28. THE SHIT HITS THE FAN

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

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

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