Dirty Cops Next Door

by Summer Cooper

  Walter raised his hand again and pointed to the TV. “I’ve had my say, now do as your mother tells you.” As he heard Mary rising from the couch and heading for her bedroom, he gave a wry smile. He calculated a good six-hour drive to the airport. He nodded to himself. Yeah, he could manage that.

  2

  Ben Cooper tilted the glass of wine to his lips and took a sip. As usual it was perfect, but then it was Portuguese and he was drinking it overlooking a turquoise lagoon in the Algarve. The wine was perfect as was the lunch he was eating with it.

  Ben gazed out over the crystal clear water and the holidaymakers enjoying the beach in the warm sunshine. Another day on the Algarve and, as like all days on the Algarve, it was bliss.

  Ben was a blogger for an online tour guide. Sitting here, basking in the sun with a glass of fine wine wasn’t leisure, it was work. Hard, hard work he worked very hard at. This was what he did.

  At six feet even and well-built, with a thatch of blonde hair and blue eyes, Ben at 35 looked healthy, fit, and quite attractive to the ladies, though he tended to ignore them most days. He’d been a soldier in the British army since he’d left school at 16. Now, still locked into a lot of the just-so ways of the army, he was free. Free to indulge a passion of travel and getting paid for it again. He had no real interest in the usual tourist side of things, though. His job was specifically to seek out those hidden gems the package tourist never sees. Those places that once visited someone may never leave again. Here in Fuseta, a little fishing village on the shores of the Algarve, he had found such a place.

  Ben smiled as two jet skis shot across the lagoon in the bow wave of a water taxi, on their way to the island ahead. Here, you could have all the speed you ever wanted, or like Ben, enjoy the slow pace of life in an Algarvian paradise. Though it could sometimes drive him mad, Ben had to admit, the slow pace had done him good. Meals would arrive when the waiter had finished talking to his neighbour. The wine would never come late, though it might be served mid conversation to a local fisherman. And of course, as soon as the sun hit dead centre in the sky, most places would close their doors and call it time until the cooler evening arrived. No rush for money. No busting a gut to earn those last few cents. They would work when they decided it was suitable and not before.

  Ben carried a pocket of table clips and a ball of sticky putty in his pocket most of the time. Portuguese bars and restaurants insist on a tablecloth, regardless of the weather. No problem indoors, but fighting to keep a paper cloth on a table often became a nightmare out on a patio with the sea breeze. Waiters would half-heartedly attempt to fit them with table clips if they remembered to bring enough, but usually it required spreading the utensils, glasses and ash trays to hold it in place. So Ben always carried four strong clips of his own.

  The silly putty of course was for those places that would have wonky pictures all over the walls. There was no way Ben would take a picture for his blog with wonky picture frames in the background, so he’d meticulously straighten them with a blob of putty in the corner. Yes, it got him some strange looks from the proprietors, but he noticed when he returned some days later the pictures would be just as he left them.

  For now, Ben was happy enough to sit and enjoy his wine and the view.

  A rather beautiful woman walked by, catching his eye. Ben wasn’t looking for a relationship or even a fling really, but he couldn’t help but notice the pretty ladies, could he? That was one good thing about living in a tourist town; when he felt like he needed some company, there was always someone around to fill the void temporarily.

  The lady disappeared into a shop, her bathing suit little more than a wisp of pink silk. It did little to hide the firm roundness of her bottom and Ben very much appreciated the view.

  Ben turned back to the table and decided he would finish his wine and what was left of lunch, then make his way back to his apartment on his bicycle. It was only a couple of miles, the perfect distance for a bicycle. It was too short a trip to go to all the hassle of bringing the car through the narrow streets blocked with tourists. A bicycle was perfect.

  He waved at the waitress and asked for the bill. His Portuguese wasn’t fantastic but he could usually get himself understood. Portuguese was one of those languages you either spoke since childhood or would forever sound like a foreigner. Even the northern Portuguese had problems talking to those in the Algarve. Visitors were always going to struggle.

  Ben paid for his meal and got on his bicycle. A slow ride back to his apartment taking in the views of the boats and the wildlife sanctuary suited him just fine. It was still warm in the late afternoon, so he was in no rush. He passed by the cafés on the roadside, all frying fish and chicken on the charcoal grills for the hungry tourists heading back to their beach-side apartments. He had to skirt his way around a band of musicians serenading tables at one of the café’s.

  The songs were a mixture of swing and other fifties’ tunes, but the singer delivered them in a rich local accent, making no attempt to impersonate the originals. He kept the songs gentle and melodic, his delivery paying off as coins crashed into the guitar case.

  Ben smiled as he navigated past and onto the empty track that led through the bird sanctuary. Here, flamingos gathered in large flocks. White wings hid the bright pink they would only show if a passing engine set them off in flight. They kept their heads down and foraged in peace as Ben rode past on his bicycle. He cycled leisurely by and followed the rough track until it emerged beside a small local bar that made excellent grilled chicken to take away. Ben pondered. He decided to forego the chicken but take a break for a cold beer.

  Ben found himself a table to one side of the patio that overlooked the roads and the clientele. He was a people watcher. Nothing amused Ben more than watching the world go by as he sat back and spectated. Today he had the company of two tables of German cyclists and a French couple. The French couple kept themselves to themselves and quietly drank their cocktails. The Germans on the other hand, shouted across the patio at each other and broke the peace every few minutes with uproarious laughter.

  Ben had a smattering of German in his vocabulary but he didn’t catch the jokes. They were dressed in the full on cyclist gear with lycra shorts and tops and the matching gloves and helmets. Ben smiled and gently shook his head knowing they would probably cover no more distance with their fancy expensive gear and bikes than he would on his leisurely ride to town. But then, he mused, they’re on their vacation. Spend it how the hell you want to, lads.

  Ben sipped at his ice cold beer and left the cosy little bar. Another mile would have him back at his apartment.

  Once home, he leaned the bicycle under the large wooden veranda that shaded the front door. Outside was a cobbled courtyard swamped with every kind of flower. Ben loved pottering in the courtyard and had built trellises for beans, peppers and tomatoes, that all grew and thrived in the warm Algarve sun.

  His masterpiece was a grapevine he’d spread along an arbour, the grapes hanging between the lattices, promising a bountiful harvest. They would be turned into wine, another hobby of his and one that would keep him company on the long, rainy winter nights the Algarve experienced.

  Ben walked into the gate that closed his place off from the rest of the villa. Standing at the centre of the courtyard was an old, triple tiered, cement water fountain that had long since given up being a water fountain at all and had been filled with geraniums that exploded colour in the middle of the yard. Ben gave an appreciative murmur. He loved coming back to it. He pushed through the wrought iron gate into the courtyard and went into the cool air inside the complex.

  He checked his email quickly, one from the owner of the apartments informed him that new guests were expected when Arabella, his current neighbour, left in a couple of days. A couple would be renting the barn at the end of the garden for a month. They should arrive sometime in the evening on that day. He reread the email.

  “Americans? Coming here?” he thought to himself. Quiet ones that hav
e read a book or two, he hoped.

  Ben shrugged as he opened the fridge and removed a dish of fresh shrimp. He’d start off with frying the fresh shrimp in olive oil with some chunky chopped garlic and a sprinkle of coriander. Simple to make, messy to eat and absolutely delicious. Pouring a glass of wine as he fired up the cooker he soon forgot the impending visit of the American guests. People came and people went. He’d always make an effort to be friendly and polite but always enjoyed watching the taxi pull away as they were leaving. After three years of living alone in his little two-bedroom part of the apartment complex, he knew what he liked and he liked what he knew. Complicated visitors and tourists were not it.

  The shrimp only took a few minutes and soon Ben was back out in the courtyard sat at the rustic table to eat his snack. With a couple of slices of local bread and butter, it was better than paying for it in town. For a start he could put twice as many shrimp on which was always a bonus. There could never be too many shrimp in a garlic and shrimp fry.

  The sadness arrived for a fleeting moment as he looked up at the slowly setting sun. His wife Eloise would have loved this. She’d have nagged him for overloading the shrimp and yet would have eaten just as many for herself and would have shrugged at any mention of the double standards. But Eloise wasn’t with him. She’d been cruelly taken from him some four years ago due to a nasty and aggressive cancer. Ben had seen plenty of heartache and action as a soldier, but nothing ever prepared him for losing his wife in such an ugly way.

  Eloise was always strong. She’d had to be, married to a serving soldier, but even as she faced her final moments she’d been so much stronger than Ben thought he could ever be. She held his hand as the morphine tried to fight off the pain before finally slipping away from him. He sobbed. All he could do was sob. His heart went with Eloise. He could never love again. Never share the joy of anyone else. Nobody could ever replace the only true love he had ever known.

  Ben took a large slurp of wine and gave a deep breath. What was done was done. Over is over. Portugal was an attempt to move on. To move forward again with life. The tourist blog was a good distraction and supplemented his military pension. He fumbled with a large shrimp and easily peeled off the crisp skin. Yep, Eloise would nag about that too, dripping oil all down his front. He smiled and tucked into the dish.

  “Are you open for business, stranger?” A sultry voice came through his gate and Ben looked up.

  Arabella, the Italian currently occupying the other apartment, stood there with her hand on her hip, a welcoming gleam in her eyes.

  He’d noticed her coming and going but hadn’t spoken to her. The landlord had told him her name when she’d emailed him about Arabella’s arrival date. He’d not introduced himself to the gorgeous Italian woman, but there she was, asking him for things she wasn’t sure how to ask for.

  He’d noticed her from the day she arrived, a tall woman with sadness in her eyes and slight curve to her shoulders, as if she carried the weight of the world with her. She often went out in the mornings and didn’t come back until well after dark, quite late for Portugal in the summer. Her sophisticated choice in clothing and her sad demeanour had told Ben all he needed to know about her and he’d left her to her own devices, rather than intrude. That didn’t stop him from noting how attractive she was or from having a brief fantasy about her a time or two.

  She was beautiful, her black hair long and amber eyes inviting. She wore one of those long dresses of a lacy, airy nature that all tourist women seemed to produce upon arrival, the white cotton cloth contrasting with the dark tan of her supple skin. A slit on the left side went almost up to her hip and Ben knew she wanted more than just his shrimp dinner. Ben could hardly turn her down, could he?

  “Hi there, come on in! Hungry are you?” He kept the hopeful tone out of his voice, needing company for the moment and not caring where it came from. The fact that it was coming from a young, beautiful woman didn’t hurt. She looked to be in her late twenties, and obviously took very good care of herself.

  He waved her to a chair, not bothering to get up as yet. Sometimes when women came alone, and sometimes not so alone to the villa, Ben would make exceptions to his “don’t get involved” rule. Sometimes, like now, Ben took what was so freely offered by those that wanted something more from their holiday than a list of restaurants to try and a good tan.

  “I am, but not for food. It’s my last night here and, how do you say? I’ve not been laid the entire time. I thought you might oblige me for an evening. If you were so inclined.” She settled in the chair across from him, her foot bouncing from the leg she’d crossed over the other.

  A very long, smooth leg, just the right kind for wrapping around a man’s hips, he thought as he watched the elegant foot bounce. It wasn’t often that women had pretty feet, but the enticing Arabella had very lovely feet. Ben could imagine them locked behind his back, pulling him deeper into her. He felt his eyes open a little further and his nostrils flare as he watched her, his pulse rising in anticipation of what she offered.

  “Glass of wine?” He offered a drink to her from the carafe he’d placed on the table, a clean glass on the table top, just in case anyone happened to drop by while he was eating.

  “I’d love one.” The beautiful woman smiled at him, her eyes giving away her nervousness. She’d spoken to him bluntly, as any European woman might, but there was a hint of something that told him to go easy.

  Ben inspected her closely from beneath his lashes as he poured the wine. He’d have to be gentle with this one, she wasn’t used to asking for what she wanted. Her open, blunt request was out of character for her, those tight eyes told him; a slight tremor revealed it to him even more.

  “You leave tomorrow then?” he prompted, hoping some talk might ease her into being more comfortable.

  “Yes. I’m going back to my normal life, work, my husband, the never-ending “why haven’t you given me grandchildren yet” mother-in-law.” She waved her hand around, letting him know how boring she thought it all was.

  Ben watched her without responding, ignoring the part about her husband. He didn’t care about that part, this was merely sex for the sake of having sex, he didn’t need her life story to fuck her.

  She caught on quickly, because she stopped and smiled. “Are we alone here?”

  “Yes, the upstairs apartment is empty for now. It’s just you and me.” He had an idea about where she was heading, but kept his thoughts to himself.

  She wasn’t a virgin, that was good. And she wanted sex. Also good. Her husband wasn’t here with her so that meant this had been either his way of getting her out of his hair, or her attempt at getting away from him. Either way, she wanted a night of passion, something to get her through the rest of the lonely winter months, and she’d chosen Ben. He was happy to oblige.

  They ran through the typical course of conversation as she sipped at her wine, looking around nervously on occasion, as though she thought her husband might be nearby. Ben watched her without remark, letting her play out her fantasy. Because, it was after all, her fantasy that had led her to the gate.

  “I’ve watched you since my arrival. You keep to yourself.” Her words were spoken with more of an accent now, and Ben didn’t know if it was the wine or if she was simply more relaxed.

  “I do, yes. There isn’t much point in getting to know people that are only going to be in your life for a few days before disappearing to never be seen again, is there?” He sipped at his own glass, leaning against his elbows on the table, their hands almost touching. He knew how to play at seduction.

  She glanced at his hand so close to her own, a deep breath giving away her thoughts. She was considering what she should do. He hadn’t touched her, but the promise of it was there. Would she do it?

  His eyes took her in, her indecision, waiting for her to make up her mind. He wouldn’t push her, he wasn’t that kind of guy, but he wouldn’t dissuade her either.

  She reached out with her pinkie, the long na
il covered with some kind of beige nail varnish. When she brushed his hand he knew she’d made up her mind. Ben looked into her eyes and gave her a reassuring smile. He wouldn’t push.

  She became bold then, shifting to cross her legs the other way, moving closer to him, her face only inches from his. Her pink tongue came out, wetting her lower lip, as she pondered what to say next.

  “You’re a very handsome man.”

  “You’re an even more beautiful woman.” He looked at her questioningly, waiting for her to go on.

  “I want you. I’ve watched you, waiting for you to say hello but you haven’t. To at least tell me your name, but you haven’t. Is that the old British politeness or are you simply not interested?” Her eyes closed as she spoke, but opened again, bolder, somehow wiser.

  “Oh you’re quite tempting, Arabella. Quite.” He took her hand then, massaging her long fingers. “As I said, there isn’t much point sometimes, getting to know people. Especially when it’s part of the fantasy of coming here, don’t you think? I’ll gladly tell you my name, if that’s what you want. I don’t think it is though, is it?”

  She could only stare at him, wondering how he’d seen through her so correctly.

  “I’d be more than happy to fulfil your fantasy, if you don’t mind being fucked against a wall, Arabella.”

  She’d glanced at the wall quite often since asking if they were alone, a bare spot in the bougainvillea seeming to catch her eye. He’d guessed that was her fantasy, a passion filled moment spent taking exactly what she wanted from a virtual stranger before heading home to her boring life.

  The sun went down at last, leaving them under a blanket of stars, Soft lights came on, solar lights, and the courtyard became a magical place filled with shadows.

  Arabella gasped, her pulse racing in her neck. Ben watched, and when she inhaled sharply without leaving he knew that’s what she wanted. A hot fuck against a wall, with a man not afraid of saying dirty words, words that would make her hotter the longer he said them.