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Monday, June 13, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
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Thursday, September 16, 2010
33. AN ENDING
It had to come, somehow. It always does, sooner or later.
And if this is not the time, the place, the moment, the last freeze-frame then I have been working towards that goal under false illusions. Maybe that's all we have in the end. False illusions. A look, a gesture, a note in the voice.
It's all an act, practiced over time and rehearsed to perfection.
And if this is not the time, the place, the moment, the last freeze-frame then I have been working towards that goal under false illusions. Maybe that's all we have in the end. False illusions. A look, a gesture, a note in the voice.
It's all an act, practiced over time and rehearsed to perfection.
Monday, September 13, 2010
32. THE FINAL CURTAIN
They drive. Drive all the way back to Francisco's place. Just to check. But the place is deserted. No lights, No coppers. No Carlos. Not even a body, just a stain on the floor and the bag, the bag with the money that was left on the floor, is gone.
"Let's go," she says with the gun in his back and with a sickening stab in the pit of his gut he knows, his time is coming soon. Sooner than he'd bargained for, sooner than he'd thought. He can taste it, taste his whole damn life crammed inside his mouth. Feel the fleeting mass of years slip back down his throat. And yet, curiously, as soon as he swallows this certainty of fate, his nervousness evaporates, like the sweat on his brow and his instincts kick into place. That gut wrenching, heart pounding instinct to survive. And he resigns himself to the conviction that at some point he will have to fight for his life. Not now perhaps, not while that gun is nuzzling his spine, but soon. When her back is turned or her vision distracted, he knows he has to strike. The only question left to consider is how. With what. And when.
As for Gloria, she decides to walk. Walk all the way to Pepito's shop. It would be easier, perhaps, to flag down a taxi but the early morning air is cool on her cheek and she welcomes the break from the heat. As she turns a corner a breeze picks up, whipping up her skirt and stretching her head back she opens her arms and embraces the air as it rushes over her body. She holds her breath until the breeze backs off and then continues up the street, with her lungs full of air and her senses awakened. When she reaches the Cathedral, she stops. Tips her chin upwards and notes the progression made since the last time she'd looked, which had been awhile since she hardly ever took the time to notice. Usually, she kept her head down and walked at a brisk pace. Avoiding the dazed huddle of tourists, necks craned and maps unfolded as they stood in the middle of the street. Dazed by the sight of Gaudi's plans and oblivious to the life that thrummed around them. She stands for awhile, gazing at the doves perched on the facade as though they had just landed there and the stonework like sculpted lace on the turrets and her mind slips back, back to the time when she had stood there on that very same spot, more than thirty years ago, with her husband on her arm. She shakes her head, smiling secretly to herself and continues moving slowly down the street with the letter gripped tight in her pocket. She's played it safe her whole life and she's tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of the past. Tired of not taking any chances. And yet, here's her chance. A chance for her to change her life. A chance to lay the past to rest and reclaim a little happiness.
Somewhere along their drive, she begins to talk. She opens her mouth and the words spill over as though she's testing them to see how they sound. Pepito has no choice, with his hands clamped tight on the steering wheel and his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he has to listen. There's no going back. No way to escape the sound of her voice as she paves the way for her confession. No way to deny that she'd led him on, fooled him from the beginning and even though he tries to resist, deep down inside he's still curious.
"You know, I used to see you at the club .... I used to see you watching me and I thought now I wonder what kind of man he is ..." She turns her head and gazes out of the window before turning back to face him. "Now I know, don't I?" She flips her head back and lets the laughter wash over her while Pepito, his knuckles clenched tight, waits for her to regain her composure. He could swerve of the road right now, if he wanted to, take her by surprise, grab the gun but he decides to let her keep talking, at least while her mouth was moving she wouldn't think to kill him.
"You know Mr. Pons ..."
He flinches when he hears his name and braces himself for the worst.
"I can call you that can't I? Because the truth is, I've known about you for some time now but don't worry, your secret's safe with me ..." She sits forwards her breath having dropped to a whisper, grazes the side of his face. "I won't tell anyone." She sits back, her elbow resting on the slope of her hip and the gun, cupped in her hand, lingers around his lap before rising slowly to point at his face. "I just want to know, what drives a man like you? Is it money?"
Pepito clenches his jaw and stares out at the road in front. She should have just slapped him in the face, it would have been quicker and easier. He swallows hard and grips the wheel tighter.
"You couldn't even begin to understand."
"But I think I do ... I think we are the same you and I ... deep down," she rests her hand on his leg. "I think we have more in common that you'd like to admit."
"Is that what made you kill Rosa? Did it all come down to money?"
"Everything comes down to money in the end." She retracts her hand like she's been slapped on the wrist and flicks her gun to the left. "Turn here."
They turn off the main road and onto a smaller street and the spires of Gaudi's Cathedral loom up behind the buildings suspended against the darkness. Pepito knows this place. This street, these houses, this neighbourhood and with a sinking feeling that floods his gut, he knows where they are going. She's taking him back to the shop. How long she'd known, he could only guess. He glances at her from the corner of his eye but she's gazing out at the road ahead, lost in thought. Now it's Pepito's turn to speak. He feels the urge as a wave of words begin to swell up in his throat and he spits them out with his back braced stiff and his lips curling over his teeth.
"She was blackmailing you, wasn't she?"
She keeps her eyes on the road in front.
"She turned up at your place that night but she never left and you seized your chance when her back was turned."
A spasm tugs at the edge of her mouth but she doesn't break her silence.
"You hit her on the head, knocked her out and then pushed her in the pool where she drowned."
She turns to face him. "Was that Francisco's theory?"
"Perhaps?"
"Then perhaps he'd missed the point."
"What point?"
"The point that I didn't hit her with anything, in fact, she attacked me."
"Are you saying it was self defence?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
Pepito doesn't answer but keeps his eyes trained on the road ahead.
"We struggled and she fell, we were standing by the pool and she must have hit her head on the side when she went down, it happened so fast ..."
"Is that why you washed her body down with bleach afterwards ..."
She turns her face away from him and stares out of the window. "I don't know what I was thinking, I just need to get her as far away from me," she stops and swallows before continuing, "and Carlos."
"You mean you needed to cover your tracks ... make sure no-one would find her ..."
"She was a little tramp, a money grabbing little tramp ..."
"Unlike yourself." The words slip out before Pepito can stop them and Mariquita spins around in her seat, her mouth contorted and her hand rising up to strike him. She lowers it slowly and leans forwards, her breath hot and fast.
"She would've broken his heart." She slumps backwards and raises her hand to her face. "She would've crushed him."
"Carlos? You think you did him a favour?"
She turns her head and wipes a tear from the corner of her eye that is threatening to spill over and betray her. "I did what I had to do at the time ... I had no choice, she was going to tell him everything ... the girls, Francisco ..."
"And the baby?"
"It wasn't his."
"Did she tell you?"
"What do you think? What do you know about a woman's heart? It would have destroyed him and I couldn't let that happen."
"So you killed her instead."
She doesn't answer but keeps her eyes fixed on the road in front until the silence becomes too much for her.
"You think I planned all this?"
Pepito shrugs. "Didn't you ask her to come to your place that night?"
"I wanted her to know that she still had a chance with Carlos, he would've taken care of her but she just laughed at me ... she laughed at him, she said he couldn't give her what she wanted ... she wanted more, she always wanted more ... and then things turned ugly, she started talking about the racket Cisco was running and yeah ... I played my part ..."
"And you took your cut."
"So what ... you think you can sit there and judge me, we all take a cut Pepito Pons, even you."
Pepito shakes his head. "I've never pretended to be something I'm not."
"Sure you have, you can sugar coat it all you like but it all comes down to the same thing in the end. We're both playing a part."
Pepito sits forwards, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. Her words have unnerved him. He flicks his eyes to the side and glances at her face. Perhaps she was right but it was too late now. Too late to wander down another path. He'd made his choices a long time ago. He'd grabbed his dream and he'd taken control. And there was no going back.
She sits forwards, craning her neck towards the windscreen and peers at the buildings in front.
"We're almost there but I'm sure you've guessed where we're going by now."
Pepito can see the shop looming up in front of him like an impending disaster. Something he'd rather avoid but somehow, he's powerless to stop it. Easing his foot up on the accelerator he swings the car into the side of the road and switches off the engine. He takes a long, hard look at the shop with its worn down step and cluttered windows before turning towards Mariquita.
"You still have a choice you know. You always had a choice." His voice is small and fragile, trapped in the back of his throat.
"Choice? What choice?" We never had a choice you and I Pepito Pons, we are what we are as for myself, I've worked too hard and I've come too far and I'm never going back."
He's fumbling with the keys. His fingers itch and dance despite themselves but he's faking it. He's stalling for time. Digging into his pocket, groping, fumbling, locating them eventually, then lifting them up to his face, fingering each one until he drops them with a curse on his breath. Drops them to the ground. Bending down, he gropes along with his hands skirting around the jerky, rhythmic tap from Mariquita's foot as she stands impatiently beside him. She's nervous now, she twists her head up and down the street and urges him onwards with a restless groan, the gun twitching in her hand. He picks them up and tries again, selecting one between finger and thumb and pushes it into the lock. But he has to be careful. He has to play it safe so he turns the key in the lock and pulls down on the handle. The door clicks open. He steps inside, tripping over the threshold with Mariquita pushing him forwards with the muzzle of her gun.
"So this is where the great Detective Pons operates from." She says with a smirk on her lips. "This is where it all goes down."
Closing the door with a bump from her hip she walks around and makes her way to the back of the shop. She slips behind the counter.
"How did you know?" He flicks his head to the side away from the gun. "How did you know about all this?"
"I did some checking of my own Pepito Pons, or should I say Detective Pons." She flips her head back and laughs, a curdling rattle from the depths of her gut. "I can see it all now." She lowers the gun and turns around. Running her fingers over the shelf at the back she reaches upwards on the points of her toes and grabs a box of cigars. Then she opens the box with a flick from her thumb and raises the box to her face. And it's now that his time has come, while her nose it buried amongst those fattened stumps, it's now that he has to act. Seize the moment with his own two hands and hopefully change the outcome. But he has to move fast so he lunges forwards with an awkward leap, landing on the scratched glass case with a slap from his belly, his legs in the air and his hands reaching out towards Mariquita. He swipes at the air. Makes a grab for the gun, latching onto her wrist as he twists her skin. She drops the box on the counter, a cry cutting forth from her contorted lips and a few of the cigars roll out and fall on the floor. And when he almost has it, when he's almost wrested the gun from her loosening grip she dips her free hand into her pocket and pulls out the Astra 400. Pressing it to the side of his head, her fingers curling around the trigger, she wrenches her wrist from his slackening grasp.
"Nice try," she says, pulling back the safety catch. "Now drop the gun." She grinds Pepito's gun into the soft flesh of his temple and he has no choice but to submit. He drops the gun with a hollow clatter. It's the sound of defeat and Pepito knows it. He took a chance and he almost made it but he hadn't counted on that gun. His father's old gun. Who would believe it? His father's pride and joy, nestled in her pocket just waiting for the moment to be pressed up tight to that dip in his brow. Cursing beneath his breath he slides off the counter and stands on his feet. He straightens his back. Lifts his hand and tugs on his collar. And slowly, without a tremor on his lips, he opens his mouth and asks for the first time and most likely for the last.
"What now?"
They climb the stairs, one weary step after another. He climbs those stairs like a condemned man, acutely aware of his surroundings. That stain on the wall, he's seen a million times before and yet, now he sees it as though it were for the first time. Through willing eyes. Eyes that take in everything, in every detail, for the last time. And he thinks to himself that if he were given half a chance, if he should survive all this then he'll see to that stain on the wall. It's a silent promise, a desperate pact, as he reaches the top and stands on the landing, waiting for Mariquita to sidle up beside him.
"What's through there?" She asks as she pokes the gun in behind him.
"The kitchen."
"And there?" She flicks her head sideways.
"The bedroom." She pushes him forwards with his gun jammed between his shoulder blades.
"Ironic isn't it?" She asks as she pushes him towards the bedroom but she doesn't want an answer. Shoving him into the room, she closes the door behind her. Pepito shuffles over to the wardrobe and gazes at his reflection. His clothes are dirty, hanging loosely from his frame. Shirt sleeve torn at the elbow. Reeks of sweat. Trousers stained. He lifts a hand and drags it over the sagging flesh of his jowls, down to his stump of a neck where the crimson bruise of her kiss is still fresh. Fresh from the throes of that very night where his future had seemed, at the very least, predictable.
Gloria has no trouble slipping into the shop. All it took was a nimble twist from her wrist and the door swung open but then again, it wasn't even locked. She steps forwards on flattened soles and stops. She twists her neck and peers into the shadows, blinking behind her over enormous glasses as her eyes become accustomed to the gloom. Then she cocks her head with a crease in her brow and breathes in deeply, filling her lungs with the musty air and the scent of expensive perfume. She nods slowly to herself, her fingers stroking the letter in her pocket and with a twist in her mouth she turns around. She's heading back towards the door with desolate steps and she would have made it too if it wasn't for the softened crunch beneath her feet. She stops once more and bends down on cracking joints to see one of Cuba's finest crushed beneath her heel. Scraping the contents into her palm, she carries them over to the counter where she lets the debris fall in a flurry of tobacco on the scratched glass case. Then she sees the box which she picks up and settles the remaining cigars into their proper order before bending down to the floor, again. Retrieving two by her foot she places them in the box and sweeps the floor with her hand for more. It's then that she touches it. Cold, hard, glinting metal, she flinches as her fingers brush against the barrel. Stooping downwards on cautious pads as she pulls the gun towards her. She turns around, her head flicking to the right and left as she takes the gun into her hand. Takes the gun and feels the weight pressing down on her palm. Feels her fingers closing around the grooved, wooden grip and curling around the trigger with a will of their own, a purpose. She rises. She straightens her back with a click in her neck and slowly but surely on determined legs, she moves towards the stairs at the back of the shop.
"I'm going to make this as quick and painless as possible." Her voice is droning somewhere beside his ear. "Turn around."
Pepito bites his lip and turns to face her. "I just want to know one thing ... was seducing me part of your plan?"
She dips her head and sighs. "Why not? Isn't that what I'm all about? It's the only weapon I've ever had ... you don't think those men come to my club for stimulating conversation do they? Did you? Was that why you came to see me all those times? So if it's my body your after, I'll use it whenever I can." She moves towards him and hitches the gun a little higher. "Now close your eyes and say Goodnight."
"Not so fast ..." He's stalling for time. Hanging on desperately to what may be the last few moments of his precious life. "What about Carlos? Are you just going to let him take the fall?"
"Fall? What fall?" She lowers the gun, it brushes against his bulging gut and loiters around his groin. "For Francisco? Why would they when they'll find the gun that killed him here ... with your prints on it."
Pepito swallows hard and gives it one last shot. "You didn't do any of this for Carlos, you only think you did but the truth is ... you had a choice to make and you made it and you chose it save yourself."
"So what if I did? And you? By the looks of this place you chose to save yourself too ..." Pepito lowers his head. "That's right Pepito Pons ... you've been faking it too, spreading your name around town, the great Detective Pons, conning everyone with your crappy clothes and crappy act but what gets me ..." She's swinging the gun around the room. "What really gets me is that everyone believed you, I mean ..." She spreads her arms wide. "Why wouldn't they? No-one would think that you weren't what you said you were."
"Except you."
"Except me, that's right ... I had you figured from the beginning."
"So you asked for me especially to keep Carlos from going to the police."
She nods her head.
"You thought you could blackmail me if I got too close."
"Not even close ... I never thought the body would turn up and when it did I thought you'd never find out the truth, I mean ... how could you? You're not a real detective."
"But I did, at least I figured half of it out ... I got the motive, I just got the wrong person."
"Francisco."
"He seemed the most obvious choice."
"Sure he did, except, he might have actually loved her ... besides, why bother with all this, it's too late now."
"It's never too late."
"It is for you ... a bullet to the head with your own gun, simple but effective and with the gun that killed Francisco tucked in your pocket. They'll figure that you just couldn't cope with the fact you killed Francisco. Personally, I don't think they're gonna take too much effort in digging up the truth. You know what I mean?"
Pepito shakes his head. "Even if you kill me now, they'll put two and two together and come looking for you soon enough."
"By then, I'll be long gone."
"You'll never get away with it ..."
"Well, let's just see shall we?" She raises the gun and presses the barrel to the side of his brow, her finger hooked around the trigger and her thumb stroking the safety catch. "Been nice knowing you Detective Pons."
Tightening her grip around the handle she flexes her fingers over the trigger with a gentle pressure which she would have squeezed, there's no doubt about it, if the door hadn't burst open at that crucial moment. Startled by the intrusion, Mariquita whips her head around with the gun following and fires a few shots in the direction of the doorway. She misses, hits the frame with a splintering twang and rushes towards the opened door with her hair flying out behind her. Cupping the gun in her shaking hands, Gloria presses her back a little further into the wall. She should run now while she has the chance but for some strange reason her feet seemed nailed to the floor. Nailed at the heel and nailed at the toe. She can't move and she's perspiring heavily, the drops forming beneath her scalp and slipping down her forehead. Slipping down in great fat globules and stinging her eyes. She opens her mouth to call his name but the sound of her voice is drowned in the moment. The moment a cry rings out from the bedroom. Perhaps it was the shot that spurred him into action, that made him reach out with a reckless hand and grab a fistful of her ink black hair. Grabbed it from the back as it flew out towards him. Grabbed it from the back and swung her around. Prizing her spine from the wall, Gloria pokes her head into the bedroom and watches as Pepito, with a pained expression creasing his brow, wrestles for the gun. They fall on the floor with the gun still clenched in Mariquita's grip and Pepito's hands tightening around her wrists. Struggling for the gun, struggling for his life, in a knot of limbs and a hail of expletives.
And she has to move now, she has to help him so she steps out from the wall and across the doorway with her left foot first and with a flick of her spine, she straightens her back. This is her moment and she has to act. Raising the gun in the air, she stops shaking. She holds her arms out, level with her glasses, closes one eye and narrows the other. She takes one step forwards directing her gaze down the length of the barrel until she has Mariquita, safely in her sights. Neither Pepito nor Mariquita notice as she steps into the room, they're too busy on the floor in a coil of limbs and curses.
"Stop."
Gloria's voice slips out soft and low but neither of them hear her. They're still struggling on the floor in an ungainly tangle with the gun swinging back and forth between them. So she raises the gun a fraction more, clears her throat with a gurgling rasp and tries again. This time, she can feel her voice swelling up inside her.
Swelling up and over as it fills the room and she squeezes on the trigger.
"Let's go," she says with the gun in his back and with a sickening stab in the pit of his gut he knows, his time is coming soon. Sooner than he'd bargained for, sooner than he'd thought. He can taste it, taste his whole damn life crammed inside his mouth. Feel the fleeting mass of years slip back down his throat. And yet, curiously, as soon as he swallows this certainty of fate, his nervousness evaporates, like the sweat on his brow and his instincts kick into place. That gut wrenching, heart pounding instinct to survive. And he resigns himself to the conviction that at some point he will have to fight for his life. Not now perhaps, not while that gun is nuzzling his spine, but soon. When her back is turned or her vision distracted, he knows he has to strike. The only question left to consider is how. With what. And when.
As for Gloria, she decides to walk. Walk all the way to Pepito's shop. It would be easier, perhaps, to flag down a taxi but the early morning air is cool on her cheek and she welcomes the break from the heat. As she turns a corner a breeze picks up, whipping up her skirt and stretching her head back she opens her arms and embraces the air as it rushes over her body. She holds her breath until the breeze backs off and then continues up the street, with her lungs full of air and her senses awakened. When she reaches the Cathedral, she stops. Tips her chin upwards and notes the progression made since the last time she'd looked, which had been awhile since she hardly ever took the time to notice. Usually, she kept her head down and walked at a brisk pace. Avoiding the dazed huddle of tourists, necks craned and maps unfolded as they stood in the middle of the street. Dazed by the sight of Gaudi's plans and oblivious to the life that thrummed around them. She stands for awhile, gazing at the doves perched on the facade as though they had just landed there and the stonework like sculpted lace on the turrets and her mind slips back, back to the time when she had stood there on that very same spot, more than thirty years ago, with her husband on her arm. She shakes her head, smiling secretly to herself and continues moving slowly down the street with the letter gripped tight in her pocket. She's played it safe her whole life and she's tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of the past. Tired of not taking any chances. And yet, here's her chance. A chance for her to change her life. A chance to lay the past to rest and reclaim a little happiness.
Somewhere along their drive, she begins to talk. She opens her mouth and the words spill over as though she's testing them to see how they sound. Pepito has no choice, with his hands clamped tight on the steering wheel and his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he has to listen. There's no going back. No way to escape the sound of her voice as she paves the way for her confession. No way to deny that she'd led him on, fooled him from the beginning and even though he tries to resist, deep down inside he's still curious.
"You know, I used to see you at the club .... I used to see you watching me and I thought now I wonder what kind of man he is ..." She turns her head and gazes out of the window before turning back to face him. "Now I know, don't I?" She flips her head back and lets the laughter wash over her while Pepito, his knuckles clenched tight, waits for her to regain her composure. He could swerve of the road right now, if he wanted to, take her by surprise, grab the gun but he decides to let her keep talking, at least while her mouth was moving she wouldn't think to kill him.
"You know Mr. Pons ..."
He flinches when he hears his name and braces himself for the worst.
"I can call you that can't I? Because the truth is, I've known about you for some time now but don't worry, your secret's safe with me ..." She sits forwards her breath having dropped to a whisper, grazes the side of his face. "I won't tell anyone." She sits back, her elbow resting on the slope of her hip and the gun, cupped in her hand, lingers around his lap before rising slowly to point at his face. "I just want to know, what drives a man like you? Is it money?"
Pepito clenches his jaw and stares out at the road in front. She should have just slapped him in the face, it would have been quicker and easier. He swallows hard and grips the wheel tighter.
"You couldn't even begin to understand."
"But I think I do ... I think we are the same you and I ... deep down," she rests her hand on his leg. "I think we have more in common that you'd like to admit."
"Is that what made you kill Rosa? Did it all come down to money?"
"Everything comes down to money in the end." She retracts her hand like she's been slapped on the wrist and flicks her gun to the left. "Turn here."
They turn off the main road and onto a smaller street and the spires of Gaudi's Cathedral loom up behind the buildings suspended against the darkness. Pepito knows this place. This street, these houses, this neighbourhood and with a sinking feeling that floods his gut, he knows where they are going. She's taking him back to the shop. How long she'd known, he could only guess. He glances at her from the corner of his eye but she's gazing out at the road ahead, lost in thought. Now it's Pepito's turn to speak. He feels the urge as a wave of words begin to swell up in his throat and he spits them out with his back braced stiff and his lips curling over his teeth.
"She was blackmailing you, wasn't she?"
She keeps her eyes on the road in front.
"She turned up at your place that night but she never left and you seized your chance when her back was turned."
A spasm tugs at the edge of her mouth but she doesn't break her silence.
"You hit her on the head, knocked her out and then pushed her in the pool where she drowned."
She turns to face him. "Was that Francisco's theory?"
"Perhaps?"
"Then perhaps he'd missed the point."
"What point?"
"The point that I didn't hit her with anything, in fact, she attacked me."
"Are you saying it was self defence?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
Pepito doesn't answer but keeps his eyes trained on the road ahead.
"We struggled and she fell, we were standing by the pool and she must have hit her head on the side when she went down, it happened so fast ..."
"Is that why you washed her body down with bleach afterwards ..."
She turns her face away from him and stares out of the window. "I don't know what I was thinking, I just need to get her as far away from me," she stops and swallows before continuing, "and Carlos."
"You mean you needed to cover your tracks ... make sure no-one would find her ..."
"She was a little tramp, a money grabbing little tramp ..."
"Unlike yourself." The words slip out before Pepito can stop them and Mariquita spins around in her seat, her mouth contorted and her hand rising up to strike him. She lowers it slowly and leans forwards, her breath hot and fast.
"She would've broken his heart." She slumps backwards and raises her hand to her face. "She would've crushed him."
"Carlos? You think you did him a favour?"
She turns her head and wipes a tear from the corner of her eye that is threatening to spill over and betray her. "I did what I had to do at the time ... I had no choice, she was going to tell him everything ... the girls, Francisco ..."
"And the baby?"
"It wasn't his."
"Did she tell you?"
"What do you think? What do you know about a woman's heart? It would have destroyed him and I couldn't let that happen."
"So you killed her instead."
She doesn't answer but keeps her eyes fixed on the road in front until the silence becomes too much for her.
"You think I planned all this?"
Pepito shrugs. "Didn't you ask her to come to your place that night?"
"I wanted her to know that she still had a chance with Carlos, he would've taken care of her but she just laughed at me ... she laughed at him, she said he couldn't give her what she wanted ... she wanted more, she always wanted more ... and then things turned ugly, she started talking about the racket Cisco was running and yeah ... I played my part ..."
"And you took your cut."
"So what ... you think you can sit there and judge me, we all take a cut Pepito Pons, even you."
Pepito shakes his head. "I've never pretended to be something I'm not."
"Sure you have, you can sugar coat it all you like but it all comes down to the same thing in the end. We're both playing a part."
Pepito sits forwards, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. Her words have unnerved him. He flicks his eyes to the side and glances at her face. Perhaps she was right but it was too late now. Too late to wander down another path. He'd made his choices a long time ago. He'd grabbed his dream and he'd taken control. And there was no going back.
She sits forwards, craning her neck towards the windscreen and peers at the buildings in front.
"We're almost there but I'm sure you've guessed where we're going by now."
Pepito can see the shop looming up in front of him like an impending disaster. Something he'd rather avoid but somehow, he's powerless to stop it. Easing his foot up on the accelerator he swings the car into the side of the road and switches off the engine. He takes a long, hard look at the shop with its worn down step and cluttered windows before turning towards Mariquita.
"You still have a choice you know. You always had a choice." His voice is small and fragile, trapped in the back of his throat.
"Choice? What choice?" We never had a choice you and I Pepito Pons, we are what we are as for myself, I've worked too hard and I've come too far and I'm never going back."
He's fumbling with the keys. His fingers itch and dance despite themselves but he's faking it. He's stalling for time. Digging into his pocket, groping, fumbling, locating them eventually, then lifting them up to his face, fingering each one until he drops them with a curse on his breath. Drops them to the ground. Bending down, he gropes along with his hands skirting around the jerky, rhythmic tap from Mariquita's foot as she stands impatiently beside him. She's nervous now, she twists her head up and down the street and urges him onwards with a restless groan, the gun twitching in her hand. He picks them up and tries again, selecting one between finger and thumb and pushes it into the lock. But he has to be careful. He has to play it safe so he turns the key in the lock and pulls down on the handle. The door clicks open. He steps inside, tripping over the threshold with Mariquita pushing him forwards with the muzzle of her gun.
"So this is where the great Detective Pons operates from." She says with a smirk on her lips. "This is where it all goes down."
Closing the door with a bump from her hip she walks around and makes her way to the back of the shop. She slips behind the counter.
"How did you know?" He flicks his head to the side away from the gun. "How did you know about all this?"
"I did some checking of my own Pepito Pons, or should I say Detective Pons." She flips her head back and laughs, a curdling rattle from the depths of her gut. "I can see it all now." She lowers the gun and turns around. Running her fingers over the shelf at the back she reaches upwards on the points of her toes and grabs a box of cigars. Then she opens the box with a flick from her thumb and raises the box to her face. And it's now that his time has come, while her nose it buried amongst those fattened stumps, it's now that he has to act. Seize the moment with his own two hands and hopefully change the outcome. But he has to move fast so he lunges forwards with an awkward leap, landing on the scratched glass case with a slap from his belly, his legs in the air and his hands reaching out towards Mariquita. He swipes at the air. Makes a grab for the gun, latching onto her wrist as he twists her skin. She drops the box on the counter, a cry cutting forth from her contorted lips and a few of the cigars roll out and fall on the floor. And when he almost has it, when he's almost wrested the gun from her loosening grip she dips her free hand into her pocket and pulls out the Astra 400. Pressing it to the side of his head, her fingers curling around the trigger, she wrenches her wrist from his slackening grasp.
"Nice try," she says, pulling back the safety catch. "Now drop the gun." She grinds Pepito's gun into the soft flesh of his temple and he has no choice but to submit. He drops the gun with a hollow clatter. It's the sound of defeat and Pepito knows it. He took a chance and he almost made it but he hadn't counted on that gun. His father's old gun. Who would believe it? His father's pride and joy, nestled in her pocket just waiting for the moment to be pressed up tight to that dip in his brow. Cursing beneath his breath he slides off the counter and stands on his feet. He straightens his back. Lifts his hand and tugs on his collar. And slowly, without a tremor on his lips, he opens his mouth and asks for the first time and most likely for the last.
"What now?"
They climb the stairs, one weary step after another. He climbs those stairs like a condemned man, acutely aware of his surroundings. That stain on the wall, he's seen a million times before and yet, now he sees it as though it were for the first time. Through willing eyes. Eyes that take in everything, in every detail, for the last time. And he thinks to himself that if he were given half a chance, if he should survive all this then he'll see to that stain on the wall. It's a silent promise, a desperate pact, as he reaches the top and stands on the landing, waiting for Mariquita to sidle up beside him.
"What's through there?" She asks as she pokes the gun in behind him.
"The kitchen."
"And there?" She flicks her head sideways.
"The bedroom." She pushes him forwards with his gun jammed between his shoulder blades.
"Ironic isn't it?" She asks as she pushes him towards the bedroom but she doesn't want an answer. Shoving him into the room, she closes the door behind her. Pepito shuffles over to the wardrobe and gazes at his reflection. His clothes are dirty, hanging loosely from his frame. Shirt sleeve torn at the elbow. Reeks of sweat. Trousers stained. He lifts a hand and drags it over the sagging flesh of his jowls, down to his stump of a neck where the crimson bruise of her kiss is still fresh. Fresh from the throes of that very night where his future had seemed, at the very least, predictable.
Gloria has no trouble slipping into the shop. All it took was a nimble twist from her wrist and the door swung open but then again, it wasn't even locked. She steps forwards on flattened soles and stops. She twists her neck and peers into the shadows, blinking behind her over enormous glasses as her eyes become accustomed to the gloom. Then she cocks her head with a crease in her brow and breathes in deeply, filling her lungs with the musty air and the scent of expensive perfume. She nods slowly to herself, her fingers stroking the letter in her pocket and with a twist in her mouth she turns around. She's heading back towards the door with desolate steps and she would have made it too if it wasn't for the softened crunch beneath her feet. She stops once more and bends down on cracking joints to see one of Cuba's finest crushed beneath her heel. Scraping the contents into her palm, she carries them over to the counter where she lets the debris fall in a flurry of tobacco on the scratched glass case. Then she sees the box which she picks up and settles the remaining cigars into their proper order before bending down to the floor, again. Retrieving two by her foot she places them in the box and sweeps the floor with her hand for more. It's then that she touches it. Cold, hard, glinting metal, she flinches as her fingers brush against the barrel. Stooping downwards on cautious pads as she pulls the gun towards her. She turns around, her head flicking to the right and left as she takes the gun into her hand. Takes the gun and feels the weight pressing down on her palm. Feels her fingers closing around the grooved, wooden grip and curling around the trigger with a will of their own, a purpose. She rises. She straightens her back with a click in her neck and slowly but surely on determined legs, she moves towards the stairs at the back of the shop.
"I'm going to make this as quick and painless as possible." Her voice is droning somewhere beside his ear. "Turn around."
Pepito bites his lip and turns to face her. "I just want to know one thing ... was seducing me part of your plan?"
She dips her head and sighs. "Why not? Isn't that what I'm all about? It's the only weapon I've ever had ... you don't think those men come to my club for stimulating conversation do they? Did you? Was that why you came to see me all those times? So if it's my body your after, I'll use it whenever I can." She moves towards him and hitches the gun a little higher. "Now close your eyes and say Goodnight."
"Not so fast ..." He's stalling for time. Hanging on desperately to what may be the last few moments of his precious life. "What about Carlos? Are you just going to let him take the fall?"
"Fall? What fall?" She lowers the gun, it brushes against his bulging gut and loiters around his groin. "For Francisco? Why would they when they'll find the gun that killed him here ... with your prints on it."
Pepito swallows hard and gives it one last shot. "You didn't do any of this for Carlos, you only think you did but the truth is ... you had a choice to make and you made it and you chose it save yourself."
"So what if I did? And you? By the looks of this place you chose to save yourself too ..." Pepito lowers his head. "That's right Pepito Pons ... you've been faking it too, spreading your name around town, the great Detective Pons, conning everyone with your crappy clothes and crappy act but what gets me ..." She's swinging the gun around the room. "What really gets me is that everyone believed you, I mean ..." She spreads her arms wide. "Why wouldn't they? No-one would think that you weren't what you said you were."
"Except you."
"Except me, that's right ... I had you figured from the beginning."
"So you asked for me especially to keep Carlos from going to the police."
She nods her head.
"You thought you could blackmail me if I got too close."
"Not even close ... I never thought the body would turn up and when it did I thought you'd never find out the truth, I mean ... how could you? You're not a real detective."
"But I did, at least I figured half of it out ... I got the motive, I just got the wrong person."
"Francisco."
"He seemed the most obvious choice."
"Sure he did, except, he might have actually loved her ... besides, why bother with all this, it's too late now."
"It's never too late."
"It is for you ... a bullet to the head with your own gun, simple but effective and with the gun that killed Francisco tucked in your pocket. They'll figure that you just couldn't cope with the fact you killed Francisco. Personally, I don't think they're gonna take too much effort in digging up the truth. You know what I mean?"
Pepito shakes his head. "Even if you kill me now, they'll put two and two together and come looking for you soon enough."
"By then, I'll be long gone."
"You'll never get away with it ..."
"Well, let's just see shall we?" She raises the gun and presses the barrel to the side of his brow, her finger hooked around the trigger and her thumb stroking the safety catch. "Been nice knowing you Detective Pons."
Tightening her grip around the handle she flexes her fingers over the trigger with a gentle pressure which she would have squeezed, there's no doubt about it, if the door hadn't burst open at that crucial moment. Startled by the intrusion, Mariquita whips her head around with the gun following and fires a few shots in the direction of the doorway. She misses, hits the frame with a splintering twang and rushes towards the opened door with her hair flying out behind her. Cupping the gun in her shaking hands, Gloria presses her back a little further into the wall. She should run now while she has the chance but for some strange reason her feet seemed nailed to the floor. Nailed at the heel and nailed at the toe. She can't move and she's perspiring heavily, the drops forming beneath her scalp and slipping down her forehead. Slipping down in great fat globules and stinging her eyes. She opens her mouth to call his name but the sound of her voice is drowned in the moment. The moment a cry rings out from the bedroom. Perhaps it was the shot that spurred him into action, that made him reach out with a reckless hand and grab a fistful of her ink black hair. Grabbed it from the back as it flew out towards him. Grabbed it from the back and swung her around. Prizing her spine from the wall, Gloria pokes her head into the bedroom and watches as Pepito, with a pained expression creasing his brow, wrestles for the gun. They fall on the floor with the gun still clenched in Mariquita's grip and Pepito's hands tightening around her wrists. Struggling for the gun, struggling for his life, in a knot of limbs and a hail of expletives.
And she has to move now, she has to help him so she steps out from the wall and across the doorway with her left foot first and with a flick of her spine, she straightens her back. This is her moment and she has to act. Raising the gun in the air, she stops shaking. She holds her arms out, level with her glasses, closes one eye and narrows the other. She takes one step forwards directing her gaze down the length of the barrel until she has Mariquita, safely in her sights. Neither Pepito nor Mariquita notice as she steps into the room, they're too busy on the floor in a coil of limbs and curses.
"Stop."
Gloria's voice slips out soft and low but neither of them hear her. They're still struggling on the floor in an ungainly tangle with the gun swinging back and forth between them. So she raises the gun a fraction more, clears her throat with a gurgling rasp and tries again. This time, she can feel her voice swelling up inside her.
Swelling up and over as it fills the room and she squeezes on the trigger.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
31. DOUBLE WHAMMY
"Carlos." Pepito feels the name trip from his lips although, he doesn't quite believe it. So he says it again. "Carlos," and pushes forwards on the balls of his feet, his hands stretched out towards him. "Give me the gun Carlos."
And Carlos looks up, wrenches his gaze from the corpse on the floor and finally sees Pepito.
"I had to, don't you see ..."
Pepito nods his head and reaches for the gun. He touches the barrel with the tips of his fingers and coaxes it from his hand.
"You see, don't you? I had to ... I had to do it, for Rosa ..."
Pepito nods again.
"I had to ...."
"It''s all right Carlos," Pepito says with the gun firmly gripped in his palm. "It's all over now." He places the gun in his pocket and strides towards the bar. Lifts a bottle from the shelf behind and grabs a glass from the counter. Sloshing a generous amount into the glass he abandons the bottle on the counter and hurries back towards Carlos.
"Here," he says, pressing the glass to his lips, "it'll help steady your nerves."
But Carlos shakes his head and pushes the glass from the side of his face with an anxious swipe from his paw.
Mariquita pulls a suitcase from the bottom of the cupboard and swings it over the bed where it lands with a soft rustle on the tangled satin sheets. She hasn't touched the bed, nor straightened the sheets since Pepito had lain there several hours before. She hasn't even touched her head to the pillow. Closed her eyes for a second. Nor washed his scent from her slick brown limbs. She doesn't have time for all that. Not now. Not now that she's set the ball in motion. Lobbed it high with her last, best shot and she needs to prepare for it descending. Line it up in her callous sights and see it through. All the way, from that barbarous night right through to the bitter ending.
And Carlos. She slips over to the dresser on the points of her toes and picks up the letter. Her eyes flick absently over the jagged script before she crushes it in the palm of her hand and throws it across the room. Best not to say anything, not yet. She had plenty of time to call him when the plane touched down in the morning. Plenty of time to explain when she was safely out of sight. And still, even then, she would keep her scarlet mouth shut and shield him from the details. Moving back towards the cupboard, she grabs a few of her favourite things and piles them in the suitcase, in no apparent order. Dresses on top of trousers and silk entwined with cotton. The shoes she keeps for last. Presses them down on top of the clothes, pushing their heels into fabric. Squashes them down and closes the lid with her weight pressing down on her hands. Then she stands back and closes her eyes. Raises her hands to the side of her face, rests the pads of her fingers on her temples and with small anxious circles, she rubs. Rubs the blood that pounds through her veins, rubs the pain that shoots through her skull. When she opens her eyes again the pain has spread all over. Throbbing rhythmically to the pulse of her heart and creeping down her neck. But she can't give in, she can't give up when she has to finish what she started. Turning back towards the cupboard she reaches up to the highest shelf, balancing on the points of her toes, pulls out a shoe box and flips the lid. But it's not more shoes that she's after.
"Carlos, are you listening to me Carlos?" Carlos blindly nods his head. The police will be on their way ... they'll know now that Francisco killed Rosa but if they find you here ... if they find you ... You understand what I'm saying to you Carlos?"
He grunts and nods his head again.
"They'll know you killed Francisco ... they'll know Carlos, it doesn't even matter what he's done, they'll take you down anyway. Do you understand? Carlos?"
His hands fly forwards and rest themselves on the big man's shoulders. He shakes. "Carlos." His head clearing rapidly with each hurried beat of his heart. "Carlos please ..."
The big man turns, slowly, turns defiantly and grabs a hold of Pepito's arm. "Leave me," he says, his voice whisper. "Leave me while you still can."
He had no choice. He had to go. The big man said so, with a hushed tone and a vice-like grip on his one good arm. So he hightailed it out of the place with the motor burning and the tyres screaming. Perhaps he should have stayed and taken his chances when the police showed up. Or, perhaps he should just drive all night, let the wind whip through his visor, snatch the tears as they fall from his face with a sting to his bloody conscience. Somehow, somewhere around a break in the clouds and a glimpse of the moon, he ended up back at Mariquita's place. Back where it all really started. Driven there by a nagging doubt and a restless itch in his trousers.
She didn't even hear him coming. Hear his shuffling step and his raggedy breath as he closes the gap to her bedroom. She's still pulling out the contents of her wardrobe, opening boxes, kicking clothes to the side and mumbling under her breath. He stands in the doorway for some moments watching her, trying to piece together what Francisco said. Then there was Carlos. How did he know where to find Francisco? He reaches his hand into his pocket and rests his hand on the gun he had, only moments before, taken from the shaking hand of Carlos. His eyes flick over to the suitcase on the bed and all those loose ends seem to find each other and lock themselves together.
"Looking for something?"
She stops in her tracks and spins around. She opens her mouth and gasps at the gun as he pulls it from his pocket.
"I'm guessing he took it from here ..."
She shakes her head.
"Before he used it on Francisco ..."
Staggering backwards, clutching her throat she lurches towards the bed with her legs buckling beneath her and sits down heavily.
"But you'd know that wouldn't you?"
She shakes her head.
"Because it was you who told him where to find Francisco."
She shakes her head and clutches her heart.
"That's right. Carlos puts a bullet in Francisco and the case is closed ... Am I getting warm?"
She shakes her head again and again with her hair falling wildly in her face as she rises to her feet. "I didn't tell him." She steps towards him. "I don't know how he knew." Fists tightening up with each faltering step. "He must have taken the gun ..."
"And shot Francisco."
"Stop saying that." Her hands reach up and cover her face.
"Isn't that what you'd planned?"
With her jaw clenched tight, fists swinging by her sides, she flies towards him and makes a determined swipe for the gun but Pepito is too fast for her as he hoists it up in the palm of his hand. Hoists it up and holds it aloft, a smile spreading out from his satisfied face which quickly fades as she swings her arm and thrusts her fist into the awaiting expanse of his belly. A swift blow, he folds with the perfect grace of a Swiss army knife and drops to his knees. Drops to the floor with a grimace. She wrenches the gun from his fading grasp and stands before him, feet braced and arms pitched out with the barrel aimed straight at his head.
"Hand me your gun." She steps closer to Pepito with the gun still wedged in the palm of her hand and Pepito can't quite believe it. He drops his eyes to the floor and stares at the tiles and he feels his gun, his father's old gun, bulging in his holster. Lifting his eyes, he rests them on Mariquita's face, lets them slip down from the arch in her brow to the angry slash of her mouth. And she's waiting, impatiently tapping her foot on the polished tiles as he deliberates his options. Of course, there is always a choice, always two ways to go, right or left, up or down, fight for your life or run. Normally, there's no contest and Pepito's not a man to back down but given the ache in the pit of his gut he decides to play it safe, bide his time, gather his strength and wait for his luck to turn. Lifting the hem of his jacket he exposes the gun with not so much as a tremor. He's steadied his nerves and braced his back as he waits for his moment to come.
"Slowly," she says with an anxious twitch on her scarlet lips, her had stretching out towards him and fingers fluttering inwards. So he pulls it out, bends his back and lays it out in his hand, feels the weight press down on his sweating palm and the cool, hard slope of the barrel.
"Don't even think about it." Her lips are drawn back in a vicious smirk and he has to admit that he was tempted. Tempted to clip her wings with a single shot but if the truth be told, he had never shot and could never shoot. He could never shoot a woman. So he hands it over. He hands it over with a reluctant shrug and a lump in his throat as she reaches out to take it. Reaches out with her fingers curling around the length of the barrel and her nails scratching his skin.
He lifts his eyes to look at her. "Why?"
She slips his gun in her pocket.
"Rosa, I mean .... why would you do it?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me ..." He moves towards her but she steps back and raises the gun a little higher.
"Let's just stick to the present for now." She flicks the gun to the side and motions for him to start walking.
"Are you going to kill me too?"
"Let's not spoil the ending now, to start with you can pick up that suitcase."
Pepito shuffles forwards and stoops to lift the suitcase which he swings up, onto his back with a muffled grunt from the effort and a stab of pain in his arm.
"Now walk."
They walk. Pepito shuffling nervously in front and Mariquita strutting close behind with the gun rammed hard in his back.
"Stop." She says when they reach her car. "Open the boot."
He pops the lid with a flick of his wrist.
"Dump the bag inside and then get in the drivers seat."
He does as she says, his head dipped in submission as he slides the bag from his shoulder and closes the boot with a surly push from his hand.
And Carlos looks up, wrenches his gaze from the corpse on the floor and finally sees Pepito.
"I had to, don't you see ..."
Pepito nods his head and reaches for the gun. He touches the barrel with the tips of his fingers and coaxes it from his hand.
"You see, don't you? I had to ... I had to do it, for Rosa ..."
Pepito nods again.
"I had to ...."
"It''s all right Carlos," Pepito says with the gun firmly gripped in his palm. "It's all over now." He places the gun in his pocket and strides towards the bar. Lifts a bottle from the shelf behind and grabs a glass from the counter. Sloshing a generous amount into the glass he abandons the bottle on the counter and hurries back towards Carlos.
"Here," he says, pressing the glass to his lips, "it'll help steady your nerves."
But Carlos shakes his head and pushes the glass from the side of his face with an anxious swipe from his paw.
Mariquita pulls a suitcase from the bottom of the cupboard and swings it over the bed where it lands with a soft rustle on the tangled satin sheets. She hasn't touched the bed, nor straightened the sheets since Pepito had lain there several hours before. She hasn't even touched her head to the pillow. Closed her eyes for a second. Nor washed his scent from her slick brown limbs. She doesn't have time for all that. Not now. Not now that she's set the ball in motion. Lobbed it high with her last, best shot and she needs to prepare for it descending. Line it up in her callous sights and see it through. All the way, from that barbarous night right through to the bitter ending.
And Carlos. She slips over to the dresser on the points of her toes and picks up the letter. Her eyes flick absently over the jagged script before she crushes it in the palm of her hand and throws it across the room. Best not to say anything, not yet. She had plenty of time to call him when the plane touched down in the morning. Plenty of time to explain when she was safely out of sight. And still, even then, she would keep her scarlet mouth shut and shield him from the details. Moving back towards the cupboard, she grabs a few of her favourite things and piles them in the suitcase, in no apparent order. Dresses on top of trousers and silk entwined with cotton. The shoes she keeps for last. Presses them down on top of the clothes, pushing their heels into fabric. Squashes them down and closes the lid with her weight pressing down on her hands. Then she stands back and closes her eyes. Raises her hands to the side of her face, rests the pads of her fingers on her temples and with small anxious circles, she rubs. Rubs the blood that pounds through her veins, rubs the pain that shoots through her skull. When she opens her eyes again the pain has spread all over. Throbbing rhythmically to the pulse of her heart and creeping down her neck. But she can't give in, she can't give up when she has to finish what she started. Turning back towards the cupboard she reaches up to the highest shelf, balancing on the points of her toes, pulls out a shoe box and flips the lid. But it's not more shoes that she's after.
"Carlos, are you listening to me Carlos?" Carlos blindly nods his head. The police will be on their way ... they'll know now that Francisco killed Rosa but if they find you here ... if they find you ... You understand what I'm saying to you Carlos?"
He grunts and nods his head again.
"They'll know you killed Francisco ... they'll know Carlos, it doesn't even matter what he's done, they'll take you down anyway. Do you understand? Carlos?"
His hands fly forwards and rest themselves on the big man's shoulders. He shakes. "Carlos." His head clearing rapidly with each hurried beat of his heart. "Carlos please ..."
The big man turns, slowly, turns defiantly and grabs a hold of Pepito's arm. "Leave me," he says, his voice whisper. "Leave me while you still can."
He had no choice. He had to go. The big man said so, with a hushed tone and a vice-like grip on his one good arm. So he hightailed it out of the place with the motor burning and the tyres screaming. Perhaps he should have stayed and taken his chances when the police showed up. Or, perhaps he should just drive all night, let the wind whip through his visor, snatch the tears as they fall from his face with a sting to his bloody conscience. Somehow, somewhere around a break in the clouds and a glimpse of the moon, he ended up back at Mariquita's place. Back where it all really started. Driven there by a nagging doubt and a restless itch in his trousers.
She didn't even hear him coming. Hear his shuffling step and his raggedy breath as he closes the gap to her bedroom. She's still pulling out the contents of her wardrobe, opening boxes, kicking clothes to the side and mumbling under her breath. He stands in the doorway for some moments watching her, trying to piece together what Francisco said. Then there was Carlos. How did he know where to find Francisco? He reaches his hand into his pocket and rests his hand on the gun he had, only moments before, taken from the shaking hand of Carlos. His eyes flick over to the suitcase on the bed and all those loose ends seem to find each other and lock themselves together.
"Looking for something?"
She stops in her tracks and spins around. She opens her mouth and gasps at the gun as he pulls it from his pocket.
"I'm guessing he took it from here ..."
She shakes her head.
"Before he used it on Francisco ..."
Staggering backwards, clutching her throat she lurches towards the bed with her legs buckling beneath her and sits down heavily.
"But you'd know that wouldn't you?"
She shakes her head.
"Because it was you who told him where to find Francisco."
She shakes her head and clutches her heart.
"That's right. Carlos puts a bullet in Francisco and the case is closed ... Am I getting warm?"
She shakes her head again and again with her hair falling wildly in her face as she rises to her feet. "I didn't tell him." She steps towards him. "I don't know how he knew." Fists tightening up with each faltering step. "He must have taken the gun ..."
"And shot Francisco."
"Stop saying that." Her hands reach up and cover her face.
"Isn't that what you'd planned?"
With her jaw clenched tight, fists swinging by her sides, she flies towards him and makes a determined swipe for the gun but Pepito is too fast for her as he hoists it up in the palm of his hand. Hoists it up and holds it aloft, a smile spreading out from his satisfied face which quickly fades as she swings her arm and thrusts her fist into the awaiting expanse of his belly. A swift blow, he folds with the perfect grace of a Swiss army knife and drops to his knees. Drops to the floor with a grimace. She wrenches the gun from his fading grasp and stands before him, feet braced and arms pitched out with the barrel aimed straight at his head.
"Hand me your gun." She steps closer to Pepito with the gun still wedged in the palm of her hand and Pepito can't quite believe it. He drops his eyes to the floor and stares at the tiles and he feels his gun, his father's old gun, bulging in his holster. Lifting his eyes, he rests them on Mariquita's face, lets them slip down from the arch in her brow to the angry slash of her mouth. And she's waiting, impatiently tapping her foot on the polished tiles as he deliberates his options. Of course, there is always a choice, always two ways to go, right or left, up or down, fight for your life or run. Normally, there's no contest and Pepito's not a man to back down but given the ache in the pit of his gut he decides to play it safe, bide his time, gather his strength and wait for his luck to turn. Lifting the hem of his jacket he exposes the gun with not so much as a tremor. He's steadied his nerves and braced his back as he waits for his moment to come.
"Slowly," she says with an anxious twitch on her scarlet lips, her had stretching out towards him and fingers fluttering inwards. So he pulls it out, bends his back and lays it out in his hand, feels the weight press down on his sweating palm and the cool, hard slope of the barrel.
"Don't even think about it." Her lips are drawn back in a vicious smirk and he has to admit that he was tempted. Tempted to clip her wings with a single shot but if the truth be told, he had never shot and could never shoot. He could never shoot a woman. So he hands it over. He hands it over with a reluctant shrug and a lump in his throat as she reaches out to take it. Reaches out with her fingers curling around the length of the barrel and her nails scratching his skin.
He lifts his eyes to look at her. "Why?"
She slips his gun in her pocket.
"Rosa, I mean .... why would you do it?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me ..." He moves towards her but she steps back and raises the gun a little higher.
"Let's just stick to the present for now." She flicks the gun to the side and motions for him to start walking.
"Are you going to kill me too?"
"Let's not spoil the ending now, to start with you can pick up that suitcase."
Pepito shuffles forwards and stoops to lift the suitcase which he swings up, onto his back with a muffled grunt from the effort and a stab of pain in his arm.
"Now walk."
They walk. Pepito shuffling nervously in front and Mariquita strutting close behind with the gun rammed hard in his back.
"Stop." She says when they reach her car. "Open the boot."
He pops the lid with a flick of his wrist.
"Dump the bag inside and then get in the drivers seat."
He does as she says, his head dipped in submission as he slides the bag from his shoulder and closes the boot with a surly push from his hand.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
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.
"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.
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