‘What was all that stuff about Scotland Yard detectives and TV reporters?’
Charlie sighed as if he had had to field that question a hundred times before. He flicked the cigarette butt to the ground and motioned Eddie to walk. ‘It’s all bullshit. Some politicians back home pretending to be tough on crime and trying to distract attention from all the problems you were telling me about. The layoffs and factory closures. All that stuff you were telling me about’.
They were now at the Porsche. Charlie fumbled around in his pockets for the keys, then unlocked the car.
‘And the TV reporter?’ asked Eddie, as he pulled his door open.
‘Jeremy Crampton. You must have heard of him?’ Eddie’s face must have shown that he had not. ‘Don’t you watch tele? No, matter. He’s just some jumped-up media luvvie tryin’ to make a name for himself at our expense. It’s a pain in the arse right now, but it will soon blow over. Nuffin’ to worry about, trust me’.
Eddie eyed up his brother as he piloted the big Porsche out of the parking space and into the flow of traffic. ‘And the Scotland Yard detective?’
‘Detective Constable Philip Metcalf. Just some burnt out, old copper. He’s no threat’.
‘What’s he doing in Spain?’ said Eddie.
‘Metcalf’s just an old tosser who’s got a bee in his bonnet about me and the lads. He wasted four years tryin’ to nab us for an Abbey National job we did in ‘78. The old git never got close, even got himself suspended by the Met. He ain’t got no power here. He’s a joke. Nothing to worry about’.
Eddie frowned. ‘If everything’s golden, why do you need my help?’
Charlie gripped the steering wheel. ‘Look, Crampton and Metcalf. They ain’t the problem. But doing business down here is…well, it’s different. It’s all about getting the upper hand. It’s about influence and who you know. Trouble is, the rest of the crew ain’t cut out for that. They just wanna sit in their bars, swim in their pools and swan about town. But our money ain’t gonna last forever. The lads only see the short-term, but we need to be smarter than that. We need to adapt to survive down here. That’s why I need someone like you at my side. Someone with smarts’.
Eddie shook his head. ‘This ain’t my world, bruv. And people are expecting me down in Africa. The geezer that runs the company, Colonel Hawkwood, he stuck his neck out for me when I was in the army. More than once. I owe him’.
‘I understand, but can’t you put this Angola thing off for just a month, maybe? I could show you everything I’ve got goin’ on down here’.
Eddie rubbed his eyes, then put his sunglasses back on. ‘I’ll think about it’.
‘Sweet. Now, listen. I need to meet someone back at the bar. Why don’t you have a little wander around town? Try some tapas. Have a nice cold beer? Then we can talk again later.’
‘Sure,’ said Eddie as the Porsche sped up back onto the dual carriageway.
Charlie cut across to the fast lane but found himself sitting behind a battered old Ford Transit minibus. He pressed his foot hard on the brakes, then sounded the horn for five seconds. ‘Fuck’s sake. I bleedin’ hate this road,’ he muttered.
Chapter Seven
The Copper With A Suntan
Charlie came to a halt at the side of the road on Avenida Ricardo Soriano in the centre of Marbella. It appeared to Eddie that practically every store was a clothing, fashion or jewellery outlet.
‘There’s money in this place,’ he said.
‘You better believe it - for
those shrewd enough to make the most of it,’ said Charlie, while removing his wallet from the storage space between the seats and pulling out a wad of Spanish pesetas. He counted out several large denominations before pressing the bills into Eddie’s hands.
‘That’s about three hundred quid. Pick yourself up some decent clobber. We’re going to a party tonight at the beach club’.
Eddie stared at the thick roll of pesetas and frowned. ‘The stuff in your spare wardrobe is more than good enough’.
‘No, it ain’t. You can’t be wandering around in my hand-me-downs. We’re not kids anymore,’ said Charlie. ‘And when you’re done, pop into Marlon’s on the seafront. It’s the best place for lunch in Marbella. Tell them I sent you there. I’ll see you back at the bar in about three hours, yeah?’ Charlie winked at his brother. ‘Trust me, we’re gonna have some proper fun tonight’.
Eddie watched as the Porsche pulled away, checked his surroundings and broke into a stride.
He ignored several clothes stores whose appearance he felt to be too upmarket for his down-to-earth sensibilities before forcing himself to go into one department store in a prominent position on the high street.
A well attired mannequin caught his attention the moment he stepped inside the airy interior, and he strode over to inspect the clothing. The trousers were a little too formal, but Eddie liked the jacket. He reached to examine the price tag, but dropped it as soon as he saw the number.
Christ on a bike, that’s more than my last car.
A short walk later, Eddie stumbled upon a more modest store hidden away behind the Social Security agency. At first, he thought the shop was closed, so dim was its interior. He tried the door and to his surprise, it opened. He ventured inside.
A small brass bell chimed above the wooden door as he pushed it open and a thin, weasel-looking man poked his head up from behind an ancient metal cash register. The man appeared to be in his sixties and wore a grey blazer and a crisp white shirt.
‘Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?’ the man said in a rather weary tone and without rising from his stool. He was Spanish, but spoke in perfect English. Eddie found himself again baffled about how the Spanish could determine he was British before he had so much as uttered a word.
‘Yeah, please. I need a casual jacket and trousers for an event tonight. Do you have anything reasonably priced?’
The man groaned as he lifted himself up to his feet. He unfolded his arms, rubbed the small of his back inwards and gestured at Eddie to follow him towards a thin spiral stairwell. ‘What is the occasion, may I ask?’ he said, without making eye contact. ‘A business event?’
‘No. It’s a party I’ve been invited to. I’m just passing through and travelling light so don’t have anything appropriate,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s at the Marbella Beach Club. Do you know it?’
The man raised an eyebrow. ‘I am aware of it’.
‘Not somewhere you’d recommend?’
The man scoffed at the notion. ‘Far too many criminals,’ he said. ‘As there are everywhere in our province these days’.
Eddie sensed the opportunity to learn more about the town which is his brother inhabited. ‘Criminals? Really?’.
‘There are hundreds of them,’ said the shop owner. ‘They’re all here on the run from the British police. They think they are untouchable. Well, those scoundrels are in for a nasty shock, I can tell you’. The man reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the first-floor room, a space with sizeable windows along the west-facing wall through which the sunlight illuminated the room. The store owner had stopped and was now regarding Eddie. He appeared a little less sure of himself.
Dust particles floated in the sunrays and Eddie could not help sneezing.
‘Salud,’ said the store owner.
‘Thank you’. Eddie blew his nose while peering around. There were several wooden cabinets, each housing a dozen or more suits. ‘Can you show me some casual jackets?’
‘My pleasure,’ the man answered, his tone somewhat nervous. ‘I have some fine options, and I can offer you an excellent price, of course’.
Eddie nodded, but remained intrigued about the man’s candid opinion. ‘What did you mean, when you said “the scoundrels are in for a shock”?’ he asked.
‘Oh, nothing. Pay no attention’.
‘No, really. I’m interested’.
The man cleared his throat. ‘Well…well, the politicians here and in Britain intend to change things’.
‘How so?’ said Eddie.
‘Your compatriots…or, at last, the criminal element among them that live over here - it will be much harder for them’. The man squinted at Eddie over the rim of his spectacles and dropped his voice. ‘My cousin works for the federal government in Madrid. He tells me things’.
‘You think they will start extraditions again?’ said Eddie.
The man shrugged. ‘It is inevitable. It’s not that long since we got rid of the dictator and things are improving, but Spain has a long way to go. We must be part of the European Community. We need greater economic partnerships. And Allies. We cannot afford to upset the British government. And besides -’. The man paused.
‘Go on,’ said Eddie.
The storekeeper looked towards the stairs as if confirming that nobody else was listening. He moved a step closer to Eddie. ‘The local families. They have tolerated the foreigners until now, but they don’t like them, and they can see they are growing weaker’.
‘What do they stand to gain? These families?’ asked Eddie.
The man’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Do you know how much money flows around down here? Millions. Hundreds of millions. It’s not just those bank robbers they show on the English papers and television. It’s money laundering, financial fraud, illegal timeshares, drug smuggling and gun-running. The British have their fingers in all of it. Car thefts. Prostitution. Drugs. It is your countrymen who have run all of this. It’s they who have been profiting from it. And they who have been corrupting local legislators and the police for years.’
The man’s voice quivered as he turned away to look out of the shop window.
A gold-coloured convertible Rolls Royce sat parked on the opposite side of the road outside the branch of a foreign bank, its white-walled tyres astride a double yellow line. The British registration plate read; ‘B4RRY 51’.
‘They believe they are untouchable,’ the man went on. ‘But they are mistaken’. He remained, looking out of the window.
To break the uncomfortable silence, Eddie lifted a shiny, grey single-breasted jacket from where it had hung and examined the price tag. He decided that the price was acceptable and slipped it on over his tee-shirt. ‘How does this look?’ he said, breaking the shopkeeper out of his thoughts.
The Spaniard examined Eddie in the jacket and nodded his approval. ‘Like it was made for you, sir’.
After making his purchase, Eddie stepped out onto the busy street outside, his purchase wrapped in a plastic cover under his arm. He looked at his watch. He still had ninety minutes to kill before meeting back up with Charlie; plenty of time to walk along the beachfront, and to find the restaurant his brother had recommended.
As he started walking, he noticed a sunburnt man in his late forties holding an expensive-looking camera. The man, who was sitting on a wooden bench and dressed in beige trousers and a bright yellow shirt, was pointing the camera in Eddie’s direction.
Eddie pretended not to have noticed and sauntered past the man who turned his attention to the copy of Diario Sur that he had perched on his lap. Eddie noticed that the newspaper was upside down. He continued onwards for ten minutes until he saw the signage for Marlon’s, the restaurant that Charlie had suggested, about fifty yards away. He paused at a souvenir shop and pretended to look at the cylindrical array of multi-coloured sunglasses, using one of the Ray-ban knock-offs to check the view of the street behind him.
The man in the yellow shirt was standing thirty feet behind him, half-concealed behind a palm t
ree. The man lifted the camera again.
Who are you then, buddy?
Eddie continued on his journey and headed towards the restaurant.
A waiter was standing at the open wooden door. ‘Buenos dias, señor. English, yes?’
Is it that obvious? Eddie shook his head in amazement. ‘English, yes’.
‘You want outside table? In sun?’
‘No. I’d like to eat inside,’ said Eddie. ‘And my brother said to mention that he’d sent me here’.
The waiter regarded Eddie for a moment. ‘Who is your brother, please?’
‘Charlie Lawson,’ said Eddie.
The waiter’s face broke out into a broad grin. ‘Charlie is your brother? Well, in this case, please. You come with me’.
The Spaniard directed Eddie to a large table at the back of the restaurant interior, past a dozen crowded tables occupied by tourists and beckoned at Eddie to follow him up a small set of steps that led up to a private area upon in which located a large circular table, surrounded by carved wooden panels and with a view out onto the beach. The man lifted a red rope away from a brass stand and waited for Eddie to pass through.
‘I did say a table for one, yeah?’ asked Eddie.
‘Yes, sir. This is the area we reserve for special customers,’ said the waiter, still holding the rope.
Eddie looked to his left, to an empty table with two chairs. ‘That one will do,’ he said, leaving the waiter standing with a look of confusion on his face. Eddie sat down, placed the bag with his jacket against the wall and chose the seat that afforded him a view of the building’s entrance.
The confused waiter walked to his side. ‘You said you are the brother of Charlie Lawson, no?’
‘I did. And I am starving. Do you have spaghetti bolognese?’
‘We do, sir,’ said the waiter, still flustered. ‘But maybe you would prefer something more…interesting, from our menu of the day? We have fresh monkfish and lemon sole. Or some veal, perhaps?’ said the waiter.
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