Chapter 22

Three hours later, it's been an instructive and productive afternoon.

I've followed Wonder Boy through half the neighbourhood including, to my satisfaction, four more of the
addresses on my list. And all of those on my address list not visited are a good distance away, certainly
more than walking distance.

So, I have my connection...

Legitimate businesses held under the sway of racketeers and crime barons, too scared to resist having
their addresses used for whatever purposes their overlords choose… and that’s assuming they even
know about it.

The pieces of the jigsaw are dropping nicely into place.

As evening falls, I’m still trailing Wonder Boy. He’s not called anywhere new for a while and seems to
be headed for some specific destination. His swagger’s worn off and he’s walking more slowly.

How far’s he going?

I long since lost track of where I am, but I’ve set my mapping app to follow my progress. I’ll be able to
both find my way back to my hotel and return here when I want to.

Abruptly, Wonder Boy vanishes into a doorway. It’s late for a store to be open so, as I approach, I
assume it’s a bar or a restaurant. Instead, I find a public lavatory. Hanging back, I wait and watch.

A couple of minutes later, he re-emerges, the spring back in his step following his former path. Only a
few doors down, he takes a left.

At first, in the failing light, I think he’s turned a corner. But instead, he’s turned in to what looks like the
entrance lobby to private apartments. And unlike his previous calls, he doesn’t just barge in. Ringing



the bell, he waits, and after half a minute, the door opens to admit him.

It’s almost dark now, so I find a shadow to lurk in and wait. Ten minutes later, Wonder Boy’s not
reappeared.

There’s no concierge that I can see, simply a dark space beyond the entrance door. The ground floor is
in darkness. On the next floor, a couple of apartments are occupied, silhouettes moving behind the
windows, the blue shimmer of a TV.

On the fourth storey, balconied windows are brightly lit, at the front, and when I check around the
corner, at the side too. Figures move in the light. I can’t make out the details, but several people are
moving around inside, mostly male… But there’s another…

Is that a woman?

Then I see Wonder Boy, standing at the window, lighting up a cigarette.

Keeping to the shadows as much as I can, I make my way to the door. Someone’s taking their security
seriously. The door is solid, well-constructed and the lock is a high-quality multi-action model. I could
break in…

… but where does that get me?

… Inside a building that likely has similar locks on the inner doors and corridors. And I’d still not be able
to see what was going on in the apartment.

Hmmm…

The apartment is four floors up, but each floor is balconied, front and sides. So long as I can avoid
being seen…



Piece of cake…

A quick foray around the side of the building…

Enough street lighting for me to see what I’m doing, but out of view of the main road…

A trash bin and a drainpipe get me onto the first balcony level. From there it’s easy. The balconies are
sturdy, steel bar and mesh fronts and it’s simple to clamber onto the side-rail… a brief balancing act as
I reach… and I grab for the next level then haul myself up.

Still, it’s more of an effort than I expected. Several of the rails are hung with washing, draped with pots
and windows boxes. Carefully, I negotiate my way around them, trying to disturb as little as possible.

This was easier when I was thirty…

… or forty…

Gotta give this stuff up…

But after a couple of minutes, I’m at the right level and I have merely to scramble around one
apartment balcony to the next, and then again…

Why are they all in the dark?

Not just dark, but shuttered up, closed completely…

But I don’t have time to dwell on that. I’m at my destination. A balcony with glass-fronted terrace doors,
standing open to the night air, with only a mosquito screen blocking my way.

Hugging the wall, a quick peek through the first window…



A bedroom… An unoccupied bedroom. A door on the far side is closed, light visible through the gap at
floor level, and from beyond, the sound of voices…

The screen is the roller-shutter kind, clipped at the base from the inside, but inserting the point of my
knife unclips it. Gripping the tag, I let it roll up slowly, trying to keep the squeak of the spring to a
minimum, then suppress a curse as one of the night-biters Squees by my ear…

Moving silently, half an eye on the door, I step inside.

It’s a woman’s room: a large double bed, mirrored wardrobes, dresser: all expensive, high-quality. Now
I’m inside, another exit is visible. Moving carefully to keep my footsteps silent on the tiled floor, I press
an ear to door…

Nothing…

And no light spills from underneath…

Glock in hand, aiming through, easing the handle, slowly, I open the door…

… to darkness and silence. A quick glance back at the other door and I flick on the light switch.

It’s a dressing room cum walk-in wardrobe. It’s huge. One wall is lined with shelves, another racked
with hanger rails. Banks of drawers and cupboard fill a third wall.

The shelves are stacked with shoes: boots, sandals, flip-flops, court shoes, sneakers and high heels.
Beyond them, boxes, spilling over with bags and hats. The hangers are crammed tight with clothes,
some still with the tags dangling.

Who the fuck needs so many clothes?

Imelda Marcos didn't have this many shoes…



I open the nearest drawer: it’s filled with jewellery: bangles, brooches and beads. Necklaces and
pendants. There’s no attempt to sort or organise. It’s a magpie’s tumble of coloured bling. Earrings are
scattered through the mess, all singles. I don’t see a matched pair. As I try to shut the drawer again, the
brimming contents snag the runners and I have to shove hard to close it.

I try the next drawer. More of the same.

And the next… Cosmetics: lipsticks, foundations, eyeliners and mascaras, blushers and shadows,
designer perfume and cheap scent, powders, lotions and creams.

No woman needs all this.

Still moving carefully, I back out. A quick search of the rest of the room reveals more of the same.
Chock-full wardrobes. Jammed drawers. Wigs, sunglasses, scarves, gloves, sashes and shawls.

Battalions of nail varnish bottles stand in ranks on the dresser. The drawers are jammed with
underwear: panties, bras, stockings.

What else?

The bedside tables… A pair of lamps. A plastic tumbler and a bottle of sparkling water. A clock. A radio.

I slide open a drawer: hairbrush. A bottle of paracetamol. Tissues…

At the back, a book. ‘Poisonous and Psychoactive Plants: a Handbook.’

Interesting choice of bedtime reading…

I slide the drawer closed again.

Something’s pulling at me. Something missing. I can’t put my finger on it.



What?

I run a mental comparison with Jenny’s home and with Mitch’s apartment.

Ah, yes…

Not a single photograph. Not one. Not a picture on the wall. No personalisation of any kind.

Beyond the door, voices are still speaking, mostly male but one is certainly female. And it’s a voice I
recognise, gabbling away in Portuguese, but too quickly for me to catch the words.

Juliana…

You had me in that hellhole of yours, Blessingmoors. Then you shipped me out to Eastern Europe. Ten
years of crawling through the mud, planting potatoes, picking potatoes, not eating much but fucking
potatoes. You even said I looked like a potato.

What does she want?

Apart of course, from the pleasure of slitting my throat… And anyone connected with me.

Try checking your facts if you want to claim the moral high ground. Jenny, who was standing beside
you… one of you… Jenny. Is. My. Daughter.

I look around the crap and bling she’s filled her space with.

Is this what she wants? Or just what she uses to fill the hole?

No photos. Nothing personal. Even a hotel room has a cheap print hanging on the wall.

What’s going on here?



What’s in her head?

Juliana… She's a similar age to my Jenny. Had a similar background to my Jenny…

All my fault…

But Juliana’s taken a very different path to Jenny.

Jenny’s worked to take her life forward… To change her stars… Education… A family… A child… To
find her mother…

Mitch…

Great green eyes… Sinking myself inside you… Losing myself in you…

…

Focus, Man…

For all that Jenny’s family life is unorthodox, her life is full of love. Until recently, I’d not appreciated just
how much so.

She couldn't give a shit about any of this bling. This… junk…

What’s going on?

I’m not good with this head stuff…

Wish Michael was here…

I’m pushing my luck. I’ve been here long enough. Slipping out, I lower the mosquito mesh again, clip it
back into place and make my way along to a window, light streaming out.



There’s at least dozen inside, lounging, smoking, talking. Wonder Boy's there, strutting and, although I
can’t hear anything through the glass, apparently bragging about something. As he turns enough that I
get a decent view of his face, his eyes are staring wide, pupils huge and dilated.

Cocaine?

The recreational drug of choice around here, I imagine.

Whatever he’s popped on, it’s not as though he’s alone. A couple of the others look pretty spaced too.
And as I look carefully, I’d say they’re all carrying.

And it’s not just handguns I’d be dealing with. Stacked in one corner, a vintage collection of rifles,
mainly AK-47s and AK-74s so far as I can see from my angle. Hardly a sniper’s choice but great for
spraying bullets.

Just as well I didn’t go charging in...

… I’m good, but I couldn’t take out this lot before they got me.

One little Glock isn’t enough to handle this.

I need to kit up.

What else?

Ducking, I shift my position to get a different angle on the room…

Bingo!

Juliana…

She’s sitting beside a man counting out cash, comparing it to the page of a notebook.



Wonder Boy’s takings?

Juliana herself, grinning at the cash, is fiddling with a tablet. Across the room, another man looks to her
then looks away. Then back again.

Watching her but not wanting to be seen to do so?

As I watch, her eyes rise to meet his and she bites her lip, then looks away again as Cash-Counting-
Man nudges her, offering a bunch of notes. Her grin widens and she stands to kiss his cheek, then
moves to sit on his lap, her arms around his neck.

But her eyes keep flicking across the room to the other man.

Still playing her games…

She’s consistent…

I’ve seen enough. I’m in no position to do anything right now, at least not if I want to get out of this alive.

Time to leave…

Plan…

… then return…

I’m about to leave when an idea strikes. Phone in hand, I snap each of the faces inside. The lighting’s a
bit raw, but it’s good enough for this.

Ducking under the window ledge, I creep back along the balcony and make my way down again. My
suit’s suffering. It’s meant for lounging and strolling in, not for playing Spiderman. From the lowest
balcony level, I hang on with my fingers as low as I can then let myself drop, landing on my toes.



I’m still down the side of the block, out of sight of the main street, so I take a moment to brush myself
down when…

“And where d’you think you’re going?”

Reflexively, I spin, reaching for my Glock, but halt as I look up the barrel of the pistol already trained on
me.

From behind me, footsteps.

“I asked where you think you’re going?”

The owner of the pistol is the man Juliana was making cow’s eyes at. His English is excellent and only
slightly accented.

My hands held out, palms offered. I semi-turn to see the second man. Another of the upstairs group,
his pupils are expanded black…

High as giraffe’s ass…

“Oh, just passing by.” I shrug and give what I hope passes as a nervous chuckle. “On my way back to
my hotel. You know how it is. Stupid tourist. Got myself lost.”

The owner of the gun jerks his chin upward, brows arching. “Lost on a fourth-floor balcony. Not bad
going.” His lips peel back. “I know who you are, Larry. Sola warned me to look out for you.”

“Sola?”

He snorts. “Okay, Solana, if you insist. She told me all about you. That you were coming after her.” He
almost spits his contempt. “What kind of man comes after a helpless woman?”



“Don’t know that I’d call her helpless,” I say. “I don’t know what she’s told you but…” I lower my hands a
little, extending the palms… “Look, whoever you are, this isn’t personal. I’m not looking for trouble with
you. My gripe is with her. So, why don’t you just let me go on my way and we’ll say this never
happened.”

“You think?” he snarls. “I know where your family lives, Larry…”

Something inside me freezes…

“… I know about your red-headed whore and that pretty daughter of yours...”

Well, there you go…

… making it personal…

He’s still mouthing off… “Yeah, Sola told me everything about what you did to her…”

Really…

“… and about your bitch daughter and her tricks…” He nods to the man behind me. “He’s carrying.
Under his jacket. Get it.”

A hand snakes around me from behind, fumbling inside my jacket. The movement’s twitchy and
uncoordinated and I shift slightly…

“Mexa-se, seu bastardo!” he snaps, but the speech is slurred.

Obligingly, I turn, but his hand now under my arm, I snap tight with my elbow, gripping hard as I move,
spinning around. I couldn’t have pulled it off if he’d not been completely baked. As it is, he stumbles
and as the shot rings, he jerks and drops, grabbing at his thigh, and I push him, screaming, at his
companion, who obligingly puts another round in him, this time in the chest.



And I’m moving, the knife from my belt already in my hand. No one can outrun a bullet, but I don’t have
to. The screaming, twitching, bleeding figure clutching up at the gunman, holding on, stops him firing,
stops him even moving properly as I dart behind him. The back of one hand lifting his chin, with the
other, I slash. The pistol falls from his hand and he drops to the ground.

He’s still moving, still alive, but as the blood pulses out he clutches at this throat. And I see it there. The
rising panic… The fear… The horror… as he sees the spurting blood and realises it is his own,
understands the knowledge that this is the end.

He can’t scream. Only a stricken gurgle emerges from his mouth, but his eyes rise to mine as I stand
over him.

“I was willing to walk away…” I say… “You think you can threaten my family? You’re lucky I don’t slit
you open and make you eat your own liver.”

And I watch him die.

The whole thing can’t have lasted more than a minute, but this isn’t the moment to hang around…

Time to leave…

But I'm covered in fucking blood. Under the streetlights, it stains black against the pale linen of my suit.
Even in the dark, I'll have problems if I meet anyone. And then I have to get to my hotel room without
being seen.

Laurel and Hardy aren't exactly clean either. The slit throat of the one has gushed over his chest, but
his pants are just about wearable. The jacket from the other is bloody but darkly coloured, is a huge
improvement on the cream of my own.



Stripping the pants from one, the jacket from the other, they’re not a great fit, but at least I look less as
though I just stepped from the set of a horror-gore flick. So long as I keep my head low, I should pass
muster long enough to make it back to my hotel. My own suit, I toss into the trash can and hope for the
best.

Back to the hotel…

Get equipped…

I’ll be back…

*****


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