by Lex Lander
‘Can’t blame you for that.’ I leaned against the worktop and folded my arms. I was content to just to look at her, as she paced to and fro about my kitchen. She had the kind of figure that grows on you. Not sensational like Elena’s, just generally well put together.
‘Yesterday Julio told me the reason why you were on my tail. I felt so mean I made him give me your address so I could come and apologise in person.’
‘Well, I appreciate you making the effort.’
Movements on the other side of the kitchen door caused a break in the conversation. A door slammed with such force it shook the wall behind me. Elena was advertising her displeasure at my truancy.
‘Your friend seems kind of sore,’ Linda remarked, not noticeably put out by the thought.
‘She’s a fast recoverer.’ The percolator was beginning to boil. I hunted around for a cup. ‘Sure you won’t have some? I make the best coffee in the house.’
She shook her head.
‘Your loss,’ I said. ‘Anyhow, you’ve done your duty. Consider your apology accepted. Are you going to contact your parents? I wouldn’t like to think I got roughed up for nothing.’
‘I did already, on WhatsApp. They’re cool with things.’ She shuffled her feet. ‘Seems like I’m having to apologise to everybody.’
‘They were worried about you,’ I said. ‘What you did, just dropping them, was pretty shitty.’
Her jaw sagged. ‘Do you have to punch so low? How the hell’d you get involved in the first place? There’s a lot of stuff you don’t know … we weren’t exactly the best of buddies, me and my dad.’ An agitated flick of the wrist. ‘Ah, it’s a long story.’
‘Tell it. I’ve got time.’ The toilet flushing on the other side of the wall reminded me that perhaps I didn’t have all that much time.
‘You reckon?’
Elena came in, glowering, red shirt back in place. She barely acknowledged Linda.
‘Are you coming back?’ she demanded sulkily.
In the presence of Linda Pridham’s more toned-down good looks the appeal of Elena’s voluptuous figure and dark beauty was less irresistible.
‘Linda meet Elena,’ I said, with a lightness I didn’t feel. Elena glowered some more. Linda smiled and said, ‘Hi.’
‘Want coffee, Elena?’ Without waiting for her answer I rustled up another cup and poured for both of us.
‘I know you,’ Elena said to Linda, and it was close to a snarl. ‘You’re my father’s secret mistress.’ She laughed without humour. ‘He thinks we don’t know about you, Luis and me.’
Linda bit her lip and was silent.
‘Break it up, girls. Let’s keep it convivial.’
Elena shook her fringe aside, scorning the proffered coffee.
Then, before I could restrain her, before I even realised what she intended, she walked up to Linda and slapped her twice across the face, forehand, backhand. They were hard slaps and they rocked Linda’s head. She yelped and staggered against the wall. Elena stepped back, aimed a gloating glance at me, and stalked out through the door to the terrace, statement made.
I crossed the room to Linda’s side in a few strides. ‘You all right?’ I asked, taking her arm.
She pushed me away. ‘Oh, piss off, I’m not delicate. I’ve been slapped around by experts.’ Her cheeks were flaring. At least they matched.
‘I’m sorry …’
‘Don’t you start apologising. Though you might have warned me it was Julio’s daughter you were screwing.’ She straightened up, pride intact. ‘I’ll leave you to her, Warner. You probably deserve each other.’
‘Hey, simmer down. For your information, I wasn’t screwing her.’
Not quite. We just hadn’t gotten around to it.
‘No? You surprise me. You look the type, and so does she.’
Her exit was dignified. I didn’t try and dissuade her. I drank my coffee and listened to her over-revving her car engine, messing up her gear change, and spraying gravel on the window.
The coffee was not one of my better efforts. Too many distractions. I drank it just the same. I was rinsing out the cup when Elena reappeared, slashing at the air with her riding crop. Maybe she was tempted to use it on me. The red shirt was still in place, making a statement. No sex today, thank you. Her mouth set in a lipless line, she stormed through the kitchen and out into the dusk. Equine noises ensued. You can’t over-rev a horse, or crunch its gears, but she certainly made the beast feel the sharp edge of her displeasure. Its whinnies of protest died away. Hooves thudded on sunbaked earth, faded rapidly.
As rapidly as my fortunes, I reflected sourly. Two women guests one minute, none the next. As lost opportunities go it would take some licking.
Chapter Five
The thickset, bearded Spanish trucker had been spoiling for trouble from the moment he and his three buddies swaggered though the door. He had dominated the conversation, demanded constant service from Gustavo, my willing little waiter, and every intervening sentence was to the detriment of the Anglo-Saxon race. Intentionally loud. Make a great stage actor. He even chose a position at the table where the watery February sunshine cast a spotlight on him.
This was the slack season and demands on my services behind the bar at The Golden Palm negligible. I had resolved to use my free hours to improve my Spanish language skills. Thanks to French being one of my two native languages, it had come easier than I expected, and my fluency was now such that I could hold my own in most conversations. The downside of this newfound skill was that I could understand the insulting remarks that the bearded trucker was trumpeting around the bar, to the accompaniment of gratuitous laughter from his trio of cronies.
Gustavo came away from the table with an order for four beers. He was trembling. I operated the pump mechanically, filled the glasses to the brim with frothing golden liquid.
‘He is going to make trouble,’ Gustavo said to me in an aside. ‘It is better you call the policia now.’
‘Forget it, Gustavo. I don’t need any help from the police.’ I wasn’t worried. Admittedly bar-room brawls were outside my experience but I had had plenty of training during my service with MI6 in how to disable my opponents. Otherwise known as fighting dirty. Plus, I was back to peak fitness, thanks to my daily sessions in the gym I had installed in the basement.
I pulled the last half-litre and sent Gustavo on this way. The bearded trucker was in the act of lighting a cheroot when Gustavo came alongside; in tossing the dead match aside the trucker caught the edge of the tray and beer slopped on his shirt sleeve. It was thanks to Gustavo’s balancing act that the whole trayload didn’t land in his lap. That didn’t stop him lashing out at the poor guy.
Although the blow was poorly-directed it had a lot of power behind it. Gustavo and the tray were separated, and sent skittling in different directions. Glasses shattered on the floor, spraying beer and slivers of glass to all corners of the bar. My only other customers, a pair of regulars playing crib in the sunniest alcove, reared up in alarm. Too old and decrepit to make a dash for it, they took shelter under their table, scattering playing cards asunder. It was like a scene from a Western B-movie.
A show of authority was now obligatory. If I turned the other cheek the word might spread and every trouble-seeking truck driver from Malaga to Madrid would be dropping in to show the boss who’s boss.
A baseball bat was slung below the counter for such occasions. Two feet of hardwood, as yet unblooded. I unhitched it and moved in on the foursome with the bat behind my back. The bearded one was facing away from me and unaware of my approach. His nearest companion tugged his sleeve in warning a second before I laid the bat gently but firmly on his shoulder.
‘Basta,’ I said in Spanish. ‘That’s enough.’ I pitched my voice low and reasonable. I wasn’t out to provoke him. ‘Pay for your drinks and go. I’ll overlook the damage.’
His whole frame tensed, the tendons of his neck above the greasy shirt collar tautening perceptibly. I stepped away from him,
creating space to manoeuvre.
The squat head rotated slowly, showing its profile.
‘Pay up,’ I repeated, ‘and get out.’
One of his sidekicks tossed a handful of euro coins on the table. All three pushed back their chairs, looking nervous. Unlike their belligerent colleague they weren’t in the market for a serious roughhouse.
The troublemaker grinned sideways at me. It was a broad grin, wolfish, and exposed the many gaps in his teeth. Legacies, no doubt, of other days such as this.
The chair he was sitting on went flying, kicked away as he rose. He moved fast, but was at a disadvantage in having to twist round to get at me. I sideswiped with the bat, connecting with flesh and bone just above the left elbow. It produced a yelp of surprise which changed to wariness when he realised what he was up against. Then the wolfish grin returned and a knife jumped into his fist: a slender switchblade, a weapon long since banned in most of Europe but available over the counter in Spain. It sparkled prettily as the sunlight caught it.
He lunged. Clumsily, in the manner of a man who expects no opposition, and easy to avoid. I lunged back at him with the bat at head height, its bulbous tip driving in on the bridge of his nose. I put all my strength behind the blow and he went over backwards with a grunt that came all the way up from his gut. His cronies by now had seen the light. The retreat was disorderly and noisy. It was down to me and the bearded one, now sitting on the floor.
He tried to rise and failed, shaking his head, making the corrugations of fat on his neck wobble. His nose was bleeding. The knife was away across the other side of the room. I closed in, hefting the bat. If he wanted to go the whole route I was ready to accommodate him.
But the belligerence had drained out of him. Blood was running over his chin now, and dripping onto his faded jeans. The skin between his eyes was split. It wasn’t serious, though his nose was probably broken. He just wasn’t used to being on the receiving end. Tough as he was, he had won too often and too easily, and his victories had made him over-confident.
Dazed, he tried again to haul himself up using the nearest table. The table toppled on him and he subsided, moaning. His mates, in a twittering huddle by the door, finally plucked up the nerve to return and help him. Between them they got him to his feet, still only semi-conscious and totally unaware of what was taking place around him.
‘Keep him away from here,’ I said, holding the bat across the front of my thighs. ‘If he ever comes back, I’ll give him more than a bloody nose.’
‘Si … si, señor,’ one of them muttered.
In a compact body they shuffled towards the open door. Gustavo saw them off the premises like a sheepdog herding its flock. Emboldened by our victory, he added a few farewell expletives to my caveat.
I righted the overturned table, leaving Gustavo to clear up the rest of the mess, and was returning to the counter when someone hailed me.
‘You certainly have a persuasive way with you, André.’
I turned slowly in disbelief. The figure in the sunlit rectangle of the doorway was tall and wide at the shoulders. His features were in shadow, only the hair, a smooth brown cap, not a strand out of place, was highlighted by the sun.
‘Toby?’ I said, scarcely able to believe it was my lost love’s brother.
‘The same.’ He came towards me under Gustavo’s enquiring stare.
‘Well, I’m godamned!’ I grasped the extended hand and squeezed it. ‘What a coincidence!’
A sardonic smile played across his bland countenance.
‘As you say, dear boy. And how are you? I heard you’d bought a bar – is business booming?’ He surveyed the room, empty of paying customers but for the two ancients, now back in their seats, sorting out their cards.
‘This is the quiet season. Is Sam with you?’
‘Inspecting the delights of Malaga. Quiet season, you say? It didn’t look quiet to me.’
‘Oh, that?’ I said dismissively. ‘That was just a work out. Come and park your butt and let’s chew the fat.’
‘Yes. Let’s do.’
We took up positions on opposite sides of the bar counter, he on a stool, me standing; dry martini for him, draught beer for me.
He was his usual immaculate self: dark blue blazer with the Royal Lancers skull-and-crossbones regimental crest on the pocket, tie to match, made-to-measure cream silk shirt. Every inch the blue blood, that was Toby, the only discordant note struck by the lantern jaw, the chin to end all chins. He put Punch in the shade and no mistake.
‘What’s the idea of the vegetation?’ he asked, stabbing a finger at my newly-acquired face fungus, symbolic of the new anti-establishment Warner.
‘It arose out of lethargy. Now I’ve quite taken to it.’
‘Can’t say I’m at one with you there, old chap. Still, they’re your looks, I suppose.’ He drummed fingers on the bar top. ‘It’ll have to come off, of course.’
I gaped. ‘Will it?’
‘Mmm. Tell me, old boy – seriously – are you making a decent living out of this, er … enterprise?’ He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the ceiling, stained khaki by tobacco smoke and variegated with cracks. I had spent a fair sum equipping the restaurant and replacing the furniture and some of the fixtures, intending to tart up the decor out of the profits rather than capital. All very fine if the profits had been up to the task.
When I didn’t answer he made his own assessment.
‘Why not?’ he said.
I sighed. ‘It’s almost wholly reliant on passing truck drivers to cover the overheads. The cream comes from the tourist trade, the bulk of which happens between June and September. What I didn’t appreciate was that Malaga is quite industrial. There are plenty of tourists out of season but they usually eat in town or down on the beach.’
Toby fiddled with the stem of his glass. ‘Er … didn’t you do your due diligence before you parted with your cash?’
‘Don’t be smart, Toby,’ I said, and my voice had a sting in it. ‘The place was relatively cheap and I wasn’t looking to make a living out of it. I don’t need the income. So I didn’t dig all that deeply. It was a bar, it was trading, it was by the sea …’ I shrugged. ‘It’s not a career, just a change of pace.’
‘No complaints then.’
I picked at a crack in the laminate surface of the counter. ‘No complaints. Though I could do without big mouth truckers, like the one I just had to deal with. When I get bored and need new challenges, I’ll get rid of it, or put it under management.’
‘It’s about new challenges I want to talk to you.’
‘Some other time. It’s too soon to be getting itchy feet.’ I knocked back my beer, stood aside to let Gustavo through with a shovelful of broken glass. ‘Putting aside my problems, what’s the news from London? You’re still with the Home Office, I suppose?’
‘Well, no, actually, I’ve moved sideways. To the Foreign Office.’
‘Really? How is it there? Good? Bad?’
‘Indifferent, I’d say.’ A wry smile to go with the pun. ‘That’s the Civil Service for you, especially for we minions.’
Toby was no more a minion than I was Spiderman. Quintessential man behind the scenes was Toby. Manipulator of politicians, one of an exclusive band of bearers of a passe-partout to all reaches of the Whitehall warren. His official status as Deputy Under Secretary was a fraud, once exposed by Cassandra under the influence of too many gins and tonic, yet still fatuously maintained.
‘Seen Cassandra lately?’ I asked next. ‘How is she? Alive and well and living in sin, I suppose.’
‘Actually, no … not well, I mean. In fact, she’s been quite ill.’
‘Oh?’ Concern prickled. The ties that had bound us weren’t completely frayed away. ‘What’s up?’
‘Some woman’s thing. Can’t quite get to the bottom of it, she won’t even admit to a cold. You know Cassie.’
Yes, I knew Cassie.
‘I’ll phone her.’
‘Jolly good
idea. Or better still, go and see her.’
I massaged my chin beneath the foliage. ‘See her? I can’t leave this place to run itself. Gustavo is fine as a waiter, but he’d be hopeless as a manager.’
A male blond head peeped around the doorway, muttered in what sounded like German. Withdrew. A client that never was.
Toby grimaced. ‘Like that, is it?’
‘Ah, it’s just the time of year. I don’t sweat the footfall. The place needs a lot more TLC. I’ll get around to it soon. Put in a few slot machines too, though there’s a lot of official red tape bound up in that.’ I made a gesture at Toby’s empty glass. ‘Another of those?’
‘This round’s on me.’
Behind us, the crib game was degenerating into a squabble, too heated for me to follow, culminating in one of the players storming out. The other, grousing to himself, began to gather up the cards.
‘And then there was one.’ Toby grinned lopsidedly.
‘I told you, I the footfall doesn’t bug me. It’s a past-time, not a job. I never expected it to make me want to spring out of bed every morning.’
‘How’s your Spanish?’
‘Improving. I can hold my own in a conversation.’
‘That’ll be useful.’
I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘Are you hinting at something? What was that about new challenges?’
‘Not exactly hinting, old boy,’ he said, putting on that well-practised hurt look that was his trade mark.
‘So you’re not hinting. Why are you here then? There I was thinking you found me by accident, that it was just a coincidence.’ Then it came back to me. I had texted Cassandra and mentioned the name and location of the bar.
‘Cassie, I suppose,’ I said, my voice accusing.
‘You suppose correctly. Was it meant to be a secret?’
I sighed. ‘I guess not. It didn’t occur to me any of her family and friends would care one way or the other.’
‘Well, it’s always good to see you. But … let’s put it this way: you’ve heard what’s going on between Britain and Spain, haven’t you? You haven’t become a complete hermit.’