"He's Written a Book, He'll Want The Whole World to Know"[Mister Martínez Twenty Three]

By the time Martínez got back to the studio apartment, Antonio was gone. Mercedes was smoking again. The fug was thick in the room. One of the spindly chairs was positioned under the smoke alarm, the battery was on the table in front of her.

‘Are you even allowed to smoke in this dump?’ Martínez asked.

The woman laughed. ‘I’ll blame el dueño, if Hacienda can’t make up their mind who this place belongs to, la policia local’ll never find out. Besides, murder is still a worse crime than smoking.’

‘So far.’

Mercedes opened her purse, a practical double strapped thing that didn’t match her shoes. She put a photo-booth sized head-shot on the table. Martínez put the chair by the table , swivelled it and chanced leaning his forearms on the back. He looked at the photo. It was creased and faded, like it been in the bottom of Mercedes’ purse since well before the “there-is-no-message” message arrived on Rueda’s PC, back in Andalucia. The man was corpulent, maybe of an age with him; he looked like one of the Mexican villains in those pelis de vaqueros they shot down in Almería, years before; big drooping moustache, a bull neck and a hard-stare. He was only missing the bandoleros and a sombrero.

‘Who’s this?’

‘He’s a complication.’

‘Am I ‘delivering’ him?’

‘He’s not the target.’

‘What then? And don’t say it’s complicated.’

Mercedes shrugged and blew out some more smoke ceiling-ward, just to show the smoke alarm who was boss.

‘Well, he claims to be you. Or at least the person you used to be. Adopted by two American couples, how could a Colombiano be so lucky?’

‘I was.’

‘Yeah. Only he has the name. And the other name is going in the title of his book.’

Martínez drummed his fingers on the table. Mercedes still hadn’t offered him a cigarette.

‘You mean…’

‘Tu padre Pablo, yes. The surname will sell a few copies, I’m sure.’

‘Why would he do that?’ He shook his head. ‘I could use a cigarette.’

‘Money. He lives on Ibiza. Some kind of artist. It smells off.’

‘A scam artist.’

Mercedes finally took the pack of cigarettes from her purse and offered Martínez one.

‘So if not him, who?’

‘Somebody who has the same name as your real father. The name that’s going in the title.’

‘A half-brother? Why would they even be interested?’

‘It’s the youngest. They’re all almost respectable now. Since the Yanquis started keeping out of their business. He’s a hot-head, though. The kind of man who would shoot someone in the eye before they squeezed all the information out...’

Martínez grunted. It might have been a laugh. Mercedes went on,

‘Naturalmente, if this faker gets offed, it’ll be a bigger story. Los periodistas will dig and…’

‘And maybe they’ll find me.’

‘Good boy! You better go now, before Antonio comes back with the new front door.’

Martínez stood, picked up his rucksack and headed for the door,

‘Anything else, before I go?’ he said.

‘Like what?’

‘Like how do I find this guy on Ibiza?’

‘Google him, he’s written a book. He’ll want the whole world to know.’