" If Tea’s More Important than Soup" [Mr Martínez Part 30]

They found the smoking area easily enough: towards the stern, behind some element of superstructure with no purpose save to provide a door that must have led downward to who knew where. Martínez lit the last Ducados in his packet, took a draw and offered the cigarette to ‘Rita, who wasn’t carrying anything to keep a crush-proof pack in. She shook her head. The downward-leading door opened. ‘JuanPa’ came out carrying a red cartera, with a fingertip hold on one corner of the slim,flat handbag: the kind people took to the opera or a black-tie function.

‘Gracias, chico. ¿Donde está el moto?’

‘JuanPa’ blushed, ‘Deck1: first row, by the port side, you’ll be first off.’

She blew him a kiss by way of a thank you, and his cheeks burned a little more, before he returned below decks.

‘Rita opened the flap on the bag and pulled out an already-loaded cigarette holder. Martínez laughed,

‘In character now?’

‘Rita laughed herself and said, ‘Light me, Sugar.’

Martínez lit the tip of the black-papered cigarette with his Zippo. The woman inhaled deep and held it for a moment before blowing the smoke upward and to the side out of both nostrils. The wind blew it back in both their faces and they coughed out a laugh when it did. Beyond the stern rail the sun was staining what few clouds there were a warm vermilion. Martínez felt her hand on his arm and he told himself the goose-flesh was caused by the Poniente blowing from the mainland.

‘Contarme todo, Guapo, todo.’

‘I can’t tell you everything, but I can tell you enough.’ said Martínez

‘Who decides what is enough?’

‘One man’s enough is another man’s surfeit, los políticos say.’

‘I didn’t take you for a politicón.’

‘I’m not interested in politics, it’s just that governments are interested in me.’

‘Solta la sopa, Martínez.’

‘Spill the tea, the Anglos say, shows what’s important to them, hey?’

‘Not enough poor people among them, then, if tea’s more important than soup.’

‘What do you think I do?’ Martínez asked.

‘Do? I don’t think you do anything? Are you asking me what I think you did?’

The door opened again. A head looked out: then a beefy frame, with muscle half-way to fat, followed it out. There was not a speck on his overalls and the hand holding the gun was as clean as a surgeon’s.

Attention to detail, that was what let people down. This guy was no pro. A pro would have been pointing the gun at ‘Rita. Why did they keep sending these people after him?

‘Move over to the rail, Tio’

Martínez didn’t move. The guy took a step forward. Martínez stayed still. The pistol kept coming forward until it rested against Martínez’s chest. He stepped back and to the side. The goon lost his balance and Martínez yanked on the wrist behind the gun as hard as he could. Then he swung the arm upwards and the gun went off as the man hit the top rail before plunging into the frothy wake of the ship.

‘Man overboard,’ Martínez said.

‘You are so impulsive, Dulce, if only you weren’t a man…’

‘He wouldn’t have known anything useful. They are using people beyond deniable: they are disposable. I don't think they’re even trying to kill me. I think they’re still trying to warn me off.’

‘Who?’

‘I really don’t know. It could be the Americans, it could be the Cali Boys, it could be El Centro or just anyone at all.’

‘Why then?’

‘A much better question. I wish I could answer it.’

They were looking over the rail, outward towards the distant shoreline. Checking there was no waving arm above the water. Martínez looked the woman in the eye, it was time to tell someone:

‘My whole life is a lie.’