by AJ Adams
I’d been exhausted, but by the time I stepped out of Adoration’s, I was feeling myself again. Actually, better than myself. My hair was feather cut and nicely swirly. My nails were a glossy autumn red, an exact match for my dress. Walking down the road, I realised my feet felt like they were attached to my body again, too. I decided I really should do more for myself.
I opened up, and the first customer through the door was Roger. He wasn’t looking too pleased, either.
“Johnathan told me why you were at Stinky’s,” he said abruptly. “You should have told me.”
“Yes, ratting people out is what I always do.”
It was nasty of me, because Roger had been paralytic in the pub a few times and gotten a bit silly with Cindy, one of the regulars. I’d never told his wife Suzie or let on to anyone else in the family.
“He’s my son. I have a right to know!”
“He was frightened. You’ve got a temper, Roger.”
“Spare the rod.”
“Well, you’ve beaten the fear of God into him. He won’t tell you a damn thing anymore.”
That was too much for Roger. “Don’t tell me how to raise my son!”
And that was too much for my temper. “Oh, bugger off!”
He stomped off, and then I had the regulars come for a lunchtime pint. Mike and Dave were there with Angus, their black Lab, as well as Abdul and Mo and the Davidsons. Usually they’re happy and noisy, but this time they were all rather quiet. I quickly realised they all knew about Delicia and the Twittertons.
“It’s a bad thing to happen to a wee lassie,” Dave growled.
“Who did for the Twittertons?” Mo asked.
“That will have been you, Frosty,” Mike said. “Good job.”
“Except that Smith will be after you,” Abdul worried.
I had my story ready. “I wanted to kill them all, but actually I didn’t know until after it was them who had Delicia. I heard she’d been seen in Aylesbury Estate, so I went on spec and found Delicia in a hallway.”
“You didn’t see the Twittertons then?” Mo asked.
“If I had, I would have killed them. As it was, I guess they must have passed out from drink or drugs, and Delicia just wandered out. She was half doped, poor sweet, so I bundled her up and got her home.”
“So who shot and beat the Twittertons?” Mo asked.
“I dunno. Seeing they’re paedos, it could have been anyone.”
I wasn’t sure if they believed me, but after repeating my tale two or three more times, it seemed to go down okay.
“What about Sooty?” Dave asked.
“That bugger should be shot!” Mo snarled.
I was dying to cricket bat the fuck out of Sooty, but I kept silent. Grunter would do it for me. Soon, hopefully.
“How did he get Delicia to go with him?” Mr Davison asked.
“He lured her with booze.” Mo was disapproving.
“Young girls are too easy,” Mrs Davidson said. “Delicia should know better.”
Victim-blaming is a bitch, and it’s universal. Luckily Dwayne came in at that point, so the old bat got a break and continued breathing.
“Nats,” Dwayne was looking worried. “Smith was round at my place this morning. He was asking a lot of questions about you and that Mexican.”
“Sorry, Dwayne.”
He was frowning. “Smith’s just a prick, but there’s all sorts of rumblings from the Peckham Knaves. They say you’re cruising for a bruising.”
“Thanks. I’ll be careful.”
Dwayne twitched. “That bloke, Quique. Word on the street is not to mess with him.”
“Don’t worry. I’m planning to be very sensible.”
“Good.” Dwayne looked relieved. “You’re the best boss I’ve ever had, Nats. I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”
Sweet, right? And totally unexpected. I was touched. Luckily so because the warmth of the compliment kept me going through a rather tricky patch of customer service.
As I said, we usually have a dozen people in at lunchtime, but since Stinky got his, we’d had in fifty. That day it was the regulars plus twenty or so extras. The added business brought in lots of lovely cash, but as everyone had come to gawk, the gossiping about Delicia was getting to me.
“Thirteen and out on her own. I blame the mother.”
“Were there really four of them? God, can you imagine?”
“I hear she was up for it.”
“Well, the Trueloves are known for that. Millie was up the spout with Roger when she was sixteen.”
“Think the girl was asking for it then?”
I could feel myself coming to the boil when two blokes stalked in. Peckham Knaves. I hadn’t seen them before, but I recognised the look and the tats. I was going to pick up my cricket bat when one of them put down some photos.
“Soon.”
Then they walked out.
The photos were of two women. They’d been beaten to a pulp, their faces purple with bruises and red with blood. My stomach heaved just looking at them. Sweat ran down my back, too. At the same time, though, I was raging. I wasn’t going to let those fuckers get me.
The punters were too busy bitching to notice what was going on. I needed their money, so I acted cool as I put the photos in my bag. Actually, though, I was worried. This was getting to be hairy.
“Natalia!”
Only one person calls me by my name, and ironically it irritated me. “Hello, Scott. Shandy?”
“Yes, please.” His pale blue eyes looked me over. Yes, here it was. “You look lovely as always.”
“Thank you.” Oh sod off. I wasn’t in a mood to be polite.
"I saw the paint on your door. I'm appalled! Natalia, you must be careful. London's not safe for a single woman!"
"Thanks, but I can take care of myself."
"But Natalia, the paint on your door! Aren't you worried?"
"No." I was deliberately icy, hoping he'd leave it alone. "Paint doesn't scare me."
Scott dropped his voice. “Natalia, what’s going on? Was Delicia really with the Twitterons? All three of them? All night?”
Don’t kill him. He’s not worth it. “That’s not something I want to discuss.”
“But it’s outrageous!”
I kept my trap shut.
“First Sal Binks and now Tommy Twitterton! Natalia, people are saying you have something to do with it!”
“Do they? Amazing how crazy gossip gets. Especially nasty gossip.”
“Oh, I don’t believe a word of it!”
Then why repeat it, I thought to myself.
“It’s unfortunate, but you have my support.” Scott was looking pompous. “I’m telling everyone they have you totally wrong.”
“Thanks, Scott, but don’t bother. I can fight my own battles.”
“Now we all know you’re a feminist,” Scott was a condescending ass when he tried to be playful. “I trust you completely, of course. But Natalia, who is that man you keep sneaking off with?”
Pour the shandy in the glass and do not pour it over his head. “That’s my business. And I do not sneak.”
“I think I’m entitled to answers!”
Right. That set me off. “Scott, an outing to the cinema entitles you to nothing.”
“I believe I have a certain standing!”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m here to protect you! You have no idea how dangerous life is for a single woman!”
The idea of Scott, a prissy, stuck-up twat, protecting me from Peckham Knaves and the Zetas almost made me smile, but I was gentle with him. “I can look after myself, thanks.”
Everyone was listening in, enjoying the drama. The Black Horse was living up to its reputation for live performances.
“I don’t understand you,” Scott chuntered. “You find a dead body, the police are round all the time, and I’m hearing the most awful rumours.”
“Life is complicated sometimes.”
“Yes, but you just car
ry on like nothing’s wrong. Don’t you care? And that dress! What were you thinking? Anyone would think you’re going to a party!”
I was going to give him what-for when Quique walked in. He was wearing an exquisitely cut black suit and a sky blue shirt, as well as polished loafers and a slim gold watch. He looked like he’d parachuted in from an Armani catwalk.
He took one look at my furious face and grinned, “Hey bruja!”
Scott was instantly rigid with disapproval, hissing, “What’s he doing here?”
I rinsed my hands and picked up my bag. “He’s taking me to lunch.”
As I walked out, I was totally unfazed by Scott’s spluttering fury, but Dwayne’s concern and everyone else’s nervous looks did get to me a little. Clearly word had gone round that there was worse in the world than the Peckham Knaves.
“Mafia from Mexico,” Mrs Davidson whispered.
“Definitely trouble,” Mo muttered.
Quique didn’t seem to notice. He led me out to a gleaming black Merc, another thing we don’t often see in our neck of the woods. He opened the door and handed me in, doing it neatly and without fuss. Inside the car smelled of leather and polish. It was decadently rich, and I loved it.
“Do you need to hurry back?” Quique settled himself in the driver’s seat.
“Not really. My shift starts at five.”
“Good.” He slid the car into gear, and we purred off, smooth as cream. “It’ll give us time to talk.”
“I see you bought a new watch.”
Yup, my ‘be nice’ resolution lasted thirty seconds. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.
Quique gave me an evil look. “Mine’s being held hostage, so I bought this as a stand-in.”
“A gold watch is temporary?”
He shrugged. “I like thin watches. This was the only one they had.”
“You bought the car to go with the trousers?”
Yup, full sarcastic bitch mode.
He gave me a nasty look. “It’s a loaner. I thought we could do with a nice afternoon.”
“Sorry, Quique. I’m a bit uptight.”
“The chiquitína?”
“Hmmm.”
He didn’t say a word, but he sighed. It was odd that all the upright folk in the pub were keen to moralise and judge, but all that came from the Zeta was a wave of sadness.
I couldn’t help myself; I liked this man. It was ridiculous. Clearly I had a screw loose.
Annoyingly, the bugger picked up on it. “Ay-ay-ay, bruja! You look tragic. Want to yell at me a little?”
That got me grinning. “Actually, I was planning to be nice.”
“Great! Then we’re gonna have a good time!”
I thought it would be unlikely, but when we rolled up at the restaurant, I knew it would be amazing. “Le Pont de la Tour? Ohmigod! This is one of the best places in London!”
Quique was smiling, a real smile this time. He was delighted by my excitement. “Then I chose right. Good!”
In a word, it was glorious. We kicked off with champagne cocktails and truffles on toast at the bar while I devoured the menu.
“I can’t decide between the salmon salad and the bisque, but the roast duck with red cabbage is a definite.”
“Order it all, and we share.” Quique was waving down more cocktails and looking around. “Nice place. Good view, too. Tower of London, right?”
“Yes, have you been inside?”
“No, but there’s a pub round the corner that I like.” He was grinning. “It’s named after a crook, so I had to go in.”
“The Artful Dodger! I know it well.”
You know, we just sat and blethered. It was like we’d known each other forever; we just had to catch up on details.
By the time pudding came round, bitter chocolate croustillant with Grand Marnier, we finally got down to business.
“I’ve got several places you’ll love.” He moved his chair next to mine and was showing me his phone. “Now don’t say no, bruja. Look first.”
He’d done well, but I’d turned the local properties down before. “That one has a rotten foundation, and this one floods every winter. These two have gone bust so often that they have revolving signs.”
“I get the first two but not the others. Does that matter how other people did? Your place will be different.”
“People won’t go to a place with a bad rep.”
He had more, but the other places were too far away. “I need to start off where I’m known. There’s too much competition to start cold.”
Quique sighed. “You’re turning me down?” The other times he’d been furious, but this time he seemed to understand, “I know you’ve put a lot into this. I’ll pay an extra ten per cent, in cash. I’ll also buy the assessments you did for the property with the rotten foundation and the one that floods. It’s a good deal.”
Actually, it was magnificent. I just stared at him.
“You’re over-extended.” Quique was persuasive. “You invested too much. You’ve no margin left for development.”
There’s something inside me that just can’t help but push back. “Oh, I don’t know!”
“With the extra cash, you can make a better choice.” Quique said. “Think about it.”
“Or else?”
He’d been totally reasonable, but there was my inner bitch again.
Quique ignored my sniping. “I can go to twelve per cent, but that’s it.”
Really magnificent, but it wasn’t quite what I wanted. “It’s a deal.”
I got a flashing grin. “Really? Excellent! That calls for another drink!”
“But I’ll take the ten per cent, and in return for the other two I want your help.”
“Is this where we get to my watch?”
He spoke pleasantly enough, but his eyes flashed again. Yup, he was secretly hopping but determined not to let it show.
I played along, pretending it was just a game. “I daren’t give it back till I feel safe.”
“The cops don’t worry you.” Those dark eyes were measuring me. “The Peckham Knaves?”
“Spot on.” I dug out the photos from my bag, determinedly ignoring the nervous roiling of my stomach as I remembered those battered faces. “Tommy Twitterton died yesterday. His brothers will live, I hear.”
Quique was examining the photos. “You’re next, are you?”
“Soon, I’m told.”
“Who made the threat?”
“I don’t know their names, but I might be able to find out.”
“Don’t bother, bruja.” He put the photos in his pocket. “I’ll fix them.”
He said it quietly, calmly, but the eyes had gone from friendly brown to black again. I suddenly sensed the violence coming off him, just like the first time I’d confronted him. This was nothing like the Peckham Knaves; this was ten, no, a hundred times worse.
Suddenly, I was seeing the real man sitting next to me. The clothes, sophistication and good humour were a cloak; this was a killer. What the hell had I been thinking, sitting here and talking as if we were friends? He could eat me alive and never even notice. I was a damn fool, playing stupid games with a man more dangerous than dynamite.
For a moment, the breath caught in my throat as I realised the danger I’d been in.
He knew it too, giving me a cool smile, and lifting his liqueur in an ironic salute. “You made the right decisions today. You won’t regret it.”
All that casual power, sitting there grinning at me. I push back when pushed, so I heard myself say, “I need a premises licence-holder. Want to help out with that, too?”
His answer was instant. “Sure, bruja.”
And that’s how I got into a partnership with the Zetas.
Chapter Eleven: Quique
When I’m an old man sitting in the sun and thinking back over my life, that lunch with the bruja will be a treasured memory.
I woke up that morning uptight as hell after nightmares where the boss and the jefe were saying they
’d sent me to London because they’d discovered I wasn’t a real man.
“All the time we thought he had a Magnum,” my dream boss yelled.
“But it was nothing but a starter pistol,” the dream jefe screamed back.
Even after two coffees, the feeling just wouldn’t go away. It was nuts, I knew it, but I felt it.
Tina hadn’t contacted me, either. I called Chloe. “Want me to bring you anything back from London?”
“Do I ever! Crumpets and bacon, for starters. I’m emailing you a list!”
“Terrific. So what’s new?”
Chloe didn’t even pretend. “Sorry, love but Tina’s gone totally off the rails. There was a party last night, and she was all over Antonio.”
Of all the fucking men in the world, she’d picked him. “Pinche puta!”
“Look, Solitaire made Tina stay the night and sent Antonio home, so it came to nothing.”
Except me being a laughingstock.
Chloe tried to be kind. “It’s probably just her trying to get your attention.”
“She’s got it, all right.”
“Quique, you can’t kill Antonio,” Chloe urged me. “He did it because you hit him. He took it really badly. Everyone was laughing at him. He just went nuts.”
“And he’s the jefe’s cousin.”
“Arturo’s sent him away to Dallas. He knows you’re in the right, but you know how protective he is of family.”
Although the boss and the jefe were standing up for me, Tina was driving me to the wall, and I had no idea how to fix it without killing her and that fuck Antonio, two things that would be the same as suicide. The jefe knew I had the right, but he wouldn’t let me murder his blood cousin.
By the time I said goodbye to Chloe, I realised I had to up my game. It wasn’t good enough anymore to be an expert in my own field; I had to show everyone I was a winner no matter what they set me to. I’d make the London business sing; that would show them.
Then I busted a nut setting up the lunch. God knows why, but I had this weird sense that if I could fix the bruja, everything else would fall into place. Like she was a talisman. It made no sense, but that was how I felt. Guatemalans aren’t superstitious as a rule, but like I said, I wasn’t myself.
So there I was, picking out my best clothes and combing my hair like a fucking maricon getting ready for a date, borrowing the best ride I could find and booking a fancy restaurant on the river, all in order to impress that fiend from hell.
