Ava McCarthy - Hide Me

Harry gave him a steady look. ‘Would you be my contact agent?’

He held her gaze. ‘Yes. But I will not be your guardian angel.’

She stared at him for a moment. His disapproval was a little hard to take, though she wondered why she cared. Then she pictured McArdle’s pale, dead face, and slowly got to her feet.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘This is none of my concern.’

Chapter 6

Marty patted the three decks of cards in his pocket, then turned up his collar against the wind. One thing was for damn sure, there was nothing continental about northern Spain in March.

He traipsed past the shuttered apartments and shops, heading for the boardwalk by the river. The salty funk of seaweed hung in the air. He squinted across the water towards Alameda del Boulevard, the big-city street that butted up against the old part of town. He fingered the cards in his pocket. Time to scare up some cash, or he’d end up sleeping in a doorway.

His landlady had ambushed him the night before. A fierce-looking Basque with hennaed hair, she’d chewed him out about the rent. He’d tried to flirt, sweet-talk her round, but the beating he’d taken in the casino hadn’t helped. The blood had made him look like a street brawler. In the end, she’d given him a day to come up with the money.

Marty fingered the plump wallet in his inside pocket, the one he’d stuffed with newspaper and a few counterfeit notes before he’d left his room. The counterfeits were cheap, a shoddy job that in a good light wouldn’t fool anyone. But Marty didn’t plan on handing them around for inspection.

He cut left across the Zurriola Bridge where the river surged out into the bay. The tide was high, whipping the estuary into violent swells that boomed off the embankment walls. Marty hunched his shoulders against the driving wind. Water was loud everywhere in this damn city.

He eased along the Boulevard, wincing at the tenderness in his ribs. Last night had been dumb, his own stupid fault. He’d broken the golden rule: never let yourself get back-roomed. He should have kicked, screamed, run, anything. Marty sighed and shook his head. Truth was, he hadn’t wanted to look like a bum in front of the redhead. He rolled his eyes skyward and fingered the crusty gash around his nose. He’d sure paid for that piece of vanity.

Halfway down the Boulevard he turned right, ducking into the alleys of the Old Quarter. It was darker in here. The narrow streets stood huddled together, dodging the evening light. He peered into the open bars, searching for a likely mark.

It was Riva who’d first taught him that the world was divided into two.

‘Suckers and scammers,’ she’d said, her slate-grey eyes fixed on his. ‘That’s all there is in this life. One’s smarter than the other, that’s the only difference between ’em.’

She’d been just fourteen, only three years older than him, though with fancy clothes and make-up, she could look a whole lot more. He’d bitten his lip, a little nervous about contradicting her.

‘But isn’t one more dishonest than the other, too?’ he’d said.

Riva snorted. ‘Honesty don’t come into it. Would a sucker jump at the chance to hold the upper hand, assuming he suddenly got smart enough? You bet he would. He’d turn those tables quicker’n spit.’ She shook the fine blonde hair from her face. ‘It’s a simple choice, Marty. Sucker or scammer. Top dog or victim.’ Suddenly she’d wheeled away, her bony fists clenched. ‘I know which I’d rather be.’

Cutlery clinked from inside the bars. The sweet scent of onions pepped up Marty’s nostrils. He watched the customers help themselves to pintxos, the Basque equivalent of fast finger-food. He dragged his gaze away. Food was for later, when he could pay.

Marty spotted the mark in the next bar: tall, thin; designer croc on the shirt, sharp crease in the jeans. He was mouthing off to a pale young woman hanging on his every word. Marty eased closer to the open door.

The guy spoke with an educated, English voice. A completed Times crossword lay ostentatiously on the bar beside him. He was swirling the wine in his glass, poking his nose over the rim for a sniff every now and then. Marty smiled.

‘Almost everyone is a potential mark,’ Riva had said to him once.

‘Everyone?’ He’d still only been eleven and hadn’t gotten used to the fact that Riva was always right. ‘Aren’t a lot of people too smart to be taken in?’

‘They sure think they are.’ Her thin, heart-shaped face had split into a smile. ‘That makes them the best marks of all.’

Church bells chimed somewhere behind him, and Marty came to a decision. He rumpled his hair, loosened his tie, then lurched full tilt through the door. The babble of Spanish hammered his ears. He bulldozed his way to the counter, collecting gripes along the way, and collided with the English guy.

‘Hey, sorry, buddy.’ Marty belched into the man’s face. ‘Didn’t see ya there.’

The English guy stiffened. Marty made as if to flag the barman down, but managed to knock the guy’s glass over instead.

‘Jeez, look at that.’

A Rioja-tinted stain was seeping over the crossword. The guy’s face grew tight, and Marty winked at the mousy-looking woman beside him.

‘Least it missed his clothes. Them fake designer brands don’t wash too well, do they?’

The woman’s eyes widened. Marty waited a beat. Then he burst into a wheezy laugh and punched the English guy on the arm.

‘Just kiddin’, pal. Whooo!’ Marty patted himself on the chest. ‘Here, lemme buy you another.’

The English guy closed his eyes briefly. ‘No, thank you, we’re just leaving.’

‘Aw, come on.’ Marty spread out his arms. ‘Hey, I know I’ve had a few, but I’m celebrating. Look—’ He glanced over his shoulder, then dug the fat wallet out of his pocket and slapped it onto the counter. A wad of fifty-euro notes curled out over the sides. ‘See that? Casino money. Poker action was sizzling and I cleaned ’em out! Know what else?’ He fumbled in his pocket for a pack of cards. ‘I stole one of their decks as a keepsake!’

Marty wheezed out another laugh, and thumped the English guy on the shoulder. At the same time, he moved in front of him so as to block his exit, and slipped the cards out of the pack.

‘Hey, I’ll play you for that drink, buddy, just one poker hand for fun.’ Marty bungled a shuffle, dropping some cards on the floor. Then he straightened up and dealt two sloppy hands of five. ‘I just can’t lose today.’

The English guy edged away, sending his friend a snippety, drink-up signal. ‘Another time.’

Marty poked him hard in the chest with the cards he’d just dealt him. ‘Whassamatter? You afraid to lose in front of your lady friend?’

The guy narrowed his eyes and glanced down at his chest. Something flickered across his face, and he hesitated. Marty knew what had snagged his attention. The cards were spread in a clumsy fan that allowed the guy a peek at what he’d got.

It was hard to ignore four kings.

Slowly, the English guy took the cards from Marty and set them face down on the counter. His fingers hovered over them. Marty twisted away, as if in search of a drink, and treated the guy to a seemingly accidental flash of the other hand. He knew what he’d see there: three jacks and two odd cards. Marty swivelled back, and the guy flicked a furtive glance at the floor.

‘You still chicken?’ Marty picked up his wallet and peeled a crackling note from his wad. ‘Or maybe you’d like to make it more interesting.’ He leered at the colourless woman beside them. ‘Whaddaya reckon, fifty bucks too rich for your pal here?’

Marty smacked the fifty-euro note on the counter, covering it with his palm. The English guy’s lips disappeared into a thin line, and Marty could almost see the wheels turn. Fact was, the guy’s four kings beat Marty’s three jacks hands down. Even if Marty changed the two odd cards and drew the fourth jack, it still wouldn’t beat four kings.