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.
