Pepito checks his watch again. 12.36am. He's late, by half an hour at least and it was all arranged. Money for information, that's how it works. Of course, he could have another drink but he decides against it, preferring to keep his head clear, clear enough to think. Tilting his chin upwards he scans the place, his eyes darting restlessly over the heads of the punters, over the stage, loitering for a heartbeat on the swiveling hips of the dancer before they come to rest on a door at the back of the room marked PRIVATE in large chalky letters. It seems like a good place to start. Slipping from the bar stool, he stands up. He needs to be certain of his next move and so, with slow, deliberate steps and a hand which rises to smooth the few remaining hairs on his head, he makes his way towards the door at the back of the room. He knocks and waits and when there is no answer, he knocks again with the butt of his gun.
A muffled scraping of chairs, movement and the door is opened to the width of a gash. An eye, puckered at the edge and yellowed surveys him. There is no way around, above, below or beyond the eye. No space around the gash for him to see the room behind, although, he knows it's there. Only the eye, unblinking and unmoving, observing him with the confident certainty that comes from control. Complete control. Control of the gash, the door, the room behind and who may or may not be admitted.
Pepito is not.
Pepito is not impressed.
He pulls out the gun and rests it seductively beside the crack in the door, beside the eye. It registers in the dilated pupil, but just for effect, just for the hell of it, he pulls back and takes aim, arms outstretched, feet splayed, Hollywood style. The door swings open and the eye expands to a sweating body, overweight in a stained shirt, sleeves rolled up and fleshy hands in the air.
"Don't shoot," the fat man stammers, stepping backwards. He won't. He flicks the gun from side to side and the fat man follows its movements, eyes bulging to the side of the room. And now. Now he can see. He can see the chairs, pulled back hastily, one on the floor. Two more men, both sweating, shirts damp and hands in the air. A table, burning cigarettes propped in an ashtray, money, a deck of cards strewn untidily across the floor and Raphael. Raphael sitting motionless, slumped forwards and his head, anointed in its own blood, is turned towards the gun. Through one bleary, bloodshot eye he tries to focus, moves his puffy blackened mouth in recognition and smiles, a painful twist of lip. Pepito moves towards him, his gun still trained on the men.
"Get up," he barks and pulls at the outstretched arm. Slowly and with obvious pain the youth emerges from his stupor and pulls himself upright. He throws an arm around Pepito and they hobble with clumsy, indignant steps towards the door.
"Hey!" one of the men yells, "he owes us money." Without turning, without speaking, Pepito digs into his trouser pocket and pulls out a handful of coins which he disperses across his shoulder in a silvery, tinkling sweep as they exit.
There's no need for words, he can't even speak. He's angry, angry as hell and yet, curiously, a creeping sense of exhilaration, a pride is swelling in the pit of his gut like when he walks into all those scummy little bars and everyone turns to look at him. At him. Detective Pepito Pons. He likes the sound of it, always has. And how could he not? Picture the scene - a boy of nine, his mine stuffed with his father's heroics, sitting in the front row of his local cinema, legs swinging, mouth loose and eyes feasting on the flickering images of grey-toned cops and robbers - it was inevitable, really. Inevitable that he would then race home with his imagination loaded, cocked and ready and in the seclusion of his bedroom, where all our dreams begin, act out the scenes, alternating between the good guys and the bad, with a natural leaning towards the good.
Of course, Bogart was his favourite. And why not? He'd studied his movements, his manner, his badly dubbed speech, standing for hours before the mirror on his wardrobe, the same mirror that witnessed the clothes, cocking his head and creasing his brow until his mother called him from the foot of the stairs. It was only a matter of time before he perfected his art. Chiseled and honed it, like the great man's jaw, until he stood on the brink of middle age and after a lifetime of sacrifice (for his good mother's sake) he was finally ready. Ready to play the part. If Humphrey could have seen him, he would have been proud.
12.56am and the night is heavy and sticky with heat and yet, Raphael shivers as they step out onto the street. Not from cold exactly or fear either, rather the shock of knowing that somehow Pepito is always there, lurking somehow, just out of reach but always there when he needs him. And Raphael, Raphael is impressed. But he can never tell Pepito. Detective Pepito Pons, who barely a year ago plucked him from the depths of a scam and waved money under his nose, saying - smell that? Money for information, that's how it worked. If he had something to tell, he would tell it, the only stipulation being, he had to keep his mouth in working order. He hadn't bargained on that night. Hadn't bargained on the card game. In the back room. Killing time. He hadn't meant to cheat - some things are in the blood.
He hadn't meant for the men to get so angry, outraged, insulted.
DIRTYCHEATIN'LYIN'LITTLEFUCKER.
He hadn't meant to be in the way of their fists.
He lifts his head as Pepito drapes his jacket around his shoulders and tries to smile a broken, bloodied stretch of lip. But Pepito doesn't notice, his mind is elsewhere, ticking slowly but methodically. Thinking what to do next. His natural inclination is to take him to the hospital although in his heart he knows that it's out of the question. Too risky. He has his identity to maintain, that curious weave of fact and fiction that he's spent his whole life perfecting. You see, for Pepito his chosen role is no game but an essential component of who he is, like the air, hot and still, which he draws into his lungs with each carefully executed breath. If he took him to the hospital questions would be asked: What happened? Where did you find him? And Pepito would feel compelled to lie, something he found distasteful for its own sake: Why he found him by the side of the road .... a hit and run no doubt ... and because he's a good citizen ... a decent man ... he brought him here ... on the back of his Vespa ..... he was bleeding all over the road ... you see ... you see don't you? But they wouldn't. They wouldn't see, they wouldn't understand that to a man like Pepito, the simple blunted daring of a man, who had constructed his life from the depths of a dream, conviction is the key. He'd stake his reputation on that simple fact. Which is why, against his better judgment and with the weight of Raphael pressing on his back, he spat into the winds of reason and headed down to the harbour to purchase the dubious skills of a physician for a small fee, paper of liquid, it didn't really matter.
And the truth? What of it? His name is Pepito Pons. He owns a tobacco shop, something he inherited from his mother, God rest her weary soul. The truth can be as simple as that.
A muffled scraping of chairs, movement and the door is opened to the width of a gash. An eye, puckered at the edge and yellowed surveys him. There is no way around, above, below or beyond the eye. No space around the gash for him to see the room behind, although, he knows it's there. Only the eye, unblinking and unmoving, observing him with the confident certainty that comes from control. Complete control. Control of the gash, the door, the room behind and who may or may not be admitted.
Pepito is not.
Pepito is not impressed.
He pulls out the gun and rests it seductively beside the crack in the door, beside the eye. It registers in the dilated pupil, but just for effect, just for the hell of it, he pulls back and takes aim, arms outstretched, feet splayed, Hollywood style. The door swings open and the eye expands to a sweating body, overweight in a stained shirt, sleeves rolled up and fleshy hands in the air.
"Don't shoot," the fat man stammers, stepping backwards. He won't. He flicks the gun from side to side and the fat man follows its movements, eyes bulging to the side of the room. And now. Now he can see. He can see the chairs, pulled back hastily, one on the floor. Two more men, both sweating, shirts damp and hands in the air. A table, burning cigarettes propped in an ashtray, money, a deck of cards strewn untidily across the floor and Raphael. Raphael sitting motionless, slumped forwards and his head, anointed in its own blood, is turned towards the gun. Through one bleary, bloodshot eye he tries to focus, moves his puffy blackened mouth in recognition and smiles, a painful twist of lip. Pepito moves towards him, his gun still trained on the men.
"Get up," he barks and pulls at the outstretched arm. Slowly and with obvious pain the youth emerges from his stupor and pulls himself upright. He throws an arm around Pepito and they hobble with clumsy, indignant steps towards the door.
"Hey!" one of the men yells, "he owes us money." Without turning, without speaking, Pepito digs into his trouser pocket and pulls out a handful of coins which he disperses across his shoulder in a silvery, tinkling sweep as they exit.
There's no need for words, he can't even speak. He's angry, angry as hell and yet, curiously, a creeping sense of exhilaration, a pride is swelling in the pit of his gut like when he walks into all those scummy little bars and everyone turns to look at him. At him. Detective Pepito Pons. He likes the sound of it, always has. And how could he not? Picture the scene - a boy of nine, his mine stuffed with his father's heroics, sitting in the front row of his local cinema, legs swinging, mouth loose and eyes feasting on the flickering images of grey-toned cops and robbers - it was inevitable, really. Inevitable that he would then race home with his imagination loaded, cocked and ready and in the seclusion of his bedroom, where all our dreams begin, act out the scenes, alternating between the good guys and the bad, with a natural leaning towards the good.
Of course, Bogart was his favourite. And why not? He'd studied his movements, his manner, his badly dubbed speech, standing for hours before the mirror on his wardrobe, the same mirror that witnessed the clothes, cocking his head and creasing his brow until his mother called him from the foot of the stairs. It was only a matter of time before he perfected his art. Chiseled and honed it, like the great man's jaw, until he stood on the brink of middle age and after a lifetime of sacrifice (for his good mother's sake) he was finally ready. Ready to play the part. If Humphrey could have seen him, he would have been proud.
12.56am and the night is heavy and sticky with heat and yet, Raphael shivers as they step out onto the street. Not from cold exactly or fear either, rather the shock of knowing that somehow Pepito is always there, lurking somehow, just out of reach but always there when he needs him. And Raphael, Raphael is impressed. But he can never tell Pepito. Detective Pepito Pons, who barely a year ago plucked him from the depths of a scam and waved money under his nose, saying - smell that? Money for information, that's how it worked. If he had something to tell, he would tell it, the only stipulation being, he had to keep his mouth in working order. He hadn't bargained on that night. Hadn't bargained on the card game. In the back room. Killing time. He hadn't meant to cheat - some things are in the blood.
He hadn't meant for the men to get so angry, outraged, insulted.
DIRTYCHEATIN'LYIN'LITTLEFUCKER.
He hadn't meant to be in the way of their fists.
He lifts his head as Pepito drapes his jacket around his shoulders and tries to smile a broken, bloodied stretch of lip. But Pepito doesn't notice, his mind is elsewhere, ticking slowly but methodically. Thinking what to do next. His natural inclination is to take him to the hospital although in his heart he knows that it's out of the question. Too risky. He has his identity to maintain, that curious weave of fact and fiction that he's spent his whole life perfecting. You see, for Pepito his chosen role is no game but an essential component of who he is, like the air, hot and still, which he draws into his lungs with each carefully executed breath. If he took him to the hospital questions would be asked: What happened? Where did you find him? And Pepito would feel compelled to lie, something he found distasteful for its own sake: Why he found him by the side of the road .... a hit and run no doubt ... and because he's a good citizen ... a decent man ... he brought him here ... on the back of his Vespa ..... he was bleeding all over the road ... you see ... you see don't you? But they wouldn't. They wouldn't see, they wouldn't understand that to a man like Pepito, the simple blunted daring of a man, who had constructed his life from the depths of a dream, conviction is the key. He'd stake his reputation on that simple fact. Which is why, against his better judgment and with the weight of Raphael pressing on his back, he spat into the winds of reason and headed down to the harbour to purchase the dubious skills of a physician for a small fee, paper of liquid, it didn't really matter.
And the truth? What of it? His name is Pepito Pons. He owns a tobacco shop, something he inherited from his mother, God rest her weary soul. The truth can be as simple as that.
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