Fight or Die

by James Hilton

  “So Clay is going to be away for the next few days?” asked Larry.

  “Aye, he said he was really sorry about leaving just as the job was getting interesting, but he’s got some stuff on the home front in Portugal that he can’t let slide. I think there’s a lot of legal papers that need signing. He’s buying some more land next to his first plot. Don’t worry, I can hold the fort until he gets back. He’ll bring some toys back with him— equipment that I couldn’t carry on the plane.”

  Larry smiled. He knew the kind of toys that the Gunn brothers played with; not the kind you got with your Happy Meal that was for sure. “This crap with the Locos has been escalating. As soon as I told him what was going on Clay hopped into his car and came straight down here.”

  “Aye, that sounds like Clay.”

  “What’s his place in Portugal like?”

  Danny laughed. “Well, it was a building site last time I was there, but that’s quite a while ago. I’m sure he’ll have the roof on by now.”

  “Don’t count on it… You know how Clay likes his time outdoors, he’ll probably leave the roof off just so he can look at the night sky from his bed,” Pamela jested.

  “Nah, he’s a big fanny really. Clay’s idea of a wild night is having English mustard on his hot dog,” said Larry. Like most soldiers, he couldn’t offer a straight compliment to a friend without a side order of crap to go with it.

  Danny laughed, and One-Eyed Jacks looked up again at the sound, cocking his head to one side.

  “Look,” said Danny, “when these Locos come back, I want you two to get into the kitchen as quick as you can. The staff too.” Larry started to protest but Danny cut him off. “It’s not about being tough; it’s about being smart. If I go down, you’ve got more chance to protect Pamela back there. I presume you’ve still got a shotgun around here somewhere?”

  “I’ve got one at home.” Larry’s face was grim.

  “Bring it in… but take things easy. We all know that shooting the place up is the last thing we want. That would be worst-case scenario. Plus, the Spanish cops are all armed as standard; you don’t want those guys storming in all guns blazing as well.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” agreed Larry. He puffed out his cheeks. “Got to pay a visit to the little boys’ room.” He rose and walked inside the club.

  Pamela rubbed both hands over her face. She stared at Danny for a few seconds before speaking. “You know, when this crap first started I considered throwing in the towel, going back to England, but then I look at Larry. He’s dreamed of having his own bar since our early days together. Thirty years of savings and all of his compensation from the army is tied up in this place. It became my dream too, something we could build together.”

  “I understand.”

  “The club means so much to me but nothing in the world would be worth losing Larry for. I came so close already with that bastard landmine.”

  Danny nodded, his face solemn in agreement.

  “Do you want another drink?” asked Larry as he returned to the table.

  “No, I’m good thanks,” said Danny. He inched back his chair. “I’m going out to walk the area. I’ll be gone for at least a couple of hours. You’ve got my number. The slightest hint of trouble and you buzz me, okay?”

  When neither of them responded he said, “The slightest hint of trouble, okay?”

  “Okay,” agreed Larry and Pamela simultaneously.

  “Do you need anything?” asked Larry.

  “Nah, I’m good to go. Just want to get the lay of the land. You never know when you might find yourself in one of those back streets. It kind of helps if you know where the hell you are.”

  Danny rose and started to walk down the street, noting its width and available cover points if a firefight did transpire. At the moment he was at a disadvantage with the bearings of an aimless tourist, but he could fix that. Jacks sprang up to follow and had to be called back twice by Pamela. Danny smiled at the dog’s enthusiasm and held up a hand in way of a temporary farewell.

  * * *

  When Danny was out of earshot, Pamela turned to Larry. “What do you think about Danny?”

  Larry leaned forward in his seat. “I know he isn’t as big or scary-looking as Clay, but that fella is as mean as a tiger with his balls in a gin trap. Since he left the army he’s made a living as a ‘fixer’. Clay says he’s one of those guys you can call on when your back is pressed so hard against the wall you’ve got mortar in your arse crack.”

  “Is that on his business card?”

  Larry gave a sincere nod. “Maybe it should be.”

  Pamela watched as Danny turned down a back alley some two hundred metres away. Jacks too watched with his one good eye, huffed once, then settled back into the comparative cool beneath the table.

  5

  Danny walked with a casual gait as he traversed the alleyways and junctions in a half-mile radius around the Woo Hoo Club, committing as much detail to memory as possible.

  Ultima Felicidad had been modelled on an American-style street grid, with each street lying parallel to each other on a north/south bearing and the opposite streets lying on an east/west pattern. This formed neat blocks of buildings that helped give Ultima its stylised yet uniform look, with no building over five storeys high—no doubt to restrict the hotel chains. The streets had been named in the American format also, with First Street and Second Street lying north/south, and the east/west streets named after famous Spanish celebrities and historical figures.

  Danny found himself on the junction of Twenty-Third and Banderas. The architecture of the buildings was very similar to the rest of Ultima, but Banderas seemed to play host to a collection of garages, car showrooms and auto spray shops. In marked contrast, the shops and stores on Twenty-Third seemed to be more concerned with designer fashion boutiques and sunglasses. On Thirtieth and Conde, named for the famous bullfighter, Javier Conde, Danny found a home improvement store. Twenty minutes later he paid the cashier and left with two large bags stuffed with a very eclectic range of items.

  He was about to cross the narrow street when a loose convoy of bikers rumbled past. Danny stepped quickly back to the kerb. Nice bikes. Big and powerful, a few with custom paint jobs. The riders all sported the same granite expression and gang colours. Tough guys. One of the bikers gave him an exaggerated look of disdain, sitting astride a chopper that was painted a midnight blue. Instead of the usual chrome, the frame was finished in what appeared to be burnished bronze.

  Danny kept a Kawasaki 650 in a lockup back in England, but it was a poor relation to these machines that rumbled so loudly they caused the shop windows to vibrate as they passed by. Further down the road a young couple had to jump sideways to avoid a bike that nearly clipped them. The woman managed to lose one of her shoes as she made the mad dash to avoid being run over. When the young man gave the biker the finger, three of the riders slowed and revved the engines in unison. The noise was deafening. The startled couple ducked inside the nearest shop as one of the bikers drew what looked like a steel pipe from his handlebars and pointed the weapon in their direction.

  Danny leaned against a shop front, shaking his head at the moronic display and watched the bikers trace their way the full length of the street. He gazed at the colourful gang patch that adorned the back of every one of the bikers’ jackets. He filed it away with the rest of the day’s details and slowly wound his way back through the grid towards the Dukes’ club. Time, he thought, to get things in motion.

  6

  The Woo Hoo had steadily filled up during the traditional siesta time. It’s a curious fact that the British don’t siesta very well, perhaps seeing themselves as being built from hardier stuff than their continental cousins. Danny liked the idea of some quiet downtime each day—if not spent sleeping fully, then dozing with a half-read book for company. But the good-natured festivities that the Woo Hoo promoted during the daylight hours made sleep impossible.

  Danny sat in an alcove that afforded
a clear view of the club’s main entrance. Music pumped from the inset speakers that were tucked invisibly into the alcove seating. Jacks lay at his feet, slumbering, seemingly oblivious to the noise.

  The club’s day trade consisted of mainly older British ex-patriots that had taken up residence in or around the resort of Ultima. In line with the older crowd’s tastes, the music playing was an eclectic mix of sixties, seventies and eighties. Silver-haired and tanned to the colour of a walnut seemed to be the required look for the daytime patrons of the Woo Hoo.

  Danny recognised a few minor celebrities in the crowd. One owned a famous nightclub of his own in London and as usual he had a girl at least forty years his junior hanging on his every word. Opposite sat a comedian who had been big in the nineties, but had lost his star quality due to his overfondness of the whisky bottle and his reputation of being impossible to work with during his “wet seasons”. The ageing entertainer had the Woo Hoo crowd in the palm of his hand: half of the club was listening intently to the tale he was recounting about his wild nights of partying with U2 and the female cast of a well-known soap opera.

  Danny smiled to himself; a big fish in a little pond. But there was no malice to his judgement. He understood why fading stars came to places like Ultima or Marbella or Miami. They’d struggled all of their professional lives to be somebody and wanted to hang on to the laughs and applause for as long as possible.

  No harm, no foul.

  And of course having these “celebs” as regulars didn’t hurt the Woo Hoo’s takings. Tourists came here by the coachload on the chance of seeing an ex-James Bond or another old star sipping a strawberry daiquiri. Larry Duke didn’t deny the rumours that Sean Connery himself was part-owner of the club; he just tapped his nose to regular enquirers and replied, “That’s between me and Sean.”

  Of course Connery had never put a penny into the club, but the punters had already made up their minds, preferring to spin stories of how they’d spent their holiday rubbing shoulders with the stars. Larry was never going to let the truth get in the way of a story or a good business opportunity.

  The afternoon passed without event. As the sun began to set, the older crowd drifted away and the Woo Hoo slowly awakened. Pamela escorted Jacks upstairs where he spent his time during the evening trade. Three-legged dogs and drunken partygoers; never the twain should meet.

  A myriad of neon lights pulsated in perfect synchronised timing with the beat of the music. The effect was almost hypnotic. Danny wasn’t a big fan of nightclubs— too many people—but the atmosphere in the Woo Hoo Club was undeniably great. The sight of young women dressed in what amounted to little more than underwear and skin-tight Lycra bodysuits did nothing to upset Danny’s sensibilities either. But always his attention crept back to the main entrance.

  The club employed three uniformed doormen at night, but they were there more for effect than any real action. Larry had copied the routine from the upmarket clubs in Los Angeles that had door staff checking for names on a “guest list”. The list was a fake of course, but every now and then the doormen would ask each other, “Is it tonight that Posh and Becks are coming?” just loud enough for the revellers to hear. The name-dropping always sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd awaiting entry. It didn’t matter that the stars never arrived; the promise was what the Woo Hoo sold. Pamela had even employed lookalikes to breeze into the club. Clubbers went home on those nights swearing that they’d partied with Tom Cruise or Johnny Depp. Woo Hoo!

  As the night drew to a close, Danny was grateful that he hadn’t had to do more than learn the lay of the land. But he knew it wouldn’t last.

  7

  Vincenzo Ortega sat with his broken right arm in a cast. A rainbow of dark purple bruises shadowed the murder in his eyes like a highwayman’s mask. His jaw had been wired in the emergency room at Magdalena Hospital in Almería City. He could now only speak in the manner of a novice ventriloquist.

  His two backup men, Aspanu and Donal, were sitting in silence at the rear of the spacious terrace. After the curses that their boss had spewed at Ortega they dared not even make eye contact. The boss had a habit of “shooting the messenger” and all of his underlings knew that the best course of action was to keep your head down during one of his furious rants.

  Antoni Barcelo was a physically imposing figure. His broad sloping forehead was framed with a shock of coal-black hair that was swept back off his face in a retro “Elvis” style. The back of his hair was grown past collar length but was still slicked and neat. Appearance was important to Barcelo; he spent a fortune on grooming products and counted a masseuse and skincare specialist among his retained staff. He also wore a Savile Row suit almost every day regardless of the Mediterranean heat.

  Today he wore a slate-grey blazer with matching trousers, a white silk shirt and white leather loafers. His face clashed with his wardrobe, however, due to the fact that he was so angry he’d turned a dark crimson. His guttural Spanish rattled like gunfire. “One man did this to you? Three of you couldn’t handle one tourist? You spend the day in the hospital and I only hear about it now?”

  “Boss, I was messed up,” Ortega tried to explain. “I just needed some time to get my head straight.”

  “Why, so you could come up with a line of crap to spin me?” demanded Barcelo. “One damned tourist?”

  Ortega struggled through his explanation. “This guy knew what he was doing. I think the Dukes have hired some muscle of their own.”

  “Well? What the hell do I pay you spineless cretins for? You’re supposed to sort out problems like this. Do I need to go down there and break him myself?”

  “No, boss, we were just caught off guard. What do you want us to do next? Petrol bomb the place?”

  “No. Not yet. That would just cost me more. Send a couple of scouts down to the bar and watch out for this hired help. See if there are any more protectors—I want to know numbers. Let’s see if they are professionals before I send any more of you imbeciles to get your asses kicked.”

  Ortega knew Barcelo was a dangerous man but that his boss could be generally relied on to be objective when dealing with outside threats. Rumour had it he’d learned a valuable lesson during a three-year stretch in the notorious Zuera prison as a young man in his twenties. Another inmate had baited him about his pretty-boy looks, offering him a role as a stand-in wife. Antoni had charged in furiously, swinging his fists. The more experienced inmate had dodged his blows and reciprocated with three stabs with a homemade knife. During his four weeks in the prison infirmary Barcelo had vowed never to be shanked again by rushing in without knowing the capability of his enemy.

  “Vin, pick out three from your team and send them down there to watch the place. Nobody is to move on them until I have spoken, is that clear?”

  Ortega nodded and motioned for his two men to leave with him.

  “And, you two!” Barcelo pointed at both Donal and Aspanu. “If you fail me again, you better move to Australia so I don’t see you ever again.”

  The two injured men nodded energetically and scuttled after Ortega. Donal favoured his good leg, trying to avoid putting pressure on the sutures in his thigh.

  * * *

  An hour or so later, three Locos sat in a parked car watching the entrance to the Woo Hoo Club. It was getting dark and the evening crowd was beginning to fill the streets. Ortega had described the big guy who’d taken him, Donal and Aspanu down, but as yet the watchers hadn’t seen such a man.

  “Maybe I should go in and have a closer look,” offered Juba Akengala, the only black man in the trio. Juba was Nigerian by birth but had drifted across Africa to wherever there was a head to crack for money. He was very capable with a machete, wielding it with deadly efficiency. His features were narrow and defined but not unattractive. Unlike the other Locos in their urban camouflage, he was dressed smartly in loose denim jeans, a dark-yellow shirt with a distinctive crocodile logo and a pair of new Timberland boots. “I’ve never been in the club before, so t
hey won’t know who I am.”

  His two companions looked back at him, then the elder of the three, Vasquez, spoke. “Okay, go in, but just keep yourself to yourself. Try to find the big guy Ortega mentioned and if you see him, check if he has any friends with him. Be careful.”

  * * *

  Inside the club Danny glanced up from a cocktail menu that he had propped on the table. A tall black man had just entered and strode casually over to the main bar. Danny watched him for a moment or two and then went back to scanning the club with his peripheral vision. Twenty minutes later Danny registered the same man leaving—just another guy on the lookout for a cold beer.

  Danny rolled his neck around to relieve the stiffness there. He decided to exercise in the morning; he needed to burn off some energy before the meeting with the other British business owners the following evening. He glanced at his watch; another three hours to closing time. He was confident that the presence of the bustling evening crowd in the club would dissuade any retribution from the Locos. As Danny settled back into his seat his attention was caught by a silver-haired man giving a very poor attempt at the Robot. Danny smiled and shook his head. You’re never too old to make an arse of yourself, he thought.

  8

  After a short but restful night’s sleep, Danny arose and looked out of the window at the resplendent Spanish sunrise. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of the sun on his face.

  He had remained on watch for all of the previous night’s trade, blending in with the revellers. When the last of the clubbers had staggered homeward, Danny had climbed the stairs to the makeshift bedroom that Pamela had prepared for him. Jacks had immediately cozied up to him and had to be called twice before leaving him be.

  A camp bed, a small wooden cabinet and a bedside lamp were the sum total of the room’s furnishings but he didn’t require many creature comforts. His laptop and iPad sat next to the lamp. Danny glanced at his watch; the luminous dial showed 07.30. Using the club’s bathroom facilities, he shaved and showered to parade ground standards. Old habits.