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.
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.
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