16. HEAR NO EVIL, SEE NO EVIL, SPEAK NO EVIL

Speak of the devil. His phone vibrates in his pocket as Pepito emerges from the building and crosses the street. He pulls it out and presses it to his ear. It's Mariquita. She speaks in short, breathless sentences without waiting for a response. Carlos had been released. He's at her house. He wants to talk to Pepito and he's scared. Shitless.
"I'll be right there." It's all Pepito has time to say before she hangs up. Pushing the phone back in his pocket, he strides off down the street. Raphael is nowhere in sight, he must have slipped out of the flat before Pepito. Where he is now is anyone's guess, although, it doesn't really matter - Pepito has already forgotten about him. In fact, at this moment in time, he couldn't care less. He has more pressing things on his mind. He has a nagging doubt in the back of his mind and it won't let him rest.

He leaves his bike propped by the side of the road in front of the house. As he lifts his head he spots Mariquita, waiting by the front door but she doesn't run towards him. Not this time. She stays where she is, holding the door open with the side of her hip and her arms tucked up tight beneath the cushioned bulge of her chest. She's wearing a loose fitting robe that falls to the floor in a cascade of silk and when she moves backwards to let him pass, the robe falls open beneath her knee and Pepito can see she is barefoot. Averting his eyes, he sucks in his gut and shuffles around her. Squeezes passed those folds of silk and those blood red toenails, clipped and shining, winking beneath him on her smooth, tanned feet.
Carlos is sitting in the living room with his head buried deep in his hands. He stays like this for some moments until Pepito clears his throat with a softened rasp. As he looks up Pepito can see his face is swollen and pale, streaks of dirt run down his cheeks and his clothes are creased and disheveled. He looks a mess. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. He tries to stand but his legs give way under his bulky frame and he crumples back into the sofa with a hiss of softened leather. Slowly, he shakes his head and lets it fall back into the fleshy pit of his palms. Pepito slips up beside him and touches him lightly on the shoulder. He sits down next to him. He waits for him to speak. Finally, after a lengthy silence, Carlos starts to speak.
"I can't believe it .." tears fall silently down his face and stain his crumpled shirt. "The police said she was pregnant."
Pepito nods his head. "She was Carlos, I'm sorry."
"Was it mine?" He looks up from between his hands and braces himself for the answer.
Pepito shakes his head. He shuffles awkwardly in his seat, blushing at the rasps of his butt on the leather. Or is it the sobs from the big mans throat? He isn't quite sure. He reaches out and tugs at the hand.
"Look at me Carlos ... I'm going to find out who did this to her. Do you hear me? I'm going to find out who killed her."
Carlos pulls his hand from Pepito's grasp and stands up. He walks restlessly towards the window and looks out.
"The police said she was seeing someone else ... and maybe the baby wasn't mine.. and I could have .." His words trail off, sliding down his throat, as if he has no strength to push them up again, or doesn't care to speak. He moves towards a chair by the window and slumps down heavily.
"Why didn't she tell me? We could have worked our way through this .. we could have .." He stops. He shakes his head.
"Why?" His eyes snap back to Pepito for an answer. Eyes that are swollen and stained with hurt. "Why?"
"I don't know Carlos .. but I promise you, I'll find out."
Mariquita has been silent. She stands at the back of the room with her gaze fixed on Carlos. Her lips pressed tightly together and her brow furrowed in thought. Pepito turns towards her. He tips his head and jolts his eyebrows in a signal for her to join him. Then he stands up and moves outside to the terrace. They meet beside the swimming pool and confer in hushed voices, their heads bowed together.
"I need to ask him some more questions but in this state .." he nods towards the house, "in this state, I'm not sure if he's ready."
"What kind of questions?"
"Just some things I found out .. things I don't think he knows anything about but I have to ask him anyway."
"Things?" She's growing restless. Flicking her eyes over her shoulder, she looks back towards the house. She moves around the edge of the pool with her robe flying out behind her. She stops. She turns. She moves back towards Pepito.
"Look," she pulls a strand of hair from her face and loops it behind her ear. "I don't think he's in any condition to answer any more questions. He's been through enough with the police and the only reason he's here in the first place is they had nothing concrete against him ... no evidence, but they still suspect him. Can't you give him a break?"
Pepito shakes his head but he presses onwards.
"I appreciate your concern but really .. that's why I'm here .. I need some more information."
"Don't you have enough? Don't you know yet that he didn't do it?"
Her voice rises as she speaks, her breath falling in tightly compressed gasps. She turns from him and walks towards the wall where she rests her cheek against the cool plaster and closes her eyes.
"They're going to take him from me again, aren't they?" She stifles a sob and turns to face Pepito. He can see her eyes, two slits of honey, glinting in the fading light. Glinting and sparkling and filing with tears. His heart tightens with a kick in his chest. His pulse quickens. His head spins and he feels himself falling, falling towards her. He wants to take her in his arms and squeeze, gently, have her rest her head on his hammering chest, stain his shirt - he doesn't care. But just as he moves in behind her, he stops himself. He stops himself in time. He pulls back from the edge of the precipice. Pulls back and adjusts his holster.
"Mariquita." He clears his throat and repeats her name. "Mariquita." It rolls over his tongue and he almost forgets. "I ... I need some answers." He almost forgets why he came. She reaches out to stops him but he has already turned and is moving back to the house with a stiffness guiding his step.

"Have you ever heard of Francisco Turó?" He sits on the edge of the sofa and leans forwards with his elbows hitched up on his knees. Carlos looks up. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. He shakes his head. Pepito stands up and walks towards him. He circles behind and places a hand on the muscled shoulder.
"See ... there's no way for me to say this Carlos but .." He takes a deep breath. "Rosa and this man, Francisco Turó were ... he was the man she was seeing." He feels as though he's coaching a child. "You know she wanted to tell you, she just never got the chance."
Carlos raises his head and twists around to Pepito, his eyes blinking in rapid succession.
"The police think I did it .. they think I did that to her."
Pepito bows his head. "I know they do Carlos but I'm here to prove them otherwise."
He move back towards the sofa and sits down.
"They said someone put them onto me .. said I was the most likely suspect on account of her wanting to leave me ... and the baby .." He trails off again, slumping back in the chair, his large paw-like hand running over his head and down over his face. "But they've got it wrong, they've got it all wrong." He leans forwards, his hands gripped tightly together, fingers pressing the skin white. "If only she had come to me .." He looks up at Pepito. "We could have talked."
"I'm sorry Carlos, I'm sure she wanted to tell you but .."
"But what?"
Mariquita enters the room with two glasses clutched in her hands. Her eyes are darting back and forth between the two of them as she moves across the room. She sets the glasses down on the coffee table in front of Pepito and as she bends forwards, she catches his eye and holds his gaze. Then she crosses over to Carlos and sits down on the arm of the chair with her body pressed against him.
"Do you have everything you want?" The question is directed towards Pepito but her head is turned the other way. Pepito leans forwards and considers his response.
"I'm getting there," he eventually says. He leans backwards pushing his spine into the sofa and crosses his feet at the ankles.
"I'm curious," his gaze is fixed on Mariquita but his voice is directed towards Carlos. "Did you notice her behaving differently in any way in the last few months?"
Carlos lifts his head.
"No," his head slumps forwards and his eyes wander over his hands, laying mute in his lap.
"She wasn't nervous or anything?"
Carlos shakes his head.
"She didn't seem scared, or anxious or .."
Mariquita sighs, an exaggerated hiss of breath but Pepito ignores her.
"She didn't seem different to you?"
"Different?" Carlos raises his head and looks at Mariquita. She's still sitting on the edge of the chair, one arm curled around his neck.
"I think he's established the point that everything was normal."
Carlos nods his head. Mariquita stands up.
"If that's all detective Pons, I think Carlos needs some rest." She moves towards the entrance with her hand poised ready to open the door. Pepito hesitates for a moment, his eyes glancing over to Carlos still slumped in the chair, his back hunched over and his head buried in his hands. Pepito pushes upwards on cracking joints. He stands upright, slowly and reluctantly, stretching his spine with a muffled crack and moves towards Mariquita with lingering steps. He doesn't want to leave just yet, he has a few more questions he'd like to ask. As he reaches Mariquita, he leans in close, his breath brushing her ear and slips her a name. She stiffens her back at the sound of his voice and shifts her weight to the balls of her feet.
"Candy?"
"Candy Vazquez." He repeats.
She shakes her head. She purses her lips.
"Sorry," she finally says, "never heard of her."

15. PROGRESS

Pepito didn't have to be told twice. After he'd strapped the holster around his waist and slipped the gun inside, he'd hurried down the stairs, double locked the door and straddled his bike. And now, he waits with Raphael in a bar across the street from the hotel. His eyes glued to the entrance and his hand poised in the air as he tips the shot glass down his throat with a lethal kind of precision. They wait. They wait with their butt cheeks clenched to their seats as Pepito stares at the entrance with a glassy concentration. He doesn't even blink. Doesn't shift his gaze for a measly second - just in case he misses her. Just in case, Candy, a tidy little number with a high class act, should slip out undetected.

"How long's it been?"
Raphael wipes his nose on the back of his hand. "Half an hour at least." He raises his glass to his lips and throws his head back. He smacks his lips.
"What's the plan then?"
The plan was to follow Candy back to her flat, grill her, bribe her, whatever it took to find out what she knew about Rosa and why she called the police. A plan that had been hatching in his mind the minute he hit the street. The only problem now is Raphael. He isn't quite sure where this all might lead besides, he didn't want the kid to cramp his style. Or get hurt. Or both. Dropping his guard for a second he turns towards Raphael and starts to speak but the boy isn't listening, he seems distracted. He seems quite smitten as Pepito catches sight of a small, muscle honed body in the corner of his vision. He whips his head round and watches as she steps on high slingback heels towards the doorman, her dress stretched tight over her compact frame. She stops beside him, turns her back as she opens her purse and slips some money discreetly behind her, already counted and neatly folded, into his waiting palm.

The follow her down to El Born. A recent revival in the heart of the city, full of designer bars and shuffling tourists, which is not so bad if you know where you are going. If you keep on the right side of the dividing line. The dividing line between hip and wired. Happening and junkie. Something that's worth mentioning if you happen to stray over the line and wander into uncharted territory. Something that's not mentioned in the tourist guides. But maybe that's just the thing that keeps them coming back. How the past reaches over and touches the present. How the good wanders freely amidst the bad.
The taxi stops on a side street on the wrong side of the line and she makes her way through the milling bodies of late night dealers with Pepito and Raphael close on her tail. She stops outside a building and glances behind her before she slips the key in the lock and enters. Pepito pulls his bike onto the kerb further down the street and makes his way to the door of her building. Craning his neck upwards, he stands for a moment with his hand extended towards Raphael as a caution and waits. A light flicks on and he counts from the bottom up. One, two, three, four .. fourth floor, second flat. He steps towards the doorway and checks the buzzers then he reaches out with a decisive finger and presses the buzzer to her flat. The door clicks open. They enter. They climb the stairs, two at a time. They reach the door of her flat. With one hand clutching his hammering heart, Pepito pushes the door with the tip of his shoe. He takes a deep breath, gathers his wits and his side kick behind him and steps into the flat.
"Who the hell are you?" She steps backwards, the smile on her lips fading as she confronts Pepito.
But he doesn't want to scare her, at least, not yet, so he pulls out his badge and holds it up to her face. "Detective Pons," he says snapping the badge shut as he moves around her and walks through the flat. Now, there's no turning round, there's no going back. She follows his movements, watching Raphael through a curtain of lashes as he shuffles in behind.
"What the hell do you want?" It was a reasonable question, he couldn't deny it but he chose to ignore it anyway as he settled himself into a large leather chair in the living room.
"I've already told the police everything I know ..."
It's what Pepito has been waiting for, that subtle reference to the authorities, the assumption that links them together in that simple statement and he relishes the words that slide from his lips in response. In fact, he gets a kick out of it.
"I think you misunderstand me ..." he pauses for effect, "I'm not working for the police ... I work alone." He leans back in the chair and motions for her to sit with a sweeping gesture of his arm.
"I'm a private detective and my client has asked me to ...." he stops to think, choose the right words without giving too much away, "my client has asked me to look into this matter."
"Rosa's murder?"
He nods his head.
Her eyes flick over to Raphael. "Who's this?"
"Don't worry about him, he's not even here."
She chuckles to herself as she pulls out a chair and sits down. "Fire away Detective .. I've got nothing to hide." She crosses her legs to emphasize the point.
Pepito sits forwards and motions for Raphael to make himself scarce with a jerk of his head.
"How long have you known Rosa?"
She dips her head and slips Pepito a sly smile as she answers. "Couple of months."
"As long as that?"
"Could be more .."
"How did you meet?"
"Through Cisco .."
"Cisco?"
But it was too late, she'd already said too much. She shuffles slightly in her seat, uncrosses her legs and shoves her hands, palms down, beneath her butt.
"Cisco who?" He asks again but she shakes her head, refusing to speak, her face flushing and her foot nervously tapping out some erratic beat in the air.
"Francisco Turó." Raphael pops his head around the door and repeats the name through a mouthful of bread.

Francisco Turó. A name not unfamiliar to Pepito. A name which, in certain dodgy circles, trips off the tongue as easily as gun running, smuggling, extortion, drug dealing, prostitution, blackmail. Even murder. His career had kicked off at the tender age of twelve, stealing cars. He'd use a brick to smash the window and then jam that brick on the accelerator because his legs were too short to reach the pedals. As he grew older, his crimes grew with him and somewhere along his troubled path, he'd found the time and the inclination to put together a gang. A motley crew of loyal thugs they would have cut your throat if they thought it would please him, cut their own if they thought it would work. They had their fingers into everything and anything - anything he could get his hands on, for a fitting price, of course. It was even rumoured that they ran guns to the Basque Separatist Group ETA, at the height of their killing spree. From guns he moved to drugs, practically wiping out the competition - one way or another, with a slug in the guts or a bullet in the back. It didn't really matter. He'd clawed his way up to the top of the pack, with an outfit in Barcelona and a house in Marbella. All this and the police couldn't touch him - he was too clever for that. Apart from a short stint in prison in his early career, he'd managed to elude their attempts to catch him, shook off their efforts to pin him down although, there were plenty that had fallen along the way, they couldn't touch Francisco. Francisco El Malo. Nothing seemed to drag him down - he was as slippery as a snake and as slick as they come.

"Francisco Turó eh?" She shuffles uncomfortably in her seat. "Now what's a nice girl like you doing mixed up with a guy like Turó." He clucks his tongue, relishing the hiss of air compressed between his teeth as he circles around behind her and lays his clammy hands gently on her shoulders.
Bending down, he whispers in her ear, "And how did you meet Francisco?"
She wriggles free, stands up and crosses towards the window. Pulling back the curtain, she looks out, her head swiveling right and left before turning to face Pepito.
"I seen him around .."

"Around where exactly?"
She walks over to the sofa and sits down, folding her arms tightly across her chest.
"Some party I was working, for businessmen, you know."
Unfortunately, he didn't but if he was up to the challenge he could take a good guess.
"Did he organize this party?" He's getting close, close to the real connection between Francisco and Rosa, he can feel it.
She shrugs but Pepito persists.
"Come on now Candy ... I can call you Candy can't I?" but he doesn't wait for an answer. "I'm not stupid," he lowers his voice and softens his tone, "you think I'm stupid?" it's a rhetorical question so he pushes onwards, "I know the kind of crap that Francisco is involved with ... we all do" he sweeps his arms around the room but there's no-one else there so he crosses over to the sofa and sits down beside her.
"Anything you want to tell me, stays in this room."
She flicks her head towards the doorway. "And him?"
"Don't worry about him, he doesn't count."
She stands up sharply and walks towards the door, checks behind it, then closes it firmly. She turns back towards Pepito, her eyes narrowing, sizing him up before she speaks. Before she lifts her foot again and jams it in her mouth.
"Sometimes he introduces me to people .. possible clients, you know .. but I'm strictly freelance, something like yourself." She leans backwards, a sly smile brushing her mouth.
"Did Rosa ever go to any of these parties with you?"
"A few .."
"How well did you know her?"
"Well enough," she launches herself from the doorway, pushing her hips forward as she walks across the room, "Well enough to know she was gonna ditch Carlos and her job at the strip joint."
"Really?"
"Really." She stands in front of a sleek black cabinet at the other side of the room, opens a drawer and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Extracting one with the tips of her nails, she raises it to her mouth.
"Got a light?" She holds it between her lips and watches from the hooded crack of a half closed eye as he crosses the room towards her. He pats his pockets distractedly, his eyes sweeping the room for a lighter, or a box of matches, anything really because, if the truth be known, he doesn't smoke and never has. He could never stand the smell of it. Could never quite take to a lungful of smoke, or the taste of tobacco in his mouth. It was enough to be surrounded by it, day in and day out, filling his life with its pungent presence and lining the shelves of the shop.
"Looking for something?" She holds out the lighter in the palm of her hand and he takes it from her, flips the top with a well worn thumb and holds the flame towards her. She dips her head, draws heavily on the filter so the end burns bright with a soft crackle and blows the smoke out with a languid breath. Pepito closes his eyes and holds his breath as the smoke floods over his face. She turns her back with a nonchalant shrug.
"Why?" he finally asks, expelling the air from his lungs with a tight lipped blast.
"Why else?" She throws herself down on the sofa. "She liked the money she could make at these parties as for Carlos ..."
"Was it just the money?"
"Why not? She liked nice things, you think she could get that working in a strip joint?"
She swings her legs up on the sofa so that the hem of her dress rides up above her thighs. Pepito averts his gaze.
"She knew she had to leave him - she couldn't have both."
"Did you know they were going to get married."
"Yeah, she told me."
"You mean she threw over that for this ...?" He throws wide his hands and turns around slowly, taking in the cheap prints arranged on the wall, the flashy furniture too big for the room in one long, steady sweep of his arms.
"She didn't love him," she exhales a cloud of smoke and taps the end into an ashtray on the table beside her. "She was grateful, sure .. he came along when she was still on the streets, doing drugs," she drags heavily on the cigarette, "it's not a pretty life .. but she didn't love him, I don't know if she ever did. Then she met Cisco."
"They were lovers?"
"What do you think?"
"Did you know she was pregnant?"
"Sure, she told me."
"Did she know who the father was?"
She throws her head back at this and lets a low breathless laugh trail from her throat before straightening up.
"What do you mean ... you think it was one of her clients?"
He shakes his head slowly. "I was thinking more along the lines of Carlos, you remember ... her fiance."
"And you've not been listening to a word I've said," she stubs the cigarette angrily into the ashtray and stands up. "I told you ... she wasn't, she didn't love him ... it was Cisco's, he was the father."
"You sure?"
She crosses to the door and holds it open. "I think you'd better leave now, some of us have to work for a living."
Pepito rises from his seat and crosses the room towards her.
"Not so fast," he says, his hand rising to close the door. "What made you think Carlos killed her?"
She draws back, crossing her arms beneath her chest and regards Pepito slowly from top to toe before moving across the room to the window. She pulls back the curtain and looks out.
"You figure it out, Detective Pons, that's what you're being paid to do isn't it?" She spins around, her hands straddling her hips. "Carlos isn't too bright but he can add up when he wants to .. the way I see it, he got mad when she dumped him, mad and mean ... maybe she even told him about Cisco .. maybe she even told him about the kid ... so he kills her in a fit of jealous rage and dumps her body."
"You think he's capable of doing that?"
"With that mother, anything's possible," she turns her back towards Pepito and continues staring out the window as if she's waiting for something or someone, or both. She turns back towards Pepito and regards him for a moment before speaking. "They had an argument a couple of weeks ago."
"Rosa and Carlos?"
"No," she shakes her head, "Rosa and Mariquita."
He starts to walk towards her, with short hesitant steps, his hand suspended in the air as if he's reaching for something but can't quite remember what it is.
"Did she tell you about it?" His voice falters.
She takes her time, relishing the delicate shift in power and turns back towards the window, contemplating the street outside.
"Not exactly .."
"Not exactly? Either she did or she didn't."
She turns sharply and glares at Pepito. "She was scared, okay?"
"Scared of Mariquita?" He doesn't miss a beat.
"What do you think?"
Pepito thinks she's lying, he has no other choice. He taps his chin with the cushioned pad of an index finger and contemplates his options. He could continue with this line of questioning in the accepted manner of question and answer - with him providing the questions and her, inventing the answers. Or, he could turn up the heat. He decides on the latter and crosses the room towards her with a purposeful stride directing his step. He stops in front of her, one hand rising to grasp her wrist and the other slipping into his pocket for the handcuffs. But he only has to pull them out and she only has to see them. She steps back with her mouth opening and her face twisting in seven different directions.
"I thought we could do this the easy way," Pepito says, pulling her wrist towards him but she shakes her head and tries to struggle free.
"Hold on, hold on .. just wait a minute." He slackens his hold and she slips from his grasp.
"I don't need this shit ..." She rubs her wrist. She turns towards him. She sticks her middle finger up. She spits.
"You wanna know what I think?" He steps forwards with the handcuffs clenched in his fist, "I think you know more than you're willing to admit."
"Oh yeah .." She flicks her head up, her face clouding with suspicion.
"When was the last time you saw Rosa?"
"Over a week ago."
"When exactly?"
"Saturday."
"How was she?"
"Nervous."
"Nervous?"
"I mean, she seemed a little strung out ... you know, on edge .. she wasn't her usual self."
"And what was her usual self?"
She crosses to the table and pulls out a chair. "Usually cool, calm .. " She sits down. "Nothing seemed to bother her."
"Except?"
"You tell me." She snorts, the air escaping from her nostrils in a sharp hiss.
"Did she ever talk to you about things?"
"Sometimes."
"She talk to you about Carlos?"
She nods her head.
"Did she ever tell you he hit her, messed her up?"
She shakes her head.
"She ever talk to you about Cisco?"
She nods, just barely.
"Was he ever violent to her?"
She lifts her shoulders and drops them. "Listen Detective eh .."
"Pons."
"Yeah, Pons .. where is all this going?"
"When were you going to see her again?"
"Wednesday night."
"The night she disappeared?"
"If you say so."
"What time was this party?"
"Around midnight."
Pepito scratches his head. Slowly, the picture was becoming clearer. Slowly, he was beginning to realise that Rosa was never going to make that party because she was already dead. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He steps towards the door and pulls it open but the sound of Candy's voice behind him stops him in his tracks.
"Just a minute, Detective Pons."
He turns around to face her as she moves towards him.
"Just out of curiosity - who's paying your wages? Who put you on to this case?"
He shakes his head wearily, one hand still lingering on the door. "I'm afraid that's privileged information."
"Uhhu," she nods her head, "let me guess," she taps the side of her chin with a ponderous finger, "let's see .. who would employ you to find her killer when the police already have Carlos. Hmm. Now, if I had to pull a name out of a hat, I'd have to say ... Mariquita." She spits the name through clenched teeth. "There's nothing quite like a mother's love now is there, Detective Pons."

14. INTERMISSION

She enters the bar in a long, flowing dress and a jacket that shimmers with light. She moves towards the top of the stairs and stops. She looks around with a cool gaze and an elegant twist of her head before descending, her dress fluttering around her legs as she walks. A waiter approaches her, he leads her forwards and as the camera pans over, Bogart comes into the shot. He's standing at the bar. Dark suit, white shirt, black tie and a white handkerchief that pokes out from his top pocket. Their eyes meet. They greet each other with some nonchalant banter before turning to walk to a table. He pulls out her chair then he sits down himself. They talk. They talk for awhile. Then she stops. She lowers her hand, reaches into her bag and pulls out a cigarette. As she leans towards him, he pulls out a match, strikes it and cupping her hand around his, draws languidly on the other end. He shakes out the match and throws it into the ashtray. They talk some more. She laughs. He smiles. Then something changes. She's shaking her head. She's shaking all over. She's stubbing the cigarette out angrily in the ashtray. She's standing up.

Pepito leans back in the chair with his gun dismantled on the table before him. He smiles as Bogart rises from the table with a stiff swagger directing his step. He's watched this scene a thousand times and still his heart swells up as the match flares to life in Bogart's hand and Lauren Bacall leans over. Pepito leans forwards and picks up the barrel of his fathers old Astra between finger and thumb. Holding it at eye level he squints down one end, then lowers it to his mouth and blows gently through the opening with a hot cloud of breath. Dust motes pepper the air. He lifts a rag from the table and starts to buff the aged metal with diligent little strokes, his eyes flicking up to the screen from time to time to check on Bogart's progress. But Bogart's doing fine. Placing the shining barrel on the table he picks up the barrel bushing and the barrel bushing lock and twists them together. Then he picks up the slide and pushes the recoil spring into place, making sure that the spring is held tightly while he pushes the barrel down the length of the spring and twists the barrel bushing onto the slide. He turns it over in his hands. Feels the weight pressing down on his palms like a hand enclosed in his. Slowly, his finger curls around the trigger and squeezes, just enough, so that the click of the empty chamber echoes sharply around the room. He places the gun back on the table and picks up the magazine with one hand and counts out eight, 9mm cartridges with the other. Methodically, he slots the cartridges into the magazine chamber then picks up the gun and slides the magazine back up through the grip. Holding it in his hands he imagines his father, over fifty years ago, a younger man than his son is now, curl his fingers around the grip, raise the barrel to his puckered lips and blow with the same precision of tightly compressed air.

6.15pm and Pepito awakes with a start. Somewhere in the depths of the room a phone is ringing. Ringing insistently. Ringing endlessly. He runs a flattened palm from his forehead over the back of his head and stands up. Swaying slightly, he lurches forwards to grab the phone and jams his toe on something sharp. He curses, loudly. He stumbles forwards. He reaches the phone and lifts the receiver. It's Raphael.
"This better be good." He growls as he rubs his toe on the back of his leg.
But it's better that that.