19. HOOK, LINE AND SINKER

He has no choice. He has to go back. A choice necessarily involves more than one option and he has less than that. He has no idea either which is why really, he has to go back. They left him where they'd picked him up, literally, by the side of the road with his bike on its side in the bushes. He pulls it out and props it up, running his hand over the scuffed leather of the seat and down over the tyres. Luckily, the damage is limited. Limited to a few scratches and a dented mud flap. Then he runs his hand over his ribs and down his back and hopes he can say the same for himself.

He returns to her house, leaving the bike propped by the kerb on the driveway. Standing in the moonlight, he takes a moment to collect his thoughts and smooth the hairs on his head. Then he steps towards the door and knocks twice, with his fist curled up in a ball and his heart beating fast in his chest. She answers, eventually. Calling out first for Pepito to identify himself and when he does she swings the door open and stands there with her head tipped to one side and her hands hitched up on her hips.
"Can I come in?"
"She dips her head and steps back. He enters, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. She follows behind as he strides to the living room and stands there, in the middle of the room. His head swivels round as she brushes past him and throws herself down on the sofa. She kicks off her shoes, stretches out her legs and tilts her head back, watching Pepito from behind her lashes as he crosses the room towards her. As for Pepito, he tries not to look, tries not to notice that her skirt is too short and has ridden up to reveal a fleshy expanse of thigh. And he tires not to remember that the last time he saw her she was wearing a robe and was barefoot. He clears his throat and positions himself by the window with his back to the night and his eyes skipping nervously around the room.
"Carlos?" He eventually asks because it seems like a good place to start. He's biding his time, steeling himself before he has to confront her and ask why she lied. Or, at least, why she failed to mention that fateful night.
"He's asleep." She stretches, pushing her arms high above her head as she stifles a yawn. "What brings you back here Detective Pons?"
He decides to come straight to the point.
"I've just had an interesting meeting with Francisco Turó."
He crosses towards a chair and sits down noting the subtle expression that flits across her face. Whether it was fear or surprise Pepito can't be sure, it only lasted a second. He presses onwards.
"He told me Rosa was here with you that Wednesday night."
He waits for her to respond with his eyes planted firmly on her face, searching for a shift in her expression like the one he saw before. She stares back at him, eyes wide open, except for a small nagging twitch in the corner of her eye, her face is an expressionless mask. She rises from the sofa brushing her hair from her face and crosses towards the window with her back towards the room.
"Yes, she was here." Leaning forwards she touches the glass with her forehead and sighs. Pepito sits forwards. A desire to rush towards her and hold her, kiss her, have her blurt it out, all of it, her whole damn life if she wanted to, rises up inside of him but he swallows the urge and restrains himself with the seat of his pants firmly stuck to the chair. She turns towards him slowly, her eyes finding some blank spot somewhere above his head and starts to speak.
"She was here ... I tried to talk some sense into her, make her see that she was making a mistake ... guy's like Cisco are out for themselves, they don't give a shit about anyone else ..."
"Something you would know." He aims his words precisely and hopes that when they hit, they'll sting. They do. She stumbles forwards, her eyes still fixed on that place above his head, her hand stretching out in front of her and her knees buckling but Pepito reaches her before she crumples. He props her up, one hand skimming the small of her back and the other hooked beneath her shoulders. He'd lift her up but his ribs protest so he guides her towards the sofa where he eases her down gently and steps back. She draws her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her ankles. Somehow, she looks smaller.
"I know how this must look but I couldn't tell the police ..."
"And me?"
"I couldn't even tell you ... she came here herself, I swear ..."
"What time?"
"Around nine, she said I owed her money, that's all she cared about ... money," she spits the words out through her teeth, "then she told me she was leaving Carlos ... what could I do?"
She unfolds herself and looks up at Pepito, her eyes large and confused.
"How long did she stay?"
"Not long ... half an hour maybe a little more .. there wasn't much to talk about, she was set in her ways and didn't want to listen."
"Did you give her the money?"
She nods her head.
"I just wanted to get rid of her ... she took it and left. That was the last time I saw her."
She stands up and moves towards Pepito with her hair falling across her face in tangled strands and her hands stretched out towards him.
"I couldn't tell anyone because I didn't want Carlos to know ... I didn't want Carlos to know anything ... when she told me she was leaving him I knew his world would fall apart, he loved her." She turns from him suddenly, stifling a sob in the back of her throat as she crosses towards a bar in the corner of the room. "I thought that maybe she would just go away and he would forget about her ..." Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand she uncorks the cap of a bottle of malt with the other and slops a generous amount into a glass. "But he didn't ... he wouldn't ..."
She raises the glass to her lips and tips her head back.
"I wanted to tell you," she says as she places the empty glass back on the counter, "I wanted to tell you everything."
She walks back across the room, back to the sofa and sits down, drawing her legs up beside her. Pepito turns his back. He closes his eyes and starts counting. By the time he reaches double digits, he's already made up his mind. He believes her. Why shouldn't he? He could see how things turned out. He could see Rosa standing in this very room, those smiling lips drawn back and her face distorted. He could see how they talked, argued, shouted. A mother and an ex. At least, that's how he imagines it and perhaps that's why he believes her but maybe there's something else. He stares out the window trying to pick out familiar shapes in the darkness; a lemon tree, a geranium, the dented fender on his bike but his eyes keep straying back to her reflection and those endless limbs stretched out beneath her, stretching out into the night. He turns around to face her.
"How long have you known Francisco Turó?" He has to ask, although he'd rather not hear all the sordid details. He walks back towards her and sits down beside her, forcing himself to listen with his heart beating hard in his chest.
"Too long ... I used to work in a small place down by the port and he'd come in from time to time, I suppose it all started then ..." She stops for a moment and draws in her breath, "but things were never serious between us ... we were both young and then, one day he just disappeared ... I later found out that he'd spent some time in prison and when he came out I saw him around but," she stops again, choosing her words carefully, "things were never the same, we'd both changed too much ... I'd had Carlos by then and was working on my first club."
"Was that when you had Carlos adopted?"
She stares at him for a moment before answering.
"I had no other choice ... he had a better chance with a proper family."
Pepito shakes his head, "I didn't mean ..." But it's too late, he's already said too much.
"You think it was easy?"
She rises quickly from the sofa and starts to speak, her fingers restlessly picking at the hem of her skirt. "There wasn't a day went by when I didn't think about him ... wonder where he was .. what he was doing .. what he looked like." She strides towards the window and looks out. "Then one day, he showed up ... can you imagine that?"
Pepito shakes his head. She starts to laugh.
"He'd tracked me down ... said he wanted to know who I was and we took it from there and after all my trying to protect him from my life he didn't even question it, never judged ..."
"And he started working at the club?"
She nods her head.
"I got a second chance," she turns to face him. "Do you know what it's like to get a second chance?"
Yes, Pepito does. He knows and he nods his head slowly, his neck bent and his gaze fixed on his father's shoes. He stands up, wearily pushing himself upwards on the palms of his hands and walks to the window. He stands before her.
"Don't worry," his breath brushes her cheek, "no-one's going to take him from you again."
She leans towards him. She reaches out and takes his hand, running her thumb over the ridges on the back. She lifts her head. She smiles.
"Thank you."
Two words. Sometimes, that's all it takes. He feels his cheeks ignite, burning up his face. He dips his head and extracts his hand from her tapering fingers. He turns around. He clears his throat. He opens his mouth with a click of his jaw and closes it again. Too scared to speak. Too scared of the words that may spill from his mouth, fearful of where they may lead him. And then he remembers Bogart. So he turns around to reclaim the moment but the moment has already passed. Behind his back it fled, taking it's object with it. She's already walked across the room and is standing behind the sofa watching him, her fingers extended over the cushioned back are tapping softly. She opens her mouth to speak then closes it again, shaking her head. He moves towards her. He stumbles against the coffee table, grazing his shin on the corner and curses under his breath.
"It's late," she says and Pepito nods with a disconsolate droop of his head.

3.16 am to be precise as Pepito slips the key in the lock and steps into the shop. He closes the door behind him with a weary nudge from his foot and walks towards the doorway at the back of the room. He climbs the stairs with his feet dragging heavily on each step and his heart sinking fast in his chest. He's close and he knows it, so close he could reach out and grab this case by the throat and yet, something is eluding him. Some crucial piece of information that would tie the whole damn thing together. He stops at the top of the stairs, his hand clutching the banister and runs through the facts once more. Once more for old time's sake. First, there is Rosa but the image of the smiling girl in the photograph with one arm shielding her breasts is becoming blurred. The more he learns about her, the less he likes and the further that image fades, becoming distorted and out of focus as each new piece of information falls into place until he hardly recognises her anymore. Hardly knows that smiling face. He crosses the landing at the top of the stairs and pushes the door to the bedroom. Then there is Carlos, he slips into his thoughts as he shrugs the shirt from his back. Poor dumb schmuck. Caught up in the events of the last few days with no knowledge of how he got there and no reason why he, of all people, should be the main suspect. After all, what did he have to gain? As far as Pepito is concerned he had loved her, loved her without question. Loved her too much, perhaps, too much to see the truth that was dangling before him. He stands at the edge of the bed and kicks off his shoes. First the right foot, then the left. He sits down on the crumpled sheets and leans backwards, his arms stretched out on either side and his legs hanging over the edge. The last thing he remembers before he plunges into sleep is Mariquita, with her eyes closed and her back arched.
And she is dancing. She is dancing for him, again.

18. THE BARBAROUS ENEMY

Pepito stands for some moments as the door closes behind him. He breathes deeply, drawing the air through his mouth so that he can savour the scent of her perfume still lingering in his nostrils. Holding his breath for a second, holding onto her scent for a heartbeat, until he opens his mouth and expels his breath with an explosive burst of air. He shakes his head, steps out from the doorway and moves towards his bike. Easing the helmet over his head, he tightens the strap beneath his chin with a swift jerk of leather and turns to gaze back at the house. A lizard darts out from a crack in the gutter and catches his eye. He follows its movements with an absent curiosity as it scuttles along the wall towards the light. It stops, flattening itself against the stone, rolls its eyes and waits. Waits for the insects to flutter into the light. Waits for them to dance themselves into a frenzy and then, when they're dazed and delirious, the lizard picks them off, one by one, with an artful flick of its tongue.

Across the street, tucked into the shadows, a black car waits. It waits for Pepito as he straddles his bike. Waits as he pushes out from the kerb with his left leg dangling and takes off into the night. Slowly, the black car creeps to life. Cautiously, it glides down the road behind him, headlights dimmed, engine purring. Slowly and cautiously until the time is right when the headlights click on and flood the night. Pepito is caught in their glaring beam, caught off guard in the blinding light. He slows the bike so that the car may pass and twists his neck to look behind him but the light from the headlights is far too bright. And the car speeds up, veering out from behind, swerving into the middle of the road. He turns his head and the car is beside him, lunging inwards, tyres screeching, brushing the hem of his brand new trousers. He can feel the weight on his outside thigh, pressing and pushing, trying to run him off the road so he twists on the throttle and turns up the gas. He springs into action, back hunched and head pushed forwards, he clings to the bike with his knees gripping hard. Harder and faster, he swerves round a corner, Pepito in front and the car close behind. But the car is gaining ground. It's catching up and closing in on his left hand side and his bike can barely take the pace as it shudders and sputters, veering round corners and shaking with speed. And still the black car sticks to his tail. Trying to overtake him, trying to nudge him and force him to swerve into the side of the road. But Pepito persists, he won't give up as he grips the handles tighter and twists, twists, twists. And he almost makes it. He almost succeeds until the bike shudders beneath him like a dying stead. It shudders and sputters and he loses control.
He sees the ground before he hits it. Looming in front of him, dark and dusty, he can taste the grit in the back of his throat as his body hits tarmac and the world turns over. Over and over as he rolls down the road. He lies there for a moment, not quite sure if he's alive or dead but long enough to know that he's definitely in trouble. Then all the lights go out.

He comes to in the back of the car, propped up between two large men, a throbbing pain coursing through his limbs. He turns to the side to look out the window but a big, fat head is blocking his view. He tries to sit forwards but a hand reaches out and pushes him back. Then he presses his side with a wary hand and checks his holster but the holster is empty. One of them has his father's gun clutched in his hand, the one with the head that is blocking his view. He holds it loosely in the crease of his palm with his thumb hooked over the trigger. And the fat head is smiling like he knows something funny, staring right at Pepito with the gun in his hand. He'd ask them where they're taking him but he's sure he'll find out, so he sits back and although he doesn't enjoy it, he tolerates the ride.
Eventually, they stop. The door swings open and they push him outside. He straightens up and takes a quick look around before they push him forwards, one at his back and two at his side. He's led up to a house, hustled really, two hands gripping his elbows, the other prodding the small of his back. When they reach some steps, Pepito stumbles. He lurches forwards, his hands flailing out but a forceful jolt from one of the goons pulls him up and onto his feet. They push him onwards. Up to the door and into the house where their claw like grip is loosened and Pepito is propelled forwards with a sharpened prod to his ribs. A sharpened prod from his father's gun. It pokes his back, nudging him onwards, forcing him through a doorway and down into a chair in the middle of the room. He sits there with his butt cheeks clenched on the edge of the chair and his eyes sweeping the room. The goons have dispersed, taken up their positions with their backs to the walls and are watching Pepito. Watching him brush the dirt from his shirt, running his hands over his ribs and down to his empty holster. And he takes his time. Takes it all in. Slowly, methodically, with his mouth clamped shut, he sizes up the place. The walls, the windows, the tables, the chairs and the bar at the far end of the room. And it's there, perched on a stool with his back to the gathering, that his eyes come to rest on the man that is picking pistachio nuts from a plate. He lifts them to his mouth, cracks them between his teeth and spits the shells onto the floor at his feet. One, two, three nuts, their shells shot out through the side of his mouth. When he's had his fill, he lifts a napkin from his lap and dabs at his mouth with the cloth. Then he swivels around on the stool and sits facing Pepito with his hands laying loose, cupped in his lap. He smiles, a crooked twist of lip, slips off the stool and moves towards Pepito with his chin tipped up and his hands perched on either side of his slender hips.

Pulling the sheet up around his chin, she bends forwards and drops a kiss on both his eyelids. A chastened kiss, an infinite kiss. The kiss of an anxious mother. The same kiss that brushed his blue tinged skin just after he was born. Just before they took him, out of her arms and out of her life. And even though she'd cried all night, deep down inside she was grateful. Grateful for his ten soft fingers and his ten pink toes. Grateful that she had another chance - another bite at the apple. Slipping out of the bedroom, she closes the door behind her. Slowly, softly, she's careful not to wake him as she moves through the hallway on the balls of her feet and picks up her bag. Picks up her keys and exits the house.
She drives through the night with the top rolled down and her hair whipping out behind her. She drives like a demon, a woman possessed. A woman who knows where she's going. It doesn't take her long to reach her destination. She pulls in by the kerb and partially mounts the pavement, one tyre up and one tyre down but she doesn't seem to notice. Cuts the engine with a twist of her wrist, pockets the keys as she slams the door and hurries towards the building. The lights are out in the fourth floor flat but she doesn't let it stop her. She pushes ahead and presses the buzzer with her finger stuck to the button. Eventually, someone answers. They let her in and she climbs the stairs. Pushes her way into the flat and with a nudge from her foot, closes the door behind her. They step back. She steps forwards. They step back with their arm raised because somehow, they know what's coming. And she doesn't disappoint, not even for a second, as she steps forwards with her elbow drawn back and her hand moving fast through the air. She wipes it across their face. A swift blow, merciless in its precision. Then another. And another. The slaps raining down on Candy with a dedicated passion. Finding their mark, not missing the moment. Harder, faster until, as suddenly as they had started, they stop. She steps back once again, her breathing quick and reckless. She rubs her palm and twists her head and rests her eyes on the ceiling. She breathes deeply, calming herself while Candy lays still on the floor. Curled in a ball with her head tucked in and her body gently quivering. Slowly, she unfurls, releasing her limbs like a tender bud.
Bruised and battered and swollen.

Pepito is aware that there is no way out. No way he can leap from the chair and make a run for the door. Not with those three goons slouching around the room. No way he can take them on, not at his age and not without his father's gun. He slumps back in the chair, wincing at the pain in his hip and resigns himself to his predicament with a practiced calm. The practiced calm of a pro.
"I'm sure you know what this is all about."
It was a statement rather than a question but Pepito nods his head anyway and opens his mouth to speak, although, it probably isn't wise.
"Let's just say I do so you can cut the crap and come to the point."
"He's got balls, I like that." He stops in front of Pepito, hands swinging loose and leans in close.
"Let's just say that there's something we both have in common." He steps back and stretches upwards.
Of course, Pepito has it all figured out. At least, concerning the sharp cut suit with the tightened face that is standing menacingly before him. It explains the car. It explains the goons and their means of grabbing his attention. He stands up, brushing the dirt from his jacket with hurried flicks of his hand and clears his throat with an exaggerated rattle.
"What are you going to do? Beat my teeth out then kick me in the stomach for mumbling."
Francisco strolls across the room with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and a fleeting smirk glides over his lips.
"I must apologise for my men Detective Pons ... sometimes they get carried away, you know how it is."
Unfortunately for Pepito, he doesn't, although, he's beginning to get the picture. He sits back down in the chair and opens his jacket to reveal the empty holster nestled against his side.
"I believe you have something which belongs to me." He pats the empty leather and raises his eyes to meet Francisco's but he's already turned his back.
"Don't worry," he says over his shoulder, "it'll be returned to you as soon as we've had this little chat."
"Is that why I'm here?"
"Of course .."
"Then let's get on with it ..."
He must have lost his marbles. Banged his head and lost his sense somewhere on the road. And there's a bilious taste that is rising up and filling his mouth and he is powerless to stop it. Distaste for the man in the well cut suit and the lifestyle which provides it.
"Mariquita paying you?" To give him his due he's stopped messing around and comes directly to the point. But Pepito doesn't answer, he stays where he is, arms folded and legs stretched out in front.
"You don't have to say anything, I know she is .. but tell me - why is it you think Carlos is so innocent ... you have something you want to share?"
Pepito shrugs.
"It's a hunch really, nothing concrete ..."
"But you're sure he didn't kill her?"
"Pretty much."
"Why?"
It's a fair question, Pepito has to give him that. He stands up and walks around the room, shaking the circulation back into his legs as he circles passed the goons.
"No motive." He eventually says with a simple tilt of the shoulders.
"You think him leaving him for me is no real motive?" Francisco starts to laugh but Pepito cuts him off.
"If he knew she was leaving him, I'd have to say yes ... but ..."
"But?"
"She never told him .. she never got the chance."
Francisco slips his legs from the table he is perched upon with the languid grace of a cat. He moves quickly towards the door and stands with his hand poised on the handle, ready to pull it open. But somewhere between the thought and the action, he changes his mind and with a flattened palm, pushes the door closed and moves back across the room.
"Tell me something Detective Pons .... how exactly did she die?"
"You don't know?"
Francisco keeps his eyes fixed on Pepito, he doesn't even blink, just waits for an answer but Pepito is growing restless. He isn't accustomed to having questions thrown out at him and certainly not in these circumstances. Besides, he reckons that out of all the people in the room right now, Francisco would know her last movements. Unless he had one of his goons do it, which was possible and the more he thought about it, most likely but he decides to humour him anyway.
"She drowned."
"Drowned?"
"That's right, although I suppose the knock on the head would have helped ... helped to take the edge off."
"Wasn't her body found in La Mina?"
Francisco was good, he had to give him that. He could almost believe him with his phoney expression of feigned concern. Almost, but not quite.
"Now you tell me," he begins with a subtle shift in the balance, "what exactly was your relationship with Rosa?"
"You mean .. were we fucking each other?" Pepito feels a hot flush of blood sting his cheeks but he presses onwards ignoring the lopsided grin of his captor.
"At least that would account for her being pregnant," he says and stops to regain his composure.
"Where did you meet?"
"Mariquita's place."
"You know Mariquita?"
"Who doesn't." Francisco dips into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette. "Got a light?"
Pepito shakes his head.
He nods to one of the goons who peels himself from the side of the room and slouches over to Francisco. He pulls a lighter from his pocket and holds it up to the end.
"What can you tell me about Mariquita ..."
"She a suspect?"
"Not quite, I'm just trying to tie up some loose ends .. find a connection."
"You want a connection between me and Mariquita?" He blows the smoke out over his head, "I'll give you a connection .. I knew her way back, before she had her clubs, we had a thing going back then ... off and on, she was something back then .. still is."
Pepito nods his head.
"And Carlos?"
"The prodigal son?" He picks a slither of tobacco from his teeth and flicks it into the air. "You know she had him adopted, thought he had a better chance while she concentrated on building her empire." He smiles secretly to himself and shakes his head.
"Who's the father?"
"That's anyone's guess ... but it wasn't me if that's what you're getting at ... we were definitely off around that time .. why don't you ask her?"
"I will."
"And while you're at it ... why don't you ask her why she wanted to see Rosa that night."
Pepito stops in his tracks, his spine clicks into place as if he's been grabbed by the neck.
"What night was that?"
"Last Wednesday .. Rosa told me she was going over but she didn't tell me why ... she'd already quit as far as she saw it, what else was there left to say .."
Suddenly Pepito is struck with uncertainty. If he is to believe Francisco then Mariquita herself may have been the last person to see Rosa alive. But why would she lie? Why didn't she tell him that Rosa was with her that night? He shakes his head and swallows the lump that is forming in the back of his throat. It can't be possible. There must be some mistake.
"When did you last see Rosa?"
He switches to another tack, afraid where the first one may lead him and waits for Francisco to answer. But Francisco takes his time, observing Pepito through a crack in his eyelids.
"What are you getting at Detective Pons ... you think I killed her?" He stands up and paces across the floor with his hand reaching up to his brow. "Why would I?"
"Did you love her?"
"You think love stops people from killing?"
Pepito isn't so sure, in fact, he isn't sure of anything anymore. The only thing he can say with certainty is that Francisco is beginning to sweat. A trickle of moisture runs down from his brow and slides all the way down to his neck.
"I had a stronger reason than that ... Detective Pons ... she was carrying my baby."
He moves towards the door with an impatient step and yanks it open.
"I know what I am Detective Pons, I've never tried to hide it but you shouldn't believe everything you hear ... you know what I mean?"
Pepito nods his head although, he doesn't believe a word of it.
"I know how word spreads, it gets around, out of hand and then, before you know it ... someone gets into trouble. Someone could even get hurt."
For anyone else these parting words could be taken as a threat. But not Pepito. Not Detective Pons. He isn't having any of it. He stands up, looping his jacket behind him and moves towards the door, with his hand hitched up on his hip, patting his empty holster. And he knows he's pushing it, he knows it's unwise to be playing with The Method but he just can't help it. He just can't leave with that fancy holster laying empty on his hip. So he keeps on walking and he keeps on patting until Francisco gets the message.
"Give him his gun," he eventually says, with a surly jerk of his head, "and get him out of my sight."
The gun is slapped into Pepito's palm as he's pushed through the doorway. Propelled forwards with a hefty hand slapped between his shoulders. And he almost trips, he almost falls but Francisco reaches out to steady him. He reaches out with a clenched up fist and grabs him by his lapels. Grabs him tight and grabs him fast, pulling Pepito towards him.
"Watch your step there Detective Pons, we wouldn't want you to hurt yourself now, would we?"

17. PERSISTENCE

If Raphael was one thing, he was persistent. Perhaps that's why he'd waited in the shadows outside Candy's flat. He'd watched Pepito leave. Watched him stride off down the street. But he made no move to follow, no word of recognition passed his lips and once Pepito was out of sight, his eyes snapped back to her window. And he stayed there, half the night, with his eyes flicking nervously up and down the street until eventually, his persistence payed off. Around the corner, two cars pulled into sight and Raphael instinctively stepped back further into the shadows, his spine pressed flat against the wall. He watched both cars pull up slowly outside Candy's building. Engines turned off. Doors opened. Three goons stepped out. Stepped out and up, their broad expanse of chest pushed up tight against their shirts, arms inflated and elbows cocked at an awkward angle. They stepped towards the car behind. One of them, wide of neck and low of forehead leaned towards the car and tapped on the window with a rhythmic rap from his knuckles, his close cropped head jerking up and down the street. The car door opened and out stepped a small, lean, neatly pressed man in well cut suit. Raphael held his breath. It was Francisco Turó, there could be no doubt. If he cranes his neck forwards, just a fraction, he can clearly make out the jagged edge of jaw, the long, crooked line of nose and the close set eyes, sunk deep into their sockets. Despite his size, his deceptive frame, he was still the most dangerous man in Barcelona. Of course, Raphael knew the stories, he'd heard the rumours - in his line of work, who hadn't? They were legendary, artful, they bordered on the magnificent, at least, that's what Raphael thought. For the man had balls. Big, pendulous, bad-ass balls.
He was a man to please, a man to fear.
A man to avoid at all costs.

"You three can go and pick him up .." a crack of knuckles, "I'll meet you back at my place ..." his eyes flick up to Candy's window, "I've got some business to clear up here first."
When Francisco spoke, everybody listened, tonight was no exception. The three goons nodded, their heads dipped in unison and slouching back to their car, they left. Raphael watched as Francisco strolled towards the door and pushed his way inside. Only then did he dare to step out from the shadows with the sweat sliding down his face, stinging his eyes. He blinked. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and spat into the night. He'd been waiting there all night, squashed between the shadows and now he had a chance. A chance to prove his worth, a chance to test his metal. A chance to prove himself to Pepito and he only had this moment, so he knew he couldn't blow it. He had to think. He had to think fast. He had to think big. He had to do something. Anything. So he did what any perspiring, persistently misguided, fast acting young buck would do.
He picked the lock on Cisco's boot and quickly slipped inside.

It seemed like they drove all night. Slowing suddenly then speeding up, swinging round bends so fast that Raphael flopped around like a rag doll with his fingers, the only thing to anchor him, clinging to the lid of the boot. With every bump in the road he gripped tighter until his knuckles, white from the strain, felt like they would snap. Eventually, they stopped. Pulled up somewhere dark and quiet, the only light was the moon hanging low and bright in the sky. Bruised, dizzy and slightly nauseous he listened to the heavy crunch of leather on gravel recede into the distance. With a push and a shove, he climbed out. Sluggishly, pulling his shaken body out of the boot with his fingers cramped up and his insides turning as he staggered uneasily to the front of the car and emptied his guts there.
There on the driveway. There in the moonlight.

Straightening his back, he wiped his mouth with a trembling hand and looked around. His legs were weak and his stomach was growling and Francisco was nowhere in sight. So he moved forwards - what else could he do? Slowly, slyly, with his head swiveling right and left. Stopping to listen from time to time, with his weight held low on his haunches but the only sound that cut through the night was the soothing pulse from the crickets. Then he was on the move again, crouching, darting, moving cautiously through the shadows until he stood at the side of the house. And there, with his body pressed tight against the stuccoed walls and his heart beating fast in his mouth, he waited. He waited until he'd caught his breath. He waited until he was certain. Certain that no-one would witness his torso bent double and knuckles skimming concrete as he slipped around the back.
A dog howled in the distance but he ignored it. Didn't even flinch or break his stride for an instant, ducking beneath windows and skirting round plants until he reached a secluded spot beneath a balcony. He stopped. He broke into a sweat. He wiped his brow with a grimy hand, his heart pounding hard in his chest. But he didn't stop for long. He pushed onwards. Onwards and upwards, scaling the wall like a cat. A cautious, feral, scrawny cat. With his hands gripping drainpipe, his feet finding footholds, he reached for the balcony above his head and swung himself over. He landed on his feet and crouched there. There in the shadows, there in the darkness. One, two, maybe three heartbeats and he was off again, slipped up to the window and peered inside. Placing his hand on the latch he eased it up until he heard it click. Then he spun around, checked behind him and crossed himself before he nimbly slipped inside.

He waited. Waited with his heart thumping and his back pressed up against the curtains. A sound drifted up from the room below and he cocked his head to listen. Someone was talking, their voice pitched somewhere directly underneath him, so he crouched down low on his haunches and scuttled along the floor. Scuttled to the opened door, his head flicking up for a second to check that the coast was clear. Scuttled out that opened door, to the top of the stairs and once there, he placed his foot on the first step and descended. One at a time. Positioning his toes first then pressing downwards with his weight eased out, in an even pressure, over the whole of his foot. Slowly, cautiously, he made his way down until he eventually stood at the bottom without any major mishap. Like a faulty step, or a creaking board or a cramp in the heel of his foot. He stood at the bottom with his legs braced at an angle, ready to sprint. And the voice was louder, deep and resonant and wafting out in broken phrases from a crack in the opened door. If he leaned to the left he had a glimpse of the room through the crack in the door frame and if he leaned to the right he was one step nearer the front door. An exit, his means of escape. But what should he do? Left, right. Right, left. An interesting dilemma, one which was resolved in an instant, a reckless heartbeat, as he darted over to the left - an impulse really - and secreted himself behind the door frame.
And there in Francisco's house, there in the hallway, he pitched his face to the side and pushed his ear up tight to the crack. He held his breath. He listened. He listened to the pulse of his heart beating deep inside his throat and he listened to the clear, deep tones of Francisco as he opened his mouth and spoke.
"Will you calm down for God's sake you're not making any sense ..." A pause.
"I'm not so sure ... he may be useful to us ..." A slow intake of breath.
"Listen .." A drumming of fingers on a table.
"Shut the fuck up for a second will you .." Another pause.
"He'll be here any minute .. and listen ... don't worry." He stood up.
"If I think he's onto us .. I'll deal with it." He slams the phone down.