by John Barlow
All the best. Yours sincerely, Denise.
***
Twenty minutes later and there’s a slight scowl on her face. The starters have been cleared away and they’re onto a second bottle of Albariño.
“John, there’s something we need to talk about. Something about the business.”
She shifts in her chair, still frowning.
“The business? My business was counterfeit money, as you know. More recently my business was trying to avoid being arrested for it. And I lost Den in the process.” He pours himself more wine. “That’s the only business I had, to be honest.”
“I didn’t mean that business. I meant the showroom.”
“What about it?”
She drinks what remains in her glass and accepts a refill, then drinks some of that too.
“Have you ever seen your dad’s will?”
“He’s still alive! Anyway, he never made a will, I know that much.”
“But he had an agreement.”
“Did he?”
“With Javier.”
“Who is…?”
“Was. Javier was the brother-in-law of your granddad and your great-Uncle Alfonso. Javier, you know, from Toledo?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure your dad never mentioned Javier? He was in business with Ramón, the third son of Mercedes Eugenia, who was your, ehm… I think your great-granddad’s cousin from Santiago. You know, she…”
“Connie, I don’t know any of these people. I’ve heard of Uncle Alfonso, but the others?”
“Well, the fact is that Javier gave your dad 300,000 pesetas in 1963, which was a lot of money in those days, as well as incredibly difficult to get out of Spain, which shows how important it was, that they snuggled…”
“Smuggled?”
“Yes, smuggled it out. Your dad invested it for Javier.”
She stops, as if silence is the best way of explaining what comes next.
“Don’t tell me…”
“Fifty-fifty. That was the deal.”
“Tony Ray’s Motors is Javier’s?”
“Half.”
“Oh great.”
There’s still plenty of wine in both their glasses, but he pours more, emptying the whole bottle, and attracting the attention of several customers at adjacent tables.
“Hold on,” he says, bringing his glass carefully to his lips and lightening its load considerably. “Javier must be dead, right?”
“Right. His son was also called Alfonso. You ever hear of him?”
He shakes his head, then drinks more wine.
“He moved to Madrid and married Maria Garrido…”
“Cut the genealogy class. Who owns the half of the garage that I don’t? This Alfonso bloke?”
“He died,” she said. “Last year.”
A pause.
“He only had one child,” she whispers, her voice falling away almost to nothing. “A step-daughter.”
She bows her head and looks at the crisp white table linen, partly from embarrassment, and partly out of respect for her dead father.
Oh shit.
He’s about to drain his glass when he hears a familiar voice.
“Hello, Connie.”
Henry Moran is there, looking down at them both.
“John,” Moran says, as neat and youthful as ever, a silver tie setting off a sapphire-blue two-piece suit.
“Are you lunching here?” John asks.
Moran thinks about his reply.
“Yes. But I also need to talk to you about the showroom, John, on behalf of my client.”
“What?”
Moran, never one for too many words, he leaves it at that.
“What!” John says again, irritated by Moran’s manner.
Connie sighs. “I’m his client.”
“We just need to agree on a few things regarding the future of the business,” Moran adds. “My office in a couple of hours, that all right for you both?”
Connie nods, and John does his best not to let his jaw fall wide open.
“Enjoy,” Moran says, and turns to go.
“Henry?” says John. “How long have you known about Connie’s fifty percent?”
Moran stops. “I’ve known for years,” he says, spinning around on his heels. “Your dad reckoned Joe wouldn’t care much about his share of the showroom, and you were away. Then, when you took over, well, it became none of my business, didn’t it?”
The flattest insinuation of a smile, and he looks at his watch.
“One more thing, Henry,” John says. “Did you know that Den had an affair with Steve Baron before she met me?”
“Yes. I advised him on his divorce.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
Moran feigns exasperation.
“You’re not my client, John.”
With that he turns and makes his way down the restaurant to a table at the other end, where an improbably young woman awaits.
“You know,” says John, watching Moran go, “it was one of the last things Dad said to me before he had the big stroke. Asked me if we could help out an old family friend from Spain. Their daughter needed a change. Thought a spell in England might do her good.”
“He was probably going to tell you the truth,” Connie says.
“No. Knowing Dad, he probably wasn’t!”
The arrival of monkfish with fois gras provides a temporary hiatus in the conversation.
“So,” he says, as they look first at their plates, then at each other, “what are we going to do?”
“How about we keep the place open, see how it goes?”
“But I hate the car business!”
“West Yorkshire Used Car Dealer of the Year?”
“Of course! I never had to worry about how much money I was making.”
He drums his fingers on the table, thinks for a moment.
“If we did reopen, what would you do? Carry on making the coffee? Or sales? Until we know what’s gonna happen with Freddy? I might need someone permanent, if we do stay open. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“You’re asking me to work for you?”
“Why not?”
“Because I own the place!” She blushes. “Well, half of it.”
She picks up her fork, then puts in down again.
“Another thing. I’ve been working there the last three weeks, while you’ve been away.”
“I thought I told you not to open up?”
She huffs.
“I’ve sold seven cars, made thirteen thousand clear profit. Look. I don’t hate selling cars. I like it. A lot. There’s potential. You were even making money when you weren’t trying. A bit of discipline and it could be a real business.”
“Discipline? I don’t like the idea of that.”
“Well, unless you want problems from your partner, we’re gonna have to start making some money here. Serious money. Who has a business and doesn’t want it to make money?”
Then it dawns on him.
“Madrid Business School.”
She plays innocent: “What?”
But in Madrid they clearly don’t teach poker.
“You weren’t sent here, were you?” John says. “You came to check me out, make sure your inheritance was doing all right. See when the damn showroom was gonna turn you a profit!”
“I wasn’t sent, it’s true,” she says, but the guilt is not of the embarrassed kind. It is tinged with pity. “I was invited.”
“What?”
“He thought you needed a helping hand. Rang us when you opened.”
A pause.
Then he realises.
“Dad?”
She nods.
“Said you were making the business legitimate. Might need some help. I couldn’t come any sooner.” She smiles. “But now I’m here. Welcome to the firm, John.”
“Come on,” he says, grabbing his fork, “let’s eat.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The main sites for the novel
are based on places that I visited with my father Stephen Barlow in the autumn of 2010, not least Hope Road itself. So, thanks Dad! I am also very grateful indeed to two police detectives for their valued advice, both in procedural matters and also more broadly in terms of crimes and criminals: DCI Perce Bosworth and DI Martin Hepworth. Finally, neither JD nor KG wanted their names in the book (those initials are fictitious), but thanks for being open about what you do and, in the case of JD, what you were nicked for!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Barlow was born in 1967 in West Yorkshire, England. He left school to become a musician, playing piano and organ in local bars and clubs. He then studied English Literature at Cambridge University, and did post-graduate work at Hull University.
He taught English for a number of years, but in 2004, the year in which his debut collection Eating Mammals was published, he moved to Spain to take up writing full-time. He currently lives in the Galician city of A Coruña with his wife and two sons.
Apart from his own writing, he works as a ghost writer and journalist. He has written for the Washington Post, Slate.com, Penthouse and Departures Magazine, among others, and he is currently a feature writer for award-winning food magazine Spain Gourmetour.
See more at: www.johnbarlow.net
OTHER BOOKS BY JOHN BARLOW
ISLANDERS adventure novel for young readers and adults España | US | UK
WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO JERRY PICCO? private eye novel España | US | UK
EVERYTHING BUT THE SQUEAL non-fictin, travel/food España | US | UK
INTOXICATED historical novel
EATING MAMMALS 3 novellas, winner Discovery Prize, Paris Review España | US | UK
