William McGivern - The Caper of the Golden Bulls

“Your old man’s dead?”

“No. That’s why Mr. Shahari lost confidence in me, I think.” Morgan sighed philosophically. “He’s a stickler for detail.”

“But let’s say someone he trusted asked him to bring a lot of money to Pamplona. He’d do it right?” Tonelli stared hard at Morgan. “Well? Wouldn’t he?”

“Pay attention, Fatso,” Blake said.

Morgan was smiling and waving at a red Porsche which had just pulled up before the terrace of the bar. “Come over and have a drink, Peter,” he called out happily. “I want you to meet my new friends.”

“A pleasure,” Peter said, nodding to the men who had been introduced to him as Mr. Blake and Mr. Tonelli. He summed them up with an experienced eye, and was not impressed by the totals. They looked tough and street-smart, and shady as a rainy day.

Peter smiled and patted Morgan on the shoulder. He liked Morgan.

Morgan was quite, easy to do business with. “You’ve been giving Mr. Shahari a bad time,” he said.

“Oh, that’s all over, Peter. Would you tell him, please? It’s the lawyers we want to get our hands on.”

“Well, he’ll be relieved to hear it.”

“Peter, are you going to Pamplona?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a blast, I hear,” Tonelli said, grinning. “Bunch of nuts running around in front of cows. Booze, broads, the works.” He winked at Blake. “We might give it a whirl, eh, old buddy?”

“Sure. What’d you think, Mr. Churchman? Think it’s our kind of town?”

“You’ll be perfectly at home,” Peter said pleasantly. “Everything’s on the American plan, even the jails.” He gave them a nod to share between them and went on into his bar.

Tonelli looked after him. “Big deal,” he said drily, and smiled at Blake.

“Big deal in a little game.”

“Listen, Fatso,” Tonelli said. “Does the Indian trust this character, Peter What’s-his-name?”

Morgan nodded enthusiastically. “Everybody trusts Peter.”

Tonelli and Blake exchanged glances, and arrived at a meeting of minds.

Tonelli put a hand on Morgan’s arm.

“Come on, Fatso. Let’s go over to our hotel. We got some things to talk about.”

“That’s very kind of you. But I’m going to have lunch here. Why don’t you join me?”

Blake put a big hand on Morgan’s other arm. “Look, Porky, get used to doing what you’re told.”

They assisted Morgan from the table, and steered him into the street, manoeuvring his great bulk through the eddying crowds like a pair of ruthless tugboats.

It was all very puzzling to Morgan. He would have liked to have a good talk with Quince about it. Quince would set him straight. No doubt of that.

In Peter’s office Mr. Shahari sat neatly in a straight chair, his rings and fountain pens and gold teeth gleaming softly in the shafts of cool sunlight falling through the windows. With a polite and interested smile he read from Peter’s list: “Diet chocolate and diet crackers. Yes. And six one-quarter-inch chrome drills, specification number two-nine-seven-eight. Ring-feed diamond cutter bar, Mark Seven. Trade name?” Mr. Shahari looked over his glasses at Peter. “I can’t make it out, Mr. Churchman.”

“The trade name is Wolverine.”

“Oh, yes. Wolverine. And that’s all?”

“Yes.”

The Indian smiled benignly at Peter. “They will be expensive.”

“I realise that.”

“I have a friend in a sapper company on the Rock. A lance corporal who gambles unscientifically. I think he can find these items in their demolition stores.”

“I’d rather counted on something like that.”

“But there is a problem. Getting these items off the Rock may be difficult. If I were given to pessimism, I’d say it’s quite impossible.”

“I’ll have to think about that.”

“Yes. The customs officers are extremely sensitive to such items.” Mr. Shahari smiled. “In the wrong hands, these tools might be put to criminal use.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.”

“Therefore, I must say one thing: While I may find these items for you, I cannot help smuggle them through customs. If there were any miscalculations, it would go very hard on me. And you, too, for that matter.”

“You try to get the things I need. I’ll try to get them off the Rock.”

“I wish you the best of luck. It won’t be easy, you know.”

“Well, it’s my headache, Mr. Shahari. Don’t worry about it.”

“In that case, I shall look forward to seeing you in Gibraltar. Perhaps you will let me give you lunch. I will ask my wife to make us a curry. Would you like that?”

“Very much indeed. And thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Churchman.”

“You’ll remember the walkie-talkies?”

“Yes, yes. Audioflex or Zeiss. No Japanese.”

After the Indian had gone, Peter took a table on the terrace and considered his various problems. It was not an activity calculated to bring him peace of mind; there were dark clouds everywhere and not a silver lining in sight. Hawk-eyed customs officers at the Spanish border. Angela fishing craftily for Phillip’s secrets. Lethal bulls pounding along barricaded streets.

Twenty-six feet of stone and brick sealing off a great vault of tempered steel. And a timetable so exquisitely wrought that even a broken shoestring could smash it to bits. On top of all this there was Grace, flinging aside her mask to smile at him for being such a lugubrious fool. How amused she must be! But no. She hadn’t been in a comic mood. Hurling that knife was not a light-hearted gesture.

The sun sank into the sea. Dancing shafts of lemon and purple light played over the softly moulded flanks of the hide coloured mountains.

The air became cool. But still Peter sat frowning at his thoughts.

The life of the village flowed by him. The plaza was a busy hub, with streets stretching out like spokes to the markets, to the hills, to the beaches. Burros clip-clopped over the old stones. Maids in black uniforms with twists of jasmine in their hair hurried about on last-minute errands before the cocktail hour. Shoeshine boys and crippled lottery vendors screamed for customers. A string of gypsies, complete from stooped ancients to black-eyed babies, stood out against the crowd like a tableau limning the ages of man. In their wake a tinker pushed a cumbersome wagon which was hung with dented and tarnished pots and pans. He was an old, old man with a flat nose and a beard the colour of moss. At regular intervals he blew into a reed, and the sound rose and fell above the noise of the plaza in slow and mournful loops.

Peter straightened suddenly and stared at the tinker’s rig with narrowing eyes. Ideas and schemes began to flicker in his mind like quicksilver. He noted that a canopy protected the wagon from sun and rain. There was a work-bench, a wooden tub of blackish water, a gas flame and soldering equipment, dull knives, sharp knives and broken knives, and a big stone grinding wheel connected to a sprocket and foot pedal.

Here was a link in the chain he must forge! Staring him straight in the face. He realised that he had been drifting listlessly towards swamps of despair and self-pity, ignoring the challenges he faced, doubting his own strength and skills. Enough of it, he thought, springing to his feet.

He hailed the tinker and went over to him. They talked for a few minutes. The old man named a price, which Peter slashed in half to indicate he meant business. After a series of proposals and counter-proposals, each made in final and regretful tones, they struck a bargain which they sealed with smiling handshakes.

“You can depend on me, senor. Absolutely.”

“I’m sure of it. Thank you very much.”

Peter climbed into his car then and headed for the road which twisted up through the mountains to Grace’s villa.