by Peter Cocks
Donnie suddenly felt guilty, as if he’d somehow betrayed Tommy Kelly and jumped far too quickly when Patsy had told him to jump. On the other hand, if he hadn’t, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be alive now.
“What do you want me to do, Dave?” he asked. “It puts me in a difficult place.”
“Who’s your loyalty to, Don?” Dave asked. “The bloke who treated you right all those years, or the one who you already had to bale out ten years ago and who’s about to cock it all up again?”
“The guv’nor, of course,” Donnie said.
“Right,” Dave continued, “what I want you to do is be my eyes and ears over there. Let me know what’s occurring on a daily basis. Tell me who’s next on the hit list, who’s whacking who, how high up the list they’ve got. TK needs to square it with the big boys, otherwise the firm is going to be very unpopular worldwide.”
“I’ve been sidelined, Dave,” Donnie admitted. “I screwed up a hit; I’m a bit on the outside.”
“Then get back in, Don.” Dave sounded impatient. “You’re in the right place. Hang out in the right bars. Pick up what you can, get back to me.”
Donnie’s hangover began to pulse loud in his head. He was getting confused, couldn’t work out which side his bread was buttered. All he knew was that he still wasn’t a big fan of the younger Kelly brother – or his mullet-haired sidekick.
“I’ll do what I can, Dave,” he said.
“Yes, you will,” Dave concluded. “By the way, bit of good news. They’re moving Tommy.”
“Moving him?” Donnie asked slowly.
“Out of the ’marsh. Be careful who you tell, Don.”
Donnie tried to pull his fried brain into focus. “I will,” he promised.
But Dave Slaughter had rung off.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was easy to find Bodega Jubarry.
I knew my way around the harbour area of Benalmádena, of course, and Jubarry’s was a couple of streets back, overlooking a small plaza.
I went in and introduced myself to my new boss, Barry Ambrose.
“You come highly recommended, Pedro,” he said.
I hadn’t a clue who had recommended me, or how. Connections, I guess.
Barry’s handshake was not just a little limp, but shaky, his fingers trembling into nicotine-stained points. He picked another Benson & Hedges out of the gold packet and put it to his purple lips.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “Great to be here.”
He raised his eyebrows, as if it was a surprise that anyone might be pleased to be in Benalmádena.
“Drink, Pedro?” he asked. He waggled a bottle of brandy that he picked up from the bar.
I nodded. “Just a beer, please.”
Barry poured me an Estrella Damm from the pump and tipped himself a large brandy into a glass of chocolate milk.
“La Bamba,” he said. “Chocolate and brandy. I have stomach ulcers.”
I suspected that he might be better off without the brandy altogether, but he looked like his nerves needed steadying. I took a sip of my beer, ice-cold with condensation on the glass, and looked at Barry properly. His clothes were sharp; pink cardie, pressed white shirt and creased grey slacks, but his body looked malnourished and shrunken inside them. His face was drawn and red veins crackled from his nose across his cheeks. The end of his nose looked slightly blue and the whites of his eyes yellow.
On close inspection, he looked as sick as a dog.
“We’re quiet in the mornings, as you can see.” He waved his fag around in a vague gesture. “A few in for lunch, but Wednesdays are always calm, so it’ll be an easy start. Couple of hours off in the afternoon, then we get busy proper from about nine till the cows come home.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Can you start straight away? I’m short-staffed.”
I had come directly from Málaga and still had my bag with me, but I didn’t see why not.
“No time like the present.” I smiled. “I guess I can take my stuff to the apartment this afternoon.” Barry looked relieved.
“Good man,” he said. “I’ll give you a lift up there later.”
A door opened behind the bar and a woman stepped out into the shadows. I could see she had a good figure and nice hair, but when she came into the light I realized that she was made up to be seen from a distance of ten metres, in low light. At least ten years younger than Barry, she had probably been good-looking once, but her hair was dyed red and her orange foundation was thick on her face. Like Barry, she had expensive clothes and, like him, she looked like she’d shrivelled a bit since she’d bought them.
“Hello, darling,” she said, looking me up and down. She tilted her head coquettishly.
“My wife, Julie,” Barry said. Julie held out her hand graciously.
“Pedro,” I told her. “Pedro Garcia.”
“Get me a drink, Barry,” she ordered. “And one for Pedro.” Barry obediently put a large vodka in a tall glass, poured in some lime and filled it with soda, then poured me another beer.
“English, then?” Julia asked.
“Yeah, my dad’s Spanish. Mum’s a Brit.”
“You’ve got the Spanish looks,” Julie said. I guessed she might have had a drink already.
“Put the boy down, Julie.” Barry laughed. “He’s starting work straight away.”
I drained my beer while Julie smoked. I didn’t want to chat too much, remembering that I was supposed to be shy and a little slow on the uptake. Then Barry took me on a tour of the premises.
We ended up in the kitchen, where the permanent chef, Carlos, was making soup, stirring pots and basting chickens that were slow-roasting on a grill.
“Hola, amigo,” he said. “Qué tal?”
“Bien,” I replied, shaking hands. He was a short, dark man, unshaven with twinkling black eyes and uneven teeth. His chef’s whites were anything but, and he had a greasy little cap jammed on top of his curly black hair.
“Show Pedro the ropes, Carlos,” Barry said loudly. He gestured around the kitchen in place of speaking Spanish.
“No problem, Barree,” Carlos said, his English heavily accented. “I show him rope.”
He slapped me on the back and pointed at a huge pile of filthy aluminium pots and pans stacked up by the sink.
“First jobs. Wash up!” Carlos slapped me again and laughed.
Lunch was over by about three. I had done sink loads of washing up, scraped burnt rice from paella pans, cooked some chips and waited a few tables. Well, taken out bowls of olives and bread. It appeared you had to be multi-skilled to work at Bodega Jubarry: demanding work. Suited me.
Barry drove me back into town after lunch. The shocks on his dusty beige Mercedes rattled as we crossed the main road and hit the potholed roads on the outskirts. The ashtray was overflowing with butts. We drew up outside an orange stone apartment block.
“Not bad,” Barry said, surveying the building. “Nice and quiet, anyway.”
I looked back across the dusty street to the unfinished development opposite, its pre-formed concrete slabs piled up, windowless, like the ghost of a building. Two industrial-sized wheely bins spilt their contents onto the road. Several skinny cats with Egyptian heads sniffed at the scraps.
“See you back around seven?” Barry asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks, boss.”
He gave a throaty chuckle and winked at me, then placed the cocktail stick he used in place of a cigarette between his teeth and drove off.
I let myself in with the keys Tony had given me. The apartment was warm and stuffy: thermal, aluminium-lined curtains had been drawn across the window to keep out the heat of the day. I drew them back and slid open the picture window, which led to a sliver of a balcony with a plastic patio chair. The apartment was positioned at the back of the building, over the air-conditioning duct, looking out onto a narrow backstreet full of parked cars and cats. At least I wasn’t overlooked. Maybe that was why I’d been given it. Basically, I was
tucked away in the shady arse-end of a semi-occupied apartment block in a town that was down on its luck.
Whatever it was, it was going to be home for a bit.
There was one main room with tiled floors and whitewashed walls. A round table with two high-backed chairs at one end; a small TV and a heavy wooden Spanish coffee table at the other. Off the main room was a bathroom, a tiny galley kitchen and a bedroom.
Instinct and training combined, so my first move was to sweep the place for bugs. I checked the curtains, behind the doors, inside the kitchen cupboards and even in the ceiling lights. There were plenty of the insect variety – dead flies, spiders and mozzies – but no surveillance equipment as far as I could see.
I went into the bathroom and felt the panel on the side of the bath. It took a couple of tries, but once I had the knack, the side came away easily. As promised, there was a stash of stuff behind it: a fake driving licence and all sorts of other cards; a few bits of surveillance kit; a transmitter that looked like a plug adapter; some standard magnetic bugs; listening devices; a button camera. A Spanish mobile phone with various SIM cards. A new laptop with a dozen memory sticks, an iPad – which I immediately booted up – and then the Baikal, boxes of ammo and several knives and nasty-looking knuckledusters.
For the moment I just out took the iPad, the cards and some money. There was at least three grand in euros, so I wouldn’t have to worry too much about the €200-odd Barry had promised me a week. I was about to put the panel back but then picked out one of the knives.
It was a short, wide-bladed, vicious-looking thing, no more than ten centimetres long. It had a knuckleduster grip, which the blade folded into, and felt good in the hand. I closed the blade and pocketed the knife.
Just in case.
TWENTY-FIVE
I arrived back in town early. It only took me five minutes on the moped and I enjoyed the ride, cutting through the familiar backstreets and down to the harbour, still wondering why I was back in the same town. I stopped by the pontoons and strolled down to look at the yachts where I’d been working only a short time before with Gav Taylor. Some of them had gone, but one or two were still there, hatches locked and no sign of Adie. I was confident that if he had been there, he wouldn’t have recognized Pedro Garcia.
When I got to Jubarry’s, Carlos was bringing out small trays of tapas from the kitchen and putting them in the display cabinet at one end of the bar. I helped him line up Spanish omelette, meatballs, fried baby green peppers, potato croquettes, chorizo and grilled prawns. Jubarry’s wasn’t the best place in town to eat tapas, but there was always something to nibble with a drink.
A couple of Spanish workers drifted in for a beer and I served them while Barry was still upstairs. They smoked as they chewed bread and sucked the brains from a plate of prawns.
“The boss sleeping,” Carlos told me, making a drinking gesture followed by a loud snore and a hands-together sleeping mime.
I polished tables and laid out cutlery in the restaurant. A few tables began to fill on the terrace as the sun lowered, and at around eight the Spanish families began their evening stroll around the cafés and bars of the harbour area. They looked glamorous, healthy and happy in the golden, early-evening light.
My eyes followed an absolutely stunning girl as she crossed the plaza. She was tall, like a dancer, and moved with a cat’s ease. She caught me staring as she came closer and I broke my gaze. She walked right up to the restaurant and I thought she was going to say something about me gawping at her. I felt like a plum. She was so cool and beautiful and there I was, staring at her with my mouth open.
“Hola,” she said. Her voice was deep and husky. She walked straight past me and into Jubarry’s. I caught her scent as she brushed by: floral but musky, almost hippyish. She was wearing a tie-died wrap-around skirt and I could see the shape of her legs and bum through the thin fabric. Nice ankles, bare, brown feet in Brazilian flip-flops. A tight, yellow T-shirt that revealed that her top half was every bit as good as the bottom. Big, black, ringletted hair.
She made me feel hungry.
If she wanted a drink, I was going to make sure I served her. I rushed inside and dipped behind the bar, popping up as she arrived at the counter top.
“Beber?” I asked.
She almost laughed, showing even, white teeth. I must have looked comical in my eagerness to serve her.
“No, gracias,” she said. “You speak English?”
“Si.” I nodded, and she smiled again. Without saying another word, she stepped behind the bar and opened the door that led upstairs to Barry’s apartment.
“You can’t go … no pasar,” I said feebly, but really I would have let her do anything she wanted. I would have robbed an old lady if she’d asked me to.
“Yes, I can,” she said, taking an apron from the back of the door and tying it over her skirt. “I work here.” She held out her hand. It felt long-fingered and warm. “Juana.”
I spent the rest of the evening like a puppy. Running around after Juana, making sure she had everything she needed while she waited tables. Some gallant part of me felt that she was too good to be doing this work, that somehow I should rescue her.
Actually, who was I kidding? I didn’t feel gallant. I didn’t want to rescue her at all. She seemed perfectly capable of looking after herself. She was confident and assured and looked above it all, the small smile that played at the corners of her mouth suggesting that she treated it all as a game. What I really wanted was to kiss her from head to foot and lie naked in a rumpled bed with her, drinking her in, while the sun shone outside.
Barry and Julie finally came down around ten-thirty. Barry had spruced up in a clean striped shirt and did the rounds of the tables, dispensing his sickly smile, while Julie sat at the bar and drank gin. I refilled her glass regularly and she winked at me each time until her wink became a blurred, two-eyed blink and a grimace.
Barry gave us a break at eleven and I stood out the back of the restaurant, drinking Coke with Juana while she smoked. The only other girl – woman – I knew who smoked was Anna. I didn’t mind it; Anna made it look sexy. The way Juana put a Fortuna to her full lips didn’t look unattractive either. A lot of the Spanish girls still smoked. I’m not a health and safety officer.
“Your English is good,” I told her.
“You have to speak English here or you don’t get work,” she replied. I nodded. Every bone in my body wanted to chat her up, impress her, but I had to keep reminding myself that my cover persona was a little bit slower.
“Why’s your Spanish not so good?” Juana asked.
“I’ve lived in England for most of my life,” I explained. “My dad is Spanish, but I never see him.” I found myself putting a Spanish-accented lilt on my English. I felt easier talking to her from behind an accent.
“Me neither.” Juana took a puff of her cigarette. Seeing her inhale deeply, I realized that I equated smoking with people under pressure. Either stressed, like Anna, insecure, like Cath, or, perhaps like Juana, a bit more emotionally volatile.
“What happened to yours?” I asked. “Your dad?”
“We don’t talk about him,” Juana said. She put her cigarette out. “Vámanos, Pedro,” she said. “Work.” And we went back inside.
Around eleven-thirty, a white Porsche Cayenne drew up outside and parked slap bang in the middle of the cobbled pedestrian area. No one made a peep of complaint, but the crackle of electricity as the men and women who got out, slammed doors and sat at the best table out the front could be felt right through to the kitchen.
I watched from the bar as Barry hopped around nervously and Juana went across to the table, smiling broadly and handing out menus. On her way back to the bar the smile left her face just as quickly as it had arrived and she rolled her eyes at me. She obviously knew these customers.
All four of them spoke English in loud voices. The loudest of the men at the table wore a bright Hawaiian shirt and had wavy blond hair styled in a mullet that must
have gone out of fashion thirty years ago. In a rasping voice he ordered champagne for the group: two perma-tanned beauties and a stocky bloke who chewed gum ferociously and wore a lot of gold jewellery.
Barry clicked his fingers at me, eager to please the new arrivals. I found an ice bucket behind the bar and filled it. On his instructions, I got a bottle of the proper French stuff, Bollinger, from the fridge and took it out with four glasses. No cava for this lot. Barry was still fawning over the table when I got there, his banter jumpy and punctuated with nervous laughter. He looked pleased to see me so he could change the subject.
“Here we go,” he cheered. “Vintage Bollinger, first one’s on me.”
I placed the four glasses on the table and popped the cork as I’d been shown by Tommy Kelly back in the day. The trick was not letting it fly, but twisting it and easing it out with a quiet pop. Discreet and not showy. I poured three glasses carefully, tilting the glass at an angle as I’d been taught. The fourth glass I had to lean over to fill. The woman righted the glass while I was pouring and the froth shot to the top, spilling over and splashing on to her dress. She squealed dramatically, and the temperature around the table plummeted.
Barry’s face dropped.
The bloke with the wavy mullet grabbed a napkin and pawed at the woman’s lap and then her knockers, mopping up overenthusiastically, and the woman started laughing.
“Any excuse, Terry,” she howled, tugging at the neck of her dress, exposing more cleavage, and the bloke laughed too.
Then Barry laughed. “Sorry about that,” he gushed. “Pedro’s our new boy.”
“Not for much longer if he sprays the good gear over Sylvia,” the one called Terry said. He mimed a pistol shot at me.
Barry looked from one to another, decided that they were all finding it funny, and laughed louder.