by James Hilton
Larry and Pamela lived a couple of miles away from the club in a modest villa, so while Clay was travelling Danny had the club premises to himself. He padded down the stairs, taking note of any creaky steps. The walls of the club were enhanced by the clever use of mirrors, which made the main room look much larger than it actually was. Danny sized up the dance floor to be about twenty by twenty feet. Sixteen tables filled the area near the front door and plush booths occupied the outer walls and alcoves. Chrome tables and chairs were stacked neatly to one side of the doorway, ready to be placed outside once the club was open for the day trade.
He closed his eyes and stood motionless at the kitchen entrance. He tried to scan the room with all of his senses in unison. Soft background noise filtered in from the street outside. The rumble of passing traffic. An occasional car horn. The air inside the room was warm and still. No air-con unit had yet been employed.
All quiet.
No perceivable threat.
Confident he was truly alone, Danny moved to the centre of the dance floor. A musty combination of old food smells and the sweat of a thousand dancers echoed in a fragrant bouquet that would never be bottled or sold by Givenchy.
As with most trained fighters Danny had learned a variety of kata—set sequences of attack and defence executed against imaginary opponents. He flowed smoothly through a less used sequence known as Tegatana Shodan. The training form was the first in a set using all of the various types and angles of knife-hand strikes. The kata employed fast pivots and turns to negate the attacking force, double blocks and parries, single and double strikes, simultaneous attack and defence and most unusually for kata, pre-emptive attacks.
As he worked through the form several times without pause, Danny visualised his opponents as very real attackers. This was the secret of kata; making it real in your mind.
He broke an imaginary chokehold by pivoting and sweeping the arms downward, then a knife hand crushed a trachea. He pivoted a quarter turn to dodge a kick to his groin and swept the kick up and out with his left arm as his right slammed into a mastoid muscle under the ear. He slipped inside a visualised right hook and blasted the attacker with a “five swords” combination—five fully focused hand strikes in less than one second.
He paused, relaxing. Beads of sweat trickled down his face as he settled his breathing.
He was at peace again.
After Danny had completed his morning exercises, he took another quick shower and set about finding some breakfast. Larry’s instructions had been “eat anything in the kitchen you want”—dangerous words to an ex-squaddie.
After a minute of peering into the dry store and a walk into a small refrigerated room, Danny decided on a large bowl of multi-coloured cereal rings and a mammoth portion of grapefruit segments, a fruit that he’d loved from early childhood visits to his uncle’s hotel near Loch Lomond. He consumed the food while a pot of coffee hissed and gurgled its way to capacity. Three mugs of java later and Danny was ready for the day ahead. He was just washing up when the soft scraping of a key turning in a lock made him pause; he adopted a slight crouch automatically, then relaxed when he heard female voices.
He emerged from the kitchen to find Pamela and two staff members entering through the front door.
“Morning. How are you feeling today?” asked Pamela.
“Up and at it, Pamela,” Danny replied. “Is Larry with you?”
“Yeah, he’s just parking the van around the back.”
Right on cue, Larry appeared with a rattle of keys at the back door. He walked towards Danny with his uneven gait.
The two men exchanged greetings in a slightly awkward manner, so Danny decided to be upfront. “Look, Larry, Pamela, thanks again for putting your trust in me. I know the club means everything to you, so I’ll do anything I can to help protect it. Thanks for letting me lodge here as well.”
Larry seemed lost for words for a long moment. “Nah, Danny, it’s me and Pam that are thankful. Thankful there are still good men like you and Clay that give a damn about helping a broken old soldier and his wife.”
Danny could see a hint of embarrassment flit across his face. “Look, Larry, I know an old warhorse like you could send these desperados scuttling for the hills. But I need a piece of the action too, you know.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I suspect you’ll have more than a few skulls to crack before this thing is over with.”
“Glad to hear it,” Danny declared.
Pamela and the two staff members joined the old soldiers. “Danny Gunn, this is Julie and Hernandez. Julie helps cover the front during day shift and Hernandez is our chef.”
Julie flashed Danny a smile, which he gladly returned. Hernandez added, “Just call me Dez; everybody else does.”
“Nice to meet you, Dez.”
Danny held Julie’s gaze for a long moment as the group talked. She was very easy on the eye. Her long brown hair was tied back into a neat ponytail, and her eyes were a curious mix of green and grey, very similar to his own. Her teeth were very white and perfectly straight, setting off her light tan and long legs. No ring on her finger. Danny liked everything about her. Her hand was soft and warm in his as they shook hello. Danny caught Pamela’s knowing smile.
A few more pleasantries were exchanged before the two staff and Pamela busied themselves with preparations for the forthcoming day’s trade.
“At least last night was quiet,” Danny said to Larry. “How long have the Locos been after your club?”
“Best part of a month now, but it came to a head the other day. It was lucky that Clay was in town. Look, I couldn’t say it in front of Pamela, but I know that I’m no match for these fuckers. That’s why I called Clay for help.” He tapped his prosthetic limb against a barstool. “I’m not much cop if I have to move fast any more, and if the Guardia knew how crap my eyesight is they’d take my driving licence off me faster than you could say adiós amigo.”
“Clay counts you and Pamela amongst his nearest and dearest, so the same goes for me. Don’t worry, this will all be over with very soon.”
Larry rubbed a hand across his clean-shaven face. “Well, it’s appreciated. You know we haven’t talked about money yet. We don’t expect you to risk your neck free of charge. What’s the going rate for this kind of job these days?”
“I usually roll for five hundred a day, but this may not be a quick fix. I’ll tell you what. I’m having an end-of-season sale… let’s call it a grand for the week. If it’s still going after that we’ll sit down again and talk things through. But you know I’m not here for the money. Clay called on me and it’s a closer-to-home job for him, so likewise for me.”
Larry smiled, his eyes crinkling into deep fissures at the corners. He gestured over to a booth at the rear of the club. As both men sat he glanced around even though the club was empty. He leaned forward, a half smile creeping across his face. “Are all the stories Clay tells about you true?”
Danny shrugged. “Clay likes to add a little spice to his stories—especially if a beer is helping it along.”
“Is it true about the boat off the African coast?”
“What did he say about it?”
“That you and three others boarded a ship that Somali pirates had taken. You slotted sixteen hostiles and sailed the ship back to port in Madagascar.”
“It wasn’t quite sixteen but, aye, that’s about right.”
“What about the petrol tanker in Morocco?”
Danny nodded silently.
Larry hesitated for a beat, then asked, “Did you really drop a car battery on someone from the roof of a building?”
“Aye, that was in Africa as well. The shit-heel was part of a death squad that was terrorising the local villagers. He had men dotted around in the surrounding houses. I had to take him out quiet.”
“So you dropped a battery on his head?”
“Well it was a lot quieter than ‘blatting’ him with my ’80.”
“Guess so.” Larry continued, “Bu
t what about the guy in the abattoir? That must be made up right?”
“That depends. What did my all too vocal brother tell you about that?” The smile dropped from Danny’s face. Danny was going to have words with Clay when he got back from his road trip. If the powers that be ever linked him to any of these wet jobs he would be looking at the inside of a cell for the rest of his natural existence.
Larry lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “He said that you ‘might have’ pushed a paedophile through an industrial meat grinder.”
Danny swore under his breath. “He raped, tortured and killed four kids and walked out of court on some botched police procedure. He’s nobody the world will ever miss.”
Then Danny relaxed and his eyes regained their usual happy glint. The men looked at each other; a silent understanding assured Larry that this was indeed the right man for the job. Something Danny had known all along.
9
Danny settled himself in and watched the first of the day’s customers drift in. The club continued to steadily fill during the day. All ages, shapes and sizes frequented the Woo Hoo. Maybe it was the hearty portions of food served up by Dez, or maybe because of the genuinely friendly welcome afforded to its visitors, but the club was never short of people putting green in the cash register.
Danny watched a group of six close by, chatting and munching their way through the “belly buster” all-day breakfast. They were obviously three couples, friends on holiday.
No threat.
Then something registered, akin to a déjà vu moment. The same man was sat at the bar. The black guy, the same rangy build in a similar bright T-shirt, sitting in the same seat as yesterday—with the same too-casual look on his face. Everything about the man was completely relaxed apart from his eyes, which were roving around the club’s customers with the focus of a cat creeping up on an unwary bird.
Danny moved his centre of balance forward to facilitate a rapid forward dash if required. The small hairs on the back of his neck prickled in preparation. Knowing to trust the uneasy sensation was a basic requisite for a combat soldier, often proving the difference between life and death. The feeling that warned of an unseen sniper on a roof or a blade-wielding killer about to attack. Born from the same instinct that fuelled a detective’s “hunch”, the warrior’s gut feeling was as essential as a knife or sidearm.
Danny tucked his right leg beneath him and eased his frame forward so he barely touched his seat. There were way too many customers in the bar for his liking: way too much scope for collateral damage if the big man at the bar let loose.
The man downed the dregs of his drink, stood up and sauntered out the front door. Danny made to follow but found his way blocked by a woman whose pallor betrayed the quantity of vodka she’d consumed with her lunch. “Hey there, you wanna join us for a drink?”
Sidestepping the woman, Danny watched the man exit the club.
“Hey, you leaving? What’s your hurry? Come and sit with us. My friend Tracey thinks you’re cute.”
Danny glanced at the woman. “I’m kinda busy.”
The woman pursed her lips in mild annoyance. “Maybe later then?”
Danny gave a polite smile but continued to the front door. He looked to the right, the same direction the man had taken, but he couldn’t see him. The man could have climbed into any one of a dozen cars parked on the street but the reflections from the sun in the many windscreens prevented a clear view inside.
Danny rubbed the back of his hand across his chin. He could check the street, peering into each vehicle as he passed but knew that he stood a chance of walking into an ambush.
He stepped back inside the club. If the guy was trouble, he would be back.
10
As soon as he was out of direct view Juba jogged back to the waiting car. “I told you. I knew I was right!”
“Right about what?” sneered Vasquez. Juba was handy in a fight but had aspirations above his station. Aspanu, although from Madrid like Vasquez and Ortega, was a lazy idiot who got off on beating his wife in front of others to show his machismo. He was only here as far as Vasquez was concerned, because he’d recognise the man who’d put him down so easily.
“The man at the back of the bar, he was there yesterday, same seat—not watching but seeing everything. He’s a hired hand.”
“How do you know he’s not just another dickless tourist out for his morning coffee, eh?” asked Aspanu from the back seat.
“Because it is my job to know such things!”
“Was it the same guy that sucker-punched me? Big as a dinosaur. Face all scarred up?”
“No. But he watches.” Juba pointed two forked fingers at Aspanu to emphasise the point. “He sees.”
Vasquez picked out his cell phone from a jacket pocket and rang his employer for instructions. After a few moments the call ended and he turned to Juba. “We watch and wait, follow him if he comes out. If he doesn’t, we’re going to hit the club just after closing tonight.”
Juba gave a triumphant grin, which Vasquez didn’t return. Aspanu continued to pick dirt from under his fingernails with a lock knife. “Great. I get to sit in a hot car all day with you two. This just gets better and better.”
“If you had done your job in the first place we wouldn’t be sitting out here at all,” Vasquez growled. “Now shut up and keep your eyes open for the big Yank that you let do a flamenco on your ass.”
11
The afternoon passed without further event. Danny had eaten a late lunch in the kitchen courtesy of Dez. Damn that boy could cook! A brief and flirtatious conversation with Julie had rounded lunch off nicely. He’d established that she didn’t have a boyfriend (or girlfriend—he knew it didn’t pay to assume anything these days) and that came as good news. Maybe, he thought, they’d be able to go for a drink when this thing was over.
Sated and ready for the evening, Danny bid a fond hasta luego to Pam and Larry. Again, he was fairly sure that the club would remain safe while full of customers. He glanced at his watch. Nearly seven. It was finally time to meet with the British business owners.
He followed the instructions given to him by Pamela. Larry had offered him the use of their van but Danny had declined the offer, preferring to walk and get more of a feel for the town. He found the desired address with relative ease due to Ultima’s blocked grid layout.
He looked up at the wide four-storey apartment building. As with the rest of the property in Ultima, it was finished to a high standard. It reminded him of some of the more recent waterfront properties in London’s Canary Wharf. The stylish smoked-glass windows and doors combined with white faux marble to give the building real character. A low perimeter wall topped with a decorative iron spiked fence served to enclose a neat manicured lawn and gardens. Although illuminated only by spotlights mounted on the building, the lawn looked as green and pristine as a golf course.
Danny glanced at the address that Pam had supplied him with: Apt. 198A, Santiago Road. (23rd Street). The apartment in question was owned by a British couple, Philip and Sally Winrow. The rest of the British residents had agreed to meet him there at eight-thirty.
The Dukes had remained at the club as two of their evening barmaids had called in sick earlier that day. It seemed that even the locals fell foul of “Spanish tummy” once in a while.
No problem, the rest of the ex-pats knew to expect him.
Danny entered the cool of the main lobby. A row of mail slots adorned the wall to his right. Above each slot was a printed name and apartment number. He traced a finger from slot to slot and found the Winrows’ listing.
As he trotted up the stairs, taking two at a time, he could hear televisions, voices and droning music filtering through the walls. A cackling laugh echoed down from a higher floor. Someone was playing “Love Me Do” way too loud. He liked The Beatles as much as the next man but too loud is too loud. He found the Winrows’ apartment and rapped on the door with calloused knuckles.
The door was opened by
a petite blond wearing a pink T-shirt that Danny decided must have been sprayed on. The shirt declared the legend SALLY’S SALON… THE ULTIMA ULTIMATE!
“I guess you’d be Sally then?” deduced Gunn.
“And you must be Danny.” Sally was young, and tanned to a shade that would become an antique piece of furniture. Her platinum-blond hair contrasted a little too sharply with her skin tone. “Come on in.” Her voice had a strong Essex accent.
As Danny entered, a thick layer of cigarette smoke drifted towards the open door. The open-plan living space was sleek and modern and filled with a motley crew of British ex-pats talking in small groups. Danny received a few furtive looks as he entered. He sensed a nervous energy in the room.
One of the men separated from the crowd and approached. He was tall and slim, his goatee trimmed into pencil-thin lines that traced sharp angles on his bony face. He was dressed casually in a T-shirt and shorts, both light blue in colour.
“Is this him? Is this the one we’ve been waiting for?” He extended his hand. “We’ve all been looking forward to meeting you.”
“And you are?” Danny asked as they shook hands.
“Oh, sorry, mate, I forget my manners. My name’s Phil Winrow. Sally’s my wife. I run the Midnight Mood Bar down on Second and Iglesias. Larry tells me you’re a man that can solve problems.”
Danny nodded. “I may be able to help, but I’ll need you all to sit down, be quiet and tell your stories in an orderly manner.”
“Bloody hell.” Phil glanced at Sally, then back to Danny. “You don’t waste any time do you!”
“Time is against us. Once the Locos find out you’ve brought in outside help, they’ll have to put the pressure on you guys. They won’t go without a fight, that’s for sure.”
Sally addressed the gathering. “Everybody, this is Danny—he’s here to help us. Oh, and his brother as well, but he’s not here tonight. If you can all sit down and we’ll take turns talking to him.”