SPANISH ROCK

by Lex Lander

  ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No. I’ll be off home in a minute. You get back inside, you might miss something.’

  He joined me in the dry. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Leave?’ I hesitated. ‘I … oh, shit, I bloody well know the girl. And her parents.’

  ‘Oh.’ Then, as it sank in, a deeper, more sober, ‘Ohh.’

  ‘You said it. Don’t let it spoil your enjoyment though. She’s nothing to you, just another stripper.’ I gave him a light push on the shoulder. ‘You get back in there.’

  ‘No.’ He gave a kind of shudder. ‘No, I couldn’t, not now. Somehow it doesn’t seem to matter when they’re complete strangers. If they don’t mind flashing it, why quibble?’ He thrust his hands deep in his pants pockets. ‘But knowing the girl, even through someone else … it would be like … like …’

  ‘Yeah, well, forget it.’ I turned up my jacket collar. ‘I’m off now. Thanks for the entertainment. I’ll phone you a week from now.’

  We shook hands.

  ‘Er … good enough.’

  ‘Just do what needs to be done about the bar, and be sure to keep me in the loop. You’ve got my cell number and my email address.’

  I left him to return to LA CAVERNA or home, as the mood took him, and crossed the street, heading in the general direction of the Place José Antonio where I had left the car. When I was sure I was out of his sight I nipped into a dingy alley and doubled back to the street, emerging via another alleyful of prostitutes lurking in doorways. I received a dozen invitations in as many seconds.

  Baynes was gone. I scouted round the block of darkened shops that sat on top of LA CAVERNA, seeking the club’s back entrance. Praying I wasn’t too late, that I hadn’t missed her. Then a door further along opened, a fire exit with a horizontal locking bar. The yellow glare from within lit up a heap of swollen black plastic bags, one of which had burst, spewing cabbage leaves, empty cans, and plastic water bottles across the sidewalk and into the gutter.

  The figure that hurried out, slamming the door firmly to engage the locking bar, was without doubt a woman and without doubt pregnant. Long white-stockinged legs, a red mini-dress, red handbag. As she paused to open a striped umbrella I moved towards her but had barely got into my stride when she hoofed it down the street in one hell of a hurry. Late for her next engagement, I supposed. Most strippers work several clubs per night.

  My shoes were rubber soled and she remained unaware I was pursuing her until a couple of loafers rounding a corner gave me a cheer of encouragement, accompanied by some raucous remarks. Linda’s stride slackened and she spun to face me, discarding the umbrella. And, by God, had I intended her harm, I would have had good cause to regret it. From her handbag, fast as a gunslinger, she whipped a compact, black aerosol. I had just long enough to recognise it for what it was, and redirect my body away at right angles. My feet became entangled and I crashed onto the road. Car brakes squealed in evasive action. The nauseous chemicals from Linda Pridham’s mugger deterrent hissed harmlessly into the night.

  ‘Linda, it’s me – Warner!’ I yelled as I sprawled in the gutter. A car swerved past me, hooting. I stuck my middle finger up at his receding lights, hobbled back to the relative security of the sidewalk. Linda was staring at me in disbelief, her aerosol-wielding arm still extended in the aim and fire position.

  ‘André Warner,’ I said, rubbing my bruised hip. ‘You remember me?’

  She was flustered. ‘Yes … yes, sure I do.’

  I eased the black cylinder from her small white hand. ‘You won’t need this.’ I smiled at her. ‘Promise.’

  Her hand covered her mouth. ‘Holy … excuse me, Mr Warner. I didn’t recognise you with the beard and all.’

  ‘No harm done, apart from a bruise or two.’ I examined the aerosol label in the glare of the nearest street lamp. ‘ “Defensa”,’ I read out loud.

  She shook her head as if to collect her wits. ‘Spanish equivalent of Mace. Makes your eyes run, so you can’t see.’

  I’d been threatened with worse.

  ‘Look,’ she said, back in control of herself. ‘I’m late for an appointment. I gotta move it.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Another CAVERNA?’

  It was cruel but I aimed to stop her, shock her into compliance. Her mouth parted in surprise – it was a nice mouth. With a lot less lipstick it would be even nicer.

  Surprise was quickly overtaken by discomfiture.

  ‘You … were there? You saw?’

  I nodded. ‘It’s no place for a pregnant girl.’

  ‘It’s none of your business, you creep,’ she retorted, with some heat. She had too much strength of character to be bothered by the knowledge that I had seen all of her there was to see.

  The rain was dissolving her make-up. A globule of mascara made an uncertain descent of her cheek, drawing a line to mark its passage. I retrieved her upended umbrella, held it over her.

  ‘It’s none of your business,’ she repeated with less heat.

  I took out my wallet. Inside was over five hundred euros in 50-notes. I extracted all but a couple, stuffed them in her still open handbag, followed by the deterrent. Snapped the bag shut.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, affront reinstating her natural spirit. ‘Just who the fuck …?’

  ‘Call it compensation for loss of earnings.’ She stared, her eyes dark hollows, unfathomable. ‘Now, if you’ll let me, I’ll escort you to your home.’

  * * * * *

  Home turned out to be a studio, four floors up, off the boulevard Paseo del Parque. Not a bad district to live in. Linda had probably chosen small and beautiful in favour of big and ugly. The rent would be high, even for these thirty square metres of living space.

  Neither of us had spoken during the walk to where the Aston was parked. I had simply taken her arm, and she hadn’t resisted.

  ‘You must be nuts leaving a heap like this here,’ she remarked, as I operated the remote door lock. ‘You deserve to have it swiped.’

  On the short drive to her pad she lapsed into broody reticence until, as we drew into the curb, she said curtly, ‘Come up for coffee.’ Not the warmest of invitations. But, chiefly out of curiosity and only secondarily out of attraction to the girl, I went up for coffee.

  While she made it in the curtained off kitchenette I did a tour of the room, which took less than a minute. No pictures, very few ornaments. Two Puma tennis racquets were acquiring a film of dust in a corner, kept company by a battered pair of Nike tennis shoes. A few magazines, mostly about boats from what I could see, a 2016 Michelin Guide to Spain & Portugal; otherwise no books. The two armchairs were draped with cast-off clothing. Conclusion? Linda Pridham was an outdoor, sports-minded girl, no art lover, and tidiness was low on her list of priorities. So was cleanliness: every corner had its festoon of cobwebs. In one, the creator was in residence.

  ‘Don’t you mind the spiders?’ I said as she came thrusting through the gap in the curtains, a hand massaging her flank the way pregnant women do.

  She didn’t bother to follow my glance but went to draw the curtains. ‘Why should I? They’re company. And they catch flies.’

  There was something sad about considering spiders as company, even jokingly. Clearly the days of being the companion of a rich and powerful man were no more than a memory.

  ‘Want to talk about it?’ I said.

  ‘Stripping for a living, you mean?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant. Though I guess it’s part of the package.’

  She screwed up her face. ‘Package?’

  From behind the curtains a kettle began to shrill.

  ‘How do you like your coffee, Warner?’

  ‘As it comes.’

  ‘I only got Instant,’ she said, in a tone of take-it-or-leave-it, making for the kitchen.

  By the time she came back I had transferred the strewn garments to the veneered buffet and cleared space on the coffee table.

  We sat at right angle
s to each other and drank insipid, unsweetened black coffee. Whatever traumas she had suffered and was still suffering hadn’t done her looks any harm. She had scrubbed much of her professional make-up off in the car and was now in more or less her natural state. Her hair had grown some since our last meeting. If, as I once read someplace, it was a mirror of the state of her health, she had no worries on that score and the rather pallid complexion I remembered from our meeting had gained some colour. Perhaps carrying a baby did that. Weren’t pregnant women supposed to bloom?

  ‘He dropped me when he found out,’ she announced suddenly, the cup against her lips. She was trembling slightly. I half-reached towards her, drew back before contact was made. This was an independent girl. She didn’t need any consoling from me.

  ‘Irazola? Is it his?’

  Her glare said: you may think I’m a slut, mister, but I’m a faithful one.

  ‘Didn’t he give you … er … provide for you?’

  ‘Pay me off, you mean, a handsome settlement for placing my snatch and tits at his beck and call, twenty-four hours a day, for nearly two years, that kind of thing?’ Her hand shook and coffee slopped from the cup. ‘No, sirree. I got diddly squat.’

  Privately I hadn’t too much sympathy. While it lasted, her liaison had been fruitful. Flash car, expensive clothes, expensive apartment no doubt. Protection from predators. Some would say she should be grateful to have had that much for as long as she did.

  ‘What makes it worse is that I really loved the sonofabitch.’ She swirled her coffee about. ‘Still do, come to that. Bastard!’

  ‘So he didn’t give you any money, not even to see you through the pregnancy.’

  ‘Not only did he give me no fucking money, pal,’ she said grimly, ‘but he took back his fucking apartment and his fucking car. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think you’re fucking right to be pissed.’

  She grinned weakly.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘from what I’ve heard, strippers make a decent living. And you appeared to be enjoying yourself.’

  Her cup had been midway between saucer and mouth. Now she crashed it down with a force that transferred most of the contents onto the table.

  ‘Enjoying it!’ she choked. ‘Are you screwball or what?’

  Oh-oh. Seemed I had touched an exposed nerve.

  ‘For your information,’ she snarled, ‘there’s a greasy little slob called Hernandez who sits in the audience all night and every night whose sole purpose is to make sure us girls hold nothing back. Show the tiniest inhibition, let your smile slip a millimetre, and you’re out with a capital O.’ She sniffed, drew the back of her hand under her nose.

  I passed her a crumpled handkerchief. ‘It’s clean. I only use it to polish my rose-tinted glasses.’

  She blew her nose and laughed at the same time.

  Floorboards creaked outside the door. I raised enquiring eyebrows at Linda.

  ‘It’s only Enrico. He’s got the apartment next to mine, it’s much bigger, a proper bedroom. He’s queer as a three-legged dodo.’ She put her coffee cup on the floor beside the chair. ‘Look, Warner, I promise you I’m not one of those kinks who gets a charge out of rolling about under a spotlight while guys jerk off inside their coats …’ She paused, her expression darkening. ‘And not always inside …’

  ‘Lay off the technicoloured description. And to answer you, no, I didn’t imagine you did it for kicks. But why not go home? Your parents will take care of you.’

  ‘Oh, sure, like I should expect them to. For Christ’s sake, I’m twenty-nine. If I mess up my life I can’t expect the folks back home to unmess it for me.’

  Pride, that deadly sin. She’d slide all the way to the bottom before she’d accept a leg up.

  ‘So where do we go from here, mister nice guy?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it. Do we go anywhere?’

  ‘Put it this way – you just paid me the equivalent of a week’s wages. I’m grateful and I owe you. So … how’d you like to pass the night in little Lindy’s …’ She broke off to chuckle, ‘… in big Lindy’s bed. Or two nights, if you like.’ She cocked her head sideways to consider me. ‘Maybe you don’t like. Is that it?’

  I couldn’t make up my mind.

  ‘Never screwed a knocked-up woman before?’ she said with a manufactured come-hither smile.

  Now that she mentioned it, I hadn’t. Not so in-your-face knocked-up, anyhow.

  ‘Brother, you don’t know what you’ve been missing,’ she went on. She lifted her backside to free the hem of the red mini-dress, pulled the garment over her head. She wore no bra, just a black silk half-slip.

  In spite of myself, in spite of her bloated belly, I suddenly wanted her. More badly than I had wanted any woman in many a month. The price of too much abstinence maybe.

  ‘No need to prostitute yourself …’ I began. Not that she would be my first.

  ‘Don’t be such an asshole. You’ve been living so long among Brits you’ve developed stiff lower lip syndrome. Stop behaving like a gentleman, for Pete’s sake.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be hard. And it’s upper lip, not lower.’

  ‘Upper, lower, They’re both lips aren’t they? Which reminds me …’

  She kissed the way she talked, forceful, no-nonsense, direct.

  And a little later I discovered what it was that I’d been missing.

  Chapter Eleven

  When I awoke the sun was already above the surrounding tenements, bleeding the colour from the yellow curtains, driving a silver sliver through a gap at the top. Linda was up, out of sight, humming some tune.

  ‘What’ll it be, Warner? Corn Flakes or toast? Can’t manage anything cooked, unless you’d like warmed-up spaghetti Bolognese.’

  I shuddered. Knuckled the sleep from my eyes.

  ‘Well?’ Peremptorily now.

  ‘Er…toast will be fine.’

  ‘Coming right up.’ I heard the clunk of the toaster. The kitchenette curtains bulged then parted to admit Linda, bearing a tray. She was naked, bloated belly and all, and completely unself-conscious about it.

  ‘Do you always walk about like that?’ I said, rising from the much dishevelled single bed.

  She turned. ‘Look who’s talking.’

  My undershorts were nowhere in evidence, so I reached for my undershorts, which were, and sat on the edge of the bed to pull them on. She watched me. She had tied her hair back with a red ribbon and was without make-up. She was a whole lot prettier without cosmetic embellishment, I decided. The pride, the independent streak, the devilment were all written there.

  Later, after breakfast, she asked me if I wanted to stay on a while. No diffidence, no hesitation, just a straight invitation to play house. She’d gotten dressed to eat, a loose, smock-dress over faded designer jeans with rips in both knees.

  ‘Do you offer bed space to all your friends?’

  She didn’t much care for the implication. ‘I don’t have any friends. Not since Julio. You’re the first.’ She regarded me suspiciously. ‘If you are a friend. By the way, how old are you, Warner?’

  ‘Over forty. Let’s leave it at that.’

  ‘You’re wearing well, unless you’ve had work done.’ She grinned to show she wasn’t serious. ‘Did I tell you I’m twenty-nine?’

  On the young side, but did I care? About the same as any man in his forties with his sexual impulses still functioning cared about making out with a woman in her twenties.

  ‘You’re a nice looking girl, Linda,’ I said. ‘And it doesn’t bother me that you’re carrying another guy’s child. But I can’t stay.’

  Her face closed up.

  ‘Who’s asking you?’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ I said, and reached for her hand. But she wasn’t having any of that. She stood up, brushed crumbs from her smock. I stood with her.

  ‘Don’t take it personal,’ I said. ‘I have to go to Gibraltar. It’s business and I can’t get out of it. Before I go, though, there’
s something I want to do.’

  Still suspicious, unwilling after that imagined rejection even to meet me halfway, she folded her arms.

  ‘You want to give me money?’ The tone was jeering.

  ‘No. I want Irazola to give you money.’

  She arched an eyebrow, her deep-set eyes derisive. ‘You got a screw loose?’

  ‘Maybe. But I intend to go calling on him on the way to Gib and get him to do the right thing by you.’

  Her laugh came from gut-level. ‘When are you going to come down and join the rest of us here on Planet Earth? This isn’t some story out of a romantic novel book, kiddo. There’s no King Arthur, no Round Table, and you sure aren’t Sir Galahad.’ She hooted raucously.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I said, pasting on a serious expression.

  She saw that I was.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry, Warner.’ She started towards me, then stopped in some confusion. ‘Look, I know you’re only trying to help. But no way is Julio going to entertain a touch from you on my behalf. Last time I saw him he was, like, don’t ever try and contact me.’

  ‘He’ll see me,’ I demurred. ‘if I just show up at his front door. Anyhow, you’ve nothing to lose. Even if I fail, you won’t be any worse off.’

  ‘Chances are he’ll be away on duty.’ She said it as if she hoped he would.

  ‘I’d phone to find out but that would just give him an opportunity to put me off. Best to risk it. If I draw a blank, so what? I’ll have wasted a couple of hours and be out of pocket the price of a gallon or two of gas. You still won’t be any worse off.’

  ‘No,’ she said in a growly voice, ‘but that shit Julio will think I asked you to go round there with the begging bowl.’

  That pride again.

  ‘I’ll tell him you know nothing about it.’

  ‘Oh no, you won’t. I’m coming with you. You don’t think I’m going to hide behind a man’s pants, do you?’ Her face softened. She came to me and my arms opened of their own accord to receive her. ‘Even a man as good and kind as you.’

  Good and kind? This girl was great for my ego. Even if she was confusing me with somebody else.