It
was more or less 8 O'clock in the afternoon on a summer day, with the
setting sun over the horizon at the beach, still warm and brilliant. I
was in my Hawaiian Bermudas, a bar T-shirt, and a straw hat. I was
completely unpresentable, unshaven and with a hangover. Truth is I was a
bit reluctant to appear in front of my only suspect like this. An
antithesis of a private detective.
A couple of hours ago my friend Joan called to offer me a case. Since I installed myself in L'escala, I have not had any serious case in hand, apart from the one of the missing rowing oars months ago, when things were beginning to turn ugly. Clearly, to establish a detective agency in a quiet coastal town is destined for failure. Like George Michael's disc 'Listen without prejudice'.
My ex-wife reminded me just 2 days ago that I was 2 months behind the payment owed to her when she called 'reverse charge', and added several out of fashion insulting curses. "I have been very busy, Claudia," while I switched off the porno video. "Besides I got piles of bills here to sort out" crumbling noisily the pizza wrapper.
She finally hung up, but not without the threats to have me kicked out of my place first. Her called made me sad, and I began to miss her, including things about her that exasperated me most. The noises she made when she chewed on food, the way her dress is badly wrinkled and sometimes with the zip only half done up. The smell of her feet.
Putting on my only pair of socks, I decided to go out and earn some money, quick. Then I took them off and thought maybe I could wait just a day or two more. That's when Joan called me. " don't Don't even dream of it, pal. You know I never work in August. (Translation: I am desperate, any case will do)
"Don't you do that to me. You are the 1st one I thought of. Only you can do it. (Translation: All the good detectives are on vacation. You are my last hope)
I accepted. This time it's not about a little boy gone missing. A group of local Habaneras (Fishermen singers of ballads) has been assassinated. Their bloody striped shirts were found with the singers in them, where they were rehearsing. At the crime scene an accordion was found, Juan's.
"You know already that everybody was pointing his finger at you lot, Juan, the competition group" I said. Juan was puffing and blowing. "But I told you I have alibi."
What am I supposed to do, I asked him. He didn't know. Frankly I didn't either. Suddenly I remembered the smell of the hand cream of my ex-wife, even her feet. How I wished then I was back at our home, me in the couch watching football, waiting for her to come home after her work as a cleaner (fancily called 'Domestic assistant' these days) to make me dinner.
Current Mood: 
Amused
Amused
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