The Retirement Plan

Chapter 24

In his head, Chris replayed the scene with the cornrowed smart-mouth, getting the urge to punch something. Police station or not, he should have let the guy have it. That's how he usually dealt with that sort of situation. But not now, not with a ten-year sentence hanging over his head like a guillotine, waiting to fall.

He stood up, took to pacing around the room. The same room where he first clapped eyes on that scumbag lawyer, Mr Greene. What kind of bad ju-ju was at play, that shyster mixed up with Reggie? How could Chris have foreseen that one? Or that the old fart Reggie had some fancy boxing moves?

And, now, his hopes of getting his hands on that twenty grand all but gone.

That money would have gotten him out of this pickle, his ticket out of Spain. Put him and Tracey on a plane back to London, given him start-up capital to make moves.

His sneakers squeaked against the tiled floor as he circled the small room.

Life threw up some rotten hands, but you have to play the cards you're dealt. The old man taught him that, only thing of value he ever taught Chris.

The door opened, and Detective Alonso strolled in, hair gelled and looking fresh. A wave of strong cologne crashing through the surgical mask, hitting Chris' nostrils for six. The detective nodded, indicating with his hand for Chris to take a seat.

"Where we at?" Chris said, sitting on the opposite side of the table to the detective.

Detective Alonso wrinkled his brow. "La casas cuartel. Or, as you English say, the police station." Chris gave him a dead-eyed stare, the pig blatantly fucking with him.

"My case," he said, "Where we at with my case—you speak with who you need to speak with? Get the charges dropped."

The detective smiled. "I think we have, how you say, the crossed wires, no?" When Chris failed to respond, he continued, "I make promise to speak with Judge on your behalf, when the case proceed. This might not be for many months."

Chris pulled his mask down. "You having a laugh? Mate, I served you that Dutch firm up on a plate. How much you seize—ten kilos of Bolivia's finest?" Dan the driver had taken the fall on that one. The contact who had introduced Chris to the Dutch firm. Word around the campfire was he'd shat himself. Chris had felt a tinge of guilt on that score. Poor bastard had white shorts on, can you imagine? The ultimate degradation. Wherever they sent him, everyone in the yard would know. He'd be the laughingstock of the whole correctional facility.

The detective smiled. "Please for you to put back on the mask."

"You ain't wearing one."

"Please. I don't ask again."

Chris fixed his mask back in place. "How can I make this case disappear?"

The detective chuckled. "Disappear? You are magician? No, case does not go puff. No abracadabra. You help me, I tell the judge how good at helping you are, and maybe judge is disposed to reducing your sentence. The more times you are helping, the less time you are spending in the prison."

"Say, I gave you someone who has a kilo of coke sitting in their under-build."

"You have seen this, yes?"

Chris scratched at his shaven skull. "I know it's there, yeah. My friend told me."

The detective smiled. "Would this be the same friend who do this to your eye?" Chris had almost forgotten about his swollen eye.

"Drink did that."

"Oh yes, drink does many bad things. The fighting. The rape. The murder. Never the people, always the drink."