30. THE LETTER

Gloria sits in front of her mirror brushing her hair with smooth, lingering strokes. It's after 2.00am and she still can't sleep. Rising, she throws the brush on the bed behind her and moves towards the window on slippered feet. She pulls back the curtains. Rubs the lace in her hand-stitched drapes between finger and thumb as she leans forwards and presses her cheek to the cool windowpane. And while her skin kisses glass her mind trips back to that hasty morning, trips over words with a sting to her conscience. Trips over all that was said and done. She closes her eyes. Closes her lids and pulls on the curtains. Yanks them so hard they fall at her feet. Then she stretches out and opens the window, tugs at the frame swollen tight with the rain until the window springs open and she staggers backwards. Staggers over the cloth with a lurch in her step, snaring her foot in the folds of the fabric, she kicks her way free with an angry spasm that twitches its way down the length of her leg. Bending forwards with her feet spread apart she gathers the lace into a mass in her arms and steps up to the gaping window. Poking her head out, she checks the street. Twists her head right and left and when she's convinced herself that the street is deserted, she unburdens her arms of the hand-stitched curtains. Unburdens her heart of the fine, white lace. Tipping them forwards she watches them flutter like that unfortunate veil that was whipped by the breeze. Fluttering downwards with nothing to stop them but the cold, dark gutter, clogged with rain. She stands for some moments gazing at the clump of soggy lace like a corpse in the street until a drop of water finds its way from the balcony above to the top of her head. It slides downwards, a solitary drop and she lifts her finger to catch it before it slips from her face. Lifts her finger and watches the droplet spread over her skin before wiping it with against her nightgown with a curious frown. Tilting her chin upwards she stares at the sky. The clouds are breaking, opening pockets of space in the darkened sky which are frayed at the edges. Pulling her head inwards she leans into the swollen frame with her shoulder and closes the window. She turns, walks back towards the mirror propped against the wall and stands before it with her hands by her sides and her head twisting to the side. Stretching her neck, she examines her reflection. Touches her hair where the grey seeps through and dips her head to locate more. But it's not so bad, really. Nothing that a drop from a bottle won't cure. Reaching out she grabs a jar of cream on the dresser, twists the top and dips her fingers into the pearly mixture. Smearing the cream over the tips of her fingers she raises them to her face and slides the mixture over her cheeks and down the sides of her neck. Closing her eyes, she stretches her chin upwards, working her fingers into the folds at her throat. When she opens them again she tilts her head to one side and waits as the smile in the mirror spreads out slowly from the corners of her mouth, lifting her face.

She thought it was best said in a letter. Best mended with the written word. So she pulls out a pen, grabs a few pages and sits down at a desk pushed into the wall. She begins with his name in large, curling letters. Her hand, sloped at an angle, saunters down the page with a distincive, looping script. She mentions her reasons but spares him the details and when she is done she sits back in the chair with her chin held up high in the air. She breathes deeply, releases the pen from her tightening grip and picks up the letter. She reads with her eyes skipping lightly over the swirling words and when she is satisfied she signs her name in a bold, sweeping flourish which covers the page.

Her plan is to step out into the night, deliver the letter and retreat. She doesn't want to see him, she doesn't dare hear his voice and it's not that she'll falter or even think twice, it's just easier. Easier this way. Easier to set it all down, black ink on a page. When he rises in the morning he'll read it and perhaps he'll understand that for a woman like Gloria, there could be no other way. No other way to express those words that leap from her heart and clog in her throat, stammering for existence and yet, she could never spit them out. Never truly let them go. She rises, pushing back the chair with a nudge from her hip and paces to the bureau where she reaches out for the gilt-framed photo on top. Holding it out at arms length she studies the two smiling people caught in the flash. A bare-headed, younger version of herself stares back and her husband, with a restless glint in the corner of his eye, looks out over the top of her head to some distant point on the horizon. Perhaps he'd caught sight of those gauzy wings still flapping on the breeze. Laying the photo face down on the top of the bureau, she turns her back, crosses the room and opens her wardrobe. Slipping the nightdress from her shoulders, she stands naked before the mirror. Naked, except for the slippers on her feet, she dips her head and looks down over her sagging, mottled breasts, over the pitted expanse of belly and shakes her head. Far too late to turn back the clock and reclaim a wasted youth. A wasted youth that was waiting for the click of a key in the lock or a familiar voice in the hallway. Reaching out she grasps her favourite dress with a jerking motion and a tightened fist. She slips it over her head and wriggles the silky fabric down over her shoulders and hips. She turns, left then right, straightening and flattening as she twists her head to view the dress from every conceivable angle. Only when she is satisfied does she step back towards the dresser to pick up a bottle of perfume which she sprays with timid little squirts on her tilted neck and wrists.

She's ready now, finally. After forty odd years, she's ready. She'd made her choice and it was all arranged. They were leaving for Gilbraltar in the morning. She lifts her hand to pat her hair. Lifts her hand to swat the tear that escapes her eye and slips down her cheek but it's too late. Too late for a teardrop. Too late to catch it as it splashes angrily to the floor.

29. FLIGHT

Bundled through a back door, Pepito steps out into the night and fills his lungs with the cool, damp air. He is grateful to be alive. Grateful to Raphael for placing that call, although, he might have thought twice if he'd known. He runs his hand over his ribs, up to the wound on his head and is grateful once more that the bleeding has stopped but that is the least of his problems. Francisco had escaped. Sloped off the moment the police showed up, leaving his men in the heart of the battle. Limping fretfully through the shadows with an arm slung round Raphael, he makes his way to the front of the building and across the street to his bike. He doesn't have much time and he's knows he's cutting it close - with the police inside and Francisco on the loose, he knows he's running out of options. But he knows what he needs to do. He needs to find Francisco and he needs to find him fast. Turning towards Raphael he places his hands on the boy's shoulders and shakes. Just enough for a wordless thanks and turns to retrieve his helmet.
"Where are you going?" Raphael asks as he watches Pepito slip the helmet over his head.
"Francisco's place"
"You know how to get there? 'Cause if you're lookin' for a guide I can show you the way."
But Pepito shakes his head. He'd already done enough.
"Go home." He says, "I can take it from here." And he straddles his bike with a stifled groan and hopes in his heart that he can.
"Wait a minute ..." Raphael shouts above the roar of the bike as he digs in his pocket and pulls out Pepito's gun. "Here," he says holding it out in the palm of his hand. "You'll be needing this." Pepito takes the gun and tucks it back in his holster. Then he twists on the throttle and revs up the engine.
"Go home now." He says, one last time. Raphael dips his head with his feet shuffling backwards as Pepito speeds past him and into the night.

Luck or savvy, it's a close call but after a few wrong turns and a near miss, Pepito eventually returns to the house, this time, of his own volition. How could he forget those stairs and those fateful steps where he'd caught his foot and stumbled. He turns off the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition, just in case he needs to make a quick exit and pushes the bike up the driveway. Pushing it in by the side of the bushes he checks out the house. A light shines out from a ground floor window and Pepito moves towards it. His head is throbbing and his left leg drags but he makes it to the side of the building without any major incident. He'd enter in style with a knock on the door but somehow he doesn't think that it's fitting. As far as Francisco is concerned he's still laying on the floor of the warehouse with a crack in the ribs or a slug in the guts, it doesn't make much difference. He probably thinks that he's dead, which at this point in time, is perfectly fine with Pepito. It gives him the edge, the element of surprise and it was best to keep things simple. Best to surprise him with a gun in his hand because he knows with a knot in the pit of his gut that this time, Francisco will kill him. It was best not to take any chances. Hugging the walls with his body pressed flat, Pepito slips round the back of the house and looks for a point of entry. Any means he can enter the house without arousing Francisco's suspicion. Like a window unlatched, or a door unlocked, or that balcony above his head. Tucking his gun back in its holster, he decides to take the chance. Take the chance that the drainpipe will hold him and the window will open when he gets there. He starts to climb, dragging his left leg and leaning on his right with his hands clasped tight to the drainpipe. Clasped tight around the rusted metal he pulls himself upwards, higher and higher, with his shirt riding up and his belly scraping plaster until he reaches the safety of the balcony. One leg over and the other hanging back he has to coax it over the railing with the weight of his body as he pitches himself forwards and lands face down on concrete. He picks himself up, knees bent, back hunkered down and moves towards the window. As luck would have it, it's open, he only has to pull out his gun and push on the glass to enter. It's dark but he can make his way forwards by the light that seeps through the doorway. He stops when he reaches the top of the stairs. His breathing is tight and his chest is pounding but he pushes himself onwards. Down those stairs, one step at a time, with his gun held firmly between his sweating palms until he finds himself at the bottom. And he can't quite recall how he got there or exactly what it is that he's doing. But he doesn't let that stop him. He flicks his head up and down the hallway and counts off the doors from the entrance. The entrance where he was forced with his gun at his back and up to the room where they led him. He stops outside the door and presses his ear to the wood. Draws in his breath and listens. He listens with his gun clenched tight in his palm and the barrel laying flush with his cheek. When he's ready, when his heart has stopped pounding and his breathing resumed, he steps backwards, arms outstretched with the gun held high and opens the door with the heel of his boot.
Francisco stops what he's doing. He straightens his back with the speed of a whip and spins around. Pepito steps forwards with the gun held out as a tremor runs down the length of his arm and shakes the tip of the barrel. But he keeps on walking. He keeps up the act with his eyes skimming over the scene, taking in the open bag laying on the floor and the notes piled up on the table. By the time he steps up to Francisco he has it all figured out.
"Leaving so soon?" He asks with a tilt of his brow and a nod to the cash on the table.
Francisco dips his head, turning his back to Pepito and continues piling the bundles of money into the bag.
"We can make this as painless as you like Detective Pons." He says, straightening his back. "I can tell you who killed Rosa or you can shoot me now." He holds his arms out, his hands curled around a couple of bundles gripped in the palms of his hands. "It's your call."
"I already know who killed Rosa ..." Pepito says as he circles the room with his gun poking out in front of him. "And as for you, I'll let the police decide that."
"Correction ... you think you know who killed Rosa but really, you're way off track."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Two words Detective Pons ... Not guilty." Francisco finishes piling the bundles of money into the bag and sits down on a chair with his feet hitched up on the table. "Take a load off."
He motions for Pepito to sit down in the chair opposite with a generous sweep of his hand. Pepito shakes his head.
"Suit yourself."
Stepping over to the chair, he circles around behind it with the gun still trained on Francisco.
Let me tell you something ... I know about your stake in the those girls ... I know all about how you pick them up and then pass them along for a fee of course ..."
"Of course."
"And I also know that Rosa found out about it and maybe she didn't like what she saw ... maybe she started leaning on you for money to keep her mouth shut."
"Blackmail?"
"Exactly."
It's a nice theory Detective Pons but if you think that Rosa was leaning on me, then you're more stupid than I thought. Even more stupid than your coming here to confront me." Francisco rises from the chair and crosses to the bar on the other side of the room with a nonchalant swing in his step. Reaching over, he picks out a bottle of malt from the glass shelf behind and turns towards Pepito.
"Drink?"
Pepito shakes his head. "Maybe I'm not as stupid as you think." He moves towards Francisco with the gun shaking in his hand and his left leg dragging painfully behind him. "I found out about those girls didn't I? I followed a trail that started with Rosa but it's bigger than that isn't it? It's bigger than Rosa now ... but guess what? That trail leads right back here to you." He lifts his head and swipes a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face. Was it just Pepito or had somebody turned up the heat. He tucks a finger inside his shirt collar and runs it around the back of his neck. Perhaps it was the rain, evaporating slowly, releasing its steam into the night, loosening shirt collars and the tongues of men with a clammy lick from its humid breath.
"And I know one thing for sure," Pepito continues, his brow slick with a sticky sweat. "I know you're in this thing right up to your scrawny neck."
"Francisco smirks and uncorks the bottle with his teeth clamped tightly over the stopper. He takes his time pouring a large whiskey into a tumbler before he turns and raises his glass in the air.
"To your health, Detective Pons and the short time you have left with it." Then he lifts the glass to his lips and flips his head back so that the whiskey slips down his throat in one long, fluid movement. He slams the glass back down on the counter when he's finished.
"You're right of course, except on one small point ..." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I didn't kill Rosa. You think you've got it all figured out ... except, you're missing something Detective Pons ..." He saunters over to the chair and rests his hands on the back. "You've been looking at things all the wrong way, in fact, your eyes have been so close to your dick, you're almost blinded."
Pepito shakes his head. Shakes the pounding inside his skull, shakes the stiffness that grips his neck. He doesn't know how much longer he can keep this up. Keep up this act and keep up the banter. Keep up this stance because his arms are aching from the weight of the gun and his back still twinges from the heel of a boot. And his mind is spinning, whirling around inside his skull. If he closes his eyes the spinning increases. But he won't give up, not just yet. He won't give in to the Francisco's voice because he knows what he's up to - he has it all figured out. He's opening his mouth and letting his guts do the talking. Trying to blab his way out of a tight situation, saying anything that will throw him off the mark. But Pepito's not convinced. He's exhausted and battered but not quite broken. Sticking close to his instincts and stepping up to the moment he hitches the gun a little higher, level with Francisco's head and takes a deep breath.
"Step out from the chair and keep your hands where I can see them."
"Really?" Francisco starts to laugh but Pepito persists, even though the lights are slowly fading and the walls are closing in.
"I said step out and hands up, I haven't got all night and I'm taking you in."
"What is this? A bad line from a B-movie ... you're taking me in?"
Pepito nods and flicks his gun.
"Have you been listening or does your dick affect your hearing as well?"
"I've been listening all right and I've heard enough." Pepito moves towards him. He grabs Francisco's arms from behind his back and swings him round. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out his cuffs but Francisco breaks away before he can slip them on his wrists.
"You're still not convinced ... Is that it? Maybe I should have killed you when Mariquita told me to. Maybe I should have wiped you out when I still had the chance."
Pepito steps backwards, one, two, maybe three steps before his legs buckle beneath him and his gun dips for the count of a heartbeat but he manages to gather his strength to steady his legs.
"You're lying."
"Am I?" Francisco steps forwards, his hands clasped behind his back as he circles around Pepito. "Tell me, where do you think all that money came from to start her clubs ... stripping?" He starts to laugh. Pepito shakes his head, his eyes are clouding over and the pounding in his skull is growing louder, drowning out his protests and messing with his sense.
"You'll say anything now, you'll say anything to get out of this." He stumbles backwards.
"That's right Detective Pons, I'll say anything now, especially the truth ... what have I got to lose?" He pulls out his hands, opens his palms and holds them up in the air. "See ... no tricks, nothing up my sleeve."
Pepito tries to focus but the pain inside his head is playing with his vision and Francisco keeps talking. Talking. Talking. Talking.
"The way I see it ... 'cause let's face it, Detective Pons, you need some help here ... you need some help to see things clearly, otherwise, you'd be asking yourself how come I knew where to send my men that night to pick you up?"
"What?" The hammering is growing louder.
"You were at Mariquita's place that night, isn't that right?"
"Shut up." Louder in his head.
"No, not now, we're just getting started."
Pepito closes his eyes for a second and by the time he opens them again, Francisco is standing on the other side of the room with his back to Pepito. How long had he closed them for? He couldn't really tell but he was sure it was only a moment and that hammering in his head. Louder and louder, he can't even be sure of what he said.
"What's wrong Detective Pons ... can't take the truth? 'Cause the truth is she's been playing you like a sucker ... she's been playing you all along."
Pepito shakes his head, lifts his arm and drags his sleeve across his forehead to stop the sweat from dripping down his face and stinging his eyes.
"You're in too deep Detective Pons but you know that don't you?"
Pepito feels the room sway beneath his feet as Francisco's voice grows distant. Lurching forwards he grasps the back of a chair and steadies himself with his legs splayed and his feet braced at the ankle.
"Keep talking ... just keep trying to talk your way out of it." He slurs his words and knows that with each half-baked truth that trips from Francisco's lips he is slipping further from the edge. The edge of truth. The edge of reason. The edge of Pepito's consciousness.
"Here's how I see it, Detective Pons ... Rosa turns up at her house and blackmails Mariquita, tells her she'll blow her cover and of course, Mariquita doesn't like that ...." He clucks his tongue. "They fight, she hits Rosa over the head with something, anything and she falls in the pool ... dead ... right?"
Pepito shakes his head again and slips a little further.
"Then Mariquita gets rid of the body and because Carlos is kicking up such a stink, dumb schmuck, she gets you to run around town like you know what you're doing ... which you don't, which suits Mariquita 'cause she doesn't want you finding out the truth anyway ... it would bring you sniffin' round her door, wouldn't it?"
Pepito pulls himself slowly around the chair and sits down heavily, his eyes drooping at the lid and his gun slumped in his lap. He's beat. Too weak to keep it up and too gutted to even try. With a sting in his heart he knows that what Francisco is telling him is a plausible scenario, something he hadn't even wanted to consider, until now. And quite frankly, he doesn't care. He's run out of reasons to keep up this whole charade. Run out of time and run out of strength. Francisco would probably kill him right now, if he had the chance and why not? What was stopping him? He could stroll over right now if he felt like it, take his gun from out of his hand, press it to his pounding head and pull the trigger. Who was to stop him? Who was to stop him from taking off with that bag full of money and perhaps even Mariquita, the two of them taking flight together. He leans forwards and buries his head in his hands groaning from the effort and when he looks up, Francisco is standing before him with a neat little gun tucked in his palm.
"So this is it?" He asks with his voice trapped in the back of his throat. "This is how it's going to end?"
Francisco dips his head. "I'm afraid so Detective Pons but don't feel so bad ... it was always gonna end this way, sooner or later." He raises the gun and points it straight at Pepito's throbbing temple. "Close your eyes ..." He says as his finger curls around the trigger. "Close your eyes and take a bow."

A shot is fired and Pepito feels the blood drain with chilling speed, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. He blinks. He gasps. He clutches his heart. He waits for the pain to start but it never comes. He opens his eyes and jumps to his feet with his hands desperately skimming over his body. Searching for a bullet hole, a wound, a patch of blood staining his sky blue shirt but there is nothing. His gaze slides down and stretches out, over his shoes, over the brightly polished tiles protruding beneath his feet, creeping forwards slowly, reluctantly, until it comes to rest with a gasp in his throat on the prostrate body of Francisco Turó. He's laying very still with his legs splayed out at an awkward angle and his head pitched forwards in a pool of blood which gently seeps around his ashen face in a darkened, sticky kind of halo. Francisco Turó. El Malo. El Mort. Still warm to the touch. Still warm to the touch but stone cold dead. Shot through the back of his well tanned head. He closes his eyes and swallows hard. Swallows the bile that rises from his gut, swallows the acid that lurches to his throat and fills his mouth with its burning flame. But it's too late. Too late to turn back the clock, too late to begin this life again and stop his stomach from spilling at his feet. Wiping his mouth with a shaking hand he straightens his back and opens his eyes. Opens his eyes and raises his head. It's then that he sees him. Standing by the door with his eyes staring wildly, legs braced beneath him and arms outstretched. Shoulders straining forwards at an awkward angle as a shudder ripples down one side of his body and breaks the wispy trail of smoke ascending from the barrel.

28. THE SHIT HITS THE FAN contd.

It's dark but his vision adjusts quickly to the dimness sufficiently to pick out the darting forms of rats, scurrying into the shadows. His skin crawls at the sight of them but his stomach is strong. He presses forwards, pushing the man in front with his left hand clamped around the shotgun and the right, pressing the gun into his back. They shuffle awkwardly, using various packing crates that are scattered around the room for cover. And then he sees them, standing in the middle of the cavernous space, lined up and ready for inspection with their feet bound together and their hands tied behind them. He moves closer, leaning forwards and hissing threats in the man's ear with a menacing whisper.
"Not a sound, not a fucking sound or I'll blow your fucking brains out." It was surprising how much he'd learned. They trip forwards, Pepito forcing the man in front with impatient prods from his gun. Trips forwards, avoiding the rats, until they come to a darkened clearing amongst the crates and stop.
Two shots in the air and he has their attention. He'd flash his badge but he doesn't have time. A movement in the corner as one reaches into his jacket but Pepito shakes his head. A slow, practiced gesture. He grabs his man around the neck and presses the gun to the side of his head.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS." He shouts with the authority of a pro and his gun cocked and ready but he's hoping that he won't have to prove it.
"I SAID DROP THEM ... NOW." He repeats his command, gagging almost as the words jostle forwards, fighting for space in his mouth. The two men glance at each other with a confused expression creasing their brow and then slowly bend forwards, placing their shotguns on the floor at their feet.
"KICK 'EM OVER TO ME." Pepito tightens his grip on the other man's neck as they push the shotguns towards him with an impatient flick of their toe.
"Shoulda dropped you when we had the chance." One of them says as he straightens his back and raises his hands in the air. Pepito pushes his man from him and bends forwards with his eyes flicking between the three of them. Larry, Curly and Moe. He retrieves the shotguns one by one and places them on top of a crate. Then he steps forwards with his gun trained on the one who spoke and his eyes darting between the other two.
"WHERE'S FRANCISCO?" He barks out the question as he moves towards them, his gun still held out in front and his hands slick with sweat. "I SAID WHERE IS HE?"
"He'll be here." He eventually says as he dips his head and spits on the floor.
Pepito checks his watch. 1.48 am and counting. He flips his head over to the girls who are huddled together, shaking with fear.
"WHAT'S HAPPENING TO THEM?"
"They're being picked up."
"BY WHO?"
"You'll find out soon enough ..." He drops his hands and reaches into his pocket.
"HEY, HEY, HEY." Pepito shouts his gun wavering in the air. "KEEP THOSE HANDS UP WHERE I CAN SEE 'EM."
The man laughs and pulls out a cigarette which he flips into his mouth. "Take it easy Detective Pons." He says through the side of his mouth. "You wouldn't happen to have a light now would you?"
Pepito shakes his head. He moves towards the girls with his gun still trained on the men.
"UNTIE THEM." He motions to the man he'd surprised out front, flicking his head impatiently although, he's not sure what he'll do with them. He's stalling really and stalling fast.
"I SAID UNTIE THEM."
He steals a glance at the other two before moving reluctantly towards them. As he unties them he jerks them around roughly, sneering in their faces as though they were the ones pointing the gun at the back of his head and not Pepito. But they can only rub their wrists and stare; bleary eyed through lack of sleep or drugs, or both; at the unfamiliar surroundings. Then they start to talk amongst themselves, cautiously at first, their voices rising as they begin to test their limbs until Pepito shakes his head and raises his finger to his lips in that international gesture of silence. They stop talking at once and shuffle up behind him.
How long? How long did Pepito have to wait like this? With his gun held high and his options running low the best he could do was to cover his back and sit tight. A trickle of sweat slips down his brow and stings his eye. He blinks. Closes his eye for a second as he wipes his brow with the back of his hand and when he opens them again the men are watching him. Two of them are slumped against a crate while the other drawing angrily on the end of the cigarette, narrows his eyes to a slit as he peers through the smoke.
"How's this gonna play out Detective Pons." He says as he pitches the butt onto the dusty floor with a lazy flick of his wrist. "I mean just so's I know ... you gonna shoot us?"
Pepito stands his ground but his arms are tiring, they feel limp and numb from holding the gun so tightly up in the air. How should he respond? If the truth be told, he'd never shot anyone. Never needed to. Never had to. And if one thing is clear as he points the gun, with a tremor in his trigger finger, he knows that he never will. But he has to bluff them somehow and act like he could, act like he should so he flicks his gun with his fingers squeezed tight to stop them shaking and motions for them to step forwards. One at a time. Real slow. Pushing them sideways with the barrel of his gun he herds them into the middle of the room and pushes them down to the floor. Face down, legs splayed out and hands behind their backs, he makes use of the ropes, with the help of the women, to secure their wrists. When they're done, he stretches upright and breathes an audible sigh of relief. Three down and one to go, at least that's what he's counting on - not to mention the police, if they ever show up. His original plan was to stay out of sight and watch the proceedings from a secluded vantage point but as things progressed he felt he had to act. He had to do something. He had to step in and step up to the challenge. The only problem now concerns Francisco and again he asks with the point of his toes nudging the nearest man's foot.
"Where the hell is Francisco?" As soon as the question trips from his lips he gets his answer. It comes from behind, on stealthy feet and cracks him on the skull with something heavy and something blunt. Pepito crumples forwards landing on his knees as his gun slips from his grasp and hits the floor with a clatter of metal. His hands reach up to grasp his head, stop his skull from splitting open but it's too late. The room starts spinning and he slumps forwards, his vision fading fast. The last thing he sees before his face kisses concrete is the stricken image of the girl in the passport as she reaches out to catch him.

A boot in the ribs and he winces with pain. They're urging him to sit upright, urgently, digging their toes into his back and stomach until he pulls himself sluggishly into a sitting position. They're shouting at him and waving their arms and then one slaps him across the face and he's down again. He tries to focus but a quick, sharp fist blocks his vision. He tries to sit up but his back is made of rubber, it bends when he least expects it, like a sapling in a gale.

And then the shouts. And then the shots. And then.

The place is swarming with uniforms. Pepito is being grasped beneath his armpits by a pair of thin, wiry arms. They pull him across the floor, the heels of his father's old shoes leave a snaking trail of leather in the dust as he's dragged out of the way. Out of the way of the bullets which are flying around the place and bouncing off the metal platform with a hollow, steely twang. They pull him to the edge of the room and prop him up behind a packing crate. Prop him up and dust him down. He can feel the fleeting pressure of hands as they skip across his torso, running up over his face to his head and pressing on the wound that has opened up on his forehead.
"Detective Pons ...." The voice is clear and close to his ear. "Detective Pons." It says again in a shrill, anxious whisper. "Detective Pons please ... you've gotta wake up." Pepito opens his eyes and blinks at the face before him. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession until the familiar lines of Raphael's face settle into place. He sits forwards, clutching his head and fights to regain his composure.
"We've gotta get out of here." Raphael says, his voice shaking as he twists his head in several different directions. "They're gonna carve up the place between them. You think you can you walk?"
Pepito dips his head slowly, although he's not sure his legs will agree. He reaches out and grasps the boy around the shoulders and pulls himself to his knees. Then he tests his legs, first the right, then the left carefully pushing up through his aching back until he's eventually standing. He looks around as best he can with his head swaying unsteadily between his shoulders.
"Come on." Raphael urges, pulling a weary Pepito by the edge of his sleeve. "There's a side entrance but we'll have to hurry."
Stumbling blindly forwards, one middle-aged man too old for this lark and his dubious accomplice, they make their way to the side of the building on tangled feet.
"Wait." Shouts Pepito as they reach the farthest wall. He pulls himself from Raphael's grasp with his head turning back to the scene behind him as he searches amongst the chaos of bodies and bullets and girls, who are being rounded up and herded out of the place like cattle at a market. But they're not his immediate concern, not now - now that the police had turned up and taken control of the proceedings. His immediate concern is Francisco and as he searches frantically through the debris, Raphael tugs impatiently at his arm.
"Come on come on come on ... let's go." The words spill from his mouth in an agitated stutter but Pepito stands firm and he won't budge until Raphael informs him that Francisco had already left in a hurry, as soon as the shit hit the fan.

28. THE SHIT HITS THE FAN

Later still, the sky cracked open and pissed on the whole damn town. It came down thick and it came down fast. Fell at an angle and bounced off the roads. Flooded the drains and cleaned out the gutters. Washed all the crap from the deserted streets. But not Pepito, not Detective Pepito Pons. For Pepito has a purpose, he even has a plan. He's crouched in the shadows with his back to the moon, shrugging off the last of the rain as it slips down his neck. Dabbing his face with the sleeve of his jacket, he checks his watch. 12.48am. He stretches his leg and cracks his knuckles, rubs his eyes with a bunched up fist. Not long now - it's what he keeps telling himself. Not long now until the shit hits the fan. All he has to do is sit tight, keep his head down and wait for the police to arrive. He'd asked Raphael to place the call earlier, an anonymous tip off, so to speak. If the police didn't buy it he'd told him to throw in Francisco's name, just for good measure - that would surely make them bite. The only trouble was, could he trust Raphael? His legs are cramping up so he rolls forwards on the balls of his feet and bounces on the spot. Bounces up and down with his mind ticking over, ticking like a time bomb, ticking back to Mariquita. Ticking over her arched, silky neck, down over those smooth, plump breasts and down down down. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and stands up abruptly. Draws his hand down over his face and bends his knees with cracking joints to keep the blood coursing freely through his veins and his wits at the ready. Ready for whatever the night may throw at him, be they badges or bullets, he's ready for both.

1am and a sleek black car pulls slowly into view, its tyres slicing neatly through the puddles collected at the kerb with a languid hiss of water. Pepito stops bouncing on his heels and straightens his back. The headlights dim, doors pop open and three of Francisco's men step out into the moonlight. They close the doors behind them with a forceful nudge from their boots and circle around to the back. One of them with his head twisting sideways, opens the trunk and reaches deep inside. Then they each take a turn, reaching in and pulling out whatever comes to hand. A roll of tape, thick and back; rope; a small sports holdall and three pump action shotguns, gripped tightly between two hands. Pepito feels his own gun pressed against his hip. Hooking his jacket behind him, he reaches back and touches the leather holster with his fingertips. He swallows hard and hopes that when the police show up, they come well armed. A fist punches out and pushes down hard on the lid of the boot, then all three goons stride sullenly towards the building with their shotguns slung over their shoulders. Pepito waits until they disappear inside before he stands up and shakes some feeling back into his legs. Then he checks his watch, again. 1.06am. He's used to waiting, we all know that but at this stage in the game - time is running out. How much longer does he have to wait? How many minutes more before the cavalry rides in? Pepito can't tell - besides, he's growing restless and he can't sit still. He lifts his wrist one last time and glances at his watch before finally comimitting himself to his only course of action. Pushing himself up on shaking legs he weaves his way towards the building with his back bent double and his arms pumping hard. Through the puddles, the garbage and the toppled neon sign laying abandoned in the dirt, he slips up to the side of the building without breaking into a sweat and bolstered by his cunning, he slips around the back. He stops, crushing his spine against the wall and catches his breath. Now all he has to do is find a suitable point of entry. A way to get inside without them even knowing. He tries the door where they'd entered that morning but as luck would have it, it's locked. He taps his chin with an anxious finger and lifts his head up in thought. Lifts his head and lets his eyes fall along the rusted length of an iron platform that hugs the wall above his head. He follows it all the way to the farthest end, where, tucked out of sight by a burnt out dumpster, he can just make out the rungs of a ladder hanging down behind. He hurries towards it, trips over stones in his excitable haste as he stumbles onwards. Hitching his leg as he reaches the ladder and climbs, one precarious step at a time, until he's standing on the balcony, high above the ground. He moves along, slowly, steadily with his back pressed up flat against the wall when he reaches the rotting boards of wood that are tacked across the window. He stops in front, prizes himself from the safety of the wall to take a better look. Then with a smile on his lips, he slides his gun from his holster. Nice and easy. Pushes the muzzle, with the safety catch on, into a crack in the boards and easing down on the handle, he pulls them apart. One by one, carefully placing the boards at his feet until he's finally satisfied. Satisfied that he can squeeze through the gap to the other side without any major mishap.
He lands in a darkened corridor, in a crumpled heap on the floor. He picks himself up and dusts himself off before he continues down the corridor, through the narrow stretch of shadows, with his gun poking out in front. He works his stealthy way along until his hand chances to brush against a doorknob and turning it, he steps out onto another platform. Looking down into the cavern of the club, he instinctively drops to the floor. It must be sixty feet at least, from the ceiling to the floor. He begins to crawl with his eyes shut tight and his gun tapping lightly on the cool metal floor. He feels his way, hands groping blindly, pulling him forwards until a voice cuts through the darkness.
"Stop." Pepito freezes.
"I said stop fuckin' around." Pepito opens his eyes and peers downwards.
"You want Cisco to know you been messin with them?" He dips his head and squints through the grating.
"Move her over, not that way ... her hair is all messed up ..."
"What time is it?" A nervous voice asks and Pepito checks his watch.
"Too fucking late."
"Something's wrong ... something doesn't feel ... right."
"Maybe they got held up ..."
"Maybe."
"Something else came up ..."
"Maybe they're standin' outside .. waiting for us .."
"Maybe you should shut the fuck up."
A pacing of shoes on concrete and a discreet clearing of the throat is broken by a voice Pepito hasn't heard until now.
"I'll go." It said.

He lifts his head and dares to look but he can't make out a thing. It's too dark but he knows that the girls are there, he can smell their fear wafting up through the dampness that permeates the air. And then there's the perfume. Edging his way back along the platform, head down and gun tapping, he moves back through the door and into the corridor. He can see the window at the farthest end with the light from the moon shining through. He makes his way towards it, like a beacon in the dark, his gun pumping up and down as he walks quickly forwards. When he reaches the window he leans on the wood to catch his breath. And suddenly, it strikes him, like a fist in the gut, that maybe the cavalry wouldn't make it on time, if the cavalry made it at all. He curses quietly beneath his breath. Curses Raphael and curses himself. And the more he thinks about it the more he's convinced that he'll have to go it alone. He pulls himself awkwardly through the window and back out onto the platform. He's winging it now, making it up as he goes along, one cautious step at a time back over the rusted platform. But he knows what he has to do. He's known it all along. As soon as his foot touches down on concrete he makes his way to the front of the building, sticking close to the side of the walls. Edging forwards, he pulls himself tight into the shadows, pokes his head out from the side of the building and checks the street. Standing in the moonlight, one of Francisco's men is drawing savagely on the end of a cigarette with one hand while the other has the shotgun hitched up against his shoulder. Stepping out from the shadows, Pepito cocks his gun and holds it up, pointing straight at the man in front.
"STOP." He stops. He stops sucking on the end of the cigarette and flicks the butt out into the night with a nervous twitch from his fingertips.
"PUT THE GUN DOWN." He bends at the knee and places the gun on the ground at his feet.
"HANDS UP." He raises them high in the air.
"STEP BACK." He steps back.
"TURN AROUND ..." He turns, hands above his head, upper body twisting round.
"REAL SLOW." He does as Pepito requests with his bottom half completing the movement with a languorous twist from the waist. And now Pepito stands before him with his eyes narrowed and his mouth set. Reaching down, he picks up the shotgun and swings it over to rest on his forearm. Instinctively, the man steps backwards, his hands held aloft and his head pivoting right and left as he checks out his means of escape. But there are none immediately forthcoming. Except for the squat, balding, middle-aged man in front whose gun, flicking from side to side, suggests that he turn and with sharp, rhythmic nudges in the small of his back, pushes him towards the building.