"FIX HIM UP DOC."
"S'not ..."
"FIX HIM UP."
"S'not .. I don' ..."
"FIX HIM."
"Don' wanna fix him .."
"DOC ..."
"S'juss I can' ..."
"DOC ..."
"Seem .. t'focus .."
"DOC?"
"Hmmm ..."
"FIX HIM UP:"
He had known, at some point, it would come to this. He grits his teeth and holds his breath as he pushes past the doctor swaying in the doorway, almost knocking him to the floor. Clearing a path through the garbage with a sideways sweep of his foot he sits Raphael down on a chair at the back of the room. Then he heads towards the kitchen as if he's been here all his life and starts rummaging through the cupboards, pulling out whatever comes to hand and discarding it with a flick of his wrist. The doctor follows his movements, his mouth opening and closing in silent fish-like protest. He starts to speak but is startled into silence by the sharp hiss of splintering glass that follows the bottle as it slips from his tremulous grip and crashes to the floor.
Flinching at the sound Pepito stops his search and turns around slowly to face the doctor.
"Coffee," he says, his jaws tightening in disgust so that the word is spat out through his teeth. The doctor points to a jar in the corner and Pepito grabs a cup from the top of a pile of dishes abandoned in the sink, fills it with water and empties half the jar of coffee on top. A quick swirl with his finger and he hands the cup to the doctor who takes the cup with a dubious look and tips it to his lips. He drinks, downing the contents in long, breathless gulps as Pepito moves towards the doorway and waits. Waits until the mixture hits its target and the doctor stumbles to the sink, back hooked and vomit projected in ruckus, violent spasms.
It can be safely presumed that the doctor had seen better days. Days when the future opened before him like the innocent unfolding of a bud. Days in his youth when his dreams were assured, assured by his certainty and a will to succeed. Days that were glorious, untroubled and bright.
But today is not one of those days.
Raphael watches the proceedings from the other side of the room. He moves his body forwards, a hand bracing his ribs and tries to stand but a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest stops him and he slumps backwards. It's no use. He closes his eyes and drifts into sleep, waking momentarily to see the hazy outlines of the doctor and Pepito leaning towards him. He can hear them talking, a distant wash of words that ebbs and flows with his consciousness.
"He'll be fine .. bruising ... couple of stitches .. nothing serious .. let him sleep it off .." The words slur around his head and his eyes flicker open for an instant and he sees Pepito, his face large and distorted, looming over him, peering through half closed lids. But the image fades and he slips into a fitful sleep. A sleep punctuated by the murmur of voices and the stale odour of alcohol.
Raphael awakes with a start and his hand rises instinctively to his ribs. Fingers twitching warily over the bandage wrapped tightly around his chest he tries to swing his legs to the floor. Carefully, but it hurts like hell although he manages it and now he's sitting upright at least. He glances around the room. The doctor lays curled in a chair across from him, his chest rising and falling heavily with each laboured breath that wheezes from his throat. Pepito is sitting in another chair, in the corner, flicking hastily through a magazine. He stops when he hears Raphael and throws the magazine to the floor. Straightening his back, his arms resting loosely on his legs, he leans forwards.
"Feeling better?" It's a trick question. Raphael knows he's not supposed to answer. Instead he grunts, neither yes nor no and leans forwards himself, hoping to stand upright. But it's not as easy as it seems and on his first effort the pain shoots across his chest like a bullet. Grimacing, he stifles a cry and tries again with Pepito watching him closely, one eyebrow raised in expectation. This time he succeeds and stands triumphantly before Pepito, his left arm cupped beneath his ribs and his right, circling the air for an encore.
"Let's go," Pepito says, nudging his head to the door. He stands up, digging his wallet from his pocket and pulls out three notes. He gazes at them for a moment before crossing the room. Then he holds them aloft between finger and thumb and watches them flutter gracefully onto the wheezing chest of the doctor.
It's already 6.46am and Raphael needs to eat. A ravenous chasm has opened in the depths of his gut and is stretching its jaws and proclaiming its vacuous state with fierce, gurgling rumbles. They head back up town to the Estaçió de França, an impressive art deco style railway station from the late 1920s and one of the few places open at that time of the morning. Pepito sits down at a table in the station bar, his fingers drumming restlessly on the aged wood, while Raphael disappears into the gents to check the damage. When the waiter arrives he orders a plate of cold meats and another of bread with anchovies, olives and two coffees, black. Then he sits back and waits for Raphael to return, his fingers idly picking out the beat of a song that's playing in his head. He swivels around and checks out the place, humming softly under his breath. A few men sit propped by the bar, railway workers most likely; drivers, guards, their shoulders hunched against the day ahead, heads bent over the sports section, coffee cups poised at their lips. Pepito lets his gaze drop to the table, his eyes picking out a stain on the surface and waits because patience is the key and for a moment, a fleeting thought, he's back behind the counter in the shop. He's counting out some change, he can smell the coins, taste their dull, acrid bite and feel their cold, hard shape nestled snugly in his palm. He can feel the weight of them, pulling on his fingers, pulling on his eyelids, dragging his whole body down, slowly, until he is weightless. His head droops forwards, heavy on his neck and he's nodding, nodding. Then snap, he's back. Jolting upright he shakes his head, wipes his brow with the back of his hand. It's then that he remembers. It all comes back. The bar, the backroom, the men, the doctor and Raphael, emerging from the gents with a lazy swagger lifting his step.
"I heard something you might be interested in." He's talking with his mouth full, a habit Pepito finds hard to digest. A small, wet fleck of bread lands on his hand which he wipes absently on his trousers. Pepito hands him a napkin which he takes, without thinking and scrunches into a ball in his fist.
"Not eating?" Pepito shakes his head and motions for the waiter to bring more coffee.
"Just keep talking." He says and lowers his head so he doesn't have to witness the fate of the food in Raphael's mouth.
"Like I said .." He always starts this way, prolonging the moment like a child prolongs a story, for effect, control and the listeners undivided attention.
"Know a strip club down Carrer Larrad?"
Pepito nods. He knows the place. The owners name is Mariquita. Started the club as a small place ten years ago, a handful of girls, some loyal punters and an owner who kept her place clean and her eye on the takings. Over the years, the girls increased as well as the takings and the punters kept coming so she expanded the place. She now has a chain of cubs around the city and her eye on other ventures.
"Seems the boss is looking for someone .. one of her girls has gone missing and she must have something going on 'cause the boss is putting out a lot of money to find her." He glances up at Pepito. "She's been asking for you .." He catches Pepito's eye. "Says she won't take anyone else ... says she's heard good things about you." He holds his hands up in mock submission. "But she didn't get it from me, honest." He lowers his hands and leans forwards, his voice dropping to an exaggerated whisper. "Says you'll know where to find her." He stops, picks up an olive which rolls onto his plate and pops it onto his tongue. As he bites into the olive a meandering slick of juice drips from the corner of his mouth and slides down his chin. Pepito leans back in his chair, stretches his neck with a satisfying crack and studies Raphael's face. A short, slender face, almost girlish with sharpened cheekbones that jut out savagely beneath darkly hollow eyes. Low brow and long lashed, it was a surprising face, a beaten face, a face you could count on but never quite trust. Pepito leans closer, his eyes still scanning the face, picking out the clumsy stitching above the eye down over the the swollen lump on his cheek, finally coming to rest on the ugly split of lip.
"Did she speak to you herself?"
"Who?"
"The boss .. Mariquita."
Raphael snorts. "Nope .. she sent some guy, big fucker .. bouncer or something." He wipes his chin with the back of his hand.
"She say a time? Or a place where I'm supposed to meet her?"
"Yeah .. she wants to see you ASAP, morning's better ... at her old place .. says you'll know where it is."
"And this bouncer told you this?"
Raphael nods, cramming the remnants of the bread into his mouth.
"Did he tell you anything else?"
Raphael shrugs, his head jerking from side to side as his jaws work overtime.
"Did he tell you about the girl that's gone missing?"
He shakes his head and swallows hard.
Pepito stands up and lowers himself on cracking knuckles to the side of Raphael's head. "I'll be in touch." Then he straightens his back and cracks his spine. Raphael shifts uneasily in his seat, relieved perhaps to be released from the weight of Pepito's presence, he starts to laugh. A small, high-pitched whine rises from his throat, a hand reaching to restrain his ribs and he feels good when, with a slow, practiced gesture, Pepito reaches into his wallet and peels of a couple of notes. But it's not just the money. There's something else. He watches as Pepito walks towards the door, his legs flung forwards, hips locked and the swing of his jacket as he stops in the doorway and turns.
"Stay out of trouble." Pepito says as he disappears through the door with a frown on his brow and a hand on his holster.
Even as Pepito mounts the Vespa he knows it's something big. Real big. Bigger than all the tip offs he's had before. Bigger than a crooked card game, illegal fight, stolen wallet and all the other insignificant crimes that littered the city. This was it. The biggest challenge of his nocturnal career, a chance for him to excel in his covert profession.
A chance for him to test the method.
"S'not ..."
"FIX HIM UP."
"S'not .. I don' ..."
"FIX HIM."
"Don' wanna fix him .."
"DOC ..."
"S'juss I can' ..."
"DOC ..."
"Seem .. t'focus .."
"DOC?"
"Hmmm ..."
"FIX HIM UP:"
He had known, at some point, it would come to this. He grits his teeth and holds his breath as he pushes past the doctor swaying in the doorway, almost knocking him to the floor. Clearing a path through the garbage with a sideways sweep of his foot he sits Raphael down on a chair at the back of the room. Then he heads towards the kitchen as if he's been here all his life and starts rummaging through the cupboards, pulling out whatever comes to hand and discarding it with a flick of his wrist. The doctor follows his movements, his mouth opening and closing in silent fish-like protest. He starts to speak but is startled into silence by the sharp hiss of splintering glass that follows the bottle as it slips from his tremulous grip and crashes to the floor.
Flinching at the sound Pepito stops his search and turns around slowly to face the doctor.
"Coffee," he says, his jaws tightening in disgust so that the word is spat out through his teeth. The doctor points to a jar in the corner and Pepito grabs a cup from the top of a pile of dishes abandoned in the sink, fills it with water and empties half the jar of coffee on top. A quick swirl with his finger and he hands the cup to the doctor who takes the cup with a dubious look and tips it to his lips. He drinks, downing the contents in long, breathless gulps as Pepito moves towards the doorway and waits. Waits until the mixture hits its target and the doctor stumbles to the sink, back hooked and vomit projected in ruckus, violent spasms.
It can be safely presumed that the doctor had seen better days. Days when the future opened before him like the innocent unfolding of a bud. Days in his youth when his dreams were assured, assured by his certainty and a will to succeed. Days that were glorious, untroubled and bright.
But today is not one of those days.
Raphael watches the proceedings from the other side of the room. He moves his body forwards, a hand bracing his ribs and tries to stand but a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest stops him and he slumps backwards. It's no use. He closes his eyes and drifts into sleep, waking momentarily to see the hazy outlines of the doctor and Pepito leaning towards him. He can hear them talking, a distant wash of words that ebbs and flows with his consciousness.
"He'll be fine .. bruising ... couple of stitches .. nothing serious .. let him sleep it off .." The words slur around his head and his eyes flicker open for an instant and he sees Pepito, his face large and distorted, looming over him, peering through half closed lids. But the image fades and he slips into a fitful sleep. A sleep punctuated by the murmur of voices and the stale odour of alcohol.
Raphael awakes with a start and his hand rises instinctively to his ribs. Fingers twitching warily over the bandage wrapped tightly around his chest he tries to swing his legs to the floor. Carefully, but it hurts like hell although he manages it and now he's sitting upright at least. He glances around the room. The doctor lays curled in a chair across from him, his chest rising and falling heavily with each laboured breath that wheezes from his throat. Pepito is sitting in another chair, in the corner, flicking hastily through a magazine. He stops when he hears Raphael and throws the magazine to the floor. Straightening his back, his arms resting loosely on his legs, he leans forwards.
"Feeling better?" It's a trick question. Raphael knows he's not supposed to answer. Instead he grunts, neither yes nor no and leans forwards himself, hoping to stand upright. But it's not as easy as it seems and on his first effort the pain shoots across his chest like a bullet. Grimacing, he stifles a cry and tries again with Pepito watching him closely, one eyebrow raised in expectation. This time he succeeds and stands triumphantly before Pepito, his left arm cupped beneath his ribs and his right, circling the air for an encore.
"Let's go," Pepito says, nudging his head to the door. He stands up, digging his wallet from his pocket and pulls out three notes. He gazes at them for a moment before crossing the room. Then he holds them aloft between finger and thumb and watches them flutter gracefully onto the wheezing chest of the doctor.
It's already 6.46am and Raphael needs to eat. A ravenous chasm has opened in the depths of his gut and is stretching its jaws and proclaiming its vacuous state with fierce, gurgling rumbles. They head back up town to the Estaçió de França, an impressive art deco style railway station from the late 1920s and one of the few places open at that time of the morning. Pepito sits down at a table in the station bar, his fingers drumming restlessly on the aged wood, while Raphael disappears into the gents to check the damage. When the waiter arrives he orders a plate of cold meats and another of bread with anchovies, olives and two coffees, black. Then he sits back and waits for Raphael to return, his fingers idly picking out the beat of a song that's playing in his head. He swivels around and checks out the place, humming softly under his breath. A few men sit propped by the bar, railway workers most likely; drivers, guards, their shoulders hunched against the day ahead, heads bent over the sports section, coffee cups poised at their lips. Pepito lets his gaze drop to the table, his eyes picking out a stain on the surface and waits because patience is the key and for a moment, a fleeting thought, he's back behind the counter in the shop. He's counting out some change, he can smell the coins, taste their dull, acrid bite and feel their cold, hard shape nestled snugly in his palm. He can feel the weight of them, pulling on his fingers, pulling on his eyelids, dragging his whole body down, slowly, until he is weightless. His head droops forwards, heavy on his neck and he's nodding, nodding. Then snap, he's back. Jolting upright he shakes his head, wipes his brow with the back of his hand. It's then that he remembers. It all comes back. The bar, the backroom, the men, the doctor and Raphael, emerging from the gents with a lazy swagger lifting his step.
"I heard something you might be interested in." He's talking with his mouth full, a habit Pepito finds hard to digest. A small, wet fleck of bread lands on his hand which he wipes absently on his trousers. Pepito hands him a napkin which he takes, without thinking and scrunches into a ball in his fist.
"Not eating?" Pepito shakes his head and motions for the waiter to bring more coffee.
"Just keep talking." He says and lowers his head so he doesn't have to witness the fate of the food in Raphael's mouth.
"Like I said .." He always starts this way, prolonging the moment like a child prolongs a story, for effect, control and the listeners undivided attention.
"Know a strip club down Carrer Larrad?"
Pepito nods. He knows the place. The owners name is Mariquita. Started the club as a small place ten years ago, a handful of girls, some loyal punters and an owner who kept her place clean and her eye on the takings. Over the years, the girls increased as well as the takings and the punters kept coming so she expanded the place. She now has a chain of cubs around the city and her eye on other ventures.
"Seems the boss is looking for someone .. one of her girls has gone missing and she must have something going on 'cause the boss is putting out a lot of money to find her." He glances up at Pepito. "She's been asking for you .." He catches Pepito's eye. "Says she won't take anyone else ... says she's heard good things about you." He holds his hands up in mock submission. "But she didn't get it from me, honest." He lowers his hands and leans forwards, his voice dropping to an exaggerated whisper. "Says you'll know where to find her." He stops, picks up an olive which rolls onto his plate and pops it onto his tongue. As he bites into the olive a meandering slick of juice drips from the corner of his mouth and slides down his chin. Pepito leans back in his chair, stretches his neck with a satisfying crack and studies Raphael's face. A short, slender face, almost girlish with sharpened cheekbones that jut out savagely beneath darkly hollow eyes. Low brow and long lashed, it was a surprising face, a beaten face, a face you could count on but never quite trust. Pepito leans closer, his eyes still scanning the face, picking out the clumsy stitching above the eye down over the the swollen lump on his cheek, finally coming to rest on the ugly split of lip.
"Did she speak to you herself?"
"Who?"
"The boss .. Mariquita."
Raphael snorts. "Nope .. she sent some guy, big fucker .. bouncer or something." He wipes his chin with the back of his hand.
"She say a time? Or a place where I'm supposed to meet her?"
"Yeah .. she wants to see you ASAP, morning's better ... at her old place .. says you'll know where it is."
"And this bouncer told you this?"
Raphael nods, cramming the remnants of the bread into his mouth.
"Did he tell you anything else?"
Raphael shrugs, his head jerking from side to side as his jaws work overtime.
"Did he tell you about the girl that's gone missing?"
He shakes his head and swallows hard.
Pepito stands up and lowers himself on cracking knuckles to the side of Raphael's head. "I'll be in touch." Then he straightens his back and cracks his spine. Raphael shifts uneasily in his seat, relieved perhaps to be released from the weight of Pepito's presence, he starts to laugh. A small, high-pitched whine rises from his throat, a hand reaching to restrain his ribs and he feels good when, with a slow, practiced gesture, Pepito reaches into his wallet and peels of a couple of notes. But it's not just the money. There's something else. He watches as Pepito walks towards the door, his legs flung forwards, hips locked and the swing of his jacket as he stops in the doorway and turns.
"Stay out of trouble." Pepito says as he disappears through the door with a frown on his brow and a hand on his holster.
Even as Pepito mounts the Vespa he knows it's something big. Real big. Bigger than all the tip offs he's had before. Bigger than a crooked card game, illegal fight, stolen wallet and all the other insignificant crimes that littered the city. This was it. The biggest challenge of his nocturnal career, a chance for him to excel in his covert profession.
A chance for him to test the method.
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