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Published Spring 2001 by The Orion Publishing Group, Ltd., UK The knives are out by the time Pascual gets there, and in two heartbeats there will be blood in the air. Fernando has his back to a wall, good sound practice, but the stoutest wall at the back will never make up for three to one odds. The key figure is number of knives in sight, and even though one of the skins has only a chain, two blades to one is bad enough. Fernando smiles, his teeth flashing in the dark, and feints at the lead skin's groin. Pascual's rapid footsteps have turned heads by this time, and as luck would have it it is the knifeless skin who is closest to him and turns with a snarl to warn him off. "Camina, cabrón. We've got business here." This one is a skull with eyes, teeth missing and tattooed knuckles gripping the chain,. Pascual has been hiding the lead pipe at his side during his approach but brings it into sight now, raising it with both hands. He is operating on instinct rather than plan, and the instant the skin whirls, hands coming up, Pascual shifts and jumps hard for number two, the first knife in range. A short hard chop, straight down, cleaves through a tardy and inadequate defence and breaks a shoulder with a satisfying crack. Now Pascual ducks and spins, hearing the chain whistling through the air, and plants the pipe in the ribcage exposed by the futile swing. This time the sound of breaking bone is masked by the explosive cry of pain. Pascual leaps clear and looks for blades, but the remaining skin has Fernando to worry about. Fatally distracted by Pascual's arrival, he has let Fernando come off the wall low and fast and knife first, a skinhead's worst nightmare. By the time Pascual looks it is over; he has missed the key moves and sees only the payoff, a flick of Fernando's blade that brings a ragged howl and a panicked lurch backward. Perhaps five seconds have passed since Pascual turned the corner, and the three skins are absorbed in the choreography of defeat, stumbling, feeling for damage, sinking to knees. Pascual would stand and gawk, but Fernando has him by the arm, pulling. "Run. You want to spend your life explaining to the pestañí ? " Pascual follows him down a dark passage, trotting with the length of pipe at port arms, dazed from the adrenaline shock. The streets are empty, all decent householders long since in bed. Fernando's black tresses shine under the streetlamps, tossing as he runs; the knife has disappeared. Ahead lie the Via Laietana and brighter lights. Another turn and the Gypsy slows and pulls Pascual into shadow. They pant together for a moment, listening. Fernando's teeth flash in the dark pirate's face again; his hands grip Pascual's arms. "I don't know where you came from, but you saved my hide." "Sara ran back to the bar and told me. You didn't kill him, did you?" "Fuck , no. They'll sew his ear back on and he'll take it out on some other poor Gypsy bastard, or maybe a moro next time. You know the drill." "What happened to the others?" "They took off long ago. I stayed behind to talk to Sara. Where is she?" "I don't know. I just grabbed this and came running." Fernando's grip tightens. "There they are." Pascual hears the mournful oscillation of the siren as a police car negotiates the narrow lanes somewhere not too far away, the pestañí arriving. "Get rid of this," says Fernando, tugging at the pipe. "It belongs at the bar," says Pascual stubbornly. "So you hide it and pick it up tomorrow, coño." Fernando pulls the pipe out of Pascual's hands and tosses it in a doorway. "Lose yourself," he says. Pascual nods, starting to recover. "You all right, then?" Fernando puts his hands on Pascual's shoulders and for a moment Pascual thinks he is about to be kissed. Instead he gets a light affectionate slap on one cheek. "Thanks to you. Now make yourself scarce." Fernando vanishes in a quiet patter of footsteps. "The Raval isn't what it once was," says Puig. He spits into the gutter. "They've ruined it. It was better when the whores could make an honest living here. I'd rather have a whore for a neighbour than a moro." Pascual, who has considerable experience rubbing elbows with both whores and moros, gives a casual shrug. "It is nice to see the sun now and again." Puig gestures menacingly but vaguely with his cane. "Ah, fine, yes, they knocked down a lot of houses, threw people out in the street, so they could put up their museums and their fine plazas and things. But the spirit's gone. Even the traficantes used to stand and pass the time of day with you like a Christian should. They've ruined our Raval." Pascual pulls Puig gently out of the path of a creeping automobile and takes his leave; he is in no mood today to listen to the old man's regrets. The truth is Pascual finds plenty of the old Raval left in these crowded lanes; despite twenty years of ruthless urban renewal this warren of tenements hanging over crooked streets will never be mistaken for Sarrià or Gràcia. If the whores who made this quarter famous as the Barrio Chino have moved out to Camp Nou to ply their trade, they can still be encountered here late of a morning, blowsy and cheerful, in the queue at the baker's or the greengrocer's. Pascual turns into the Carrer Nou de la Rambla and makes for his pension. At the end of the street he can see a glimpse of plane trees on the Ramblas, the great river of life that slices down to the port through the old city, separating the Raval from the Gothic Quarter. After nearly a decade in a succession of lodgings in the Gothic Quarter, Pascual has shocked his friends by crossing the Ramblas to take up residence in the Raval; the closer the quarters and the smaller the scale, the more bitter are the territorial rivalries. "People over there are different," the morose Ibáñez warned him, shaking his head. "You'll see." What Pascual has seen is the same patient struggle with poverty and the same half-hearted tribal rivalries that have marked all his home grounds in Barcelona. In front of the Pensión Alhambra a blue Renault is parked with two wheels up on the pavement, obstructing both foot and automobile traffic in the narrow street. Two men are leaning on it, smoking, and Pascual's step slows because he knows one of them. He pulls out his key as he approaches the door but has little hope he will get to use it. "Somebody ought to call the police," he says as the older of the two men straightens up and throws away his cigarette. "Can't you see you're blocking the street?" The older man has hair cut close to his skull and well down the road from merely gray to an impressive white. His jaw is square and could light a match. His eyes could frighten children. "Don't worry," he says. "We're leaving. Hop in." He opens the rear door for Pascual. "I've got fresh milk in here," says Pascual, hoisting his plastic bag. "Can I just run it upstairs?" "It'll keep." Serrano has his moods, and Pascual can see that today there will be no banter, no pleasantries. "Am I going to need a lawyer?" "Have you done anything illegal?" Pascual considers. "No." "Then you won't need a lawyer." Serrano cocks his head at the car. Pascual shrugs and ducks into the back of the car. Serrano closes the door on him and gets into the passenger seat in front. His partner, a thin bearded man no older than thirty, slides behind the wheel. "This is Delgado," says the older policeman. "He wasn't even born when I joined the police, but he's a lot smarter than I am, so we make a fabulous team." Pascual is remembering the vicious upward slash of Fernando's knife and the shocked look on the skinhead's face: the look of a man with a severed jugular? Has Fernando vanished into Gypsy byways to leave Pascual to make the explanations? Or worse: Pascual remembers the thwack of the lead pipe into unprotected ribs. A punctured lung, a slow death, a description gasped into a policeman's ear? Pascual's stomach has gone queasy. "What's the occasion?" he says, trying to sound a light note. "Got a card game going, up in the office? I have to tell you, I'm a little short this week and can't throw much in the pot." "I have fond memories of this neighbourhood," growls Serrano by way of reply. "You see the bar here, on the corner? When I worked in this district the old bastard who ran the place used to take in stolen goods by the truckload. His wife finally shopped him because he took up with a fresh young thing in a miniskirt. As I recall he lasted about a week in the Modelo before he took some cacique's chair by mistake and got beaten to death for it." "Charming anecdote." "The Raval's not what it was, they say. Fond memories, I assure you." They fight through traffic along the seafront and up the Via Laietana to the Jefatura in silence. Serrano does not tell stories just to pass the time and Pascual has taken his point. Soberly he follows the two policemen in the side entrance and up the stairs. In the lift from second to third the silence becomes uncomfortable. "If I'm going to be here a while, I hope you've got a fridge to store the milk in," Pascual says. Serrano just looks at him. "Give it to me," says the younger man, amusement in his eyes. "We'll stick it in with the jefe's carrot juice." "Your chief drinks carrot juice?" "State secret. You spill it to the papers, we'll have your arse." "Mum's the word," says Pascual, handing over the milk. Serrano remains unmoved. Pascual has visited the Sección de Homicidios before and it has unpleasant associations for him. It is a modest office as befits a section consisting of only ten full-time inspectors, with a main room six metres square containing a few desks haphazardly disposed, a smaller interrogation room visible through a large window to the right and the office of the section chief to the left with a broad desk visible through the open door. When Serrano ushers Pascual in, there is one man typing at a desk opposite the door and nobody else. "In there," says Serrano, pointing to the interrogation room. Settled in a tolerably comfortable chair, Pascual watches Serrano through the glass as he murmurs to the man at the typewriter, grins sourly at a joke, shakes his head. In his leather jacket and black jeans Serrano could be a lorry driver or a CGTorganizer. He is as sere and weathered as the Castilian meseta where Pascual judges from his accent he was born. Under Franco he no doubt did his share of knocking heads, clad in the historic grey, but in Pascual's experience he has been an impeccably modern, democratic and European policeman, if hard as granite. He has been posted in Barcelona for thirty years and Pascual has heard him answer inquiries in creditable Catalan. Since Pascual first crossed his path in connection with a triple homicide in which Pascual was very nearly the fourth victim, Serrano has taken an interest in him which Pascual feels he ought to find flattering. Serrano goes to a desk drawer and pulls out an accordion folder, which he tucks under his arm. His partner returns sans milk and the two policemen join Pascual in the small room. Serrano hoists his flanks up onto a desk, his partner taking up station behind Pascual. "What have I done?" Pascual has decided that Fernando can take his chances; jumping into the fight was enough and he will not lie for him. Nonetheless there is no reason to volunteer. "You tell me. Anything on your conscience today?" "A hell of a lot. But it all happened years ago." "Then I don't have to care, thank Christ. I'm a little more interested in last night." "Last night?" Pascual gapes. The fight was four nights hence. "What happened last night?" Serrano has noted the surprise. "I'll say it again-- you tell me. How did you spend the evening?" "I was at work." "Work. Ah. You still teaching German girls how to order sangría and calling it work?" "I'm a barman. In the Tavern del Born, down behind Santa Maria del Mar." "A barman? My God, you've landed on your feet. They've put the rat in charge of the granary. Nice work?" "It is, in fact." "What time did you work last night?" "I came in about four and closed the place up eleven hours later." "You were there the whole time?" "Of course. It gets rather busy." "Anybody working with you?" "Yes." Serrano waits. "Well?" Pascual's anxiety has eased and he chances a smile. "You're looking for an alibi? The owner's name is Enric Bonell. I can give you a phone number." "We'll take it." Serrano listens while Pascual recites the number for his partner. "He was there the whole evening? At your side?" "No, he was in and out." "So he doesn't help us much, does he?" Pascual blinks. "I worked with a girl called Sara. She'll be there again tonight, with me." "Sara what?" "Muñoz." "And she was with you the whole time?" "Right up until we closed at three. Until closer to four, actually. We cleaned the place up and I walked her home." "And she didn't invite you upstairs?" "No." "Ah, your technique is slipping. Where would we find her now?" Pascual glares at Serrano for three seconds. "Calle Princesa." He gives the address. Serrano's eyes flick up over Pascual's shoulder and his partner stands and makes for the door. When he has left the office, Serrano slides off the desk and pulls up a chair, face to face with Pascual. "Tell me about… coño, you tell me how it's pronounced. Tell me about this bloke." Serrano reaches into the folder and pulls out a dark blue American passport, the fearsome eagle embossed in gold on the cover. He tosses it in Pascual's lap. Pascual opens it and sees the photo of a middle-aged man with a beard staring glumly into the camera. He reads the name as a Yanqui would: "Morris Weiss." Serrano the linguist squints at him. "Gwice? I'd have thought more like Bayce." "Whatever." "So tell me about him." Pascual closes the passport and hands it back to Serrano. "What happened to him? Nothing good, I assume." Serrano's smile is not a pleasant one. "Good things are not our department, I'm afraid." |
See some scenes from Pascual's Barcelona.
Find out more about Pascual's previous adventures.
