"Give Me The Keys, Grandma" [Mister Martínez Nineteen]

They put two apartment buildings and some offices between themselves and the dumpster-hidden cordite junkies’ arc of fire. Martínez had let go of her the minute they were out of sight round the first corner, but he’d kept the gun. She kept up well for someone who was nearing sixty. She did stop for breath before gasping,

‘It’s the brown Toledo, the one with the dink in the off-side fender.’

‘Retirement not so cosy?’

That got him an eye-roll, ‘I always did hate your sense of humour. You should be careful who you use it on. It’s not …’

‘It’s not funny?’

‘It doesn’t fit. Doesn’t fit the fairy story we made up for you.’

‘Don’t we call them legends?’

‘Yours is no legend. They’re supposed to be believable.’

‘Why not a myth? I could see myself as mythical.’

‘It’s a fairy tale: and you’re the big bad wolf.’

‘Give me the keys, Grandma.’

They sat in the Seat saloon, Martínez started the motor, looked over at Mercedes Riglos, one-time contractor-out of ‘deliverances’,

‘Remind me, is it us that gets the happy-ever-after in that one?’

‘Just drive, head for Sitges. I need a holiday.’

‘Isn’t retirement one long holiday?’

‘You should know.’

Martínez drove the familiar route, took the A-2 off the M-30. Nothing happened at the Peajes. Mercedes looked tired, her eyelids drooped and Martínez woke her in time to pay the tolls. The beat-up Seat did attract some attention, but only shakes of the head from the younger guys manning the toll booths. They hit the early morning rush-hour traffic on its way to Barcelona shortly before the Sitges exit on the C-32. There was little or no traffic going their way. The radio had been tuned to Radio Nacional. There was nothing on the hourly bulletins. Either Rueda had survived or his death hadn’t made the news. Neither had Martínez, or at least not yet. On the outskirts of Sitges, Martínez gave Mercedes a nudge and said, ‘Where to?’

‘Head for the Passeig Maritim. I’ll tell you when to stop.’

‘Apartment or hotel?’

‘Bolt-hole.’

‘That could be either.’

‘It’s a one-room studio apartment.’

‘Must belong to somebody.’

‘It’s mine, I suppose.’

‘Did they give you a retirement bonus?’

‘It was my partner’s. She died.’

‘She leave it to you?’

‘No. It’s still in probate. I’m not supposed to have a key.’

‘Is it safe?’

‘She’s been dead ten years. There’s no family. I’ll probably get it in the end.’

‘If you don’t die first.’

Mercedes let out a long sigh. ‘Just here, take that parking bay. We’re on the ground floor.’

Being front line, the apartment block was low-rise. Four storeys high. The stucco was grey, though it might have started out white, like the that of the buildings either side
which were lower still, having only three floors. They looked better too. Probably two and three bedroom holiday-lets as opposed to the studio apartments and one-bedroom-bijou-perfect-weekend getaways for middle-class Madrileños. Mercedes fiddled with the key at the main entrance. The names by the bell pushes were mostly faded. The entrance hallway was a cramped space filled with a staircase and lift shaft, with four doors off, in an assymetrical arrangement that hadn’t ever won an architectural prize.

Mercedes opened the door, and was pulled in by a shaven-headed guy in a pink shirt, a pair of cargo shorts and thongs. Martínez barged in after them.

‘¡Calmate, Antonio!’ The big guy let go of her arm. There was barely enough room in the studio flat for the three of them.

Mercedes pointed at Antonio, ‘This is my brother, Martínez. Antonio’s going out to buy groceries now.’

He left, meek as a lamb on lithium.