Clay laughed and pushed her to arm’s length. “But you look like her and Larry likes it!”
“Never mind what Larry likes. I’m in charge and don’t forget it.” It was familiar banter and it made her feel much better.
Clay Gunn, family friend and sometimes lodger of the Dukes, ushered her back inside. “Come on, Mrs Pamela Duke, I’ll help you straighten up the place before Larry gets back. If he sees this, he’ll be on eBay looking for a rifle before lunchtime.”
3
Danny Gunn was parched. A cool drink was his first priority as he alighted from the budget flight into the moderate-sized airport. Three and a half hours in what amounted to little more than a chicken coop with wings had left him feeling uncharacteristically grouchy. He’d always thought that the old army transport planes were bad, but Air España had developed cattle-class travel to a new low.
Almería airport certainly wasn’t the biggest or best in Spain, but at least its modest footfall allowed Danny to proceed quickly on his way. After clearing passport control, which comprised of one uniformed officer who looked like he’d been pumped full of formaldehyde before his shift, Danny was waved on into baggage collection with barely a cursory glance at his passport.
His baggage consisted of a dark-grey holdall and a small carry-on rucksack. A quick stop at the first shop available and Danny purchased a litre bottle of spring water. A few minutes later, just as he was sipping the last dregs from the bottle, Clay appeared at his side.
“Well hello, wee one!”
“You’re late.” Danny poked his older sibling’s chest with the plastic bottle.
“Hooey, I’ve never been late in my life. The only thing I’ll be late for is my funeral. They’ll have to come and look for me for that one.” Clay’s deep Texas drawl caused a passer-by to raise his eyebrows.
“And stop calling me wee one,” Danny griped.
The two men drew a few bemused glances as they hugged enthusiastically. Danny didn’t care, at ease with their affection. The Gunn brothers then made their way towards the exit. The modest crowds of tourists seemed to instinctively give them a wide berth. Danny nodded at the elderly couple who had sat in the seats adjacent to his on the flight. He received little in the way of response.
“It’s real good to see you again, little brother,” said Clay. “Thanks for coming over so quick.”
Danny smiled. “Always happy to spend quality time with my big bro, even if it is on a job. Email and texting doesn’t do it for me. If it’s not face to face it doesn’t count for much.”
“Ay-men to that,” agreed Clay. He punched Danny’s shoulder affectionately.
“Careful, ya big ape. I may need to use that arm in the next day or so.”
Strangers and new acquaintances often had trouble reconciling the fact that the two men were full brothers. Clay was very obviously American, with his strong Texan accent. In contrast, Danny spoke with a Scottish brogue, a result of both brothers being raised on opposite sides of the Atlantic during their formative years.
Danny was six years younger than Clay, stood a modest five-nine and his swimmer’s build was never going to win him a Mr Universe title. He typified what his old sergeant major had called a “wiry bastard”. The kind of body structure that could run all day, take a kicking and keep on ticking.
Something the brothers did share was their fiercely intelligent eyes, which could convey a universe of emotion with a glance. Fury, cunning, warmth, wrath… all were there like a deck of cards waiting to be shuffled by a skilled dealer.
After exiting the arrivals lounge they walked briskly to Clay’s rental car, a Toyota Avensis, and joined the sparse traffic leaving the airport.
“So how’s your Spanish?” Clay asked.
“Better than my German, worse than my English,” Danny replied. He grinned at his brother. “At least I can speak more than five words.”
“I know, I know. It’s one of those things I always mean to do.”
Danny laughed. “You live in a house with three Spanish speakers! How have you managed not to learn it?”
“I know. But Celine and Salma were both born in Texas and Sebastian speaks perfectly good English.”
“Methinks the Texan protesteth too much.”
“What’s Spanish for blow it out your ass?”
“Soplar el culo…”
“No one likes a smart alec.”
Danny grinned and waved a pacifying hand. “So how far is the town?”
Clay pointed in a general north-easterly direction. “Not far. Half an hour’s drive maybe.”
Danny had been sure to do some research once he’d received Clay’s call. The resort town of Ultima Felicidad had been purpose-built less than ten years earlier. A Spanish official had visited Cancun in Mexico, and thought to reproduce that winning formula once back in his homeland. Like Cancun, the new town had been erected from the ground up with the express purpose of tourism in mind. Señor Covaz of the Spanish Tourist Board convinced some very influential investors to his way of thinking and the resort of Ultima Felicidad was born. Known more commonly as Ultima the resort had promised “ultimate happiness” for visitors and locals alike. The reality of the town fell somewhere short of the real-estate posters.
The resort was situated on a picturesque stretch of the Spanish coastline, nestled midway between the Costa Blanca and the Costa Del Sol. An ideal location. The real wrinkle in the Ultima promise arose when non-Spanish parties started buying up the property in ever increasing frequency. Then came the near fatal financial meltdown of the Spanish economy. Once amiable neighbouring businesses became bitter competition, each and every euro earned vital to their survival. However, the main problem in Ultima wasn’t with tourists or rival businesses but with a very different class of people.
In Italy they would have been called Mafia, but here they operated as smaller independent groups with no real family lineage. Over the previous thirty years Spain had become easy pickings for a mix of multi-national criminals. Italian, Eastern European, British, African and even South American gangsters were now known to operate within and through its borders. Each group vied for increased power and prestige as they conducted their various illicit enterprises.
Despite his reason for visiting, his first sight of the town made Danny smile. Ultima shimmered with thousands of glittering fairy lights, which decorated each cultivated palm tree. Diagonal strands wound their way around the tree trunks that lined the roadside in perfect equidistant plots. The town itself was picturesque, each building designed in a Spanish/Mexican style that exuded conviviality. Pueblo shop fronts blended perfectly with steel and smoked glass hotel façades due to the clever use of colour and continuity of styling throughout the entire resort.
“What do you think, Danny?”
“It’s great. I can see why Larry and Pamela put their money into this place when they did. I was expecting a town something like Torremolinos or Salou. You know, old fishing villages that had grown into cheap and cheerful resorts, but this place looks more like a Hollywood movie set. Miami Vice 2025.”
“Well it was a real gamble for the likes of them. The town could’ve come to nothing or just struggled along as another so-so destination. Plenty of ordinary folks put their money in at the start and it’s largely down to their hard work and investment that this place is what it is today. Now the shit-heels want to scalp it all away. All the big hotel chains are here but it’s the smaller businesses that give the town real flavour. Places like the Woo Hoo.”
“Yeah. I can understand why the gangs want their claws into this. This place must be a gold mine during the summer. I’ve seen people murdered in their beds for a lot less than Ultima.”
“With the amount of money to be made here, the organised gangs will resort to bloody murder to protect their interests. I think we’re sitting on a powder keg.”
“Aye, I know what you mean,” Danny said.
“It’s been building for years. Lots of foreigners, but especially Br
its, have been buying businesses and homes in Spain. At first everything was great, a mini property boom. Then as time went on, more and more British owners were having their homes repossessed by the Spanish authorities or real-estate companies on various bogus technicalities. The Brits were given a legal run-around when they tried to contest the repossessions.”
Danny nodded in understanding. Quite a few of these stories had hit the tabloids as even famous British celebrities were conned out of their homes and businesses.
“Then it got even worse. The protection rackets were first. Now there’s syndicate gangs muscling the ex-pats into selling their businesses at ludicrously reduced prices. Ten cents on the dollar kind of shit. If the business owners don’t concede, then the threats of violence quickly turn to action.”
None of this was news to Danny but he let Clay spell it out, enjoying listening to his brother’s drawl. Danny’s question was purely rhetorical. “I presume that going to the police or government is a non-starter?”
Clay shook his head. “Nah, half the guys that are railroading the owners are the ones in office that endorsed the sales in the first place. As for the cops… well, the hierarchy blocks any real investigation. Most of the street cops are okay, but you know what it’s like. At the higher levels of the police and government, they all piss in the same pot.”
“So it’s the same old shit, different country.” Danny closed his eyes for a long moment. “So who’s the main man in our case?”
“I still haven’t got the head honcho’s name but the gang is a local outfit called the Locos. They’ve been targeting the British pubs and clubs along this stretch of coast. These boys are a real mix-up. Most of them are Spanish, but I’ve heard there’s a few Africans and hajis among them too. I’ve only been here a couple of days so intel’s still a bit light. Larry and Daisy are trying to get a group of the Brits together for a meeting. We’ll get more facts then.”
“Great,” replied Danny, recognising the slow burn of adrenalin in his stomach as he contemplated the possible outcome of this situation. Yep, this could explode into death and destruction in a heartbeat. Happy days.
“So how heavy have they come on to Larry and Pamela?”
“Well they’ve been working on Pam the most. They know that if they put the frighteners on the wife bad enough, she’ll usually talk the husband into selling up.” Clay steered the Toyota round a gentle bend in the road. The driver’s seat was wracked down to its lowest position but Clay’s hair still brushed the roof.
“So how handy are these Loco boys then? Tough guys or wannabes?”
“A bit of both. Like most gangs they mostly trade on their reputation. They trashed the Woo Hoo and had a go at me yesterday.”
“How many came at you?”
“Three, but the numb-nuts came one at a time. Not the brightest.”
Danny shook his head. Knowing how capable Clay was with his fists, he couldn’t help but feel that the Locos had made a big mistake. Clay responded with a look that silently conveyed: I know—stupid or what!
“Any skills?”
“The first two, no. But the ringleader had presence. He knew how to handle himself. I had to draw him into attacking me by giving him my back. He wasn’t your typical blade-waver.”
Danny nodded. Any knife-man worth his salt would never advertise his weapon. With a skilled knife-fighter, you usually only got to see the knife after he’d stuck it between your ribs. As Clay slowed the Toyota to a stop in an enclosed parking bay Danny asked, “Any names?”
“The ringleader from the Woo Hoo is called Ortega. As I said, we should pick up some more details when you meet the rest of the local Brits.”
“Okay,” Danny said. “How long will you be over in Portugal for?”
Clay considered. “Two days maybe, three tops. I’ve got to sort out a couple of things at the house. You know, legal stuff. Then I’ll pick up some supplies on the way back here.”
“No problem, Clay. I’ll take up the slack while you’re gone.”
Clay nodded in affirmation. “Larry and Daisy are good friends.”
“Is this it?” Danny motioned to the back doors of the building.
“Yep, sure is. The Woo Hoo Club. Larry does a good pint here; you’ll like it. Come on, Larry and Daisy are dying to see you again.”
Danny smiled. He hadn’t seen the couple for over five years and although they were really Clay’s friends he’d liked both of them immensely. Pamela had a great sense of humour and a throaty laugh, always doing all the actions while telling a story. She used to toss her hair around like a mad thing while doing an impression of seventies rocker Suzi Quatro. Larry Duke was one of those old-fashioned soldiers that still looked like he was under parade ground inspection; never a hair out of place and creases in his trousers that you could cut bread with.
Good people. Friends.
The type worth protecting.
4
“The textbooks of the world will tell you different, but neon was designed to hide the plain, the ugly and the worn out,” Danny said, reading from an article on his iPad. “If you’ve ever visited Las Vegas in daylight hours you’ll understand. By day, drab weathered walls show the dirt, vomit stains and the worst of society’s skidmarks—but when the sun goes down and the rainbow spectrum of flashing neon kicks into life, the same bland tableau is transformed into an exotic menagerie of sights, sounds and possibilities. A twenty-dollar hooker in daylight hours can be enough to make a dog tuck its tail and run, but in the dark under the glamour of the blue neon strobe, the same streetwalker can appear as tempting as Beyoncé’s little sister.”
“I guess that guy doesn’t write for the local tourist office?”
Danny laughed and turned the screen towards Pamela. “I suspect not. That’s the beauty and the curse of the Internet. Everyone’s a critic.”
Fortunately, Ultima Felicidad was still beautiful when the sun was at its zenith, looking down on its devoted worshippers on the streets and beaches below.
Danny sipped a Diet Coke at one of the dozen or so chrome tables arranged outside at the front entrance of the Woo Hoo. By day, the club served a variety of food and drink, both in the air-conditioned interior and al fresco on the street front terrace.
Larry emerged from the bar and joined him at the table. Pamela had a Coke flavoured with a shot of vanilla essence and Larry touted a bottle of San Miguel that seemed to be perspiring in the late-morning heat. A dog with a shaggy brown-and-white coat limped along behind him as if aping his disability. Danny smiled and held out the back of his hand. The dog pressed a nose that was cold and wet hard against his skin, snuffling the new scent. He appeared to be a collie-cross. What Danny referred to as a “Heinz 57” due to the varieties in the genetic mix. He preferred mixed mongrels to most pedigree breeds.
“Hey, boy, how you doing?” Danny proceeded to ruffle the fur behind the mutt’s ear. The dog scooted closer, pressing against his legs.
Pamela leaned over and gently tugged on his curled tail. The dog looked between the two sources of affection.
“What’s he called?” asked Danny.
“Jacks,” she replied. “Short for One-Eyed Jacks.”
The dog turned fully to look at Danny. Jacks was missing his left eye, part of one ear and his left front paw.
“Poor little mite. What happened to him?” Danny continued to pat his head.
“Some idiot ran over him on a quad bike. Squished him up pretty good. Larry found him lying on the path down to the beach. We thought he was a goner at first but when we realised he wasn’t dead we took him to the vet. Damn fleabag cost us a shitload of money but you’re worth it, aren’t you, boy?”
Jacks placed his disfigured leg on Pamela’s thigh.
“Well, I agree. He’s great.” Danny turned his thoughts to more serious matters. “Clay gave me the story on the way over from the airport, but I need to ask a few more questions… you okay with that?”
“Sure, Danny, fire away.” As he sat down,
Larry tucked his artificial leg under the table.
“I know they’re trying to muscle you into selling the club,” said Danny, nodding at the sculptured doorway. “But I need to know as much detail about this Loco outfit as possible.”
Over the next hour Danny asked for full details on the club’s takings, number of staff and their addresses, how many customers on an average week, delivery schedules, suppliers, fire exits and rear access. Pamela seemed exhausted by the litany.
“Why do you need to know all this stuff? You won’t have to go looking for these guys. I’m pretty sure they’ll come back. Clay said as much too.”
“I probably don’t need to know half this stuff, but the more I know, the less the Locos can surprise me with.”
“Tactical knowledge is king!” Larry nodded in agreement. “I wish it was like it was in the old days. I could just perch up on the roof and ventilate the lot of them.”
Pamela squeezed her husband’s hand. Danny couldn’t fail to notice the moment. Deep emotions ran just below the surface. Larry pursed his lips, his eyes downcast. His leg made a metallic clang as it struck the base of the table as he shifted position. Jacks raised his head briefly from the full sprawl he’d adopted beneath the table.
“Now, about the Locos, tell me again how many have been to the club in total?” asked Danny.
“About six or seven different faces, usually in threes. The backup changes, but Ortega always leads the way,” said Pamela.
Danny blew a snort of air out of his nose. “He’s probably a captain.”
Larry flushed red. “I’m gonna kill those toss-pots next time they come at us. They waited ’til I was out and tried the bully boy act with Pamela. It’s a good job that Clay was on hand or it could have all gone south quick-time.”
Pamela tenderly laid a hand on top of Larry’s and this calmed him somewhat. Danny could see how much they loved each other. It was obvious that Pamela would do anything to look after her husband and Larry would undoubtedly die trying to protect her in return.