25. DESPERATE MEASURES

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

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

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

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