A Person of Interest

The bottle slid from Dick's hand; tight grip loosened by shock. The Venta's doors were still swinging like a saloon's in a bad western. Below his shaven-head, the newcomer's suit was as incongruous as chaps and a leather vest. Why did they call it a vest? It's a fucking waistcoat, Dick thought. When the bottle smashed, Andres gave a tut of disapproval, but did not leave off smearing the brass bar top.

'I look for Kenning,' the bald man's letter-box mouth hardly moved in the saying of it.

Dick looked around the bar; two builders slaking a thirst earned chasing the mirage of work around the campo, the alcoholic mad-woman sorting through her spoils from the wheelie-bins out front and two English holidaymakers fooled by the "twenty-minutes to Fuengirola" spiel on their holiday villa's web-site.

'Who wants him?' Dick asked.

'Is business.'

The late afternoon sun shone through the grimy windows and glinted off the man's pate. Late thirties, Dick reckoned; golf-ball cheekbones stretching the skin on the otherwise flat face. Slav: Russian, Ukranian, Georgian, maybe even a Serb. The Slav took a step forward, Dick held up a hand;

'Whose?'

'You know him?' The jaw jutted out, giving planes to the face it didn't need, or suit.

'Might.' Dick waved at Andres, pointed at the stranger. Two bottles appeared on the brass.

Andres hid in the kitchen. The builders looked over, looked at each other, then at the three full bottles in front of them and shrugged. The mad woman sang, half-shouting;

'Green honky cruisin' in the Pygmy Twilite'.

The English holidaymakers left; perhaps they were Zappa fans and didn't like liberties being taken with his lyrics.

'Zdrovye!' A meaty paw clasped the San Miguel and clinked it, hard, against Dick's bottle.

'Cheers!' Dick showed his teeth.

'Kenning?'

'Son of a bitch, ne'er-do-well, writer of wrongs...'

'You be funny, friend?' The Slav showed his own teeth. He must have paid for them, at least. The yellow metal shone.

Dick held up the bottle;

'Drinker of beer?'

The Slav reversed his hold on his bottle and swung it at Dick's temple. The glass shattered, joining the shards already on the floor. Dick joined the debris, the Slav's footwear struck him efficiently around the ribcage. He threw a business card on Dick's heaving chest;

'Ower of money.'