The Marbella Job

It wasn't making his head swim. Drown perhaps. Loud didn't begin to cover it. Bar Indio, on Brenan. Unusual for a Spanish owned business to be on the sunny side of the street. Two on a July afternoon. The terrace empty apart from two parboiled gambas. Brits he guessed. Good job they couldn't see out-to-in. Rob had all the company he needed, and the condensation rolling down the outside of the bottle was entertainment enough. Damn noisy inside though. Shakira was on the TV, most male eyes were glued to her pay-packet, only those sitting in the corner next to the plasma had a clue what she was singing. That was because Smoke on the Water was blasting through the decrepit speakers mounted near the ceiling. Rob couldn't really hear that; it played every three records though. Everyone was shouting. Bankers, builders, hairdressers and housewives. Some had kids in tow, their faces red with the effort of making themselves heard.

The mobile vibrated in his pocket. Just once. Text. He drained the beer, thumbed the buttons.

'Job', it said. The sender was Clancy. Great, a job on the Costa. Rob wished the Civil hadn't impounded his van. Still, it had saved scrapping it. He certainly couldn't have sold it; '92 RHD Astra English plates, offers?' He'd have been lucky to recover the cost of the classified. Besides people only read the sex-ads in the Sur in English. Why didn't they just call it 'South'?

The bus had been late. The matching pair of jailbait's twittering about copping off with a footballer in 'Mar-Beller' had driven him nuts. As if the pancake over their spots would distract the most desperate neanderthal from their muffin-tops. It was packed, the bus; mostly young-ish 'inmigrantes', Columbianos, Argentinos. Sudacas, the less polite locals called them. Older Andalusians would catch the bus in the morning for a shopping trip or to visit relatives at Monda or Ojen on the giddy downslope to Marbella. Rob hopped off at La Cañada. The glass and steel of the mall glinted in the evening sun, shiny as a promise.

Clancy had a beautiful Mercedes. White, naturally. A prince among vans. Looked like it had never spent a single hour on a building site. It had though, but the Lord only knew how he kept it show-room pristine in the Andalucian dust. Rob climbed in. Clancy looked at his overalls, but said nothing. Something unidentifiable was dangling from the rear-view mirror, it was supposed emit a fresh, lemony smell. It reeked like a roadside venta lav.

'Where?' Rob coughed.

'Golden Mile.' Clancy's accent was softened by ten years on the Costa. Rob reckoned it was Cork, but he'd never asked him.

'Sweet. What is it?'

'Patio. Pool.' Clancy gave a grunt as he changed down to cut up the Roller just entering the roundabout.

'Black?' Rob tried not to smirk.

'That's right, readies.'

The horn was loud. Rob looked back, English plates. Funny how the Guardia Civil hadn't confiscated that one.

Rob yawned, 'How long?'

'It's a banker, retiree. RBS he says.'

' First time I've had a win on the pools,' Rob said.