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  ‘No. Manolo Ayza, my natural father. In my thoughts, he hadn’t died, or at least he had been able to leave his grave on the other side of the border and return to Miranda. I pictured him sitting in the wine shop I remembered as a kid, a few streets away from our old home in Llomera. I thought, let him rest there and drink for a moment in the company of those who still knew of his existence, where some kind of continuity had been preserved in contrast to the perpetual start from zero. Needless to say, it was only a daydream, an idle passing of a minute or two.’

  ‘Your job weighs you down, man. It’s not healthy dealing with clients who pay money to pretend they are someone else.’ Albert had a hobby horse about Chance Company and he was about to ride it full tilt when Sonny interrupted him.

  ‘Yes. Everyone can go back, but it’s a question of choice. I choose not to.’

  ‘You’re still bitter about Sebastian and your mother,’ Monse said.

  Sonny shook his head. ‘No, Monse, that feeling died a long time ago. I don’t blame Rosario or Tian. They loved each other. It’s my father I can’t understand.’

  Without a word, Monse suddenly got up, as if his words had reminded her of something, and began rummaging in a pile of envelopes and sheets of paper on the lowered shelf of the writing bureau behind the table. ‘It was here an hour ago. I had it by me after I phoned you.’ She raised her hands in exasperation then switched her attention to a different pile, which had started to sprout on the floor on the bureau’s far side.

  ‘Try the kitchen,’ said Albert. ‘You’d something in your hand when I was peeling the garlic.’

  Sonny scooped up a handful of raisins from the saucer and held them in his cupped palm while he chewed them one by one. They tasted increasingly rancid. He felt a cold sweat begin to dampen his brow. A nagging pain flitted behind his retina. The aspirins were having a delayed effect. ‘I must be going,’ he said. ‘I’m tired. You see I can’t keep up with Mirandan hours. I’m used to being in bed by now.’

  ‘Work tomorrow?’ Albert drained his wine.

  ‘No, I’ve got a week off. It’s been owing me for some time.’

  ‘Hah!’ A triumphant cry emerged from the kitchen. Monse reappeared clutching a large manila envelope. ‘Here it is. I got it yesterday from an old Orias newspaper cutting. I knew you’d be interested so I made a copy for you.’ She handed it to Sonny. ‘It’s about someone you met. Someone I know you have always admired.’

  First Elizabeth Kerry, then Sylvia, now this, Sonny thought. The steady drip of accretion of things people want to give me never stops. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll read it tomorrow. I’ll have some time on my hands.’ A car, its headlights dipped between high hedges, an open cut-throat razor against a strop, the last, inadvertent, shameful glance in the mirror in his hallway, the brandy bottle here on the table, he felt the day’s memento mori were spilling from his brain for all to see. ‘By the way,’ his voice sounded as though it had emerged from the reanimated corpse of his father, ‘have you ever heard of someone called Fernando Cheto Simon?’

  Neither of them had.

  *

  ‘Let me go in first,’ Walter Sembele said, as he eased past Emmet Briggs and cheerfully pushed his way through the crowded hallway into the room on the right.

  Following Walter’s retreating back, Emmet dutifully accepted the cautious looks that came his way. They were his reputation’s tribute, his ambiguous dues. The day he failed to arouse the familiar mixture of wariness, contempt and fear they displayed was, he knew, the day he would have to quit the life for good.

  He glanced back over his shoulder in order to remind Antoine Viall, who should have been immediately behind him, to stick close and be clearly seen as part of their entourage. Instead, the young man had drifted away towards the doorway where he was now attempting to meet and greet new arrivals.

  Shit, thought Emmet. His priority was to be by Walter’s side. He did not have time to babysit anyone else. He gestured to Antoine to get a move on, but his signal was ignored. Fuck him, let him stay, Emmet decided, though the guy worried him. He had done right from the start four days ago. He just did not fit in. Now, for instance, his body posture was all wrong. His hands did not move right. There was no unrolling of the wrists, no spreading of the fingers. Instead, they jabbed and patted feebly at the sleeves and arms extended to them, plus he failed to meet and hold people’s eyes long enough. Why him? Emmet wondered. From the little he had overheard, Viall was not Walter’s choice. He was too young, too callow, too white, for the glad-handing, the flesh-pressing, the schmoozing with malice aforethought, the calling in of favours and staking out of markers, that Walter required. Somebody related to the money side? It was a possibility. Or simply a private matter of sex? If so, the signs were well disguised. Whatever the answer, one thing was for sure, he would not let up until he had it. Patrol the boundaries, Minty Wallace used to say, and he, over time, was an expert boundary patroller, especially when fitted up with a set of knuckledusters and a razor in his pocket.

  The gathering had closed in a circle round Sembele when Emmet entered. Judiciously shifting a few intervening bodies, he elbowed his way to the front. Word quickly spread to the uninitiated about the degree of respect and the space he should be given. A thickset man beside him, whom he had not seen before, grinned and muttered, ‘Hi.’ Emmet cut him off with a slow, steely stare.

  ‘Party! Party all you want and more!’ Walter was building up his spiel to hit the high notes. ‘There’s everything you desire for right here tonight,’ he yelled, positively luxuriating in their attention, ‘and if you don’t find it just let poppa know. Cos I gotta make it all right. I gotta see you right for the Old Man’s sake. For, before I set out on this memorable journey, he said to me, “Walter, let the joy be unconfined, man! Let that blessed milk and honey flow! Tell them the news in Greenlea. Take them the glad tidings that I will repay them. Their abiding faith in me will be rewarded. Their votes cast on that forthcoming, fateful day will always be remembered. They will be duly recognised and most solemnly honoured. For they are truly our citizens and our brothers and sisters in the flesh and spirit.” So you see, good people, I’m here to bring his message to you,’ he sidled over to a shortish man and his taller woman companion, ‘and you, my friend, and you, my sister,’ then darted back to hold his audience once more. ‘Eat as you want! Drink as you like! Substance your soul in the way the Good Lord intended! And, ladies, there are gentlemen here for you. And, gentlemen, look around you in the house, there’s AC/DC. Good poontag,’ he whispered in a nearby male ear. ‘Good highflying,’ in another.

  Right on cue, Latin music started up. Still alternately shouting gleefully and joking confidentially, Walter shook his hips and danced and weaved amongst the growing crowd. He smiled and ducked and bobbed like a feinting lightweight, just as he had ducked and bobbed round Emmet two days ago when he had introduced himself and Antoine Viall at Panalquin racetrack.

  ‘Know anything in this one, brother?’ he had opened. ‘No. Well don’t worry. We may be in a foreign land, far away from the old country, separated from our beloved places, but this baby’s got enough poke to go round.’ He had reached out to find Emmet’s arm, but a withering bull-pen glare made him think twice and drop his hand to his side. ‘No offence, Mr Briggs. Let me introduce ourselves and explain. I’m Walter Sembele. This is my associate, Antoine Viall. The Old Man sends his greetings. Through me he’s of a mind to bestow good fortune on our people here and, if I may say so, you in particular.’

  Without answering, Emmet moved away from the two of them to the far side of the pre-parade ring, where the entrants for the last race were being led round by their lads and lasses prior to saddling up. Arkansas Highway, a grey four-year-old mare and likely favourite, jig-jogged past, unresponsive to the soothing words of her attendant. Patches of white sweat spread between her hind legs.

  ‘Not today,’ Johnny Karim said, standing guard as usual over the wheeled basket in which the truncated body
of his brother, Billy, gesticulated and mouthed repeated ‘fucks’ at the leaden expanse of the darkening sky.

  ‘No,’ Emmet agreed. ‘We’ve got to look elsewhere. Pinpoint’s the one for me. It’s his time of year, and he goes well after a break.’

  Johnny laughed. ‘Save your money, Emmet. His trainer isn’t here. No, the whisper is My Myosotis. Billy here says it’s fucking nailed on.’

  Tucking a win ticket for Pinpoint into the band of his pork-pie hat, Emmet left the totalisator hall and climbed to the top of the grandstand. Sembele and Viall eyeballed him from a barrier below. Only when the last of the field had cantered down to the start did Walter nudge Antoine and get him to reluctantly switch his attention to the track.

  Away from the stalls, Pinpoint was slow into his stride and soon had to be ridden by his jockey to pick up the early pace. Swinging round the final bend, he came back on the bridle but was forced wide, and after improving halfway up the straight his challenge petered out. He trailed in seventh of ten. Meanwhile, Do The Time, an unregarded outsider, got up close home to beat My Myosotis by a head.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck for politics. Your Old Man is shit to me,’ Emmet said, when the pair accosted him again.

  Walter smiled deprecatingly, ‘You do yourself a disservice. Sure, on behalf of the Old Man, I can give you and your wife a good time, but I’m not here for that. I’m here to offer you, as a favoured son of our soil, a very rewarding position. Will you do us the courtesy of hearing us out? Let’s have a drink. Now, where’s the harm in that?’

  They made their way together to the Cyclops Bar. At the counter, Walter cheerfully ordered three large rums. ‘Ourselves,’ he said, clinking his glass against Antoine’s whilst Emmet’s remained on the bar. ‘As you know,’ he continued unabashed, ‘the election is nigh and the Old Man’s set his heart on a final term. He’s achieved so much recently, but he needs more time to bring his grand design to fruition. We’re gathering in the sheaves, brother, Antoine here and me. Those already on board, of course, will stay on board, and for those who in the past were undecided, those with outside interests, those fickle multi-national corporations, well, he’s got plans. He’s changed, you know. You’d warm to him. Now he’s got a new history and new friends. Believe me the old ways are dead, the ways you perhaps regretted. At home, he’ll win for sure. There he’s laying as the house, but abroad, and especially here, there’s a big vote, a floating vote if our forecasts are correct, and there’s a lot of dirty tricks. There’s lying propaganda, which we will have to face. There’s people’s untutored memories that we will have to instruct. The opposition’s got influence and serious funding. It’s clear we must stand and fight. That’s why the Old Man needs emissaries, like myself and Antoine, to go out spreading the truth, so that errors can be rectified and tragic misjudgements avoided. Frankly, he’d like it if you joined us. I’d like it. Your reputation brings us to seek your help. Now, what do you say?’

  As Emmet did not immediately reply, Walter hastily bought another round of drinks. ‘Why Cyclops?’ he said, noticing the legend suspended above the barman’s head. ‘Does it honour Polyphemus, our one-time colonial captor?’

  ‘The best seven furlong horse that ever raced here,’ Emmet said. ‘Before my time.’

  ‘Listen, let’s forget the crap. We know all about you. We know your wife. We know where you live and where she works,’ Antoine Viall suddenly spat out, almost knocking over his glass in his newfound agitation.

  Walter fluttered his hands angrily in front of the young man’s flushed face. He turned apologetically to Emmet. ‘You see how badly he does it. He’s still a youngster. This is his first time. Don’t you see the reason why I need you and your experience? Think about it. Apart from the money I’d guarantee, you could go home again, even get into the States if you wanted. Believe me, the Old Man paves the path for those who support him. All your past problems with the law could be set aside. The hour is striking for the gravy train’s departure. Say the word and hop on. Give us your vote and you’re welcome to enlist in our crusade.’

  The following morning, Emmet met Walter alone at his newly instituted campaign headquarters, located in two dusty, high-ceilinged rooms above an ironmonger’s shop at 31 Salonika Street. Once he had checked his initial retainer by riffling through the notes and scrutinising their watermarks, they got down to negotiating terms for more positive interventions. Business concluded, Walter smiled and floated a further proposal.

  ‘That’s too dangerous. Usually, I avoid killing people and I certainly won’t do it for any of this political shit,’ Emmet replied.

  Walter extended his arms and spread open his palms. ‘Like yourself, I’m a percentage player. The matter can wait.’ He got up from behind his desk. ‘Now let me give you a couple of lists. This first one contains the names of weaker brethren who would benefit from your guiding arm. I leave the style of conversion to you. This other one consists of malcontents and wreckers. Take the fight to their homes and hearths. Smite these philistines so they can no longer congregate and spread their lies.’ He chuckled. ‘You know, with this new, rosy future waiting for us round the corner, I wouldn’t be surprised if, on the day, the dead men and women who voted for us in the past didn’t revive to the glad sounds of trumpets and abandon their graves to record their shining votes. You’ll see, we’ll get along just fine.’

  ‘And Viall?’

  ‘Leave him to me. He’s my concern. The important thing is we have an understanding.’

  Now, looking about him, with the two lists in his inside pocket, and surrounded by people eager to enjoy the party, business was taking care of itself. Walter, as good as his word, had ensured they had ample rations, convivial company, a variety of drugs and a leavening of female and male prostitutes to discreetly cruise the territory. All he had to do was to keep an eye on those who got too close and wait for Jacky to bring the guns.

  In the event, they arrived sooner than expected. Within an hour of the shindig properly kicking off. Jacky Millom, grasping a canvas bag tightly in front of him, poked his head round the doorway and, on spying Emmet, jostled into the packed crowd. Emmet quickly alerted Walter, and, to curious glances, the three of them pushed out to the stairs. Jacky looked as whey-faced as ever. His blue-grey pupils were dilated, and Emmet guessed that under his long black leather coat his skinny legs were trembling. The charade was Walter’s idea. When Emmet had protested, he had been adamant. ‘A show,’ he had said. ‘I need people to see we’re armed and ready.’

  Seeing them approach, Antoine disengaged himself from a knot of revellers, who were drinking rum out of a Green Bush bottle on the first landing, and joined their cortège. Walter opened the door of the master bedroom. ‘No fuss, brother,’ he said, as a man’s head swivelled round from the prone, naked body of a light-skinned woman. ‘We won’t interrupt long. Just hold it fine and dandy and we’ll be gone.’

  Jacky turned appealingly to Emmet. Emmet gripped his arm. ‘It’s okay, Jacky.’

  Almost on the verge of tears, Jacky’s left knee shook violently against his bag. A posse of men and women had followed them into the room. Others gathered at the threshold.

  ‘Dump them over there,’ Emmet ordered, indicating the dressing table.

  The woman on the bed raised her pear-shaped behind, allowing her sexual partner to release the coverlet and drape it over their bodies. Jacky took out four automatics one by one. He unwrapped them and laid them in a line, then he placed clips of ammunition beside them. Conversations froze as Emmet inspected each in turn. He had already made up his mind, but Walter wanted a show and now the audience was assembled. Slowly, he meticulously tested each one’s weight and balance, sliding their mechanisms back and forth before assuming the firing position.

  ‘Another?’ Walter asked, when he indicated his choice.

  Emmet shook his head. Walter pulled out a roll of banknotes from his trouser pocket and began to pay Jacky.

  ‘Wait a minute. I’ll take this one.
It might come in useful. It reminds me of the one I used to carry in New York City.’ Antoine’s remarks went down well with his immediate onlookers. Two of them hugged his shoulders. A little cheer went up.

  Walter shrugged, ‘So be it.’ He finished counting out the extra money. Jacky half managed a wan smile in return. While he wrapped up the two remaining guns and stowed them back in his bag, Antoine crooked his right index finger, aimed at the couple in the bed and slowly pulled the imaginary trigger. A burst of laughter erupted as the company trailed out.

  ‘A word, Jacky,’ Emmet said when they were outside the door. ‘I’ll want you to buy the gun back at a fair price. I’ll let you know when. You know my word. I won’t bring it if it’s been used.’

  ‘I don’t know, Emmet. Don’t do this.’

  ‘I hope you’re not forgetting we go back some. I came to you. I gave you the business. Now I don’t want to go out of my way to find you. So tell me you’ll be around when I call.’

  ‘Please! This is crazy enough in a house full of tourists. Christ knows how many of them are police informers. Throw it away like normal. Come on, man, you didn’t pay for it.’

  Emmet raised him off his feet and shook him. ‘I’m glad you see it my way. The piece is more valuable than I first thought, but between buddies there’s always an accommodation.’ He lowered Jacky’s shaking frame and enveloped him in a bear hug. ‘Good to see you, citizen. I’ll be in touch.’ His grip relaxed. Without replying, Jacky seized his chance and fled.

  Downstairs, the party was cranking up a notch. A thin young woman with ash-blonde hair, scarcely filling out an electric-blue strapless dress, asked Emmet to dance. Satisfied that Walter was okay a few feet away, he held her to him and guided her through the breaks of ‘La Isla Encantada’, a recently revived rumba hit. He had a gun. Antoine had a gun. Walter did not. Whatever their plans were, he aimed to be at least two steps ahead. He guessed the unnamed target whom Walter had proposed, and he had rejected, was the key. The subject was bound to resurface in spite of Walter’s casual acceptance of his refusal, probably as a definite order rather than a tentative request. He whispered in the young woman’s ear. Following his gaze, she nodded and shimmied over to Walter, who was locked in conversation with a group of the party faithful. A courtly bow greeted her arrival, and, taking her outstretched hand, he let himself be led into the choppy rhythms of a merengue.