Read Online Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) by Thomas Mogford - Free Book Online
Authors: Thomas Mogford
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out another note which Tatiana tucked into a different boot. ‘Esperanza come into the club,’ she said. ‘She see Zahra, and when Esperanza see . . .’ Suddenly she climbed to her feet, enjoying the pantomime now. Through her lace bra Spike made out large, dark areolae. ‘Zahra shout at Esperanza. Then . . .’ She stabbed forward with an arm.
‘She cut her?’
‘Champagne wine. In her face. Then Esperanza stand and leave.’
‘Why did Zahra throw the drink?’
‘Maybe Esperanza touch her wrong. Or . . .’
‘What?’
Another hundred dirham gone.
‘Two days later,’ Tatiana said, ‘I see Esperanza’s jeep. Zahra inside.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I see .’
‘Where does Zahra live?’
‘In Chinatown. Like all the girls.’
‘Where’s Chinatown?’
‘In the hills.’
‘Address?’
Tatiana smiled. ‘No address for Chinatown, estúpido .’
‘Does she have a mobile number?’
Tatiana hovered above Spike. ‘You strong tall man,’ she said. ‘But gentle eyes.’ She reached out a hand. ‘You put contact lens for the colour, no?’
Spike caught a hint of sugar almonds on her skin. He’d known a girl once who smelled like that. She hoisted a leg over Spike’s lap. ‘Sometimes I like to know a man,’ she said, lowering herself down, ‘before I give him secret . . . informations.’
Spike raised his hands to her sides, feeling the jutting prominence of her ribs as he eased her down onto his own chair. She edged her thighs apart; the gusset of her thong was dark-stained. Spike reached again for his wallet. ‘Here’s two hundred more. Now go home. And be careful who you dance for.’
The girl snapped closed her thighs. ‘I prefer a man who fuck ,’ she said, fluffing out her crisp white hair. ‘Maybe you only talk because you cannot fuck. Spanish zamel .’
Spike held open the door back into the club. A new song blared: ‘Rock the Casbah’ by The Clash . The girl pushed past, the top of each buttock embossed with a cherry-red welt.
Marouane was standing behind the bar, hunting for scurf in his hair. On the previously empty podium, an Arab boy in cut-off shorts and Cleopatra eyeliner was humping a pole. Beneath, Spike recognised the two Spaniards from the reception of the Hotel Continental.
The bespectacled businessman drank alone, scouring the room, legs folded daintily among the cushions. Spike walked over, leaned in close and whispered a few words in his ear. Then he left.
Chapter 17
Spike crossed the waiting hall of the Sûreté Nationale on Avenue d’Espagne. The fissured marble floor was covered by men reclining in traditional dress. The air smelled like a classroom in midsummer.
At the desk, a duty sergeant was reading the Journal de Tanger . Spike asked for Inspector Eldrassi; without looking up, the duty sergeant waved a benedictory hand across the silent, waiting congregation. Spike saw they formed a sort of queue. He asked when Eldrassi would be available. ‘ Demain ,’ the sergeant replied, flipping to the sports section.
Outside, dusk clung on, as though afraid to surrender to night. The restaurant terraces were bustling with men eating sweetmeats. Spike realised Tatiana was the only woman he’d exchanged words with since arriving.
There was a bank opposite; Spike went to the cashpoint. A heavily armed security guard stood by as he made the withdrawal. On the other side of the avenue, three young black men looked on. Sans-papiers probably, awaiting their chance to steal across the Straits. Spike had read countless articles on the risks involved – bloated, cracked bodies washing up each month on Spanish beaches, victims of unscrupulous boat runners, victims of the Gut.
A petit taxi swerved to a halt, responding to Spike’s European height and clothes. The driver had a package of greaseproof paper on the passenger side; he drew it onto his lap as Spike got in and shunted back the seat. ‘Chinatown.’
‘ Comment? ’
Spike pointed up the hill to
‘She cut her?’
‘Champagne wine. In her face. Then Esperanza stand and leave.’
‘Why did Zahra throw the drink?’
‘Maybe Esperanza touch her wrong. Or . . .’
‘What?’
Another hundred dirham gone.
‘Two days later,’ Tatiana said, ‘I see Esperanza’s jeep. Zahra inside.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I see .’
‘Where does Zahra live?’
‘In Chinatown. Like all the girls.’
‘Where’s Chinatown?’
‘In the hills.’
‘Address?’
Tatiana smiled. ‘No address for Chinatown, estúpido .’
‘Does she have a mobile number?’
Tatiana hovered above Spike. ‘You strong tall man,’ she said. ‘But gentle eyes.’ She reached out a hand. ‘You put contact lens for the colour, no?’
Spike caught a hint of sugar almonds on her skin. He’d known a girl once who smelled like that. She hoisted a leg over Spike’s lap. ‘Sometimes I like to know a man,’ she said, lowering herself down, ‘before I give him secret . . . informations.’
Spike raised his hands to her sides, feeling the jutting prominence of her ribs as he eased her down onto his own chair. She edged her thighs apart; the gusset of her thong was dark-stained. Spike reached again for his wallet. ‘Here’s two hundred more. Now go home. And be careful who you dance for.’
The girl snapped closed her thighs. ‘I prefer a man who fuck ,’ she said, fluffing out her crisp white hair. ‘Maybe you only talk because you cannot fuck. Spanish zamel .’
Spike held open the door back into the club. A new song blared: ‘Rock the Casbah’ by The Clash . The girl pushed past, the top of each buttock embossed with a cherry-red welt.
Marouane was standing behind the bar, hunting for scurf in his hair. On the previously empty podium, an Arab boy in cut-off shorts and Cleopatra eyeliner was humping a pole. Beneath, Spike recognised the two Spaniards from the reception of the Hotel Continental.
The bespectacled businessman drank alone, scouring the room, legs folded daintily among the cushions. Spike walked over, leaned in close and whispered a few words in his ear. Then he left.
Chapter 17
Spike crossed the waiting hall of the Sûreté Nationale on Avenue d’Espagne. The fissured marble floor was covered by men reclining in traditional dress. The air smelled like a classroom in midsummer.
At the desk, a duty sergeant was reading the Journal de Tanger . Spike asked for Inspector Eldrassi; without looking up, the duty sergeant waved a benedictory hand across the silent, waiting congregation. Spike saw they formed a sort of queue. He asked when Eldrassi would be available. ‘ Demain ,’ the sergeant replied, flipping to the sports section.
Outside, dusk clung on, as though afraid to surrender to night. The restaurant terraces were bustling with men eating sweetmeats. Spike realised Tatiana was the only woman he’d exchanged words with since arriving.
There was a bank opposite; Spike went to the cashpoint. A heavily armed security guard stood by as he made the withdrawal. On the other side of the avenue, three young black men looked on. Sans-papiers probably, awaiting their chance to steal across the Straits. Spike had read countless articles on the risks involved – bloated, cracked bodies washing up each month on Spanish beaches, victims of unscrupulous boat runners, victims of the Gut.
A petit taxi swerved to a halt, responding to Spike’s European height and clothes. The driver had a package of greaseproof paper on the passenger side; he drew it onto his lap as Spike got in and shunted back the seat. ‘Chinatown.’
‘ Comment? ’
Spike pointed up the hill to
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