33. AN ENDING

It had to come, somehow. It always does, sooner or later.
And if this is not the time, the place, the moment, the last freeze-frame then I have been working towards that goal under false illusions. Maybe that's all we have in the end. False illusions. A look, a gesture, a note in the voice.
It's all an act, practiced over time and rehearsed to perfection.

32. THE FINAL CURTAIN

They drive. Drive all the way back to Francisco's place. Just to check. But the place is deserted. No lights, No coppers. No Carlos. Not even a body, just a stain on the floor and the bag, the bag with the money that was left on the floor, is gone.
"Let's go," she says with the gun in his back and with a sickening stab in the pit of his gut he knows, his time is coming soon. Sooner than he'd bargained for, sooner than he'd thought. He can taste it, taste his whole damn life crammed inside his mouth. Feel the fleeting mass of years slip back down his throat. And yet, curiously, as soon as he swallows this certainty of fate, his nervousness evaporates, like the sweat on his brow and his instincts kick into place. That gut wrenching, heart pounding instinct to survive. And he resigns himself to the conviction that at some point he will have to fight for his life. Not now perhaps, not while that gun is nuzzling his spine, but soon. When her back is turned or her vision distracted, he knows he has to strike. The only question left to consider is how. With what. And when.

As for Gloria, she decides to walk. Walk all the way to Pepito's shop. It would be easier, perhaps, to flag down a taxi but the early morning air is cool on her cheek and she welcomes the break from the heat. As she turns a corner a breeze picks up, whipping up her skirt and stretching her head back she opens her arms and embraces the air as it rushes over her body. She holds her breath until the breeze backs off and then continues up the street, with her lungs full of air and her senses awakened. When she reaches the Cathedral, she stops. Tips her chin upwards and notes the progression made since the last time she'd looked, which had been awhile since she hardly ever took the time to notice. Usually, she kept her head down and walked at a brisk pace. Avoiding the dazed huddle of tourists, necks craned and maps unfolded as they stood in the middle of the street. Dazed by the sight of Gaudi's plans and oblivious to the life that thrummed around them. She stands for awhile, gazing at the doves perched on the facade as though they had just landed there and the stonework like sculpted lace on the turrets and her mind slips back, back to the time when she had stood there on that very same spot, more than thirty years ago, with her husband on her arm. She shakes her head, smiling secretly to herself and continues moving slowly down the street with the letter gripped tight in her pocket. She's played it safe her whole life and she's tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of the past. Tired of not taking any chances. And yet, here's her chance. A chance for her to change her life. A chance to lay the past to rest and reclaim a little happiness.

Somewhere along their drive, she begins to talk. She opens her mouth and the words spill over as though she's testing them to see how they sound. Pepito has no choice, with his hands clamped tight on the steering wheel and his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he has to listen. There's no going back. No way to escape the sound of her voice as she paves the way for her confession. No way to deny that she'd led him on, fooled him from the beginning and even though he tries to resist, deep down inside he's still curious.
"You know, I used to see you at the club .... I used to see you watching me and I thought now I wonder what kind of man he is ..." She turns her head and gazes out of the window before turning back to face him. "Now I know, don't I?" She flips her head back and lets the laughter wash over her while Pepito, his knuckles clenched tight, waits for her to regain her composure. He could swerve of the road right now, if he wanted to, take her by surprise, grab the gun but he decides to let her keep talking, at least while her mouth was moving she wouldn't think to kill him.
"You know Mr. Pons ..."
He flinches when he hears his name and braces himself for the worst.
"I can call you that can't I? Because the truth is, I've known about you for some time now but don't worry, your secret's safe with me ..." She sits forwards her breath having dropped to a whisper, grazes the side of his face. "I won't tell anyone." She sits back, her elbow resting on the slope of her hip and the gun, cupped in her hand, lingers around his lap before rising slowly to point at his face. "I just want to know, what drives a man like you? Is it money?"
Pepito clenches his jaw and stares out at the road in front. She should have just slapped him in the face, it would have been quicker and easier. He swallows hard and grips the wheel tighter.
"You couldn't even begin to understand."
"But I think I do ... I think we are the same you and I ... deep down," she rests her hand on his leg. "I think we have more in common that you'd like to admit."
"Is that what made you kill Rosa? Did it all come down to money?"
"Everything comes down to money in the end." She retracts her hand like she's been slapped on the wrist and flicks her gun to the left. "Turn here."
They turn off the main road and onto a smaller street and the spires of Gaudi's Cathedral loom up behind the buildings suspended against the darkness. Pepito knows this place. This street, these houses, this neighbourhood and with a sinking feeling that floods his gut, he knows where they are going. She's taking him back to the shop. How long she'd known, he could only guess. He glances at her from the corner of his eye but she's gazing out at the road ahead, lost in thought. Now it's Pepito's turn to speak. He feels the urge as a wave of words begin to swell up in his throat and he spits them out with his back braced stiff and his lips curling over his teeth.
"She was blackmailing you, wasn't she?"
She keeps her eyes on the road in front.
"She turned up at your place that night but she never left and you seized your chance when her back was turned."
A spasm tugs at the edge of her mouth but she doesn't break her silence.
"You hit her on the head, knocked her out and then pushed her in the pool where she drowned."
She turns to face him. "Was that Francisco's theory?"
"Perhaps?"
"Then perhaps he'd missed the point."
"What point?"
"The point that I didn't hit her with anything, in fact, she attacked me."
"Are you saying it was self defence?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
Pepito doesn't answer but keeps his eyes trained on the road ahead.
"We struggled and she fell, we were standing by the pool and she must have hit her head on the side when she went down, it happened so fast ..."
"Is that why you washed her body down with bleach afterwards ..."
She turns her face away from him and stares out of the window. "I don't know what I was thinking, I just need to get her as far away from me," she stops and swallows before continuing, "and Carlos."
"You mean you needed to cover your tracks ... make sure no-one would find her ..."
"She was a little tramp, a money grabbing little tramp ..."
"Unlike yourself." The words slip out before Pepito can stop them and Mariquita spins around in her seat, her mouth contorted and her hand rising up to strike him. She lowers it slowly and leans forwards, her breath hot and fast.
"She would've broken his heart." She slumps backwards and raises her hand to her face. "She would've crushed him."
"Carlos? You think you did him a favour?"
She turns her head and wipes a tear from the corner of her eye that is threatening to spill over and betray her. "I did what I had to do at the time ... I had no choice, she was going to tell him everything ... the girls, Francisco ..."
"And the baby?"
"It wasn't his."
"Did she tell you?"
"What do you think? What do you know about a woman's heart? It would have destroyed him and I couldn't let that happen."
"So you killed her instead."
She doesn't answer but keeps her eyes fixed on the road in front until the silence becomes too much for her.
"You think I planned all this?"
Pepito shrugs. "Didn't you ask her to come to your place that night?"
"I wanted her to know that she still had a chance with Carlos, he would've taken care of her but she just laughed at me ... she laughed at him, she said he couldn't give her what she wanted ... she wanted more, she always wanted more ... and then things turned ugly, she started talking about the racket Cisco was running and yeah ... I played my part ..."
"And you took your cut."
"So what ... you think you can sit there and judge me, we all take a cut Pepito Pons, even you."
Pepito shakes his head. "I've never pretended to be something I'm not."
"Sure you have, you can sugar coat it all you like but it all comes down to the same thing in the end. We're both playing a part."
Pepito sits forwards, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. Her words have unnerved him. He flicks his eyes to the side and glances at her face. Perhaps she was right but it was too late now. Too late to wander down another path. He'd made his choices a long time ago. He'd grabbed his dream and he'd taken control. And there was no going back.
She sits forwards, craning her neck towards the windscreen and peers at the buildings in front.
"We're almost there but I'm sure you've guessed where we're going by now."
Pepito can see the shop looming up in front of him like an impending disaster. Something he'd rather avoid but somehow, he's powerless to stop it. Easing his foot up on the accelerator he swings the car into the side of the road and switches off the engine. He takes a long, hard look at the shop with its worn down step and cluttered windows before turning towards Mariquita.
"You still have a choice you know. You always had a choice." His voice is small and fragile, trapped in the back of his throat.
"Choice? What choice?" We never had a choice you and I Pepito Pons, we are what we are as for myself, I've worked too hard and I've come too far and I'm never going back."

He's fumbling with the keys. His fingers itch and dance despite themselves but he's faking it. He's stalling for time. Digging into his pocket, groping, fumbling, locating them eventually, then lifting them up to his face, fingering each one until he drops them with a curse on his breath. Drops them to the ground. Bending down, he gropes along with his hands skirting around the jerky, rhythmic tap from Mariquita's foot as she stands impatiently beside him. She's nervous now, she twists her head up and down the street and urges him onwards with a restless groan, the gun twitching in her hand. He picks them up and tries again, selecting one between finger and thumb and pushes it into the lock. But he has to be careful. He has to play it safe so he turns the key in the lock and pulls down on the handle. The door clicks open. He steps inside, tripping over the threshold with Mariquita pushing him forwards with the muzzle of her gun.
"So this is where the great Detective Pons operates from." She says with a smirk on her lips. "This is where it all goes down."
Closing the door with a bump from her hip she walks around and makes her way to the back of the shop. She slips behind the counter.
"How did you know?" He flicks his head to the side away from the gun. "How did you know about all this?"
"I did some checking of my own Pepito Pons, or should I say Detective Pons." She flips her head back and laughs, a curdling rattle from the depths of her gut. "I can see it all now." She lowers the gun and turns around. Running her fingers over the shelf at the back she reaches upwards on the points of her toes and grabs a box of cigars. Then she opens the box with a flick from her thumb and raises the box to her face. And it's now that his time has come, while her nose it buried amongst those fattened stumps, it's now that he has to act. Seize the moment with his own two hands and hopefully change the outcome. But he has to move fast so he lunges forwards with an awkward leap, landing on the scratched glass case with a slap from his belly, his legs in the air and his hands reaching out towards Mariquita. He swipes at the air. Makes a grab for the gun, latching onto her wrist as he twists her skin. She drops the box on the counter, a cry cutting forth from her contorted lips and a few of the cigars roll out and fall on the floor. And when he almost has it, when he's almost wrested the gun from her loosening grip she dips her free hand into her pocket and pulls out the Astra 400. Pressing it to the side of his head, her fingers curling around the trigger, she wrenches her wrist from his slackening grasp.
"Nice try," she says, pulling back the safety catch. "Now drop the gun." She grinds Pepito's gun into the soft flesh of his temple and he has no choice but to submit. He drops the gun with a hollow clatter. It's the sound of defeat and Pepito knows it. He took a chance and he almost made it but he hadn't counted on that gun. His father's old gun. Who would believe it? His father's pride and joy, nestled in her pocket just waiting for the moment to be pressed up tight to that dip in his brow. Cursing beneath his breath he slides off the counter and stands on his feet. He straightens his back. Lifts his hand and tugs on his collar. And slowly, without a tremor on his lips, he opens his mouth and asks for the first time and most likely for the last.
"What now?"

They climb the stairs, one weary step after another. He climbs those stairs like a condemned man, acutely aware of his surroundings. That stain on the wall, he's seen a million times before and yet, now he sees it as though it were for the first time. Through willing eyes. Eyes that take in everything, in every detail, for the last time. And he thinks to himself that if he were given half a chance, if he should survive all this then he'll see to that stain on the wall. It's a silent promise, a desperate pact, as he reaches the top and stands on the landing, waiting for Mariquita to sidle up beside him.
"What's through there?" She asks as she pokes the gun in behind him.
"The kitchen."
"And there?" She flicks her head sideways.
"The bedroom." She pushes him forwards with his gun jammed between his shoulder blades.
"Ironic isn't it?" She asks as she pushes him towards the bedroom but she doesn't want an answer. Shoving him into the room, she closes the door behind her. Pepito shuffles over to the wardrobe and gazes at his reflection. His clothes are dirty, hanging loosely from his frame. Shirt sleeve torn at the elbow. Reeks of sweat. Trousers stained. He lifts a hand and drags it over the sagging flesh of his jowls, down to his stump of a neck where the crimson bruise of her kiss is still fresh. Fresh from the throes of that very night where his future had seemed, at the very least, predictable.

Gloria has no trouble slipping into the shop. All it took was a nimble twist from her wrist and the door swung open but then again, it wasn't even locked. She steps forwards on flattened soles and stops. She twists her neck and peers into the shadows, blinking behind her over enormous glasses as her eyes become accustomed to the gloom. Then she cocks her head with a crease in her brow and breathes in deeply, filling her lungs with the musty air and the scent of expensive perfume. She nods slowly to herself, her fingers stroking the letter in her pocket and with a twist in her mouth she turns around. She's heading back towards the door with desolate steps and she would have made it too if it wasn't for the softened crunch beneath her feet. She stops once more and bends down on cracking joints to see one of Cuba's finest crushed beneath her heel. Scraping the contents into her palm, she carries them over to the counter where she lets the debris fall in a flurry of tobacco on the scratched glass case. Then she sees the box which she picks up and settles the remaining cigars into their proper order before bending down to the floor, again. Retrieving two by her foot she places them in the box and sweeps the floor with her hand for more. It's then that she touches it. Cold, hard, glinting metal, she flinches as her fingers brush against the barrel. Stooping downwards on cautious pads as she pulls the gun towards her. She turns around, her head flicking to the right and left as she takes the gun into her hand. Takes the gun and feels the weight pressing down on her palm. Feels her fingers closing around the grooved, wooden grip and curling around the trigger with a will of their own, a purpose. She rises. She straightens her back with a click in her neck and slowly but surely on determined legs, she moves towards the stairs at the back of the shop.

"I'm going to make this as quick and painless as possible." Her voice is droning somewhere beside his ear. "Turn around."
Pepito bites his lip and turns to face her. "I just want to know one thing ... was seducing me part of your plan?"
She dips her head and sighs. "Why not? Isn't that what I'm all about? It's the only weapon I've ever had ... you don't think those men come to my club for stimulating conversation do they? Did you? Was that why you came to see me all those times? So if it's my body your after, I'll use it whenever I can." She moves towards him and hitches the gun a little higher. "Now close your eyes and say Goodnight."
"Not so fast ..." He's stalling for time. Hanging on desperately to what may be the last few moments of his precious life. "What about Carlos? Are you just going to let him take the fall?"
"Fall? What fall?" She lowers the gun, it brushes against his bulging gut and loiters around his groin. "For Francisco? Why would they when they'll find the gun that killed him here ... with your prints on it."
Pepito swallows hard and gives it one last shot. "You didn't do any of this for Carlos, you only think you did but the truth is ... you had a choice to make and you made it and you chose it save yourself."
"So what if I did? And you? By the looks of this place you chose to save yourself too ..." Pepito lowers his head. "That's right Pepito Pons ... you've been faking it too, spreading your name around town, the great Detective Pons, conning everyone with your crappy clothes and crappy act but what gets me ..." She's swinging the gun around the room. "What really gets me is that everyone believed you, I mean ..." She spreads her arms wide. "Why wouldn't they? No-one would think that you weren't what you said you were."
"Except you."
"Except me, that's right ... I had you figured from the beginning."
"So you asked for me especially to keep Carlos from going to the police."
She nods her head.
"You thought you could blackmail me if I got too close."
"Not even close ... I never thought the body would turn up and when it did I thought you'd never find out the truth, I mean ... how could you? You're not a real detective."
"But I did, at least I figured half of it out ... I got the motive, I just got the wrong person."
"Francisco."
"He seemed the most obvious choice."
"Sure he did, except, he might have actually loved her ... besides, why bother with all this, it's too late now."
"It's never too late."
"It is for you ... a bullet to the head with your own gun, simple but effective and with the gun that killed Francisco tucked in your pocket. They'll figure that you just couldn't cope with the fact you killed Francisco. Personally, I don't think they're gonna take too much effort in digging up the truth. You know what I mean?"
Pepito shakes his head. "Even if you kill me now, they'll put two and two together and come looking for you soon enough."
"By then, I'll be long gone."
"You'll never get away with it ..."
"Well, let's just see shall we?" She raises the gun and presses the barrel to the side of his brow, her finger hooked around the trigger and her thumb stroking the safety catch. "Been nice knowing you Detective Pons."
Tightening her grip around the handle she flexes her fingers over the trigger with a gentle pressure which she would have squeezed, there's no doubt about it, if the door hadn't burst open at that crucial moment. Startled by the intrusion, Mariquita whips her head around with the gun following and fires a few shots in the direction of the doorway. She misses, hits the frame with a splintering twang and rushes towards the opened door with her hair flying out behind her. Cupping the gun in her shaking hands, Gloria presses her back a little further into the wall. She should run now while she has the chance but for some strange reason her feet seemed nailed to the floor. Nailed at the heel and nailed at the toe. She can't move and she's perspiring heavily, the drops forming beneath her scalp and slipping down her forehead. Slipping down in great fat globules and stinging her eyes. She opens her mouth to call his name but the sound of her voice is drowned in the moment. The moment a cry rings out from the bedroom. Perhaps it was the shot that spurred him into action, that made him reach out with a reckless hand and grab a fistful of her ink black hair. Grabbed it from the back as it flew out towards him. Grabbed it from the back and swung her around. Prizing her spine from the wall, Gloria pokes her head into the bedroom and watches as Pepito, with a pained expression creasing his brow, wrestles for the gun. They fall on the floor with the gun still clenched in Mariquita's grip and Pepito's hands tightening around her wrists. Struggling for the gun, struggling for his life, in a knot of limbs and a hail of expletives.
And she has to move now, she has to help him so she steps out from the wall and across the doorway with her left foot first and with a flick of her spine, she straightens her back. This is her moment and she has to act. Raising the gun in the air, she stops shaking. She holds her arms out, level with her glasses, closes one eye and narrows the other. She takes one step forwards directing her gaze down the length of the barrel until she has Mariquita, safely in her sights. Neither Pepito nor Mariquita notice as she steps into the room, they're too busy on the floor in a coil of limbs and curses.
"Stop."
Gloria's voice slips out soft and low but neither of them hear her. They're still struggling on the floor in an ungainly tangle with the gun swinging back and forth between them. So she raises the gun a fraction more, clears her throat with a gurgling rasp and tries again. This time, she can feel her voice swelling up inside her.
Swelling up and over as it fills the room and she squeezes on the trigger.

31. DOUBLE WHAMMY

"Carlos." Pepito feels the name trip from his lips although, he doesn't quite believe it. So he says it again. "Carlos," and pushes forwards on the balls of his feet, his hands stretched out towards him. "Give me the gun Carlos."
And Carlos looks up, wrenches his gaze from the corpse on the floor and finally sees Pepito.
"I had to, don't you see ..."
Pepito nods his head and reaches for the gun. He touches the barrel with the tips of his fingers and coaxes it from his hand.
"You see, don't you? I had to ... I had to do it, for Rosa ..."
Pepito nods again.
"I had to ...."
"It''s all right Carlos," Pepito says with the gun firmly gripped in his palm. "It's all over now." He places the gun in his pocket and strides towards the bar. Lifts a bottle from the shelf behind and grabs a glass from the counter. Sloshing a generous amount into the glass he abandons the bottle on the counter and hurries back towards Carlos.
"Here," he says, pressing the glass to his lips, "it'll help steady your nerves."
But Carlos shakes his head and pushes the glass from the side of his face with an anxious swipe from his paw.

Mariquita pulls a suitcase from the bottom of the cupboard and swings it over the bed where it lands with a soft rustle on the tangled satin sheets. She hasn't touched the bed, nor straightened the sheets since Pepito had lain there several hours before. She hasn't even touched her head to the pillow. Closed her eyes for a second. Nor washed his scent from her slick brown limbs. She doesn't have time for all that. Not now. Not now that she's set the ball in motion. Lobbed it high with her last, best shot and she needs to prepare for it descending. Line it up in her callous sights and see it through. All the way, from that barbarous night right through to the bitter ending.
And Carlos. She slips over to the dresser on the points of her toes and picks up the letter. Her eyes flick absently over the jagged script before she crushes it in the palm of her hand and throws it across the room. Best not to say anything, not yet. She had plenty of time to call him when the plane touched down in the morning. Plenty of time to explain when she was safely out of sight. And still, even then, she would keep her scarlet mouth shut and shield him from the details. Moving back towards the cupboard, she grabs a few of her favourite things and piles them in the suitcase, in no apparent order. Dresses on top of trousers and silk entwined with cotton. The shoes she keeps for last. Presses them down on top of the clothes, pushing their heels into fabric. Squashes them down and closes the lid with her weight pressing down on her hands. Then she stands back and closes her eyes. Raises her hands to the side of her face, rests the pads of her fingers on her temples and with small anxious circles, she rubs. Rubs the blood that pounds through her veins, rubs the pain that shoots through her skull. When she opens her eyes again the pain has spread all over. Throbbing rhythmically to the pulse of her heart and creeping down her neck. But she can't give in, she can't give up when she has to finish what she started. Turning back towards the cupboard she reaches up to the highest shelf, balancing on the points of her toes, pulls out a shoe box and flips the lid. But it's not more shoes that she's after.

"Carlos, are you listening to me Carlos?" Carlos blindly nods his head. The police will be on their way ... they'll know now that Francisco killed Rosa but if they find you here ... if they find you ... You understand what I'm saying to you Carlos?"
He grunts and nods his head again.
"They'll know you killed Francisco ... they'll know Carlos, it doesn't even matter what he's done, they'll take you down anyway. Do you understand? Carlos?"
His hands fly forwards and rest themselves on the big man's shoulders. He shakes. "Carlos." His head clearing rapidly with each hurried beat of his heart. "Carlos please ..."
The big man turns, slowly, turns defiantly and grabs a hold of Pepito's arm. "Leave me," he says, his voice whisper. "Leave me while you still can."

He had no choice. He had to go. The big man said so, with a hushed tone and a vice-like grip on his one good arm. So he hightailed it out of the place with the motor burning and the tyres screaming. Perhaps he should have stayed and taken his chances when the police showed up. Or, perhaps he should just drive all night, let the wind whip through his visor, snatch the tears as they fall from his face with a sting to his bloody conscience. Somehow, somewhere around a break in the clouds and a glimpse of the moon, he ended up back at Mariquita's place. Back where it all really started. Driven there by a nagging doubt and a restless itch in his trousers.

She didn't even hear him coming. Hear his shuffling step and his raggedy breath as he closes the gap to her bedroom. She's still pulling out the contents of her wardrobe, opening boxes, kicking clothes to the side and mumbling under her breath. He stands in the doorway for some moments watching her, trying to piece together what Francisco said. Then there was Carlos. How did he know where to find Francisco? He reaches his hand into his pocket and rests his hand on the gun he had, only moments before, taken from the shaking hand of Carlos. His eyes flick over to the suitcase on the bed and all those loose ends seem to find each other and lock themselves together.
"Looking for something?"
She stops in her tracks and spins around. She opens her mouth and gasps at the gun as he pulls it from his pocket.
"I'm guessing he took it from here ..."
She shakes her head.
"Before he used it on Francisco ..."
Staggering backwards, clutching her throat she lurches towards the bed with her legs buckling beneath her and sits down heavily.
"But you'd know that wouldn't you?"
She shakes her head.
"Because it was you who told him where to find Francisco."
She shakes her head and clutches her heart.
"That's right. Carlos puts a bullet in Francisco and the case is closed ... Am I getting warm?"
She shakes her head again and again with her hair falling wildly in her face as she rises to her feet. "I didn't tell him." She steps towards him. "I don't know how he knew." Fists tightening up with each faltering step. "He must have taken the gun ..."
"And shot Francisco."
"Stop saying that." Her hands reach up and cover her face.
"Isn't that what you'd planned?"
With her jaw clenched tight, fists swinging by her sides, she flies towards him and makes a determined swipe for the gun but Pepito is too fast for her as he hoists it up in the palm of his hand. Hoists it up and holds it aloft, a smile spreading out from his satisfied face which quickly fades as she swings her arm and thrusts her fist into the awaiting expanse of his belly. A swift blow, he folds with the perfect grace of a Swiss army knife and drops to his knees. Drops to the floor with a grimace. She wrenches the gun from his fading grasp and stands before him, feet braced and arms pitched out with the barrel aimed straight at his head.
"Hand me your gun." She steps closer to Pepito with the gun still wedged in the palm of her hand and Pepito can't quite believe it. He drops his eyes to the floor and stares at the tiles and he feels his gun, his father's old gun, bulging in his holster. Lifting his eyes, he rests them on Mariquita's face, lets them slip down from the arch in her brow to the angry slash of her mouth. And she's waiting, impatiently tapping her foot on the polished tiles as he deliberates his options. Of course, there is always a choice, always two ways to go, right or left, up or down, fight for your life or run. Normally, there's no contest and Pepito's not a man to back down but given the ache in the pit of his gut he decides to play it safe, bide his time, gather his strength and wait for his luck to turn. Lifting the hem of his jacket he exposes the gun with not so much as a tremor. He's steadied his nerves and braced his back as he waits for his moment to come.
"Slowly," she says with an anxious twitch on her scarlet lips, her had stretching out towards him and fingers fluttering inwards. So he pulls it out, bends his back and lays it out in his hand, feels the weight press down on his sweating palm and the cool, hard slope of the barrel.
"Don't even think about it." Her lips are drawn back in a vicious smirk and he has to admit that he was tempted. Tempted to clip her wings with a single shot but if the truth be told, he had never shot and could never shoot. He could never shoot a woman. So he hands it over. He hands it over with a reluctant shrug and a lump in his throat as she reaches out to take it. Reaches out with her fingers curling around the length of the barrel and her nails scratching his skin.
He lifts his eyes to look at her. "Why?"
She slips his gun in her pocket.
"Rosa, I mean .... why would you do it?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me ..." He moves towards her but she steps back and raises the gun a little higher.
"Let's just stick to the present for now." She flicks the gun to the side and motions for him to start walking.
"Are you going to kill me too?"
"Let's not spoil the ending now, to start with you can pick up that suitcase."
Pepito shuffles forwards and stoops to lift the suitcase which he swings up, onto his back with a muffled grunt from the effort and a stab of pain in his arm.
"Now walk."
They walk. Pepito shuffling nervously in front and Mariquita strutting close behind with the gun rammed hard in his back.
"Stop." She says when they reach her car. "Open the boot."
He pops the lid with a flick of his wrist.
"Dump the bag inside and then get in the drivers seat."
He does as she says, his head dipped in submission as he slides the bag from his shoulder and closes the boot with a surly push from his hand.

30. THE LETTER

Gloria sits in front of her mirror brushing her hair with smooth, lingering strokes. It's after 2.00am and she still can't sleep. Rising, she throws the brush on the bed behind her and moves towards the window on slippered feet. She pulls back the curtains. Rubs the lace in her hand-stitched drapes between finger and thumb as she leans forwards and presses her cheek to the cool windowpane. And while her skin kisses glass her mind trips back to that hasty morning, trips over words with a sting to her conscience. Trips over all that was said and done. She closes her eyes. Closes her lids and pulls on the curtains. Yanks them so hard they fall at her feet. Then she stretches out and opens the window, tugs at the frame swollen tight with the rain until the window springs open and she staggers backwards. Staggers over the cloth with a lurch in her step, snaring her foot in the folds of the fabric, she kicks her way free with an angry spasm that twitches its way down the length of her leg. Bending forwards with her feet spread apart she gathers the lace into a mass in her arms and steps up to the gaping window. Poking her head out, she checks the street. Twists her head right and left and when she's convinced herself that the street is deserted, she unburdens her arms of the hand-stitched curtains. Unburdens her heart of the fine, white lace. Tipping them forwards she watches them flutter like that unfortunate veil that was whipped by the breeze. Fluttering downwards with nothing to stop them but the cold, dark gutter, clogged with rain. She stands for some moments gazing at the clump of soggy lace like a corpse in the street until a drop of water finds its way from the balcony above to the top of her head. It slides downwards, a solitary drop and she lifts her finger to catch it before it slips from her face. Lifts her finger and watches the droplet spread over her skin before wiping it with against her nightgown with a curious frown. Tilting her chin upwards she stares at the sky. The clouds are breaking, opening pockets of space in the darkened sky which are frayed at the edges. Pulling her head inwards she leans into the swollen frame with her shoulder and closes the window. She turns, walks back towards the mirror propped against the wall and stands before it with her hands by her sides and her head twisting to the side. Stretching her neck, she examines her reflection. Touches her hair where the grey seeps through and dips her head to locate more. But it's not so bad, really. Nothing that a drop from a bottle won't cure. Reaching out she grabs a jar of cream on the dresser, twists the top and dips her fingers into the pearly mixture. Smearing the cream over the tips of her fingers she raises them to her face and slides the mixture over her cheeks and down the sides of her neck. Closing her eyes, she stretches her chin upwards, working her fingers into the folds at her throat. When she opens them again she tilts her head to one side and waits as the smile in the mirror spreads out slowly from the corners of her mouth, lifting her face.

She thought it was best said in a letter. Best mended with the written word. So she pulls out a pen, grabs a few pages and sits down at a desk pushed into the wall. She begins with his name in large, curling letters. Her hand, sloped at an angle, saunters down the page with a distincive, looping script. She mentions her reasons but spares him the details and when she is done she sits back in the chair with her chin held up high in the air. She breathes deeply, releases the pen from her tightening grip and picks up the letter. She reads with her eyes skipping lightly over the swirling words and when she is satisfied she signs her name in a bold, sweeping flourish which covers the page.

Her plan is to step out into the night, deliver the letter and retreat. She doesn't want to see him, she doesn't dare hear his voice and it's not that she'll falter or even think twice, it's just easier. Easier this way. Easier to set it all down, black ink on a page. When he rises in the morning he'll read it and perhaps he'll understand that for a woman like Gloria, there could be no other way. No other way to express those words that leap from her heart and clog in her throat, stammering for existence and yet, she could never spit them out. Never truly let them go. She rises, pushing back the chair with a nudge from her hip and paces to the bureau where she reaches out for the gilt-framed photo on top. Holding it out at arms length she studies the two smiling people caught in the flash. A bare-headed, younger version of herself stares back and her husband, with a restless glint in the corner of his eye, looks out over the top of her head to some distant point on the horizon. Perhaps he'd caught sight of those gauzy wings still flapping on the breeze. Laying the photo face down on the top of the bureau, she turns her back, crosses the room and opens her wardrobe. Slipping the nightdress from her shoulders, she stands naked before the mirror. Naked, except for the slippers on her feet, she dips her head and looks down over her sagging, mottled breasts, over the pitted expanse of belly and shakes her head. Far too late to turn back the clock and reclaim a wasted youth. A wasted youth that was waiting for the click of a key in the lock or a familiar voice in the hallway. Reaching out she grasps her favourite dress with a jerking motion and a tightened fist. She slips it over her head and wriggles the silky fabric down over her shoulders and hips. She turns, left then right, straightening and flattening as she twists her head to view the dress from every conceivable angle. Only when she is satisfied does she step back towards the dresser to pick up a bottle of perfume which she sprays with timid little squirts on her tilted neck and wrists.

She's ready now, finally. After forty odd years, she's ready. She'd made her choice and it was all arranged. They were leaving for Gilbraltar in the morning. She lifts her hand to pat her hair. Lifts her hand to swat the tear that escapes her eye and slips down her cheek but it's too late. Too late for a teardrop. Too late to catch it as it splashes angrily to the floor.

29. FLIGHT

Bundled through a back door, Pepito steps out into the night and fills his lungs with the cool, damp air. He is grateful to be alive. Grateful to Raphael for placing that call, although, he might have thought twice if he'd known. He runs his hand over his ribs, up to the wound on his head and is grateful once more that the bleeding has stopped but that is the least of his problems. Francisco had escaped. Sloped off the moment the police showed up, leaving his men in the heart of the battle. Limping fretfully through the shadows with an arm slung round Raphael, he makes his way to the front of the building and across the street to his bike. He doesn't have much time and he's knows he's cutting it close - with the police inside and Francisco on the loose, he knows he's running out of options. But he knows what he needs to do. He needs to find Francisco and he needs to find him fast. Turning towards Raphael he places his hands on the boy's shoulders and shakes. Just enough for a wordless thanks and turns to retrieve his helmet.
"Where are you going?" Raphael asks as he watches Pepito slip the helmet over his head.
"Francisco's place"
"You know how to get there? 'Cause if you're lookin' for a guide I can show you the way."
But Pepito shakes his head. He'd already done enough.
"Go home." He says, "I can take it from here." And he straddles his bike with a stifled groan and hopes in his heart that he can.
"Wait a minute ..." Raphael shouts above the roar of the bike as he digs in his pocket and pulls out Pepito's gun. "Here," he says holding it out in the palm of his hand. "You'll be needing this." Pepito takes the gun and tucks it back in his holster. Then he twists on the throttle and revs up the engine.
"Go home now." He says, one last time. Raphael dips his head with his feet shuffling backwards as Pepito speeds past him and into the night.

Luck or savvy, it's a close call but after a few wrong turns and a near miss, Pepito eventually returns to the house, this time, of his own volition. How could he forget those stairs and those fateful steps where he'd caught his foot and stumbled. He turns off the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition, just in case he needs to make a quick exit and pushes the bike up the driveway. Pushing it in by the side of the bushes he checks out the house. A light shines out from a ground floor window and Pepito moves towards it. His head is throbbing and his left leg drags but he makes it to the side of the building without any major incident. He'd enter in style with a knock on the door but somehow he doesn't think that it's fitting. As far as Francisco is concerned he's still laying on the floor of the warehouse with a crack in the ribs or a slug in the guts, it doesn't make much difference. He probably thinks that he's dead, which at this point in time, is perfectly fine with Pepito. It gives him the edge, the element of surprise and it was best to keep things simple. Best to surprise him with a gun in his hand because he knows with a knot in the pit of his gut that this time, Francisco will kill him. It was best not to take any chances. Hugging the walls with his body pressed flat, Pepito slips round the back of the house and looks for a point of entry. Any means he can enter the house without arousing Francisco's suspicion. Like a window unlatched, or a door unlocked, or that balcony above his head. Tucking his gun back in its holster, he decides to take the chance. Take the chance that the drainpipe will hold him and the window will open when he gets there. He starts to climb, dragging his left leg and leaning on his right with his hands clasped tight to the drainpipe. Clasped tight around the rusted metal he pulls himself upwards, higher and higher, with his shirt riding up and his belly scraping plaster until he reaches the safety of the balcony. One leg over and the other hanging back he has to coax it over the railing with the weight of his body as he pitches himself forwards and lands face down on concrete. He picks himself up, knees bent, back hunkered down and moves towards the window. As luck would have it, it's open, he only has to pull out his gun and push on the glass to enter. It's dark but he can make his way forwards by the light that seeps through the doorway. He stops when he reaches the top of the stairs. His breathing is tight and his chest is pounding but he pushes himself onwards. Down those stairs, one step at a time, with his gun held firmly between his sweating palms until he finds himself at the bottom. And he can't quite recall how he got there or exactly what it is that he's doing. But he doesn't let that stop him. He flicks his head up and down the hallway and counts off the doors from the entrance. The entrance where he was forced with his gun at his back and up to the room where they led him. He stops outside the door and presses his ear to the wood. Draws in his breath and listens. He listens with his gun clenched tight in his palm and the barrel laying flush with his cheek. When he's ready, when his heart has stopped pounding and his breathing resumed, he steps backwards, arms outstretched with the gun held high and opens the door with the heel of his boot.
Francisco stops what he's doing. He straightens his back with the speed of a whip and spins around. Pepito steps forwards with the gun held out as a tremor runs down the length of his arm and shakes the tip of the barrel. But he keeps on walking. He keeps up the act with his eyes skimming over the scene, taking in the open bag laying on the floor and the notes piled up on the table. By the time he steps up to Francisco he has it all figured out.
"Leaving so soon?" He asks with a tilt of his brow and a nod to the cash on the table.
Francisco dips his head, turning his back to Pepito and continues piling the bundles of money into the bag.
"We can make this as painless as you like Detective Pons." He says, straightening his back. "I can tell you who killed Rosa or you can shoot me now." He holds his arms out, his hands curled around a couple of bundles gripped in the palms of his hands. "It's your call."
"I already know who killed Rosa ..." Pepito says as he circles the room with his gun poking out in front of him. "And as for you, I'll let the police decide that."
"Correction ... you think you know who killed Rosa but really, you're way off track."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Two words Detective Pons ... Not guilty." Francisco finishes piling the bundles of money into the bag and sits down on a chair with his feet hitched up on the table. "Take a load off."
He motions for Pepito to sit down in the chair opposite with a generous sweep of his hand. Pepito shakes his head.
"Suit yourself."
Stepping over to the chair, he circles around behind it with the gun still trained on Francisco.
Let me tell you something ... I know about your stake in the those girls ... I know all about how you pick them up and then pass them along for a fee of course ..."
"Of course."
"And I also know that Rosa found out about it and maybe she didn't like what she saw ... maybe she started leaning on you for money to keep her mouth shut."
"Blackmail?"
"Exactly."
It's a nice theory Detective Pons but if you think that Rosa was leaning on me, then you're more stupid than I thought. Even more stupid than your coming here to confront me." Francisco rises from the chair and crosses to the bar on the other side of the room with a nonchalant swing in his step. Reaching over, he picks out a bottle of malt from the glass shelf behind and turns towards Pepito.
"Drink?"
Pepito shakes his head. "Maybe I'm not as stupid as you think." He moves towards Francisco with the gun shaking in his hand and his left leg dragging painfully behind him. "I found out about those girls didn't I? I followed a trail that started with Rosa but it's bigger than that isn't it? It's bigger than Rosa now ... but guess what? That trail leads right back here to you." He lifts his head and swipes a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face. Was it just Pepito or had somebody turned up the heat. He tucks a finger inside his shirt collar and runs it around the back of his neck. Perhaps it was the rain, evaporating slowly, releasing its steam into the night, loosening shirt collars and the tongues of men with a clammy lick from its humid breath.
"And I know one thing for sure," Pepito continues, his brow slick with a sticky sweat. "I know you're in this thing right up to your scrawny neck."
"Francisco smirks and uncorks the bottle with his teeth clamped tightly over the stopper. He takes his time pouring a large whiskey into a tumbler before he turns and raises his glass in the air.
"To your health, Detective Pons and the short time you have left with it." Then he lifts the glass to his lips and flips his head back so that the whiskey slips down his throat in one long, fluid movement. He slams the glass back down on the counter when he's finished.
"You're right of course, except on one small point ..." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I didn't kill Rosa. You think you've got it all figured out ... except, you're missing something Detective Pons ..." He saunters over to the chair and rests his hands on the back. "You've been looking at things all the wrong way, in fact, your eyes have been so close to your dick, you're almost blinded."
Pepito shakes his head. Shakes the pounding inside his skull, shakes the stiffness that grips his neck. He doesn't know how much longer he can keep this up. Keep up this act and keep up the banter. Keep up this stance because his arms are aching from the weight of the gun and his back still twinges from the heel of a boot. And his mind is spinning, whirling around inside his skull. If he closes his eyes the spinning increases. But he won't give up, not just yet. He won't give in to the Francisco's voice because he knows what he's up to - he has it all figured out. He's opening his mouth and letting his guts do the talking. Trying to blab his way out of a tight situation, saying anything that will throw him off the mark. But Pepito's not convinced. He's exhausted and battered but not quite broken. Sticking close to his instincts and stepping up to the moment he hitches the gun a little higher, level with Francisco's head and takes a deep breath.
"Step out from the chair and keep your hands where I can see them."
"Really?" Francisco starts to laugh but Pepito persists, even though the lights are slowly fading and the walls are closing in.
"I said step out and hands up, I haven't got all night and I'm taking you in."
"What is this? A bad line from a B-movie ... you're taking me in?"
Pepito nods and flicks his gun.
"Have you been listening or does your dick affect your hearing as well?"
"I've been listening all right and I've heard enough." Pepito moves towards him. He grabs Francisco's arms from behind his back and swings him round. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out his cuffs but Francisco breaks away before he can slip them on his wrists.
"You're still not convinced ... Is that it? Maybe I should have killed you when Mariquita told me to. Maybe I should have wiped you out when I still had the chance."
Pepito steps backwards, one, two, maybe three steps before his legs buckle beneath him and his gun dips for the count of a heartbeat but he manages to gather his strength to steady his legs.
"You're lying."
"Am I?" Francisco steps forwards, his hands clasped behind his back as he circles around Pepito. "Tell me, where do you think all that money came from to start her clubs ... stripping?" He starts to laugh. Pepito shakes his head, his eyes are clouding over and the pounding in his skull is growing louder, drowning out his protests and messing with his sense.
"You'll say anything now, you'll say anything to get out of this." He stumbles backwards.
"That's right Detective Pons, I'll say anything now, especially the truth ... what have I got to lose?" He pulls out his hands, opens his palms and holds them up in the air. "See ... no tricks, nothing up my sleeve."
Pepito tries to focus but the pain inside his head is playing with his vision and Francisco keeps talking. Talking. Talking. Talking.
"The way I see it ... 'cause let's face it, Detective Pons, you need some help here ... you need some help to see things clearly, otherwise, you'd be asking yourself how come I knew where to send my men that night to pick you up?"
"What?" The hammering is growing louder.
"You were at Mariquita's place that night, isn't that right?"
"Shut up." Louder in his head.
"No, not now, we're just getting started."
Pepito closes his eyes for a second and by the time he opens them again, Francisco is standing on the other side of the room with his back to Pepito. How long had he closed them for? He couldn't really tell but he was sure it was only a moment and that hammering in his head. Louder and louder, he can't even be sure of what he said.
"What's wrong Detective Pons ... can't take the truth? 'Cause the truth is she's been playing you like a sucker ... she's been playing you all along."
Pepito shakes his head, lifts his arm and drags his sleeve across his forehead to stop the sweat from dripping down his face and stinging his eyes.
"You're in too deep Detective Pons but you know that don't you?"
Pepito feels the room sway beneath his feet as Francisco's voice grows distant. Lurching forwards he grasps the back of a chair and steadies himself with his legs splayed and his feet braced at the ankle.
"Keep talking ... just keep trying to talk your way out of it." He slurs his words and knows that with each half-baked truth that trips from Francisco's lips he is slipping further from the edge. The edge of truth. The edge of reason. The edge of Pepito's consciousness.
"Here's how I see it, Detective Pons ... Rosa turns up at her house and blackmails Mariquita, tells her she'll blow her cover and of course, Mariquita doesn't like that ...." He clucks his tongue. "They fight, she hits Rosa over the head with something, anything and she falls in the pool ... dead ... right?"
Pepito shakes his head again and slips a little further.
"Then Mariquita gets rid of the body and because Carlos is kicking up such a stink, dumb schmuck, she gets you to run around town like you know what you're doing ... which you don't, which suits Mariquita 'cause she doesn't want you finding out the truth anyway ... it would bring you sniffin' round her door, wouldn't it?"
Pepito pulls himself slowly around the chair and sits down heavily, his eyes drooping at the lid and his gun slumped in his lap. He's beat. Too weak to keep it up and too gutted to even try. With a sting in his heart he knows that what Francisco is telling him is a plausible scenario, something he hadn't even wanted to consider, until now. And quite frankly, he doesn't care. He's run out of reasons to keep up this whole charade. Run out of time and run out of strength. Francisco would probably kill him right now, if he had the chance and why not? What was stopping him? He could stroll over right now if he felt like it, take his gun from out of his hand, press it to his pounding head and pull the trigger. Who was to stop him? Who was to stop him from taking off with that bag full of money and perhaps even Mariquita, the two of them taking flight together. He leans forwards and buries his head in his hands groaning from the effort and when he looks up, Francisco is standing before him with a neat little gun tucked in his palm.
"So this is it?" He asks with his voice trapped in the back of his throat. "This is how it's going to end?"
Francisco dips his head. "I'm afraid so Detective Pons but don't feel so bad ... it was always gonna end this way, sooner or later." He raises the gun and points it straight at Pepito's throbbing temple. "Close your eyes ..." He says as his finger curls around the trigger. "Close your eyes and take a bow."

A shot is fired and Pepito feels the blood drain with chilling speed, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. He blinks. He gasps. He clutches his heart. He waits for the pain to start but it never comes. He opens his eyes and jumps to his feet with his hands desperately skimming over his body. Searching for a bullet hole, a wound, a patch of blood staining his sky blue shirt but there is nothing. His gaze slides down and stretches out, over his shoes, over the brightly polished tiles protruding beneath his feet, creeping forwards slowly, reluctantly, until it comes to rest with a gasp in his throat on the prostrate body of Francisco Turó. He's laying very still with his legs splayed out at an awkward angle and his head pitched forwards in a pool of blood which gently seeps around his ashen face in a darkened, sticky kind of halo. Francisco Turó. El Malo. El Mort. Still warm to the touch. Still warm to the touch but stone cold dead. Shot through the back of his well tanned head. He closes his eyes and swallows hard. Swallows the bile that rises from his gut, swallows the acid that lurches to his throat and fills his mouth with its burning flame. But it's too late. Too late to turn back the clock, too late to begin this life again and stop his stomach from spilling at his feet. Wiping his mouth with a shaking hand he straightens his back and opens his eyes. Opens his eyes and raises his head. It's then that he sees him. Standing by the door with his eyes staring wildly, legs braced beneath him and arms outstretched. Shoulders straining forwards at an awkward angle as a shudder ripples down one side of his body and breaks the wispy trail of smoke ascending from the barrel.

28. THE SHIT HITS THE FAN contd.

It's dark but his vision adjusts quickly to the dimness sufficiently to pick out the darting forms of rats, scurrying into the shadows. His skin crawls at the sight of them but his stomach is strong. He presses forwards, pushing the man in front with his left hand clamped around the shotgun and the right, pressing the gun into his back. They shuffle awkwardly, using various packing crates that are scattered around the room for cover. And then he sees them, standing in the middle of the cavernous space, lined up and ready for inspection with their feet bound together and their hands tied behind them. He moves closer, leaning forwards and hissing threats in the man's ear with a menacing whisper.
"Not a sound, not a fucking sound or I'll blow your fucking brains out." It was surprising how much he'd learned. They trip forwards, Pepito forcing the man in front with impatient prods from his gun. Trips forwards, avoiding the rats, until they come to a darkened clearing amongst the crates and stop.
Two shots in the air and he has their attention. He'd flash his badge but he doesn't have time. A movement in the corner as one reaches into his jacket but Pepito shakes his head. A slow, practiced gesture. He grabs his man around the neck and presses the gun to the side of his head.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS." He shouts with the authority of a pro and his gun cocked and ready but he's hoping that he won't have to prove it.
"I SAID DROP THEM ... NOW." He repeats his command, gagging almost as the words jostle forwards, fighting for space in his mouth. The two men glance at each other with a confused expression creasing their brow and then slowly bend forwards, placing their shotguns on the floor at their feet.
"KICK 'EM OVER TO ME." Pepito tightens his grip on the other man's neck as they push the shotguns towards him with an impatient flick of their toe.
"Shoulda dropped you when we had the chance." One of them says as he straightens his back and raises his hands in the air. Pepito pushes his man from him and bends forwards with his eyes flicking between the three of them. Larry, Curly and Moe. He retrieves the shotguns one by one and places them on top of a crate. Then he steps forwards with his gun trained on the one who spoke and his eyes darting between the other two.
"WHERE'S FRANCISCO?" He barks out the question as he moves towards them, his gun still held out in front and his hands slick with sweat. "I SAID WHERE IS HE?"
"He'll be here." He eventually says as he dips his head and spits on the floor.
Pepito checks his watch. 1.48 am and counting. He flips his head over to the girls who are huddled together, shaking with fear.
"WHAT'S HAPPENING TO THEM?"
"They're being picked up."
"BY WHO?"
"You'll find out soon enough ..." He drops his hands and reaches into his pocket.
"HEY, HEY, HEY." Pepito shouts his gun wavering in the air. "KEEP THOSE HANDS UP WHERE I CAN SEE 'EM."
The man laughs and pulls out a cigarette which he flips into his mouth. "Take it easy Detective Pons." He says through the side of his mouth. "You wouldn't happen to have a light now would you?"
Pepito shakes his head. He moves towards the girls with his gun still trained on the men.
"UNTIE THEM." He motions to the man he'd surprised out front, flicking his head impatiently although, he's not sure what he'll do with them. He's stalling really and stalling fast.
"I SAID UNTIE THEM."
He steals a glance at the other two before moving reluctantly towards them. As he unties them he jerks them around roughly, sneering in their faces as though they were the ones pointing the gun at the back of his head and not Pepito. But they can only rub their wrists and stare; bleary eyed through lack of sleep or drugs, or both; at the unfamiliar surroundings. Then they start to talk amongst themselves, cautiously at first, their voices rising as they begin to test their limbs until Pepito shakes his head and raises his finger to his lips in that international gesture of silence. They stop talking at once and shuffle up behind him.
How long? How long did Pepito have to wait like this? With his gun held high and his options running low the best he could do was to cover his back and sit tight. A trickle of sweat slips down his brow and stings his eye. He blinks. Closes his eye for a second as he wipes his brow with the back of his hand and when he opens them again the men are watching him. Two of them are slumped against a crate while the other drawing angrily on the end of the cigarette, narrows his eyes to a slit as he peers through the smoke.
"How's this gonna play out Detective Pons." He says as he pitches the butt onto the dusty floor with a lazy flick of his wrist. "I mean just so's I know ... you gonna shoot us?"
Pepito stands his ground but his arms are tiring, they feel limp and numb from holding the gun so tightly up in the air. How should he respond? If the truth be told, he'd never shot anyone. Never needed to. Never had to. And if one thing is clear as he points the gun, with a tremor in his trigger finger, he knows that he never will. But he has to bluff them somehow and act like he could, act like he should so he flicks his gun with his fingers squeezed tight to stop them shaking and motions for them to step forwards. One at a time. Real slow. Pushing them sideways with the barrel of his gun he herds them into the middle of the room and pushes them down to the floor. Face down, legs splayed out and hands behind their backs, he makes use of the ropes, with the help of the women, to secure their wrists. When they're done, he stretches upright and breathes an audible sigh of relief. Three down and one to go, at least that's what he's counting on - not to mention the police, if they ever show up. His original plan was to stay out of sight and watch the proceedings from a secluded vantage point but as things progressed he felt he had to act. He had to do something. He had to step in and step up to the challenge. The only problem now concerns Francisco and again he asks with the point of his toes nudging the nearest man's foot.
"Where the hell is Francisco?" As soon as the question trips from his lips he gets his answer. It comes from behind, on stealthy feet and cracks him on the skull with something heavy and something blunt. Pepito crumples forwards landing on his knees as his gun slips from his grasp and hits the floor with a clatter of metal. His hands reach up to grasp his head, stop his skull from splitting open but it's too late. The room starts spinning and he slumps forwards, his vision fading fast. The last thing he sees before his face kisses concrete is the stricken image of the girl in the passport as she reaches out to catch him.

A boot in the ribs and he winces with pain. They're urging him to sit upright, urgently, digging their toes into his back and stomach until he pulls himself sluggishly into a sitting position. They're shouting at him and waving their arms and then one slaps him across the face and he's down again. He tries to focus but a quick, sharp fist blocks his vision. He tries to sit up but his back is made of rubber, it bends when he least expects it, like a sapling in a gale.

And then the shouts. And then the shots. And then.

The place is swarming with uniforms. Pepito is being grasped beneath his armpits by a pair of thin, wiry arms. They pull him across the floor, the heels of his father's old shoes leave a snaking trail of leather in the dust as he's dragged out of the way. Out of the way of the bullets which are flying around the place and bouncing off the metal platform with a hollow, steely twang. They pull him to the edge of the room and prop him up behind a packing crate. Prop him up and dust him down. He can feel the fleeting pressure of hands as they skip across his torso, running up over his face to his head and pressing on the wound that has opened up on his forehead.
"Detective Pons ...." The voice is clear and close to his ear. "Detective Pons." It says again in a shrill, anxious whisper. "Detective Pons please ... you've gotta wake up." Pepito opens his eyes and blinks at the face before him. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession until the familiar lines of Raphael's face settle into place. He sits forwards, clutching his head and fights to regain his composure.
"We've gotta get out of here." Raphael says, his voice shaking as he twists his head in several different directions. "They're gonna carve up the place between them. You think you can you walk?"
Pepito dips his head slowly, although he's not sure his legs will agree. He reaches out and grasps the boy around the shoulders and pulls himself to his knees. Then he tests his legs, first the right, then the left carefully pushing up through his aching back until he's eventually standing. He looks around as best he can with his head swaying unsteadily between his shoulders.
"Come on." Raphael urges, pulling a weary Pepito by the edge of his sleeve. "There's a side entrance but we'll have to hurry."
Stumbling blindly forwards, one middle-aged man too old for this lark and his dubious accomplice, they make their way to the side of the building on tangled feet.
"Wait." Shouts Pepito as they reach the farthest wall. He pulls himself from Raphael's grasp with his head turning back to the scene behind him as he searches amongst the chaos of bodies and bullets and girls, who are being rounded up and herded out of the place like cattle at a market. But they're not his immediate concern, not now - now that the police had turned up and taken control of the proceedings. His immediate concern is Francisco and as he searches frantically through the debris, Raphael tugs impatiently at his arm.
"Come on come on come on ... let's go." The words spill from his mouth in an agitated stutter but Pepito stands firm and he won't budge until Raphael informs him that Francisco had already left in a hurry, as soon as the shit hit the fan.

28. THE SHIT HITS THE FAN

Later still, the sky cracked open and pissed on the whole damn town. It came down thick and it came down fast. Fell at an angle and bounced off the roads. Flooded the drains and cleaned out the gutters. Washed all the crap from the deserted streets. But not Pepito, not Detective Pepito Pons. For Pepito has a purpose, he even has a plan. He's crouched in the shadows with his back to the moon, shrugging off the last of the rain as it slips down his neck. Dabbing his face with the sleeve of his jacket, he checks his watch. 12.48am. He stretches his leg and cracks his knuckles, rubs his eyes with a bunched up fist. Not long now - it's what he keeps telling himself. Not long now until the shit hits the fan. All he has to do is sit tight, keep his head down and wait for the police to arrive. He'd asked Raphael to place the call earlier, an anonymous tip off, so to speak. If the police didn't buy it he'd told him to throw in Francisco's name, just for good measure - that would surely make them bite. The only trouble was, could he trust Raphael? His legs are cramping up so he rolls forwards on the balls of his feet and bounces on the spot. Bounces up and down with his mind ticking over, ticking like a time bomb, ticking back to Mariquita. Ticking over her arched, silky neck, down over those smooth, plump breasts and down down down. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and stands up abruptly. Draws his hand down over his face and bends his knees with cracking joints to keep the blood coursing freely through his veins and his wits at the ready. Ready for whatever the night may throw at him, be they badges or bullets, he's ready for both.

1am and a sleek black car pulls slowly into view, its tyres slicing neatly through the puddles collected at the kerb with a languid hiss of water. Pepito stops bouncing on his heels and straightens his back. The headlights dim, doors pop open and three of Francisco's men step out into the moonlight. They close the doors behind them with a forceful nudge from their boots and circle around to the back. One of them with his head twisting sideways, opens the trunk and reaches deep inside. Then they each take a turn, reaching in and pulling out whatever comes to hand. A roll of tape, thick and back; rope; a small sports holdall and three pump action shotguns, gripped tightly between two hands. Pepito feels his own gun pressed against his hip. Hooking his jacket behind him, he reaches back and touches the leather holster with his fingertips. He swallows hard and hopes that when the police show up, they come well armed. A fist punches out and pushes down hard on the lid of the boot, then all three goons stride sullenly towards the building with their shotguns slung over their shoulders. Pepito waits until they disappear inside before he stands up and shakes some feeling back into his legs. Then he checks his watch, again. 1.06am. He's used to waiting, we all know that but at this stage in the game - time is running out. How much longer does he have to wait? How many minutes more before the cavalry rides in? Pepito can't tell - besides, he's growing restless and he can't sit still. He lifts his wrist one last time and glances at his watch before finally comimitting himself to his only course of action. Pushing himself up on shaking legs he weaves his way towards the building with his back bent double and his arms pumping hard. Through the puddles, the garbage and the toppled neon sign laying abandoned in the dirt, he slips up to the side of the building without breaking into a sweat and bolstered by his cunning, he slips around the back. He stops, crushing his spine against the wall and catches his breath. Now all he has to do is find a suitable point of entry. A way to get inside without them even knowing. He tries the door where they'd entered that morning but as luck would have it, it's locked. He taps his chin with an anxious finger and lifts his head up in thought. Lifts his head and lets his eyes fall along the rusted length of an iron platform that hugs the wall above his head. He follows it all the way to the farthest end, where, tucked out of sight by a burnt out dumpster, he can just make out the rungs of a ladder hanging down behind. He hurries towards it, trips over stones in his excitable haste as he stumbles onwards. Hitching his leg as he reaches the ladder and climbs, one precarious step at a time, until he's standing on the balcony, high above the ground. He moves along, slowly, steadily with his back pressed up flat against the wall when he reaches the rotting boards of wood that are tacked across the window. He stops in front, prizes himself from the safety of the wall to take a better look. Then with a smile on his lips, he slides his gun from his holster. Nice and easy. Pushes the muzzle, with the safety catch on, into a crack in the boards and easing down on the handle, he pulls them apart. One by one, carefully placing the boards at his feet until he's finally satisfied. Satisfied that he can squeeze through the gap to the other side without any major mishap.
He lands in a darkened corridor, in a crumpled heap on the floor. He picks himself up and dusts himself off before he continues down the corridor, through the narrow stretch of shadows, with his gun poking out in front. He works his stealthy way along until his hand chances to brush against a doorknob and turning it, he steps out onto another platform. Looking down into the cavern of the club, he instinctively drops to the floor. It must be sixty feet at least, from the ceiling to the floor. He begins to crawl with his eyes shut tight and his gun tapping lightly on the cool metal floor. He feels his way, hands groping blindly, pulling him forwards until a voice cuts through the darkness.
"Stop." Pepito freezes.
"I said stop fuckin' around." Pepito opens his eyes and peers downwards.
"You want Cisco to know you been messin with them?" He dips his head and squints through the grating.
"Move her over, not that way ... her hair is all messed up ..."
"What time is it?" A nervous voice asks and Pepito checks his watch.
"Too fucking late."
"Something's wrong ... something doesn't feel ... right."
"Maybe they got held up ..."
"Maybe."
"Something else came up ..."
"Maybe they're standin' outside .. waiting for us .."
"Maybe you should shut the fuck up."
A pacing of shoes on concrete and a discreet clearing of the throat is broken by a voice Pepito hasn't heard until now.
"I'll go." It said.

He lifts his head and dares to look but he can't make out a thing. It's too dark but he knows that the girls are there, he can smell their fear wafting up through the dampness that permeates the air. And then there's the perfume. Edging his way back along the platform, head down and gun tapping, he moves back through the door and into the corridor. He can see the window at the farthest end with the light from the moon shining through. He makes his way towards it, like a beacon in the dark, his gun pumping up and down as he walks quickly forwards. When he reaches the window he leans on the wood to catch his breath. And suddenly, it strikes him, like a fist in the gut, that maybe the cavalry wouldn't make it on time, if the cavalry made it at all. He curses quietly beneath his breath. Curses Raphael and curses himself. And the more he thinks about it the more he's convinced that he'll have to go it alone. He pulls himself awkwardly through the window and back out onto the platform. He's winging it now, making it up as he goes along, one cautious step at a time back over the rusted platform. But he knows what he has to do. He's known it all along. As soon as his foot touches down on concrete he makes his way to the front of the building, sticking close to the side of the walls. Edging forwards, he pulls himself tight into the shadows, pokes his head out from the side of the building and checks the street. Standing in the moonlight, one of Francisco's men is drawing savagely on the end of a cigarette with one hand while the other has the shotgun hitched up against his shoulder. Stepping out from the shadows, Pepito cocks his gun and holds it up, pointing straight at the man in front.
"STOP." He stops. He stops sucking on the end of the cigarette and flicks the butt out into the night with a nervous twitch from his fingertips.
"PUT THE GUN DOWN." He bends at the knee and places the gun on the ground at his feet.
"HANDS UP." He raises them high in the air.
"STEP BACK." He steps back.
"TURN AROUND ..." He turns, hands above his head, upper body twisting round.
"REAL SLOW." He does as Pepito requests with his bottom half completing the movement with a languorous twist from the waist. And now Pepito stands before him with his eyes narrowed and his mouth set. Reaching down, he picks up the shotgun and swings it over to rest on his forearm. Instinctively, the man steps backwards, his hands held aloft and his head pivoting right and left as he checks out his means of escape. But there are none immediately forthcoming. Except for the squat, balding, middle-aged man in front whose gun, flicking from side to side, suggests that he turn and with sharp, rhythmic nudges in the small of his back, pushes him towards the building.

27. PERSUASION

By the time Pepito reaches her house he's already decided. Decided to confront her with the evidence and let the facts speak for themselves. He pulls the bike up onto the kerb and tips the helmet from his head. A breeze picks up and snakes its way down from Tibidabo, rattling a can from the edge of the gutter and spinning into the road. Pepito turns his head and lifts his chin with his face to the breeze and fills his lungs with the sudden gust of air. Then he runs a hand over his oily brow and smears the sweat on the tips of his fingers. He steps out from the bike, scanning the night with a sweep of his head and steps towards the house with his feet holding back from each anxious step and his heart pumping hard in his chest. He pushes onwards. Stumbling forwards, breathing subdued until he finally reaches her doorway. He lifts his hand to the darkened wood and is poised to knock when his body rebels. He drops his hand with a prick to his conscience and turns on his heel. Turns on his heel and stops. Stops dead in his tracks, with his foot hitched to go one way and the other holding back but his mind is made up. His mind has decided and there can be no going back. He turns back to the door and swallows the lump that is clogged in his throat. Steps up to the challenge with his hand clenched up tight in a fist and taps lightly on the gleaming, polished wood.
She takes her time, humming something low and sugary but he can hear the slap of her feet moving seductively across the floor. She calls out and he answers, his hand rising instinctively to his holster. She opens the door. She pulls him in and his hand falls idly by his side, limp and useless as she pulls him closer, so close he can smell the whiskey on her breath. He should open his mouth to protest but she covers his lips with her own and they stand for some moments with their spines melting and their bodies braced for a fall. She pulls him downwards, stretching her body beneath him, back arched and hips splayed, her hands expertly relieving him of his clothes. While Pepito, abandoning reason and caught in the moment, claws at her robe with clumsy fingers and plunges himself into those delicious folds of fabric without a second thought.

He just couldn't help himself. Some things are in the blood. Some things are so etched beneath the skin, like a tattoo, a blood red tattoo, that they will always remain a part of you. No matter how hard you scrub. It's always there, like ink beneath the skin. Or poison in the blood.
At least, that's what Raphael told himself, the moment that he was caught. Caught in the act, so to speak. In fraganti. And it happened so fast. It happened when he was least expecting it. Caught up in a crowd, caught up in a moment, with his hand half wedged in some stranger's bag and he barely got to touch it. Barely had time to grasp the wallet and feel its weight in his sweaty palm before he was grabbed from behind by a burly policeman, who promptly slapped the cuffs on. No warning, no words, no justice. He was marched towards the station. Literally, pushed in front with two plain clothed police behind him, his feet barely touched the pavement. And he tried to protest, he really did but of course, they weren't even listening. In short, they didn't want to believe him. To them he was simply raving. Raving mad or raving stoned, it didn't make any difference. They'd heard it all before and would probably do so again. All sorts of crap spilling from his mouth about gangsters and girls and a building. But he knew he had to tell them. He had to get their attention, it was all part of the plan. Part of the plan that Pepito worked out and he depended on Raphael. He depended on him telling, it was what the boy did best. Except, he was supposed to use the phone. He was supposed to keep his nose clean. That was what Pepito had said. Go back home, keep his head down and stay well away from trouble because he had to make that call. Why then did he find himself mingling amongst the crowds? He never meant it to be this way but then again, he never did. Some things just seem to dangle temptingly in front of him, like a crooked card game or an easy mark. Some things are in the blood.
And then they threw him in that stinking cell and he really started to panic. The reality sank home as the door slammed shut and he pressed his face to the iron bars. Pressed his cheeks against the cold, hard metal and pleaded for them to listen.
"You've got it all wrong ... see ..." He shouted out like a madman, shouted out loud to their receding backs and hoped that they would hear him. "You don't understand .. see ..." He shouted until his voice was hoarse and the tears ran down his face. "It's something big ... real big ... biggest scam I've ever seen ..."
And still they didn't listen.

He must have slept. Not for long but he must have slept. Dazed and chafed, he sits up in bed and rubs his eyes with lazy fists. He looks around. He pats the bed. He rises and stumbles on weary legs out of her bedroom and through the house, naked, pushing doors and peering inside until eventually, he finds her. She's standing by the pool with her back towards him staring out over the city below. The sun has just begun its descent at the eastern edge of a perfect sky. He walks towards her, reaches out to touch her hair and stops. Draws his hand back as though he's been stung and lets it fall tracing the length of her spine with a waft of air from his fingers. She turns to face him, standing for a moment with her face suspended in thought. He smiles and she moves towards him, circling her arms around his bulging waist and buries her face in his neck. She kisses there. And there. And there. Small, stifled little pecks, reaching out over his shoulders and down over the slope of belly. He laughs. He's nervous. Strangely now, he's nervous. He looks down over the flabby folds of his gut and pulls away from her tempting grip. Tempting to keep it up. Tempting to keep his mouth shut but he knows he can't. He knows he has to ask. And maybe that's why he blurts it out. She stumbles backwards like she's been slapped in the face and stares at him, mouth hanging open and hand on her heart. She shakes her head. She denies it. She goes over her story again, like she's learned if from a script and repeats her innocence with her eyes gaping wide and her hand clutching her throat. In fear, in shock. Or both.
How could he think it. How could he say it.
The words fill her mouth with an ugly taste and she turns her back in denial. And now, he moves towards her, he reaches out to calm her, pull her against him, feel her hammering heart as it beats against his chest.
"I'm sorry," he says again, and again but she pushes him from her and turns away.
"It was Francisco wasn't it?" She steps forwards, skirting the edge of the pool. "He put you up to this didn't he?" Pepito shakes his head, reaching out towards her but she moves too quickly for him. "He told you something .... didn't he?"
"No, Mariquita ... no." He stumbles towards her. "I had to ask, that's all ..."
"You had to ask if I'd killed her? You had to ask that?" She shakes her head in disbelief.
"I'm sorry." He says again for good measure. "But yes, I had to ask."
She sits down by the edge of the pool, skimming her robe up behind her and lowers her legs into the water.
"So tell me them ... Detective Pons," she flicks her eyes towards him, "what made you ask?"
He hunkers down beside her.
"Chlorine," he says, "they found traces of it in her lungs." He flicks his head towards the glassy surface of the water. "It was just something I had to clear up, that's all."
She stares at him for a moment before stretching backwards, her hands splayed out on either side and her head thrown back and starts to laugh with a ruckus spasm from the pit of her gut.
"Chlorine?" She eventually says but she doesn't wait to finish the thought as she shrugs the robe from her shoulders and slips into the water. Pepito stands up and circles the pool following her body as it breaks through the surface.
"I have a theory, " he says as she cuts through the water towards him.
"A theory, how interesting ..." She's playing with him again, but he's caught up in the moment and too far gone to see it. All he can see is is her tempting flesh as she flips on her back and strokes the water over her glistening breasts. She twists her head to check that he's watching. But we know that he is. With hungry eyes he watches her lift her leg and run her hand down the length of her thigh before she flips back over with the grace of a seal and swims to the edge of the pool. Reaching out to grasp her hand, he pulls her out towards him. They stand for a moment their bodies locked in a damp embrace as he tries to recall his purpose.
"Let's hear this theory of yours then, Detective ..." She purrs in his ear but as his lips close over hers, she braces her back and knows she'll have to wait.

Standing, across the street from the shop, feet crossed at the ankle and arms tucked beneath her chest, she watched him leave. Watched him push his head through his helmet and straddle the seat of his bike. Watched him kick off from the kerb with a hurried twist on the throttle and disappear amongst the cars racing for the lights. Standing, a little longer, she surveys the front of the shop. She takes her time, examining the entrance with its worn down step, the mottled brown door with the sign in the middle and the display window littered with stickers and giant cardboard cutouts of cigarettes. Then she turned her back. With her feet placed flat on the intricate spirals carved in the pavement, slapping the ground as she walked. She must have walked for an hour, at least. Wandered around with only her thoughts to guide her, perspiring in the afternoon heat. Thoughts that were cluttered, crammed up together, fighting for space in her head. And she tried to arrange them into appropriate places but as one thought was settled another would spring up instead. Eventually, she came to halt. Stopped dead in her tracks as she ran out of pavement at the edge of a building. Stopped short of the entrance, one or two metres as her eyes climbed up to the top.
He was glad to see her, of course. Babbled his surprise like an excitable schoolboy as she stood at the door to his flat. He ushered her in with a hand on her arm and guided her towards the living room. Eased her down in his best armchair and pulled up a seat for himself.
"This is nice .." he said with a flash of a grin and she had to agree because it certainly was, nice to be saved from the heat. Nice to stop walking. Nice to stop thinking. Nice to be loved by this man. This good, kind, quiet man who would never leave her, not for a moment, not even if she begged him to go. Leaning forwards, she grasped his hand and curled it into her own.
"Let's not wait," she said, squeezing his fingers, "let's not wait any longer, let's get married now."
"Now? You mean right now?" He pushed himself back in his chair, pulling his hand from her grip and stroked the long peppered hair on his mustache. "Well ... it's sudden, I'll say that ..."
"I know, I know," she said, easing herself to the edge of the chair, convincing herself it was right. "I know it's sudden but why should we wait?"
"Well, there's the family and the arrangements with the ..."
But she lifted her hand to silence him and the words died in his throat. "
"Gibraltar," she said with a tilt of her brow, "we can get married tomorrow in Gibraltar."
"What? Just like that?"
"Just like that."
Rising from his chair, he stepped over to the window. His mind ticking over, cogs whirring, neurons sparking, eyes clouded up with thought.
"Gibraltar you say?" He turned towards her.
"Yes," she said as she moved from the armchair. "Gibraltar," she whispered as she nuzzled towards him and buried her face in his neck.

It wasn't how she imagined it. Wasn't lit with fireworks or timed with explosives but at least is was something. A slow, unwinding of mechanical precision that culminated in a burst of release, like a balloon that is filled with a steady breath, then popped on the point of a knife. Turning over onto her right side she watched the hairs on his mustache flutter in the wake of his breath. In. Out. In. Out. His chest rising and falling with a ragged rhythm as he stared at some point on the ceiling. Turning his head towards her, sweat glistening in the lines of his face, he smiled. That's all, a simple flex of the lips. That's all that it really takes. Then he lifted his hand and reached out to touch the side of her face. She sidled in towards him with her hip bumping against his thigh, and as her flesh touched his a sudden fear that she could still lose him swept through her body. She shivered. Threw her arm over his chest and pulled him closer, pulled him tight. Shifting her head on the pillow, she gazed up at the ceiling. Picked out a spot where the sun slipped through a crack in the blinds she focused on the shaft of light and let her mind slip back. Back to the shop, back to Pepito, slipping even further through the layers of time until she came to rest, with her eyelids drooping from the weight of sleep, on her wedding day.
A bright, crisp day in Spring; a wind rustles through the trees and whips her veil from her head with a gust of breath. She can see her face, laughing. The high, clear lines of her cheeks, her mouth pitched open as her husband bolts from her side to catch it. But it flutters upwards, held aloft by the gathering breeze as he leaps in the air to catch it. Stretching upwards on the points of his toes, arms reaching above his head, he swipes at the veil with no success as the wind grows stronger and blows it further from his grasp. Further and further, she can see the veil billowing in the distance and her husband, with his long, straight back straining up to the sky, following closely behind it.
She must have slept. For a few minutes, at least but long enough to have remembered her dream and tasted the bitter ending. Unwinding the sheets from her tangled limbs, she slipped out of bed. Crept up to the chair in the corner of the room and hurriedly put her clothes on. And when she was dressed she tiptoed back to the bed to check that he was breathing. Bending over his prostrate frame she placed his ear over his mouth. He stirred in his sleep and muttered her name. Muttered his name with his papery lips still chapped and raw from their kisses. Leaning in closer, she brushed his cheek with the tips of her lips and pulled the sheet up. Tucked him in, straightened the pillow by the side of his head and retrieved his clothes from the floor. She left them neatly folded over the back of a chair. Left his trousers and shirt, all perfectly creased, with his socks tucked into his shoes.

Later that night, long after Pepito has left with a hand on his gun and smile on his lips, Mariquita stands by the edge of the pool. She lights a cigarette and blows the smoke out in curdling waves over the city sprawled at her feet. She cocks her head and looks at the moon before walking slowly back to the table. She sits down, grinding the cigarette in the ashtray as she pulls the phone towards her. She dials his number, pressing the buttons methodically with the scarlet tip of a nail. Pepito had told her everything, everything she had been waiting to hear. He'd spared no details and told no lies, except somehow, he'd missed out the obvious. And the obvious had been there all along. Sprawled beneath him with her hair in her face, easing his doubts with the thrust of her hips - it had all been part of her plan. And she'd played him from the beginning. How easy it had been. How desperate he was to believe her. How close he had come to the water's edge and stood with his back to the truth.
She rises, smiling secretly to herself, the phone cupped tight to her ear.
"It's me," that's all she needs to say. "I thought you would have left by now." She stops and tilts her chin upwards. "Everything's fine ..." and her gaze slips down to the water, falling on the liquid moon rippling gently on the surface. "Just thought you'd like to know ..." She waits for a moment, her fingers playing with a lock of hair that falls across her face. "Our problem has been taken care of ..."

26. THE DAWNING

It was the pathologist's call that set him thinking.
"Thought you might be interested to know the results of the test ... just came in this morning."
"Test?"
"The test on the water."
"What water?"
"The water in her lungs. Are you all right Detective Pons?"
Pepito nods his head. "Let's just say I've had a busy morning."
"Too much on your plate?"
"Something like that."
"Well, here's something else for that plate of yours ... the water contained chlorine and there's only one kind of water that contains chlorine ..."

Even Pepito knows that. She drowned in a swimming pool. Public or private, it was hard to tell - the only thing he could be sure about was that she drowned in a swimming pool, in a derelict building, in the middle of a housing estate, in the poorest part of town. Pepito twists both taps and lowers himself to the floor with his back resting against the bathtub and his legs stretched out in front. His head throbbed. His stomach was churning. But at least he was safe. Here. In his bathroom, in the flat above the shop, where no-one could find him. In fact, no-one would ever think to look. He runs his hand down the side of his face and shakes his head in disbelief. Chlorine. Who would have thought it, certainly not Pepito who was struggling with the evidence and the direction it was beginning to take. Could it be that simple? Could the answer have been right under his nose the whole time? Teasing him, taunting him. Staring him in the face and poking its tongue out at his blind lunges at the truth. And there was something else, something else the pathologist had said. He knew her time of death - she'd died around midnight. Pepito already knew her movements on that night. She had been with Mariquita until around nine thirty, or so the lady said. But what if she never left? He stands upright, his legs shaking beneath him and turns off the taps. Lifting his foot, he steps over the rim of the tub and into the water. Was this how it felt? This liquid melting of flesh. Closing his eyes he leans backwards and lets the cool water lap over his body. He tries to imagine the scene, an accident maybe, a rising battle with words that ends with a blow to the skull and a body in the pool but he just can't see it. Or maybe, he just doesn't want to look. He sits upright, disturbing the water with lapping waves that splash the sides of the tub and rubs his face. Then he stands up and grabbing a towel from the rail, wraps it around his waist. He steps out of the bath and stands in front of the mirror, twists his torso left and right as he checks out his reflection. He has his own ideas, hunches really and they all pointed towards Francisco. After all, he was the one who had the most to lose if Rosa had found out about his link in the chain of girls being smuggled into the country. A chain that stretched all the way back to Russia and reached out to God knows where. She had to have known and if she hadn't, then she must have guessed that these girls weren't willing participants. So she must have confronted him, outraged perhaps but most likely, she'd wanted her cut, blackmailed him even for her pound of flesh. It was only a matter of time before the police caught up with him themselves. In fact, at this stage in the game, Pepito was counting on it. The way things were panning out, he could use their help. But he has to be careful, he doesn't want them messing with his method so the best thing for him to do is keep his head down, stay close to the trail and follow. Follow fearlessly and follow surely but always with just that one step ahead.

2.36pm and Gloria stands by the sink with her hands immersed in the suds. She hears the bathroom door close and the slap of his feet on the tiles as he moves through the flat but she doesn't stop. Lowering her head, she continues with the dishes, swirling her hands through the soapy water with a studied concentration. By the time Pepito enters the kitchen she's running the cloth over the worktops with her shoulders hunched up around her. She doesn't turn around. She doesn't stop. Pepito hangs awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before pushing his way through the stifling air towards the cooker. He lifts the lid on the pot and sucks in the smell of the juices wafting up from the bubbling meat. He closes his eyes and his stomach gurgles.
"Smells good," he says, moving towards the table but Gloria doesn't answer. "Want me to put out the plates?"
She shrugs, a silent dip of the shoulders and moves towards the cooker. But Pepito is not put off, he can tell that something is brewing so he moves towards the drainer and reaches for the plates. Grabbing the dishcloth he rubs the surface of each one with rough circular movements before setting them down on the table. One opposite the other. He's reaching for the glasses when Gloria suddenly breaks her silence. Turning around she rests her back against the worktop, her hands pitched up behind her.
"I didn't make as much ... didn't think you'd be back in time." She waits for him to answer, her eyes following his movements as he shuffles around the table. He's aware that she's watching so he lowers his head to avoid the full impact of her gaze. He lifts his shoulders briefly and dips his head towards his chest. By the time he looks up, she's already turned back to the cooker and is poking the bubbling meat with impatient prods from a fork.
"This is almost ready," she says, her voice tripping out tersely from her tightly pursed lips.
Pepito nods and sits down in his place with his back towards the cooker. She turns, the pot gripped tightly between the serving cloth in her hands and stares at the back of Pepito's head. She hesitates, for a fraction of a second before she moves around the table and places the pot in the middle. Then she sits down in her own place with her back to the door and picks up a spoon with the twitch still flickering through her slender fingers as she serves Pepito, letting the meat fall absently with muffled plops onto the plate beneath.
"You know ..." she begins with a clear voice, her head held high and her eyes level with Pepito's face but the more she stares the more her conviction falters. Her voice fades, caught in her throat and she drops her gaze, letting it fall to the lumps of meat and potatoes on her plate.
"It's no use," she eventually says, her voice a sigh in the back of her throat. "I can't work here anymore." She drops the spoon and sits back in her chair pushing the plate away from her with a sideways sweep from her hand. Pepito grips his fork tighter with his eyes caste down and his leg jerking spasmodically beneath the table. He knows he should say something but the more he gropes for the right words to speak the more he is convinced that they will somehow fall short. He sits mute, his hand pushing the fork idly around the plate and his stomach complaining audibly.
"Eat something." Her eyes flick up to his down turned face. Lifting the fork he places the meat tentatively in his mouth and chews, slowly. Chews methodically and the food slides down his throat as he raises another forkful to his mouth. Then another. And another. She sits in silence as he clears the plate, watching him chew and swallow with deliberate concentration. When he's finished, she pulls the plate across the table towards her and carries it to the sink where she drops it in with a reckless dash from an angry wrist and braces herself against the drainer.
"Not hungry?" He addresses her back, his eyes focused on the hunch of her shoulders as she bends towards the sink. She shakes her head and closes her eyes. Closes her eyes and clenches her fists. She could scream right now but she knows she can't so she bites her lip and throws her head back. Alone and defeated, but defiant.
"Gloria?" His voice touches her with a shiver down her spine and she grips the sink even harder. "It doesn't ..." He starts to speak but the words stick in his throat. He tries again but they clog in his mouth, smothering his tongue so he clears his throat with an agitated rasp and stands up. What? What should he say? What could he say? It doesn't have to be like this. But he knows in his heart that it does. He knows in his heart that when all is said and done, she deserves more than he can give. She deserves to be loved, she deserves to be treasured. She deserves more than this. And if he was any other man he would take her in his arms and what? What would he do with a woman like her? He shakes his head and rubs his brow because somehow he knows, he's not. He's not any other man. He's Pepito Pons. Detective Pepito Pons. Something he can never forget and something he can never tell her. She would never understand. This longing, this need for his other life, it's the crux of the whole damn method. Especially now, when he's getting close to the end, so close he can almost taste it.
Moving around the table he picks up her plate and scrapes the untouched meal back in the pot. She turns around and watches him, with her back against the sink. "I'll put an advert in the paper." She speaks but her eyes are fixed on some distant spot on the table. "I can stay until you find someone."
Pepito lifts his head and nods, slowly, heavily as if a weight is pressing down on his neck.
"All right," he sighs, "if that's what you want."
And even though he speaks the words he knows, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut, that it's not. It's not what she wants, at all. He stands there with his hands placed on the table before him and his chin tucked into his chest. Not daring to protest, not even daring to lift his head as she brushes passed him and out the door leaving only a silent ruffle of air in her wake.

Something was beginning to happen, although he couldn't say what. But it started in his loins and quickly spread, clawing upwards, infecting every restless nerve with cloying insistence. Pepito can feel it. He felt it that first morning when he slipped on the clothes. He felt it as the dusty fabric stretched to life over his crumpled flesh. He felt it the first time he walked into one of those shady dives with his gun clipped in it's holster and his hand hovering close to his hip. And he feels it now. Now he sits across the street, outside Mariquita's club and waits. He's careful not to arouse suspicion. Careful not to enter the place with his shackles raised and his gun blazing. So he sits back on the seat of his bike, by the seat of his pants and waits. He bides his time. If there's one thing he's learned in the fictitious life then it's when to watch, when to wait and when to burst in on the action.
4.15pm and the door swings open. Two goons, the one with the head, the crusted gash on the side of his head and his partner in crime step out onto the street. Pepito scrambles from the back of his bike and ducks behind a dumpster. Luckiy for him he parked so close. Lucky for us they don't see him. It could have been nasty, it could have been rough. It could have been the end of the story. Shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun they dip in their pockets and pull out their shades. Then they turn on their heels and walk, in a synchronized swagger with a menacing slant, up to the end of the street. When they reach their car on the corner, they stop. They pop their doors open. They slip inside. Start the engine. Pull out from the kerb and swerve down the road with a screech of tyres and a waft of burning rubber. Pepito stands up, stretching to life from his cramped position he rubs the front of his legs. Rubs them hard and rubs them long until the blood returns to his toes. Then he steps towards the club, moving fast on tingling feet and raps on the door with the back of his knuckles. Raps once with impatience and twice with anger until eventually someone answers.

"Mariquita's not here." It was the barman who told him this. "S'funny but two other guys were just here asking the same thing." He plucks a glass from a tray in front of him and clouds it with breath.
"What did they want?"
Holding the glass up to the overhead lights he squints at his reflection and buffs the rim with the end of a dishcloth. "Wouldn't say."
"When do you expect her in?"
He places the glass on the shelf behind him. "Hard to say ... since Rosa was last here she's been in and out when she pleases ... comes in late, leaves early."
"When was Rosa last here?"
"Last Tuesday." Reaching forwards he plucks another glass from the tray.
"Was she working that night?"
The barman shakes his head. Holds the glass up to the light, buffs some more and places it on the shelf.
"What did she come by for?"
"She quit ... came to pick up her wages." He dips into the tray again.
"Quit when?"
The barman scratches his head with his free hand and twists the glass under the light with the other. He closes one eye. "Tuesday." And lifts the cloth to the clouded rim.
"You sure?"
"Sure I'm sure ... they were back in her office but I could hear them out here." He places the glass on the shelf and turns his back, running the dishcloth over the bottles in front.
"And this was all last Tuesday?"
The barman nods his head and turns around. "She in some kind of trouble?"
"She?"
The barman lifts his chin and stares at Pepito "I mean Mariquita, the boss ... she done something wrong?"
Pepito plucks a glass from the tray in front and holds it up to the light, one eye closed and the other fixed on the barman. "That's hard to say."

Almost a week to the day since Rosa went missing. Pushing through the door with a heavy hand he steps out onto the street. Two days since her body was found. He cocks his leg and slides on the back, grabs the spare helmet and slips it over his head. Almost four hours since the pathologist called. He starts the engine with a twist of the key and turns the throttle towards him. And tonight, tonight in an abandoned club, somewhere close by the docks, a deal will go down for the fate of some girls. Launching himself from the kerb with a hefty thrust from his foot, he skids off down the street in the direction of Collserola. His mind is playing tricks on him. Acting up, spinning tales, creating diversions, even making up excuses. But it won't last long, he won't allow it. Won't give in to his foolish heart. Won't deny where the truth may lead him, even if the truth has long, dark hair and scarlet lips. Scarlet lips and eyes like honey, softly melting in her golden skin.