"Carlos." Pepito feels the name trip from his lips although, he doesn't quite believe it. So he says it again. "Carlos," and pushes forwards on the balls of his feet, his hands stretched out towards him. "Give me the gun Carlos."
And Carlos looks up, wrenches his gaze from the corpse on the floor and finally sees Pepito.
"I had to, don't you see ..."
Pepito nods his head and reaches for the gun. He touches the barrel with the tips of his fingers and coaxes it from his hand.
"You see, don't you? I had to ... I had to do it, for Rosa ..."
Pepito nods again.
"I had to ...."
"It''s all right Carlos," Pepito says with the gun firmly gripped in his palm. "It's all over now." He places the gun in his pocket and strides towards the bar. Lifts a bottle from the shelf behind and grabs a glass from the counter. Sloshing a generous amount into the glass he abandons the bottle on the counter and hurries back towards Carlos.
"Here," he says, pressing the glass to his lips, "it'll help steady your nerves."
But Carlos shakes his head and pushes the glass from the side of his face with an anxious swipe from his paw.
Mariquita pulls a suitcase from the bottom of the cupboard and swings it over the bed where it lands with a soft rustle on the tangled satin sheets. She hasn't touched the bed, nor straightened the sheets since Pepito had lain there several hours before. She hasn't even touched her head to the pillow. Closed her eyes for a second. Nor washed his scent from her slick brown limbs. She doesn't have time for all that. Not now. Not now that she's set the ball in motion. Lobbed it high with her last, best shot and she needs to prepare for it descending. Line it up in her callous sights and see it through. All the way, from that barbarous night right through to the bitter ending.
And Carlos. She slips over to the dresser on the points of her toes and picks up the letter. Her eyes flick absently over the jagged script before she crushes it in the palm of her hand and throws it across the room. Best not to say anything, not yet. She had plenty of time to call him when the plane touched down in the morning. Plenty of time to explain when she was safely out of sight. And still, even then, she would keep her scarlet mouth shut and shield him from the details. Moving back towards the cupboard, she grabs a few of her favourite things and piles them in the suitcase, in no apparent order. Dresses on top of trousers and silk entwined with cotton. The shoes she keeps for last. Presses them down on top of the clothes, pushing their heels into fabric. Squashes them down and closes the lid with her weight pressing down on her hands. Then she stands back and closes her eyes. Raises her hands to the side of her face, rests the pads of her fingers on her temples and with small anxious circles, she rubs. Rubs the blood that pounds through her veins, rubs the pain that shoots through her skull. When she opens her eyes again the pain has spread all over. Throbbing rhythmically to the pulse of her heart and creeping down her neck. But she can't give in, she can't give up when she has to finish what she started. Turning back towards the cupboard she reaches up to the highest shelf, balancing on the points of her toes, pulls out a shoe box and flips the lid. But it's not more shoes that she's after.
"Carlos, are you listening to me Carlos?" Carlos blindly nods his head. The police will be on their way ... they'll know now that Francisco killed Rosa but if they find you here ... if they find you ... You understand what I'm saying to you Carlos?"
He grunts and nods his head again.
"They'll know you killed Francisco ... they'll know Carlos, it doesn't even matter what he's done, they'll take you down anyway. Do you understand? Carlos?"
His hands fly forwards and rest themselves on the big man's shoulders. He shakes. "Carlos." His head clearing rapidly with each hurried beat of his heart. "Carlos please ..."
The big man turns, slowly, turns defiantly and grabs a hold of Pepito's arm. "Leave me," he says, his voice whisper. "Leave me while you still can."
He had no choice. He had to go. The big man said so, with a hushed tone and a vice-like grip on his one good arm. So he hightailed it out of the place with the motor burning and the tyres screaming. Perhaps he should have stayed and taken his chances when the police showed up. Or, perhaps he should just drive all night, let the wind whip through his visor, snatch the tears as they fall from his face with a sting to his bloody conscience. Somehow, somewhere around a break in the clouds and a glimpse of the moon, he ended up back at Mariquita's place. Back where it all really started. Driven there by a nagging doubt and a restless itch in his trousers.
She didn't even hear him coming. Hear his shuffling step and his raggedy breath as he closes the gap to her bedroom. She's still pulling out the contents of her wardrobe, opening boxes, kicking clothes to the side and mumbling under her breath. He stands in the doorway for some moments watching her, trying to piece together what Francisco said. Then there was Carlos. How did he know where to find Francisco? He reaches his hand into his pocket and rests his hand on the gun he had, only moments before, taken from the shaking hand of Carlos. His eyes flick over to the suitcase on the bed and all those loose ends seem to find each other and lock themselves together.
"Looking for something?"
She stops in her tracks and spins around. She opens her mouth and gasps at the gun as he pulls it from his pocket.
"I'm guessing he took it from here ..."
She shakes her head.
"Before he used it on Francisco ..."
Staggering backwards, clutching her throat she lurches towards the bed with her legs buckling beneath her and sits down heavily.
"But you'd know that wouldn't you?"
She shakes her head.
"Because it was you who told him where to find Francisco."
She shakes her head and clutches her heart.
"That's right. Carlos puts a bullet in Francisco and the case is closed ... Am I getting warm?"
She shakes her head again and again with her hair falling wildly in her face as she rises to her feet. "I didn't tell him." She steps towards him. "I don't know how he knew." Fists tightening up with each faltering step. "He must have taken the gun ..."
"And shot Francisco."
"Stop saying that." Her hands reach up and cover her face.
"Isn't that what you'd planned?"
With her jaw clenched tight, fists swinging by her sides, she flies towards him and makes a determined swipe for the gun but Pepito is too fast for her as he hoists it up in the palm of his hand. Hoists it up and holds it aloft, a smile spreading out from his satisfied face which quickly fades as she swings her arm and thrusts her fist into the awaiting expanse of his belly. A swift blow, he folds with the perfect grace of a Swiss army knife and drops to his knees. Drops to the floor with a grimace. She wrenches the gun from his fading grasp and stands before him, feet braced and arms pitched out with the barrel aimed straight at his head.
"Hand me your gun." She steps closer to Pepito with the gun still wedged in the palm of her hand and Pepito can't quite believe it. He drops his eyes to the floor and stares at the tiles and he feels his gun, his father's old gun, bulging in his holster. Lifting his eyes, he rests them on Mariquita's face, lets them slip down from the arch in her brow to the angry slash of her mouth. And she's waiting, impatiently tapping her foot on the polished tiles as he deliberates his options. Of course, there is always a choice, always two ways to go, right or left, up or down, fight for your life or run. Normally, there's no contest and Pepito's not a man to back down but given the ache in the pit of his gut he decides to play it safe, bide his time, gather his strength and wait for his luck to turn. Lifting the hem of his jacket he exposes the gun with not so much as a tremor. He's steadied his nerves and braced his back as he waits for his moment to come.
"Slowly," she says with an anxious twitch on her scarlet lips, her had stretching out towards him and fingers fluttering inwards. So he pulls it out, bends his back and lays it out in his hand, feels the weight press down on his sweating palm and the cool, hard slope of the barrel.
"Don't even think about it." Her lips are drawn back in a vicious smirk and he has to admit that he was tempted. Tempted to clip her wings with a single shot but if the truth be told, he had never shot and could never shoot. He could never shoot a woman. So he hands it over. He hands it over with a reluctant shrug and a lump in his throat as she reaches out to take it. Reaches out with her fingers curling around the length of the barrel and her nails scratching his skin.
He lifts his eyes to look at her. "Why?"
She slips his gun in her pocket.
"Rosa, I mean .... why would you do it?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me ..." He moves towards her but she steps back and raises the gun a little higher.
"Let's just stick to the present for now." She flicks the gun to the side and motions for him to start walking.
"Are you going to kill me too?"
"Let's not spoil the ending now, to start with you can pick up that suitcase."
Pepito shuffles forwards and stoops to lift the suitcase which he swings up, onto his back with a muffled grunt from the effort and a stab of pain in his arm.
"Now walk."
They walk. Pepito shuffling nervously in front and Mariquita strutting close behind with the gun rammed hard in his back.
"Stop." She says when they reach her car. "Open the boot."
He pops the lid with a flick of his wrist.
"Dump the bag inside and then get in the drivers seat."
He does as she says, his head dipped in submission as he slides the bag from his shoulder and closes the boot with a surly push from his hand.
And Carlos looks up, wrenches his gaze from the corpse on the floor and finally sees Pepito.
"I had to, don't you see ..."
Pepito nods his head and reaches for the gun. He touches the barrel with the tips of his fingers and coaxes it from his hand.
"You see, don't you? I had to ... I had to do it, for Rosa ..."
Pepito nods again.
"I had to ...."
"It''s all right Carlos," Pepito says with the gun firmly gripped in his palm. "It's all over now." He places the gun in his pocket and strides towards the bar. Lifts a bottle from the shelf behind and grabs a glass from the counter. Sloshing a generous amount into the glass he abandons the bottle on the counter and hurries back towards Carlos.
"Here," he says, pressing the glass to his lips, "it'll help steady your nerves."
But Carlos shakes his head and pushes the glass from the side of his face with an anxious swipe from his paw.
Mariquita pulls a suitcase from the bottom of the cupboard and swings it over the bed where it lands with a soft rustle on the tangled satin sheets. She hasn't touched the bed, nor straightened the sheets since Pepito had lain there several hours before. She hasn't even touched her head to the pillow. Closed her eyes for a second. Nor washed his scent from her slick brown limbs. She doesn't have time for all that. Not now. Not now that she's set the ball in motion. Lobbed it high with her last, best shot and she needs to prepare for it descending. Line it up in her callous sights and see it through. All the way, from that barbarous night right through to the bitter ending.
And Carlos. She slips over to the dresser on the points of her toes and picks up the letter. Her eyes flick absently over the jagged script before she crushes it in the palm of her hand and throws it across the room. Best not to say anything, not yet. She had plenty of time to call him when the plane touched down in the morning. Plenty of time to explain when she was safely out of sight. And still, even then, she would keep her scarlet mouth shut and shield him from the details. Moving back towards the cupboard, she grabs a few of her favourite things and piles them in the suitcase, in no apparent order. Dresses on top of trousers and silk entwined with cotton. The shoes she keeps for last. Presses them down on top of the clothes, pushing their heels into fabric. Squashes them down and closes the lid with her weight pressing down on her hands. Then she stands back and closes her eyes. Raises her hands to the side of her face, rests the pads of her fingers on her temples and with small anxious circles, she rubs. Rubs the blood that pounds through her veins, rubs the pain that shoots through her skull. When she opens her eyes again the pain has spread all over. Throbbing rhythmically to the pulse of her heart and creeping down her neck. But she can't give in, she can't give up when she has to finish what she started. Turning back towards the cupboard she reaches up to the highest shelf, balancing on the points of her toes, pulls out a shoe box and flips the lid. But it's not more shoes that she's after.
"Carlos, are you listening to me Carlos?" Carlos blindly nods his head. The police will be on their way ... they'll know now that Francisco killed Rosa but if they find you here ... if they find you ... You understand what I'm saying to you Carlos?"
He grunts and nods his head again.
"They'll know you killed Francisco ... they'll know Carlos, it doesn't even matter what he's done, they'll take you down anyway. Do you understand? Carlos?"
His hands fly forwards and rest themselves on the big man's shoulders. He shakes. "Carlos." His head clearing rapidly with each hurried beat of his heart. "Carlos please ..."
The big man turns, slowly, turns defiantly and grabs a hold of Pepito's arm. "Leave me," he says, his voice whisper. "Leave me while you still can."
He had no choice. He had to go. The big man said so, with a hushed tone and a vice-like grip on his one good arm. So he hightailed it out of the place with the motor burning and the tyres screaming. Perhaps he should have stayed and taken his chances when the police showed up. Or, perhaps he should just drive all night, let the wind whip through his visor, snatch the tears as they fall from his face with a sting to his bloody conscience. Somehow, somewhere around a break in the clouds and a glimpse of the moon, he ended up back at Mariquita's place. Back where it all really started. Driven there by a nagging doubt and a restless itch in his trousers.
She didn't even hear him coming. Hear his shuffling step and his raggedy breath as he closes the gap to her bedroom. She's still pulling out the contents of her wardrobe, opening boxes, kicking clothes to the side and mumbling under her breath. He stands in the doorway for some moments watching her, trying to piece together what Francisco said. Then there was Carlos. How did he know where to find Francisco? He reaches his hand into his pocket and rests his hand on the gun he had, only moments before, taken from the shaking hand of Carlos. His eyes flick over to the suitcase on the bed and all those loose ends seem to find each other and lock themselves together.
"Looking for something?"
She stops in her tracks and spins around. She opens her mouth and gasps at the gun as he pulls it from his pocket.
"I'm guessing he took it from here ..."
She shakes her head.
"Before he used it on Francisco ..."
Staggering backwards, clutching her throat she lurches towards the bed with her legs buckling beneath her and sits down heavily.
"But you'd know that wouldn't you?"
She shakes her head.
"Because it was you who told him where to find Francisco."
She shakes her head and clutches her heart.
"That's right. Carlos puts a bullet in Francisco and the case is closed ... Am I getting warm?"
She shakes her head again and again with her hair falling wildly in her face as she rises to her feet. "I didn't tell him." She steps towards him. "I don't know how he knew." Fists tightening up with each faltering step. "He must have taken the gun ..."
"And shot Francisco."
"Stop saying that." Her hands reach up and cover her face.
"Isn't that what you'd planned?"
With her jaw clenched tight, fists swinging by her sides, she flies towards him and makes a determined swipe for the gun but Pepito is too fast for her as he hoists it up in the palm of his hand. Hoists it up and holds it aloft, a smile spreading out from his satisfied face which quickly fades as she swings her arm and thrusts her fist into the awaiting expanse of his belly. A swift blow, he folds with the perfect grace of a Swiss army knife and drops to his knees. Drops to the floor with a grimace. She wrenches the gun from his fading grasp and stands before him, feet braced and arms pitched out with the barrel aimed straight at his head.
"Hand me your gun." She steps closer to Pepito with the gun still wedged in the palm of her hand and Pepito can't quite believe it. He drops his eyes to the floor and stares at the tiles and he feels his gun, his father's old gun, bulging in his holster. Lifting his eyes, he rests them on Mariquita's face, lets them slip down from the arch in her brow to the angry slash of her mouth. And she's waiting, impatiently tapping her foot on the polished tiles as he deliberates his options. Of course, there is always a choice, always two ways to go, right or left, up or down, fight for your life or run. Normally, there's no contest and Pepito's not a man to back down but given the ache in the pit of his gut he decides to play it safe, bide his time, gather his strength and wait for his luck to turn. Lifting the hem of his jacket he exposes the gun with not so much as a tremor. He's steadied his nerves and braced his back as he waits for his moment to come.
"Slowly," she says with an anxious twitch on her scarlet lips, her had stretching out towards him and fingers fluttering inwards. So he pulls it out, bends his back and lays it out in his hand, feels the weight press down on his sweating palm and the cool, hard slope of the barrel.
"Don't even think about it." Her lips are drawn back in a vicious smirk and he has to admit that he was tempted. Tempted to clip her wings with a single shot but if the truth be told, he had never shot and could never shoot. He could never shoot a woman. So he hands it over. He hands it over with a reluctant shrug and a lump in his throat as she reaches out to take it. Reaches out with her fingers curling around the length of the barrel and her nails scratching his skin.
He lifts his eyes to look at her. "Why?"
She slips his gun in her pocket.
"Rosa, I mean .... why would you do it?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me ..." He moves towards her but she steps back and raises the gun a little higher.
"Let's just stick to the present for now." She flicks the gun to the side and motions for him to start walking.
"Are you going to kill me too?"
"Let's not spoil the ending now, to start with you can pick up that suitcase."
Pepito shuffles forwards and stoops to lift the suitcase which he swings up, onto his back with a muffled grunt from the effort and a stab of pain in his arm.
"Now walk."
They walk. Pepito shuffling nervously in front and Mariquita strutting close behind with the gun rammed hard in his back.
"Stop." She says when they reach her car. "Open the boot."
He pops the lid with a flick of his wrist.
"Dump the bag inside and then get in the drivers seat."
He does as she says, his head dipped in submission as he slides the bag from his shoulder and closes the boot with a surly push from his hand.
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