Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) (8 page)

The terrace was enclosed by screens of palm fronds and gated by a plywood panel. Spike gave it a shove. It swung open and he crouched through past crates of empty beer bottles and a teetering stack of plastic chairs.

The back door was of salt-corroded steel; Spike put his shoulder to it. Ahead, a corridor led to a screen of velvet. A muffled throb came from behind; Spike felt his way along the cool concrete, then separated the curtains.

Through rotating disco lights, Spike made out the long pale back of a woman. She wore a thong and black, knee-length PVC boots. Her hands cupped her breasts, crimson bra straps dangling as she perched on a small round stage, hip against a pole. Facing her in the middle of a cushioned, seraglio-style set of bench seats sat a suited man. It was too gloomy to see features beyond a pair of large black-rimmed glasses.

Opposite the stripper was another, unoccupied stage, while along the back wall ran a bar with five or six stools. A Moroccan in a leather waistcoat manned it, standing by the sink, topping up a vodka bottle from the tap. The air smelled of perspiration and essential oils.

Spike sat down, and the barman straightened up, replacing the bottle on the mirror-backed shelf behind. ‘
Vous connaissez cette boîte, monsieur?
’ he snapped.

‘Vodka. No ice. And no water.’

The barman was bald on top but had contrived to scrape together a ponytail from the lank crop on the sides. He reached behind for a different bottle as Spike swivelled his stool. The stripper was facing him now, hands still teasingly over breasts. She had Eastern European hair and a body so thin the ribs stuck out like the timbers of a shipwreck. She bent down, twitching the T-strap of her thong in her client’s bespectacled face. A smack rang out; Spike saw the stripper flinch, then reaffix her come-hither smile.

Spike listened as a techno version of an old
Police
number started playing, ‘Tea in the Sahara’. A thumb-smeared tumbler slid his way. He took out his wallet and let the barman drink in the notes. ‘Keep the change.’

A hundred-dirham note disappeared into the leather waistcoat with card-sharp dexterity. ‘You like a dance?’ the barman said. ‘Some . . . private room?’

Spike sniffed his vodka.

‘Karim, he dancing later.’ The barman flicked his flaccid double chin at the empty stage. ‘Two hundred dirham.’

Another slap from the podium, as the barman reached below the counter. Lifting out a crate of limes, he started cutting them into quarters with unnerving speed and skill. Spike looked beyond him to a pinboard of photographs: men hugging women, men hugging men, women hugging women. The blade of the kitchen knife ticked back and forth. The sliced limes rolled into a chrome bucket and the crate returned beneath the bar.

‘You know Esperanza?’ Spike said.

The barman smoothed back his ponytail.

‘Esperanza,’ Spike repeated loudly, eyes on the stripper, who tensed up her thighs, thumbs hooked beneath her G-string. The barman lowered his chin into a neck brace of fat. ‘So many girls.’

‘This one’s dead. Found on the beach last week.’

‘You from the Sûreté?’

‘No.’

‘Is like I say before – I never working that night.’

Another slap: Spike glared at the businessman, who was standing to get a better purchase. The stripper was naked now apart from her boots, crouching with one arm linked around the pole. Her face was still turned to Spike.

Spike laid three hundred dirham on the bar top. When it had disappeared, he stepped off his stool and moved to the end of the bar.

‘She come in often time,’ the barman said as he sidled over. Spike caught something sour on his breath that reminded him of the junkies he’d defended while working at the criminal bar in Gibraltar.

‘Western slut,’ he went on. ‘She go with man, woman. Drugs and drink. Oh yeah.’ He sucked in air through his widely spaced teeth. A gold molar glinted.

‘What about the night she died? Did you see who she was with then?’ Spike reached again for his wallet, laying down another hundred dirham.

‘Oh, the little Jew,’ the barman replied as he took the money. ‘He follow her to the beach. Then? Who knows.’

Spike made a feint at the barman’s waistcoat; he skipped back with the certainty of a creature which knows the dimensions of its cage. His hand moved upwards to adjust a spotted dicky bow.

‘You can do better than that,’ Spike said.

‘I never see the Jew.’

‘So someone told you. Who?’

‘No one.’

‘Did they argue?’

‘He quiet man. Good money.’

‘Did she argue with someone else?’

Spike caught an infinitesimal flicker of the eyelid. He laid down another two hundred dirham. The stripper was on her front now, boots apart as the businessman crouched forensically behind. The barman made a grab for the money but Spike got there first, slamming his palm down. ‘Who?’

‘One girl,’ the barman said, backing away.

‘Her?’

‘Different. Maybe two week ago. This one, she throw a drink at Esperanza. They shout so I pull them apart, like two dogs fucking. Few days later Esperanza dead. Throat open like a baby lamb at the Eid. Yessir.’

‘Which girl threw the drink?’

‘She gone now. Owes me money.’

‘Her name?’

Spike crammed the note into the barman’s hand, folding his clammy fingers around the paper. With a smile and surprising grace, the barman pirouetted to swipe a photograph from the pinboard. Two shiny-faced jocks had their arms around a dark-skinned girl. Spike could see only part of her face: high cheekbones, serious expression, black hair tied back with a single strand over one eye. ‘Her name?’

‘Zahra.’

‘Zahra who?’

‘Bedouin bitch. No family name.’

‘Dancer?’

‘Waitress.’

Another slap; the stripper was trying to stand but the businessman had a fist on the small of her back. The barman gazed on, polishing an earhole with a twisting index finger.

‘Second thoughts,’ Spike said. ‘I will have that dance.’

The barman’s pink gecko tongue flapped up and down. ‘Five minute.’

‘Now.’

‘Mo’ money.’

Spike gave a nod and the barman reached below to stab a button beneath the bar top. The businessman glanced up as the music stopped. The stripper drew in her bony knees.

‘What’s your name?’ Spike said.

‘Marouane.’

‘Did you tell the police, Marouane?’

The barman shook his ponytail.

‘When Zahra comes back,’ Spike said, taking out his business card, ‘you give me a call. Understand?’ He picked up the photograph and walked towards the stripper.

Chapter 16

The girl was climbing onto a tiny plywood podium. There was barely room for the pole.

‘Sit with me,’ Spike said.

‘Cost extra.’ Her accent was French with a rough-grained Arabic underlay.

‘Just to talk.’

The girl stepped down, stilettos scraping the porcelain. Spike glanced around. The ‘private’ room appeared to be no more than a converted lavatory: red drapery on the walls, two plastic chairs by the stage, floor-to-ceiling tiles exuding an ammoniac tang of a thousand drinkers’ pit stops.

The girl took one of the chairs, spun it and pleated her long, smooth legs around. Close up, Spike could see the dark roots of her platinum hair. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Tatiana.’

‘Real name?’

‘Tatiana,’ the girl replied with a smile.

‘Don’t hear that one so much in Morocco.’

The girl arched an over-plucked eyebrow. Spike held out a note which she rolled and slid into her boot. ‘From Algeria. Annaba City. Ten year ago.’

‘How much do you make a night, Tatiana?’

‘You like to take me home?’ She stroked her chin. There was a short, deep scar at its base which no amount of foundation could mask. ‘Five hundred dirham, maybe I –’

‘I’ll give you five hundred just to talk.’

Tatiana started to stand, but Spike caught her wrist. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’m a friend of Esperanza’s.’

She glared down, then draped herself uncertainly back over her chair. ‘You from Spain?’

‘Nearby. You knew her?’

‘I dance for her.’

‘She liked women?’

‘She liked . . . everyone.’

‘Did you see who she was with that night?’

‘I no working.’

‘It seems the club was running itself.’

She smiled again. ‘You friend for Marouane?’

‘No.’

‘Marouane here . . . all times.’ She reached over and ran a long, fake fingernail up and down Spike’s inner forearm.

‘Marouane sells drugs?’

‘If you like, I can –’

‘He sold drugs to Esperanza?’

She folded her arms over the chair back, hiding her chin on top.

‘Do you know who killed Esperanza?’

The coquettish expression slipped. In repose, her face looked very young. ‘Esperanza go to the beach,’ she said. ‘There,
avec les sans-papiers
–’

‘
Sans-papiers?
’

‘They coming into Tanger.
Pour passer le détroit
. All of Africa, waiting. No place for sleep. Sleep in park, cemetery, beach. Dangerous
abid
man. Eating cats and dogs.’

‘And Zahra is a
sans-papier
?’

‘You know Zahra also?’

‘She argued with Esperanza, right?’

‘One time.’

Spike held 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.’