ONE
The padded envelope contained a note and a bundle of cash. The note read:
Charlie —
Advance for Valerie Anderson. You know her address.
Second half of payment on completion of job.
It wasn't signed.
Carlos Morales counted the cash. He counted it again. Ten thousand pounds. He stuffed the money back in the envelope and placed it on the counter.
He was alone in the tanning studio today, which was just as well. He snaked out from behind the counter, grabbed the nearest rack and pulled it over. It crashed to the floor, crushing tubs of tanning lotion and beauty products that burst and spewed and leaked all over the previously squeaky clean floor.
" Mierda ," he said, out of habit.
He stepped over the debris, walked to the door, locked it, switched the sign to 'closed'.
He slid his mobile out of his pocket and called home.
Maggie answered. "What's wrong?" she said.
"Just wanted to see how you were."
"At ten past nine? What's wrong, Charlie?"
There it was, the name on the note. He couldn't bring himself to think it might be her. There had to be some other explanation. Other people called him Charlie. Well, one other person.
He breathed in. Hadn't had a cigarette in ten months, but when he dreamed, he always had one in his hand. He wished he was dreaming right now. "How's my little girl?"
"She's fine, misses her daddy."
"Tell her to hang on. I'm closing up. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
***
Carlos climbed in his car, got the engine purring, thumbed through his CDs and couldn't find anything he wanted to listen to.
He sat there, the envelope on the passenger seat for company.
He looked away, out the window. People walking past looked blurred, as if he'd been crying. He rubbed his eyes. They were dry.
To his left, a grassy patch with a handful of trees. He focused on a squirrel, watched it sprint across ten feet of open ground and up the trunk of a tree. It stopped a few feet up, clung there, turned its head and stared at him.
Valerie Anderson, he heard it say. Nothing but a lonely old woman who's a little too fond of the bottle.
Carlos thought hard as he stared back at the squirrel. Someone knew his business. That was bad enough. But someone knew his private life, too, and that made Carlos extremely uncomfortable.
***
When he pulled up in his driveway, Maggie was at the door, waiting for him, Sofia in her arms.
He turned off the engine, pinched the envelope between thumb and fingers, climbed out of the car.
Maggie sauntered over to him, her flip-flops clacking against the soles of her feet, kissed his cheek. "What's so bad you had to come home?" she said, quietly, her eyes too bright and more purple than blue.
He leaned in, saw that Sofia was asleep. He ran his thumb lightly over her scalp, stroked the fair downy hair she'd inherited from her mother. "In the garden," he said, leading the way round the side of the house, towards the back.
"Grass needs cut," Maggie said.
"So cut it," he said.
"I'm just saying," she said.
"Well, don't."
"What the fuck's wrong?"
"Don't swear at me."
"Jesus, Charlie." Her chin dimpled.
He sat down on the bench at the back of the house. "Go put this in the safe." He held out the money. The finances and the paperwork and all that, Maggie's job. He struggled with numbers. No, that wasn't true. He could do it all right, he just chose not to. It bored him, whereas Maggie seemed to get something out of it.
"What is it?" she said.
"Deposit."
"Nice," she said. "You better take Sofia, then."
Once Maggie'd gone, he turned Sofia to face the garden. Little stretches and a pop of her lips and her lips widened and she smiled and then it was gone. She was still asleep. "Shame your daddy's not much of a gardener," he whispered to her. "Mummy neither." Not many little girls in Edinburgh had their own garden.
Pity you rarely got the weather to take advantage of it. Usually raining or windy or both. Today was dry and the wind hadn't
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