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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