The Pirate. Christopher Wallace

       The Pirate

      I asked for a price, Jesus Christ, I actually asked for a price.

      There have been many low moments for sure but this one stands the test as one of the worst imaginable. Not that I thought this at the time; no, it all seemed reasonable, another transaction. The scary thing was that when I heard my voice making the enquiry it didn’t shock me, not at all, I listened to what I was saying and ploughed on regardless. Go down deeper. I was cool with it, cool with everything. Days later when I was a little less high and remembered what I had been asking for it made me feel sick enough to need to run to the bathroom. And when I got there I stared at myself in the mirror, wondering who was on the other side of the glass. I looked for a long long time. Half an hour, one hour? I tried and tried but didn’t have the time to find him.

      Miguel and Torres ‘Tony’ Carcera didn’t look particularly shocked to hear it either, that’s when I realized they were the real thing. The only issue for them was how much, there was never going to be a set fee for this kind of deal, no; pitches like mine must have come along so rarely that every case had to be treated as a one-off.

      Big Tony toyed with his drink, sticking a fat cigar-shaped finger into his glass to mop up the dregs of the froth left on its sides. The finger of a thug, filthy, oil-stained, the real thing, nail chewed to a stump that gave up less than halfway on its struggle to the tip. He stuck it into his mouth and sucked, blinking slowly at his brother, long eyelashes, dark and effeminate yet perfectly suited to the macho pout that rested so easily on his lips. The pout of a psychopath. I don’t know, it seemed to say, you work something out for me, brother, how much would it be for us to kill someone?

      Miguel gave all the signs he was thinking it over. It was as simple a matter as just quoting a price and terms of payment; he was pondering the wider picture.

      ‘So this guy, it’s you or him, yeah?’

      That was how he saw it, and I had to agree.

      ‘Well, we can help, but we need to know what happens when he’s gone, yeah?’

      Miguel liked to know you were following him, that you were on the same level of understanding, that you were listening intently to the guttural drawl of his Catalan voice, following every word of wisdom that came out of him. He was a weedy-looking guy with thinning jet-black hair tied tight into a ponytail. You could tell that somewhere along the line Miguel had had it rough, maybe his childhood in the cockroach palace high-rises of the mainland, maybe prison in Barcelona, maybe a lifetime keeping the lid on his younger brother’s wilder enthusiasms. In years gone by he would have made a perfect extra in one of those spaghetti westerns, a pistol-toting desperado blown away by Clint Eastwood in the first reel. Miguel wanted a starring role though, one that meant he was around to stay.

      ‘What do you mean? Are you asking if anyone is going to come looking for you?’

      A wave of his hand throws the question off. A different hand from his brother, more gold rings, cleaner, more delicate; a hand that found it easy to turn to brutal chores all the same.

      ‘No, I mean here, the bar, Puerto Puals marina, yeah? Who inherits?’

      ‘Who inherits? It’s my fucking bar, I get to have it back, I own it anyway.’

      ‘The other places?’

      ‘I guess they go to whoever Herman has left them to, the organization, whoever. What does it matter?’

      ‘It matters because we want to help you, Martin, not just with this problem but anything else to follow. You come to us for help, and we are looking for opportunities here in Mallorca. We know bars, me and Tony, we run them, in Barcelona. Nightclubs, discotheques … We got ideas, haven’t we Tony, yeah?’

      Tony licked his finger by way of reply. Miguel moved his chair closer to mine, warming to his theme, speaking faster, forcefully. I could feel his breath on my eyes.

      ‘Us and you, Martin, yeah? You think about it. What a team, you, me and Tony. Nobody fucks with us.’

      I didn’t like the way this was going, I only wanted them to murder someone, why couldn’t they just agree and name the price?

      ‘I’ll think about it. And you guys think about how much you want to charge me. Listen, I got to go, things to see to tonight. Can you excuse me?’

      ‘Sure, yeah.’ Miguel smiled. Neither brother moved an inch though, they were already sizing the place up, already acting like the new fucking owners, did they expect me to leave them here?

      ‘You got a girl coming round?’

      To my surprise it was Tony doing the asking now; maybe he was trying to reach out to his prospective business partner.

      ‘You bet. A shy girl, should be a good lay. I don’t want you two handsome guys distracting her, so I’m afraid I’ve got to ask you …’

      The two boys smiled, perhaps not fully appreciating the irony I had intended.

      ‘Hey Miguel, maybe we should hang around to see Martin’s new girl, maybe she’d like a threesome?’

      ‘Hey, me first, yeah?’

      ‘No, fuck you, you guys can wait, me first this time.’

      ‘Hey, what do you mean, if she likes me, she has me, she won’t need use of either of you when I’ve finished, yeah?’

      ‘Hey, fuck you.’

      The general tone of the debate now established, it proceeded, the two of them arguing about the order in which they would take their pleasure from a girl who did not exist. The strange thing was, I suspect that somehow they knew there wasn’t any girl about to call, but that they enjoyed sparring with each other anyway, as if it was a rehearsal for the kind of argument they would have if they became partners in the Arena Bar. All they had to do to make that happen was to do what I had asked them, kill someone. The real thing. The shit I find myself in.

      I was born in Greenock. Just like Captain Kidd. I could tell you about Greenock but you wouldn’t thank me for it. Not that it would take too long