Pepito stands for some moments as the door closes behind him. He breathes deeply, drawing the air through his mouth so that he can savour the scent of her perfume still lingering in his nostrils. Holding his breath for a second, holding onto her scent for a heartbeat, until he opens his mouth and expels his breath with an explosive burst of air. He shakes his head, steps out from the doorway and moves towards his bike. Easing the helmet over his head, he tightens the strap beneath his chin with a swift jerk of leather and turns to gaze back at the house. A lizard darts out from a crack in the gutter and catches his eye. He follows its movements with an absent curiosity as it scuttles along the wall towards the light. It stops, flattening itself against the stone, rolls its eyes and waits. Waits for the insects to flutter into the light. Waits for them to dance themselves into a frenzy and then, when they're dazed and delirious, the lizard picks them off, one by one, with an artful flick of its tongue.
Across the street, tucked into the shadows, a black car waits. It waits for Pepito as he straddles his bike. Waits as he pushes out from the kerb with his left leg dangling and takes off into the night. Slowly, the black car creeps to life. Cautiously, it glides down the road behind him, headlights dimmed, engine purring. Slowly and cautiously until the time is right when the headlights click on and flood the night. Pepito is caught in their glaring beam, caught off guard in the blinding light. He slows the bike so that the car may pass and twists his neck to look behind him but the light from the headlights is far too bright. And the car speeds up, veering out from behind, swerving into the middle of the road. He turns his head and the car is beside him, lunging inwards, tyres screeching, brushing the hem of his brand new trousers. He can feel the weight on his outside thigh, pressing and pushing, trying to run him off the road so he twists on the throttle and turns up the gas. He springs into action, back hunched and head pushed forwards, he clings to the bike with his knees gripping hard. Harder and faster, he swerves round a corner, Pepito in front and the car close behind. But the car is gaining ground. It's catching up and closing in on his left hand side and his bike can barely take the pace as it shudders and sputters, veering round corners and shaking with speed. And still the black car sticks to his tail. Trying to overtake him, trying to nudge him and force him to swerve into the side of the road. But Pepito persists, he won't give up as he grips the handles tighter and twists, twists, twists. And he almost makes it. He almost succeeds until the bike shudders beneath him like a dying stead. It shudders and sputters and he loses control.
He sees the ground before he hits it. Looming in front of him, dark and dusty, he can taste the grit in the back of his throat as his body hits tarmac and the world turns over. Over and over as he rolls down the road. He lies there for a moment, not quite sure if he's alive or dead but long enough to know that he's definitely in trouble. Then all the lights go out.
He comes to in the back of the car, propped up between two large men, a throbbing pain coursing through his limbs. He turns to the side to look out the window but a big, fat head is blocking his view. He tries to sit forwards but a hand reaches out and pushes him back. Then he presses his side with a wary hand and checks his holster but the holster is empty. One of them has his father's gun clutched in his hand, the one with the head that is blocking his view. He holds it loosely in the crease of his palm with his thumb hooked over the trigger. And the fat head is smiling like he knows something funny, staring right at Pepito with the gun in his hand. He'd ask them where they're taking him but he's sure he'll find out, so he sits back and although he doesn't enjoy it, he tolerates the ride.
Eventually, they stop. The door swings open and they push him outside. He straightens up and takes a quick look around before they push him forwards, one at his back and two at his side. He's led up to a house, hustled really, two hands gripping his elbows, the other prodding the small of his back. When they reach some steps, Pepito stumbles. He lurches forwards, his hands flailing out but a forceful jolt from one of the goons pulls him up and onto his feet. They push him onwards. Up to the door and into the house where their claw like grip is loosened and Pepito is propelled forwards with a sharpened prod to his ribs. A sharpened prod from his father's gun. It pokes his back, nudging him onwards, forcing him through a doorway and down into a chair in the middle of the room. He sits there with his butt cheeks clenched on the edge of the chair and his eyes sweeping the room. The goons have dispersed, taken up their positions with their backs to the walls and are watching Pepito. Watching him brush the dirt from his shirt, running his hands over his ribs and down to his empty holster. And he takes his time. Takes it all in. Slowly, methodically, with his mouth clamped shut, he sizes up the place. The walls, the windows, the tables, the chairs and the bar at the far end of the room. And it's there, perched on a stool with his back to the gathering, that his eyes come to rest on the man that is picking pistachio nuts from a plate. He lifts them to his mouth, cracks them between his teeth and spits the shells onto the floor at his feet. One, two, three nuts, their shells shot out through the side of his mouth. When he's had his fill, he lifts a napkin from his lap and dabs at his mouth with the cloth. Then he swivels around on the stool and sits facing Pepito with his hands laying loose, cupped in his lap. He smiles, a crooked twist of lip, slips off the stool and moves towards Pepito with his chin tipped up and his hands perched on either side of his slender hips.
Pulling the sheet up around his chin, she bends forwards and drops a kiss on both his eyelids. A chastened kiss, an infinite kiss. The kiss of an anxious mother. The same kiss that brushed his blue tinged skin just after he was born. Just before they took him, out of her arms and out of her life. And even though she'd cried all night, deep down inside she was grateful. Grateful for his ten soft fingers and his ten pink toes. Grateful that she had another chance - another bite at the apple. Slipping out of the bedroom, she closes the door behind her. Slowly, softly, she's careful not to wake him as she moves through the hallway on the balls of her feet and picks up her bag. Picks up her keys and exits the house.
She drives through the night with the top rolled down and her hair whipping out behind her. She drives like a demon, a woman possessed. A woman who knows where she's going. It doesn't take her long to reach her destination. She pulls in by the kerb and partially mounts the pavement, one tyre up and one tyre down but she doesn't seem to notice. Cuts the engine with a twist of her wrist, pockets the keys as she slams the door and hurries towards the building. The lights are out in the fourth floor flat but she doesn't let it stop her. She pushes ahead and presses the buzzer with her finger stuck to the button. Eventually, someone answers. They let her in and she climbs the stairs. Pushes her way into the flat and with a nudge from her foot, closes the door behind her. They step back. She steps forwards. They step back with their arm raised because somehow, they know what's coming. And she doesn't disappoint, not even for a second, as she steps forwards with her elbow drawn back and her hand moving fast through the air. She wipes it across their face. A swift blow, merciless in its precision. Then another. And another. The slaps raining down on Candy with a dedicated passion. Finding their mark, not missing the moment. Harder, faster until, as suddenly as they had started, they stop. She steps back once again, her breathing quick and reckless. She rubs her palm and twists her head and rests her eyes on the ceiling. She breathes deeply, calming herself while Candy lays still on the floor. Curled in a ball with her head tucked in and her body gently quivering. Slowly, she unfurls, releasing her limbs like a tender bud.
Bruised and battered and swollen.
Pepito is aware that there is no way out. No way he can leap from the chair and make a run for the door. Not with those three goons slouching around the room. No way he can take them on, not at his age and not without his father's gun. He slumps back in the chair, wincing at the pain in his hip and resigns himself to his predicament with a practiced calm. The practiced calm of a pro.
"I'm sure you know what this is all about."
It was a statement rather than a question but Pepito nods his head anyway and opens his mouth to speak, although, it probably isn't wise.
"Let's just say I do so you can cut the crap and come to the point."
"He's got balls, I like that." He stops in front of Pepito, hands swinging loose and leans in close.
"Let's just say that there's something we both have in common." He steps back and stretches upwards.
Of course, Pepito has it all figured out. At least, concerning the sharp cut suit with the tightened face that is standing menacingly before him. It explains the car. It explains the goons and their means of grabbing his attention. He stands up, brushing the dirt from his jacket with hurried flicks of his hand and clears his throat with an exaggerated rattle.
"What are you going to do? Beat my teeth out then kick me in the stomach for mumbling."
Francisco strolls across the room with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and a fleeting smirk glides over his lips.
"I must apologise for my men Detective Pons ... sometimes they get carried away, you know how it is."
Unfortunately for Pepito, he doesn't, although, he's beginning to get the picture. He sits back down in the chair and opens his jacket to reveal the empty holster nestled against his side.
"I believe you have something which belongs to me." He pats the empty leather and raises his eyes to meet Francisco's but he's already turned his back.
"Don't worry," he says over his shoulder, "it'll be returned to you as soon as we've had this little chat."
"Is that why I'm here?"
"Of course .."
"Then let's get on with it ..."
He must have lost his marbles. Banged his head and lost his sense somewhere on the road. And there's a bilious taste that is rising up and filling his mouth and he is powerless to stop it. Distaste for the man in the well cut suit and the lifestyle which provides it.
"Mariquita paying you?" To give him his due he's stopped messing around and comes directly to the point. But Pepito doesn't answer, he stays where he is, arms folded and legs stretched out in front.
"You don't have to say anything, I know she is .. but tell me - why is it you think Carlos is so innocent ... you have something you want to share?"
Pepito shrugs.
"It's a hunch really, nothing concrete ..."
"But you're sure he didn't kill her?"
"Pretty much."
"Why?"
It's a fair question, Pepito has to give him that. He stands up and walks around the room, shaking the circulation back into his legs as he circles passed the goons.
"No motive." He eventually says with a simple tilt of the shoulders.
"You think him leaving him for me is no real motive?" Francisco starts to laugh but Pepito cuts him off.
"If he knew she was leaving him, I'd have to say yes ... but ..."
"But?"
"She never told him .. she never got the chance."
Francisco slips his legs from the table he is perched upon with the languid grace of a cat. He moves quickly towards the door and stands with his hand poised on the handle, ready to pull it open. But somewhere between the thought and the action, he changes his mind and with a flattened palm, pushes the door closed and moves back across the room.
"Tell me something Detective Pons .... how exactly did she die?"
"You don't know?"
Francisco keeps his eyes fixed on Pepito, he doesn't even blink, just waits for an answer but Pepito is growing restless. He isn't accustomed to having questions thrown out at him and certainly not in these circumstances. Besides, he reckons that out of all the people in the room right now, Francisco would know her last movements. Unless he had one of his goons do it, which was possible and the more he thought about it, most likely but he decides to humour him anyway.
"She drowned."
"Drowned?"
"That's right, although I suppose the knock on the head would have helped ... helped to take the edge off."
"Wasn't her body found in La Mina?"
Francisco was good, he had to give him that. He could almost believe him with his phoney expression of feigned concern. Almost, but not quite.
"Now you tell me," he begins with a subtle shift in the balance, "what exactly was your relationship with Rosa?"
"You mean .. were we fucking each other?" Pepito feels a hot flush of blood sting his cheeks but he presses onwards ignoring the lopsided grin of his captor.
"At least that would account for her being pregnant," he says and stops to regain his composure.
"Where did you meet?"
"Mariquita's place."
"You know Mariquita?"
"Who doesn't." Francisco dips into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette. "Got a light?"
Pepito shakes his head.
He nods to one of the goons who peels himself from the side of the room and slouches over to Francisco. He pulls a lighter from his pocket and holds it up to the end.
"What can you tell me about Mariquita ..."
"She a suspect?"
"Not quite, I'm just trying to tie up some loose ends .. find a connection."
"You want a connection between me and Mariquita?" He blows the smoke out over his head, "I'll give you a connection .. I knew her way back, before she had her clubs, we had a thing going back then ... off and on, she was something back then .. still is."
Pepito nods his head.
"And Carlos?"
"The prodigal son?" He picks a slither of tobacco from his teeth and flicks it into the air. "You know she had him adopted, thought he had a better chance while she concentrated on building her empire." He smiles secretly to himself and shakes his head.
"Who's the father?"
"That's anyone's guess ... but it wasn't me if that's what you're getting at ... we were definitely off around that time .. why don't you ask her?"
"I will."
"And while you're at it ... why don't you ask her why she wanted to see Rosa that night."
Pepito stops in his tracks, his spine clicks into place as if he's been grabbed by the neck.
"What night was that?"
"Last Wednesday .. Rosa told me she was going over but she didn't tell me why ... she'd already quit as far as she saw it, what else was there left to say .."
Suddenly Pepito is struck with uncertainty. If he is to believe Francisco then Mariquita herself may have been the last person to see Rosa alive. But why would she lie? Why didn't she tell him that Rosa was with her that night? He shakes his head and swallows the lump that is forming in the back of his throat. It can't be possible. There must be some mistake.
"When did you last see Rosa?"
He switches to another tack, afraid where the first one may lead him and waits for Francisco to answer. But Francisco takes his time, observing Pepito through a crack in his eyelids.
"What are you getting at Detective Pons ... you think I killed her?" He stands up and paces across the floor with his hand reaching up to his brow. "Why would I?"
"Did you love her?"
"You think love stops people from killing?"
Pepito isn't so sure, in fact, he isn't sure of anything anymore. The only thing he can say with certainty is that Francisco is beginning to sweat. A trickle of moisture runs down from his brow and slides all the way down to his neck.
"I had a stronger reason than that ... Detective Pons ... she was carrying my baby."
He moves towards the door with an impatient step and yanks it open.
"I know what I am Detective Pons, I've never tried to hide it but you shouldn't believe everything you hear ... you know what I mean?"
Pepito nods his head although, he doesn't believe a word of it.
"I know how word spreads, it gets around, out of hand and then, before you know it ... someone gets into trouble. Someone could even get hurt."
For anyone else these parting words could be taken as a threat. But not Pepito. Not Detective Pons. He isn't having any of it. He stands up, looping his jacket behind him and moves towards the door, with his hand hitched up on his hip, patting his empty holster. And he knows he's pushing it, he knows it's unwise to be playing with The Method but he just can't help it. He just can't leave with that fancy holster laying empty on his hip. So he keeps on walking and he keeps on patting until Francisco gets the message.
"Give him his gun," he eventually says, with a surly jerk of his head, "and get him out of my sight."
The gun is slapped into Pepito's palm as he's pushed through the doorway. Propelled forwards with a hefty hand slapped between his shoulders. And he almost trips, he almost falls but Francisco reaches out to steady him. He reaches out with a clenched up fist and grabs him by his lapels. Grabs him tight and grabs him fast, pulling Pepito towards him.
"Watch your step there Detective Pons, we wouldn't want you to hurt yourself now, would we?"
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