27. PERSUASION

By the time Pepito reaches her house he's already decided. Decided to confront her with the evidence and let the facts speak for themselves. He pulls the bike up onto the kerb and tips the helmet from his head. A breeze picks up and snakes its way down from Tibidabo, rattling a can from the edge of the gutter and spinning into the road. Pepito turns his head and lifts his chin with his face to the breeze and fills his lungs with the sudden gust of air. Then he runs a hand over his oily brow and smears the sweat on the tips of his fingers. He steps out from the bike, scanning the night with a sweep of his head and steps towards the house with his feet holding back from each anxious step and his heart pumping hard in his chest. He pushes onwards. Stumbling forwards, breathing subdued until he finally reaches her doorway. He lifts his hand to the darkened wood and is poised to knock when his body rebels. He drops his hand with a prick to his conscience and turns on his heel. Turns on his heel and stops. Stops dead in his tracks, with his foot hitched to go one way and the other holding back but his mind is made up. His mind has decided and there can be no going back. He turns back to the door and swallows the lump that is clogged in his throat. Steps up to the challenge with his hand clenched up tight in a fist and taps lightly on the gleaming, polished wood.
She takes her time, humming something low and sugary but he can hear the slap of her feet moving seductively across the floor. She calls out and he answers, his hand rising instinctively to his holster. She opens the door. She pulls him in and his hand falls idly by his side, limp and useless as she pulls him closer, so close he can smell the whiskey on her breath. He should open his mouth to protest but she covers his lips with her own and they stand for some moments with their spines melting and their bodies braced for a fall. She pulls him downwards, stretching her body beneath him, back arched and hips splayed, her hands expertly relieving him of his clothes. While Pepito, abandoning reason and caught in the moment, claws at her robe with clumsy fingers and plunges himself into those delicious folds of fabric without a second thought.

He just couldn't help himself. Some things are in the blood. Some things are so etched beneath the skin, like a tattoo, a blood red tattoo, that they will always remain a part of you. No matter how hard you scrub. It's always there, like ink beneath the skin. Or poison in the blood.
At least, that's what Raphael told himself, the moment that he was caught. Caught in the act, so to speak. In fraganti. And it happened so fast. It happened when he was least expecting it. Caught up in a crowd, caught up in a moment, with his hand half wedged in some stranger's bag and he barely got to touch it. Barely had time to grasp the wallet and feel its weight in his sweaty palm before he was grabbed from behind by a burly policeman, who promptly slapped the cuffs on. No warning, no words, no justice. He was marched towards the station. Literally, pushed in front with two plain clothed police behind him, his feet barely touched the pavement. And he tried to protest, he really did but of course, they weren't even listening. In short, they didn't want to believe him. To them he was simply raving. Raving mad or raving stoned, it didn't make any difference. They'd heard it all before and would probably do so again. All sorts of crap spilling from his mouth about gangsters and girls and a building. But he knew he had to tell them. He had to get their attention, it was all part of the plan. Part of the plan that Pepito worked out and he depended on Raphael. He depended on him telling, it was what the boy did best. Except, he was supposed to use the phone. He was supposed to keep his nose clean. That was what Pepito had said. Go back home, keep his head down and stay well away from trouble because he had to make that call. Why then did he find himself mingling amongst the crowds? He never meant it to be this way but then again, he never did. Some things just seem to dangle temptingly in front of him, like a crooked card game or an easy mark. Some things are in the blood.
And then they threw him in that stinking cell and he really started to panic. The reality sank home as the door slammed shut and he pressed his face to the iron bars. Pressed his cheeks against the cold, hard metal and pleaded for them to listen.
"You've got it all wrong ... see ..." He shouted out like a madman, shouted out loud to their receding backs and hoped that they would hear him. "You don't understand .. see ..." He shouted until his voice was hoarse and the tears ran down his face. "It's something big ... real big ... biggest scam I've ever seen ..."
And still they didn't listen.

He must have slept. Not for long but he must have slept. Dazed and chafed, he sits up in bed and rubs his eyes with lazy fists. He looks around. He pats the bed. He rises and stumbles on weary legs out of her bedroom and through the house, naked, pushing doors and peering inside until eventually, he finds her. She's standing by the pool with her back towards him staring out over the city below. The sun has just begun its descent at the eastern edge of a perfect sky. He walks towards her, reaches out to touch her hair and stops. Draws his hand back as though he's been stung and lets it fall tracing the length of her spine with a waft of air from his fingers. She turns to face him, standing for a moment with her face suspended in thought. He smiles and she moves towards him, circling her arms around his bulging waist and buries her face in his neck. She kisses there. And there. And there. Small, stifled little pecks, reaching out over his shoulders and down over the slope of belly. He laughs. He's nervous. Strangely now, he's nervous. He looks down over the flabby folds of his gut and pulls away from her tempting grip. Tempting to keep it up. Tempting to keep his mouth shut but he knows he can't. He knows he has to ask. And maybe that's why he blurts it out. She stumbles backwards like she's been slapped in the face and stares at him, mouth hanging open and hand on her heart. She shakes her head. She denies it. She goes over her story again, like she's learned if from a script and repeats her innocence with her eyes gaping wide and her hand clutching her throat. In fear, in shock. Or both.
How could he think it. How could he say it.
The words fill her mouth with an ugly taste and she turns her back in denial. And now, he moves towards her, he reaches out to calm her, pull her against him, feel her hammering heart as it beats against his chest.
"I'm sorry," he says again, and again but she pushes him from her and turns away.
"It was Francisco wasn't it?" She steps forwards, skirting the edge of the pool. "He put you up to this didn't he?" Pepito shakes his head, reaching out towards her but she moves too quickly for him. "He told you something .... didn't he?"
"No, Mariquita ... no." He stumbles towards her. "I had to ask, that's all ..."
"You had to ask if I'd killed her? You had to ask that?" She shakes her head in disbelief.
"I'm sorry." He says again for good measure. "But yes, I had to ask."
She sits down by the edge of the pool, skimming her robe up behind her and lowers her legs into the water.
"So tell me them ... Detective Pons," she flicks her eyes towards him, "what made you ask?"
He hunkers down beside her.
"Chlorine," he says, "they found traces of it in her lungs." He flicks his head towards the glassy surface of the water. "It was just something I had to clear up, that's all."
She stares at him for a moment before stretching backwards, her hands splayed out on either side and her head thrown back and starts to laugh with a ruckus spasm from the pit of her gut.
"Chlorine?" She eventually says but she doesn't wait to finish the thought as she shrugs the robe from her shoulders and slips into the water. Pepito stands up and circles the pool following her body as it breaks through the surface.
"I have a theory, " he says as she cuts through the water towards him.
"A theory, how interesting ..." She's playing with him again, but he's caught up in the moment and too far gone to see it. All he can see is is her tempting flesh as she flips on her back and strokes the water over her glistening breasts. She twists her head to check that he's watching. But we know that he is. With hungry eyes he watches her lift her leg and run her hand down the length of her thigh before she flips back over with the grace of a seal and swims to the edge of the pool. Reaching out to grasp her hand, he pulls her out towards him. They stand for a moment their bodies locked in a damp embrace as he tries to recall his purpose.
"Let's hear this theory of yours then, Detective ..." She purrs in his ear but as his lips close over hers, she braces her back and knows she'll have to wait.

Standing, across the street from the shop, feet crossed at the ankle and arms tucked beneath her chest, she watched him leave. Watched him push his head through his helmet and straddle the seat of his bike. Watched him kick off from the kerb with a hurried twist on the throttle and disappear amongst the cars racing for the lights. Standing, a little longer, she surveys the front of the shop. She takes her time, examining the entrance with its worn down step, the mottled brown door with the sign in the middle and the display window littered with stickers and giant cardboard cutouts of cigarettes. Then she turned her back. With her feet placed flat on the intricate spirals carved in the pavement, slapping the ground as she walked. She must have walked for an hour, at least. Wandered around with only her thoughts to guide her, perspiring in the afternoon heat. Thoughts that were cluttered, crammed up together, fighting for space in her head. And she tried to arrange them into appropriate places but as one thought was settled another would spring up instead. Eventually, she came to halt. Stopped dead in her tracks as she ran out of pavement at the edge of a building. Stopped short of the entrance, one or two metres as her eyes climbed up to the top.
He was glad to see her, of course. Babbled his surprise like an excitable schoolboy as she stood at the door to his flat. He ushered her in with a hand on her arm and guided her towards the living room. Eased her down in his best armchair and pulled up a seat for himself.
"This is nice .." he said with a flash of a grin and she had to agree because it certainly was, nice to be saved from the heat. Nice to stop walking. Nice to stop thinking. Nice to be loved by this man. This good, kind, quiet man who would never leave her, not for a moment, not even if she begged him to go. Leaning forwards, she grasped his hand and curled it into her own.
"Let's not wait," she said, squeezing his fingers, "let's not wait any longer, let's get married now."
"Now? You mean right now?" He pushed himself back in his chair, pulling his hand from her grip and stroked the long peppered hair on his mustache. "Well ... it's sudden, I'll say that ..."
"I know, I know," she said, easing herself to the edge of the chair, convincing herself it was right. "I know it's sudden but why should we wait?"
"Well, there's the family and the arrangements with the ..."
But she lifted her hand to silence him and the words died in his throat. "
"Gibraltar," she said with a tilt of her brow, "we can get married tomorrow in Gibraltar."
"What? Just like that?"
"Just like that."
Rising from his chair, he stepped over to the window. His mind ticking over, cogs whirring, neurons sparking, eyes clouded up with thought.
"Gibraltar you say?" He turned towards her.
"Yes," she said as she moved from the armchair. "Gibraltar," she whispered as she nuzzled towards him and buried her face in his neck.

It wasn't how she imagined it. Wasn't lit with fireworks or timed with explosives but at least is was something. A slow, unwinding of mechanical precision that culminated in a burst of release, like a balloon that is filled with a steady breath, then popped on the point of a knife. Turning over onto her right side she watched the hairs on his mustache flutter in the wake of his breath. In. Out. In. Out. His chest rising and falling with a ragged rhythm as he stared at some point on the ceiling. Turning his head towards her, sweat glistening in the lines of his face, he smiled. That's all, a simple flex of the lips. That's all that it really takes. Then he lifted his hand and reached out to touch the side of her face. She sidled in towards him with her hip bumping against his thigh, and as her flesh touched his a sudden fear that she could still lose him swept through her body. She shivered. Threw her arm over his chest and pulled him closer, pulled him tight. Shifting her head on the pillow, she gazed up at the ceiling. Picked out a spot where the sun slipped through a crack in the blinds she focused on the shaft of light and let her mind slip back. Back to the shop, back to Pepito, slipping even further through the layers of time until she came to rest, with her eyelids drooping from the weight of sleep, on her wedding day.
A bright, crisp day in Spring; a wind rustles through the trees and whips her veil from her head with a gust of breath. She can see her face, laughing. The high, clear lines of her cheeks, her mouth pitched open as her husband bolts from her side to catch it. But it flutters upwards, held aloft by the gathering breeze as he leaps in the air to catch it. Stretching upwards on the points of his toes, arms reaching above his head, he swipes at the veil with no success as the wind grows stronger and blows it further from his grasp. Further and further, she can see the veil billowing in the distance and her husband, with his long, straight back straining up to the sky, following closely behind it.
She must have slept. For a few minutes, at least but long enough to have remembered her dream and tasted the bitter ending. Unwinding the sheets from her tangled limbs, she slipped out of bed. Crept up to the chair in the corner of the room and hurriedly put her clothes on. And when she was dressed she tiptoed back to the bed to check that he was breathing. Bending over his prostrate frame she placed his ear over his mouth. He stirred in his sleep and muttered her name. Muttered his name with his papery lips still chapped and raw from their kisses. Leaning in closer, she brushed his cheek with the tips of her lips and pulled the sheet up. Tucked him in, straightened the pillow by the side of his head and retrieved his clothes from the floor. She left them neatly folded over the back of a chair. Left his trousers and shirt, all perfectly creased, with his socks tucked into his shoes.

Later that night, long after Pepito has left with a hand on his gun and smile on his lips, Mariquita stands by the edge of the pool. She lights a cigarette and blows the smoke out in curdling waves over the city sprawled at her feet. She cocks her head and looks at the moon before walking slowly back to the table. She sits down, grinding the cigarette in the ashtray as she pulls the phone towards her. She dials his number, pressing the buttons methodically with the scarlet tip of a nail. Pepito had told her everything, everything she had been waiting to hear. He'd spared no details and told no lies, except somehow, he'd missed out the obvious. And the obvious had been there all along. Sprawled beneath him with her hair in her face, easing his doubts with the thrust of her hips - it had all been part of her plan. And she'd played him from the beginning. How easy it had been. How desperate he was to believe her. How close he had come to the water's edge and stood with his back to the truth.
She rises, smiling secretly to herself, the phone cupped tight to her ear.
"It's me," that's all she needs to say. "I thought you would have left by now." She stops and tilts her chin upwards. "Everything's fine ..." and her gaze slips down to the water, falling on the liquid moon rippling gently on the surface. "Just thought you'd like to know ..." She waits for a moment, her fingers playing with a lock of hair that falls across her face. "Our problem has been taken care of ..."

26. THE DAWNING

It was the pathologist's call that set him thinking.
"Thought you might be interested to know the results of the test ... just came in this morning."
"Test?"
"The test on the water."
"What water?"
"The water in her lungs. Are you all right Detective Pons?"
Pepito nods his head. "Let's just say I've had a busy morning."
"Too much on your plate?"
"Something like that."
"Well, here's something else for that plate of yours ... the water contained chlorine and there's only one kind of water that contains chlorine ..."

Even Pepito knows that. She drowned in a swimming pool. Public or private, it was hard to tell - the only thing he could be sure about was that she drowned in a swimming pool, in a derelict building, in the middle of a housing estate, in the poorest part of town. Pepito twists both taps and lowers himself to the floor with his back resting against the bathtub and his legs stretched out in front. His head throbbed. His stomach was churning. But at least he was safe. Here. In his bathroom, in the flat above the shop, where no-one could find him. In fact, no-one would ever think to look. He runs his hand down the side of his face and shakes his head in disbelief. Chlorine. Who would have thought it, certainly not Pepito who was struggling with the evidence and the direction it was beginning to take. Could it be that simple? Could the answer have been right under his nose the whole time? Teasing him, taunting him. Staring him in the face and poking its tongue out at his blind lunges at the truth. And there was something else, something else the pathologist had said. He knew her time of death - she'd died around midnight. Pepito already knew her movements on that night. She had been with Mariquita until around nine thirty, or so the lady said. But what if she never left? He stands upright, his legs shaking beneath him and turns off the taps. Lifting his foot, he steps over the rim of the tub and into the water. Was this how it felt? This liquid melting of flesh. Closing his eyes he leans backwards and lets the cool water lap over his body. He tries to imagine the scene, an accident maybe, a rising battle with words that ends with a blow to the skull and a body in the pool but he just can't see it. Or maybe, he just doesn't want to look. He sits upright, disturbing the water with lapping waves that splash the sides of the tub and rubs his face. Then he stands up and grabbing a towel from the rail, wraps it around his waist. He steps out of the bath and stands in front of the mirror, twists his torso left and right as he checks out his reflection. He has his own ideas, hunches really and they all pointed towards Francisco. After all, he was the one who had the most to lose if Rosa had found out about his link in the chain of girls being smuggled into the country. A chain that stretched all the way back to Russia and reached out to God knows where. She had to have known and if she hadn't, then she must have guessed that these girls weren't willing participants. So she must have confronted him, outraged perhaps but most likely, she'd wanted her cut, blackmailed him even for her pound of flesh. It was only a matter of time before the police caught up with him themselves. In fact, at this stage in the game, Pepito was counting on it. The way things were panning out, he could use their help. But he has to be careful, he doesn't want them messing with his method so the best thing for him to do is keep his head down, stay close to the trail and follow. Follow fearlessly and follow surely but always with just that one step ahead.

2.36pm and Gloria stands by the sink with her hands immersed in the suds. She hears the bathroom door close and the slap of his feet on the tiles as he moves through the flat but she doesn't stop. Lowering her head, she continues with the dishes, swirling her hands through the soapy water with a studied concentration. By the time Pepito enters the kitchen she's running the cloth over the worktops with her shoulders hunched up around her. She doesn't turn around. She doesn't stop. Pepito hangs awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before pushing his way through the stifling air towards the cooker. He lifts the lid on the pot and sucks in the smell of the juices wafting up from the bubbling meat. He closes his eyes and his stomach gurgles.
"Smells good," he says, moving towards the table but Gloria doesn't answer. "Want me to put out the plates?"
She shrugs, a silent dip of the shoulders and moves towards the cooker. But Pepito is not put off, he can tell that something is brewing so he moves towards the drainer and reaches for the plates. Grabbing the dishcloth he rubs the surface of each one with rough circular movements before setting them down on the table. One opposite the other. He's reaching for the glasses when Gloria suddenly breaks her silence. Turning around she rests her back against the worktop, her hands pitched up behind her.
"I didn't make as much ... didn't think you'd be back in time." She waits for him to answer, her eyes following his movements as he shuffles around the table. He's aware that she's watching so he lowers his head to avoid the full impact of her gaze. He lifts his shoulders briefly and dips his head towards his chest. By the time he looks up, she's already turned back to the cooker and is poking the bubbling meat with impatient prods from a fork.
"This is almost ready," she says, her voice tripping out tersely from her tightly pursed lips.
Pepito nods and sits down in his place with his back towards the cooker. She turns, the pot gripped tightly between the serving cloth in her hands and stares at the back of Pepito's head. She hesitates, for a fraction of a second before she moves around the table and places the pot in the middle. Then she sits down in her own place with her back to the door and picks up a spoon with the twitch still flickering through her slender fingers as she serves Pepito, letting the meat fall absently with muffled plops onto the plate beneath.
"You know ..." she begins with a clear voice, her head held high and her eyes level with Pepito's face but the more she stares the more her conviction falters. Her voice fades, caught in her throat and she drops her gaze, letting it fall to the lumps of meat and potatoes on her plate.
"It's no use," she eventually says, her voice a sigh in the back of her throat. "I can't work here anymore." She drops the spoon and sits back in her chair pushing the plate away from her with a sideways sweep from her hand. Pepito grips his fork tighter with his eyes caste down and his leg jerking spasmodically beneath the table. He knows he should say something but the more he gropes for the right words to speak the more he is convinced that they will somehow fall short. He sits mute, his hand pushing the fork idly around the plate and his stomach complaining audibly.
"Eat something." Her eyes flick up to his down turned face. Lifting the fork he places the meat tentatively in his mouth and chews, slowly. Chews methodically and the food slides down his throat as he raises another forkful to his mouth. Then another. And another. She sits in silence as he clears the plate, watching him chew and swallow with deliberate concentration. When he's finished, she pulls the plate across the table towards her and carries it to the sink where she drops it in with a reckless dash from an angry wrist and braces herself against the drainer.
"Not hungry?" He addresses her back, his eyes focused on the hunch of her shoulders as she bends towards the sink. She shakes her head and closes her eyes. Closes her eyes and clenches her fists. She could scream right now but she knows she can't so she bites her lip and throws her head back. Alone and defeated, but defiant.
"Gloria?" His voice touches her with a shiver down her spine and she grips the sink even harder. "It doesn't ..." He starts to speak but the words stick in his throat. He tries again but they clog in his mouth, smothering his tongue so he clears his throat with an agitated rasp and stands up. What? What should he say? What could he say? It doesn't have to be like this. But he knows in his heart that it does. He knows in his heart that when all is said and done, she deserves more than he can give. She deserves to be loved, she deserves to be treasured. She deserves more than this. And if he was any other man he would take her in his arms and what? What would he do with a woman like her? He shakes his head and rubs his brow because somehow he knows, he's not. He's not any other man. He's Pepito Pons. Detective Pepito Pons. Something he can never forget and something he can never tell her. She would never understand. This longing, this need for his other life, it's the crux of the whole damn method. Especially now, when he's getting close to the end, so close he can almost taste it.
Moving around the table he picks up her plate and scrapes the untouched meal back in the pot. She turns around and watches him, with her back against the sink. "I'll put an advert in the paper." She speaks but her eyes are fixed on some distant spot on the table. "I can stay until you find someone."
Pepito lifts his head and nods, slowly, heavily as if a weight is pressing down on his neck.
"All right," he sighs, "if that's what you want."
And even though he speaks the words he knows, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut, that it's not. It's not what she wants, at all. He stands there with his hands placed on the table before him and his chin tucked into his chest. Not daring to protest, not even daring to lift his head as she brushes passed him and out the door leaving only a silent ruffle of air in her wake.

Something was beginning to happen, although he couldn't say what. But it started in his loins and quickly spread, clawing upwards, infecting every restless nerve with cloying insistence. Pepito can feel it. He felt it that first morning when he slipped on the clothes. He felt it as the dusty fabric stretched to life over his crumpled flesh. He felt it the first time he walked into one of those shady dives with his gun clipped in it's holster and his hand hovering close to his hip. And he feels it now. Now he sits across the street, outside Mariquita's club and waits. He's careful not to arouse suspicion. Careful not to enter the place with his shackles raised and his gun blazing. So he sits back on the seat of his bike, by the seat of his pants and waits. He bides his time. If there's one thing he's learned in the fictitious life then it's when to watch, when to wait and when to burst in on the action.
4.15pm and the door swings open. Two goons, the one with the head, the crusted gash on the side of his head and his partner in crime step out onto the street. Pepito scrambles from the back of his bike and ducks behind a dumpster. Luckiy for him he parked so close. Lucky for us they don't see him. It could have been nasty, it could have been rough. It could have been the end of the story. Shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun they dip in their pockets and pull out their shades. Then they turn on their heels and walk, in a synchronized swagger with a menacing slant, up to the end of the street. When they reach their car on the corner, they stop. They pop their doors open. They slip inside. Start the engine. Pull out from the kerb and swerve down the road with a screech of tyres and a waft of burning rubber. Pepito stands up, stretching to life from his cramped position he rubs the front of his legs. Rubs them hard and rubs them long until the blood returns to his toes. Then he steps towards the club, moving fast on tingling feet and raps on the door with the back of his knuckles. Raps once with impatience and twice with anger until eventually someone answers.

"Mariquita's not here." It was the barman who told him this. "S'funny but two other guys were just here asking the same thing." He plucks a glass from a tray in front of him and clouds it with breath.
"What did they want?"
Holding the glass up to the overhead lights he squints at his reflection and buffs the rim with the end of a dishcloth. "Wouldn't say."
"When do you expect her in?"
He places the glass on the shelf behind him. "Hard to say ... since Rosa was last here she's been in and out when she pleases ... comes in late, leaves early."
"When was Rosa last here?"
"Last Tuesday." Reaching forwards he plucks another glass from the tray.
"Was she working that night?"
The barman shakes his head. Holds the glass up to the light, buffs some more and places it on the shelf.
"What did she come by for?"
"She quit ... came to pick up her wages." He dips into the tray again.
"Quit when?"
The barman scratches his head with his free hand and twists the glass under the light with the other. He closes one eye. "Tuesday." And lifts the cloth to the clouded rim.
"You sure?"
"Sure I'm sure ... they were back in her office but I could hear them out here." He places the glass on the shelf and turns his back, running the dishcloth over the bottles in front.
"And this was all last Tuesday?"
The barman nods his head and turns around. "She in some kind of trouble?"
"She?"
The barman lifts his chin and stares at Pepito "I mean Mariquita, the boss ... she done something wrong?"
Pepito plucks a glass from the tray in front and holds it up to the light, one eye closed and the other fixed on the barman. "That's hard to say."

Almost a week to the day since Rosa went missing. Pushing through the door with a heavy hand he steps out onto the street. Two days since her body was found. He cocks his leg and slides on the back, grabs the spare helmet and slips it over his head. Almost four hours since the pathologist called. He starts the engine with a twist of the key and turns the throttle towards him. And tonight, tonight in an abandoned club, somewhere close by the docks, a deal will go down for the fate of some girls. Launching himself from the kerb with a hefty thrust from his foot, he skids off down the street in the direction of Collserola. His mind is playing tricks on him. Acting up, spinning tales, creating diversions, even making up excuses. But it won't last long, he won't allow it. Won't give in to his foolish heart. Won't deny where the truth may lead him, even if the truth has long, dark hair and scarlet lips. Scarlet lips and eyes like honey, softly melting in her golden skin.

25. DESPERATE MEASURES

Walking slowly on reluctant feet with the sun tossed high in an endless blue sky, she makes her way back to the shop. Makes her way back through the mingling hordes with her eyes pitched down and her mind made up. So she crosses the road, steps up to the door and slips her key in the lock. She enters. Shrugs the cardigan from her stiffening back and throws it onto the counter. Steps through the doorway at the back of the place and climbs the stairs to the flat. She knows what she has to do. She has to peel the potatoes, snap the greens and place the meat in the pot. For today, Gloria has decided, will be her last meal in that kitchen and her last day in the shop. The last time she stands behind that counter, counts the change and folds the notes, or lifts a cloth to wipe the shelves. The last time, in fact, that she chases the dust.

Stepping over to the cooker, she ignites the gas with the languid flame from a lighted match. Turns back towards the worktop and begins peeling the potatoes. As she slips the skin from their hardened backs, her mind turns over, digesting all her recent moves and swallowing the facts. She has accepted his proposal. It was as simple as that. Dropped her fate into his speckled hands and hoped that somehow, it would all work out. Not like the first time. Not like that pitiful lunge at life with her eyes half closed and her heart still green. When she was young and foolish and the world seem full, full to the brim with love and hope and the infinite scope of possibilities. Then the knife sank in, sank in deep and her youthful world exploded. But she wouldn't be so foolish, not this time. Not after all these years. And then there was Pepito. She had to tell him. She had to tell him of her future plans and there could be no turning back. No hasty words or awkward moments, no reason for her to keep up this farce when his heart was set, impervious to her touch.
When the last of the potatoes is thrown in the pot she reaches for the oil and slops a generous amount into the water, covers the pot with a battered lid and turns up the gas. Slipping the apron over her head she walks to the doorway, allowing the grease spattered garment to fall from her hands as she moves through the flat. But don't be fooled by this untidy lapse - she knows exactly what she's doing. She moves to the bedroom and opens the door with a bold hand gripped tight on the handle. Pushes forwards on her flattened feet and walks towards the bed. She stands there, at the foot of his bed with her hands eased up on the side of her hips and her eyes moving slowly over the room. Over every measly speck of it, from the sheets on the bed - pulled back in haste - to the garnish of dust on the table. Then she lifts her chin. Closes one eye. And stifles a sigh in her throat. Reaching out with a trembling hand, she rips the sheet from the bed. Yanks it hard with a crack of cotton and a fluttering wave in the air. Bundles it up in the palms of her hand and throws it onto the floor. She's caught her wind, her last great gasp, as she reaches for the pillows. Strips their feathered innards clean like a butcher skins a chicken. Throws them down on the floor at her feet and moves around the bed. Leaning forwards, dipped at the waist, she starts to thump the mattress with her palms stretched flat over those ancient springs as she rouses the dust from its slumber. Chases it out into the thickening air to dance around her head. Filling her nostrils and clogging her throat but she doesn't really care. She's past caring now. Now she has her wind up and is blowing out the sides of her mouth with rhythmic bursts of air. One last blow to the mattress and she straightens her back. Runs her hand over the sweat on her brow and up to the roots of her hair. Her work is done, her anger spent and for the moment, at least, she is satisfied.

Twisting the key with a squeeze from his fingertips, Francisco steps over the threshold and into the club. He closes the door behind him and slides the bolt on silken hinges, slowly into place. He turns around, slipping his hand over his thick black hair and down to the neck of his shirt. Then he steps forwards with his finger looped inside his collar, tugging the cloth from his skin. He stops. Loosens his tie. Unbuttons his collar. And slides the tie from his neck. Folding it carefully, he slips it in his top pocket and pats the bulge with a smirk. He moves forwards to the main room and walks towards the bar with his eyes fixed, not even a blink, on the window behind the stage. When he reaches the bar, he leans over the polished counter and grabs a bottle of whiskey from one of the shelves behind. He uncorks it with his teeth and spits the cork onto the floor at his feet. Then he reaches for a glass and with a nod to the window behind the stage, he pours himself a drink. By the time he flips his head back, Mariquita is already standing on the stage. She stands with her legs crossed at the ankle and her hands straddling her hips.
"You gonna pay for that drink?"
"Pay for it?" He pours himself another shot and lifts the glass to his lips. "I already paid for it." He takes a sip then turns towards her with the glass held up in the air. "To your health Mariquita ... live long and prosper." He smiles to himself with his lips pulled back in a curdling grin as he polishes off the liquor. Then he smacks his lips with the tips of his tongue as he sets the glass down on the counter.
"You took a chance coming here." She walks towards him with her hands still high on her hips. "What if Carlos were to walk in now and find you." She keeps on walking, one bare foot sliding bravely in front of the other until she stands before him, so close she can smell the whiskey on his breath. He leans in to her and his breath, hot and sticky, burns her ear.
"I'm feeling reckless ..."
She steps back, turns her head to the side and lowers her eyes. "You should have called first."
"Well, here I am." He spreads his arms wide as he strolls over to one of the poles rising up from the table and runs his hand down its smooth shiny surface. "Let's just say ... something came up."
"Is everything all right?"
"Depends ..." He turns back to face her. "Depends on what you mean by 'all right'".
She moves towards him, her feet kicking out sharply beneath her dress. "What's happened?"
"Your Detective Pons is what happened."
"He's not my Detective Pons ..."
"Oh yeah? Well who was it that hired him?"
"I had to." She turns from him and paces over to the stage. "Carlos wanted to go to the police."
"Ah yes, the prodigal son .."
"Shut up." She spins around on the balls of her feet. "I had to protect him."
"You had to protect yourself you mean."
"I said shut up ... I did it for him."
"Did you kill Rosa for him too?" She turns from him, hiding the fear that flashes through her eyes but Francisco doesn't notice as he strolls back towards the bar. Lifting the whiskey bottle he pours the honeyed liquid into the glass and raises the glass in the air.
"Drink?"
She shakes her head.
He shrugs his shoulders and lifting the glass to his lips, tips his head back.
"You see, I know ..... I know she went to see you that night ..." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sets the glass back on the bar. "And I know she never came out." He turns around to face her with his elbows hitched up on the bar behind him and his feet crossed at the ankle. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't plant a slug in your guts right now?"
It was a rhetorical question. She turns around slowly and lifts her head a fraction, her eyes skimming the floor, picking out some random spot on the tiles. She opens her mouth and starts to speak but quickly decides against it. She shakes her head as she brings her lips together with her teeth overlapping the bottom lip, biting down hard.
"In fact, make that two ... one for Rosa and one for the baby."
She shakes her head again, shakes her hair from her eyes and shakes the blood from her lip. It lands on the swell of her breast and she raises a finger to wipe the spot, smearing it into her skin.
"It's not what you think." She lifts her head and fixes her eyes on the dimpled dip in his chin.
"Like hell it isn't ... who you trying to fool with that act Mariquita ... it might work with your dip shit detective but it doesn't work on me and speaking of that detective, let's get back to why I'm here."
She breaks her gaze and breathes a sigh of relief as she walks towards the bar. "I'll have that drink now."
"I bet you will."
He pours some whiskey into the glass and hands it to her. She reaches out with shaking hands and pressed the glass to her lips. She flips her head back.
"That's right, soak it up."
She places the glass on the bar and reaches for the bottle.
"Another? So early in the day?"
She pours the whiskey, slopping it over the rim in her anxious haste and Francisco clucks his tongue, drawing the air tightly over his teeth with vicious relish.
"See that's a bad sign," he says as he watches her lower her face to the glass and draw off some of the liquid through puckered lips. "A bad, bad sign," he waits for her to finish her drink before continuing. "Just like your Detective Pons showing up at the club."
She whips her head towards him.
"Yeah, that's right ... showed up this morning in fact, creating all kinds of trouble but what I what I've been wondering is - how'd he find the place?"
"I didn't tell him." The words spill from her lips in a tightened, nervous clutter. "I didn't .. I didn't say a word, why would I?"
He regards her for a moment through the slit of his lids while he slowly strokes his chin.
"No, I don't suppose you would, would you?"
He pushes himself forwards and circles around behind her. "But that's besides the point 'cause he found the place anyway."
"I told you to get rid of him didn't I?" She slips out of his reach and walks quickly towards the stage.
"Yes you did, you certainly did but see ..." He follows closely behind her. "I'm a reasonable guy." He sidles up beside her. "And I need two reasons to kill someone ... I have my reputation to maintain after all, my standing in the community." A smile spreads out from the corners of his mouth, engulfing half his face. "And you know what else?"
She shakes her head.
"Seems to me he's your problem 'cause it was you that brought him into the picture."
She dips her head and traces the meandering line of a crack in the tile with her toe.
"You've got to deal with it ... you've got to keep him off my back. You understand?"
She nods. He reaches over and grasps her hair, twisting it up in his hand. She winces. He leans in closer, pulling her hair tighter and whispers in her ear.
"And don't think I've forgotten about Rosa. Or the baby."
Releasing his grasp, he pushes her from him and climbs the stairs to the stage. She follows quickly behind him, lifting her dress as she hurries up the steps and through the door obscured by a curtain. She stops, hanging back in the doorway to her office with the hem of her skirt still gripped in her hand and watches as he moves towards the safe at the back of the room. Twisting the lock backwards and forwards until the door pops open. Then he reaches in and pulls out a bundle of notes. He flicks through them, licking his fingers as he fondles the paper and moving his lips as he counts.
"You still owe me," he says, holding a bundle in the air as he stuffs the rest back in the safe. "Let's just call it what it is, shall we?"
"Extortion?"
"He turns towards her, closing the door with the tips of his fingers, his lips curling upwards despite himself. "We got a comedian now have we?" He dips his chin and shakes his head, just a fraction. He steps towards her, slowly, his head still shaking and his lips stretched tight across his face. When he reaches her he stops, raises his head with his eyes crawling up from her crimson toenails to the nervous frown on her face. He reaches out, winding his hand round the back of her neck and draws her in to him. Then he pushes his tongue through his parted lips and licks his way round her face, up over her cheeks with the barbs on his tongue catching on her skin. When he pushes her from him she presses her back against the door frame and lowers her eyes.
"I'll be in touch." He says as he brushes past her and out onto the stage.

She waits until she hears the slam of the door before lifting her hand to wipe her cheek. Wipe the stench of his breath from the pores of her skin with the back of her hand and the tears that streak down her face. Stumbling forwards, she moves towards her desk and wipes it clear with a sweep of her arm. She sits down. She sits down heavily on the sleek wooden top and reaches down to grasp the hem of her dress. She lifts it up, over her knees, over her belly and up to her face. And rubs. Moving the soft, shiny fabric over her cheeks in wild, wanton circles until her skin is red and raw to the touch. Exhausted, she lays back, stretching her spine out over the cleared surface with her dress fluttering down over her knees, falling softly into place. And she lays there.
She lays there for some moments, eyes closed, breathing quick and restless.