More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman (23 page)

Joy was in tears. Her emotions were divided between frustration, fear, hate and exhaustion. With David away, we had little time to be dealing with this added pressure, especially after a succession of sleepless nights.

There was also an overriding anger at the audacity of Pedro and his Czech girlfriend. He knew exactly what he was doing; he’d obviously pulled this stunt before. It was a thought that did little to raise any hope that we might beat him. We were up against a professional conman who knew the law and was smart enough to pre-empt a defence against one of our very few options.

The time had come to seek legal advice. We made an appointment with one of the top lawyers based in Las Américas.

The interior was a far cry from the clutter and mess of Julie’s workplace. Joy and I sank deep into a brown leather sofa, soft music playing in the background. Our feet rested on a dark red carpet, the first carpet I’d seen in Tenerife. Gilt-edged certificates decorated the rich, gold and claret flock wallpaper, and we were offered coffee that was served in china rather than re-used plastic cups.

The passing of time was marked by the clicking of a computer keyboard and a muffled conversation taking place behind one of three closed doors. Periodically we exchanged smiles with the receptionist who was playing a frantic rhythm on the keys with long and glossy manicured nails.

Before we could finish our coffees, the receptionist opened the door that was concealing the conversation and gestured for us to go in.

The office was even more impressive than the waiting area. The view through smoked glass windows looked across a cluster of palms to the glittering ocean. Directly below, rental cars and taxis played dodgems, muted by the thick panes.

Across a broad glass table top Señor Santana, the lawyer, motioned for us to sit. At his side was a slender lady in her early twenties. The severe cut of her pencil skirt contrasted wildly with the curvature peeping between the buttons of a white cotton blouse.

‘Good morning,’ said the girl. ‘I believe you don’t speak Spanish, no?’

Joy and I shook our heads ashamedly. She tutted, half-joking.

‘I am Josephine Perez, Señor Santana’s assistant. I will translate for you.’

I explained all about the Czech girl, her boyfriend and the denuncia that had been served on me. Josephine scrawled notes on a yellow-leaf A4 pad, nodding to add weight to Pedro’s argument and shaking her head sympathetically as and when the story required.

She translated the tale to the lawyer who rocked to and fro in a square-backed leather chair. When Josephine finished he uttered a few words and motioned for her to speak on his behalf.

‘This man, Pedro, he does know the law. I daresay he has done this many times before. As for the court case, do not worry, I will represent you. I doubt that Pedro will even show up, in which case the charge will be thrown out. But your immediate problem is how to get your friend’s apartment back, yes?’

We nodded.

‘The problem is this. Because there is no end date stated on the contract, he is legally allowed to stay there until he finds somewhere else. By Spanish law, you can’t evict someone if it means they’ll be homeless. I’m assuming he says he has nowhere else to go, yes?’

We confirmed the fact.

‘Because this is the owner’s second home, she can’t claim that she is being made homeless by his living there. In the eyes of the law, he has more right to have that roof over his head than the owner.’

‘So, what can we do? There must be a way that we can get rid of him,’ said Joy, exasperated.

‘Oh, there is. We can file a denuncia, take him to court and have him re-housed. We can start proceedings now if you like.’

‘Okay, let’s do that,’ I said, pleased that it seemed like a step forwards.

‘But there’s one catch,’ said Josephine. ‘It will take anywhere from two to five years.’

‘We can’t wait that long.’ Joy had stood up, the anger rising again. ‘I have to get him out. It’s not my apartment. Siobhan will kill me.’

‘Unfortunately the law always favours the tenant in these circumstances,’ explained Josephine. ‘I’m sorry.’ She raised her palms in defeat.

We rose to leave.

‘Let me talk to Señor Santana,’ Josephine whispered, holding the door open. ‘Wait outside for a minute.’

We sank back into the sofa, dejected, despondent and defeated. My mind flicked to the shopping list under the microwave. Denuncia or no denuncia, it was fast becoming the only option.

Joy had her head in her hands. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. I feel like asking Micky to sort him out.’ I hadn’t told Joy about the list. She was more likely to utilise the services than me, happy to ignore the future consequences. However, my logic told me that once we crossed that line we would be different people. We also didn’t know if Pedro had connections. Having him beaten up may well have sparked gangland retribution. At this moment of last resorts, I was just pondering whether to tell her anyway when Josephine came out of the office and sat in an armchair next to us.

‘There is another way,’ she started, ‘but you didn’t hear it from me, okay?’

We both nodded, intrigued as she told us about the unofficial plan B.

Siobhan was in tears when Joy phoned to say that we’d failed to get the squatters to move out. Fortunately we had managed to find alternative accommodation for her friends in an apartment in the Altamira. A mutual friend had heard of our plight and offered to lend us her apartment for a nominal fee. Naturally this fee was to be paid by us, in addition to the lawyer’s fee and any fines we may incur over the denuncia.

Siobhan’s mood did lighten however, when we told her about the plan, and even though it meant that she would have to get on a plane to Tenerife herself, she was somewhat heartened that action was now being taken. In the meantime, we had appointed a ‘team of detectives’ to find out more about the couple of squatters.

Barry, our occasional helper, was put on static surveillance duty. Before becoming an airborne trolley dolly he had flirted briefly with the police force, and thus was deemed the most qualified. His job was to keep track of the movements in and out of Siobhan’s apartment. He stationed himself at a bay window seat in the apartment of Mrs Tanner, one of El Beril’s elderly year-round residents, diagonally opposite to Siobhan’s. Not only did he have a clear view of the steps leading up to the one and only entrance to the apartment, but he also had an unlimited supply of tea and home-made scones that Mrs Tanner forced on him with remarkable regularity.

Wayne was assigned to tail Pedro in the Smugglersmobile (when we weren’t loading it with beans and tuna). We were curious to find out what the Spaniard did during the day and whether he worked or not. Wayne, not one of the world’s most patient characters, said he would have preferred to just beat him up and torture our requirements out of him. I explained that this would invariably lead to me being arrested, and thus he would more than likely be out of a job with us.

Frank took on the last of our tasks, accompanied by his detective sidekick and Spanish translator, Danny. They were to take the Polaroids to the Hotel Conquistador and make enquiries as to whether the Czech girl was actually working there.

For our part, in between running the bar and making sure that Siobhan’s friends were all right we had to buy a list of items that were necessary for the implementation of plan B.

The first to report back with a breakthrough was Wayne. He’d followed Pedro to an apartment in Las Américas. After abandoning the car for a closer look, he’d seen Pedro opening the apartment door with a key and leaving several hours later in different clothes.

‘It seems like the slimy fucker has another home,’ he beamed. This was a big breakthrough and was the first bullet we needed in the gun that was going to get rid of the two unwanted guests.

I flipped the lid off a bottle of Newcastle Brown for a job well done. As Wayne glugged down the contents, Frank trudged in with Danny in tow. He tossed the Polaroid on the bar.

‘Nobody’s ever seen her before down at the Conquistador. She doesn’t work there now, never has.’ It was bullet number two.

At the courts in Granadilla, a small army of wrongdoers and wrong-done-tos lined the curving staircase leading up to the two courtrooms. Both sides exchanged furtive, and some not-so-furtive, glances. Josephine joined Joy and me at the top of the stairs.

‘Any sign of Pedro?’ asked Joy.

‘No, I’ll be very surprised if he shows up,’ she replied. ‘Give me the photo you took of him, I’ll ask some of my colleagues if they know him.’

Quarter of an hour later she was back.

‘Just as we thought. Our friend Pedro is well known up here. He’s a professional.’

Just then a clerk called our names and we entered the courtroom. The wooden floors creaked as we edged into a church pew facing a large arched window. In front of the window sat a man in his senior years. I thought he was sleeping until he lifted his head to peer at us for a moment, before continuing to study a ream of papers I could now see were resting on his lap.

‘That’s the judge,’ said Josephine.

Unlike the theatre of British courtrooms, curly grey wigs and schoolteacher cloaks were conspicuous by their absence. Instead the man wore an open-necked, pale blue shirt under a slate grey jacket. A trio of ancillary workers busied themselves with their own paperwork, glancing at the judge occasionally to check if he was ready to proceed. He finally gave one the slightest of nods. An attendant cleared his throat and gave what I presumed was a summary of the case. The judge peered up again without lifting his head and mumbled something in Spanish. Josephine replied, indicating our presence with her hand. He then read out Pedro’s name and waited for a response. Josephine said something back, to which the judge let out a long sigh and, with his eyes still studying the paperwork, shooed us from the court with the back of his hand.

‘That’s it. It’s over,’ said Josephine as we closed the courtroom door behind us.

‘That’s it?’ I repeated.

‘Pedro didn’t show up so the case was thrown out. I spoke with the judge before we went in. He’s dealt with Pedro’s games before. He knew he wouldn’t show up again.’

Relief swept through me as we ran down the handful of steps outside the court. Pedro had gained nothing but he had cost us half a day of our time, several sleepless nights and the equivalent of two hundred pounds for Josephine’s representation.

We had less than an hour to get back to the bar in time for opening. Our resolve to defeat him was strengthened as we sped back to El Beril. We passed through a succession of tiny white hamlets, deep in thought of how to get our own justice as  the beauty of Tenerife’s pretty interior whisked past unnoticed.

Black-frocked widows standing in low doorways paused their chatting to watch a car of foreigners speeding through their village. A huddle of old men sat on a bench beneath the shade of a sprawling laurel tree eyed our hasty progress, shaking their heads disdainfully at this intrusion of fast forward in their world of slow motion.

We were in a rush not only to open the bar in time for the first wave of hungry holidaymakers, but also to find out if Barry had gathered enough information to enable us to put the plan into action tomorrow.

First through the doors, as expected, was Siobhan. Pedro’s abhorrent smugness had fortified our own anxiety into solid anger. Siobhan was without this advantage and was still clearly shaken at the events.

She was trembling, her face pale and drawn. From the puffiness round her eyes it was obvious she had been crying on the plane. Although she preferred to portray a hard edge, it was merely protection, sheltering fraught nerves and an edgy temperament.

Living in Northern Ireland during the troubles, especially when married to a British soldier, had wreaked havoc on her emotions and like many in the same situation, she had withdrawn deeper into her own personal bomb shelter.

None of the rage she had spat down the phone was evident now that the reality of confrontation was close. Instead, she had brought her son-in-law, who appeared angry enough for the pair of them.

We had met Terry once before when he had stayed in Siobhan’s apartment with his fiancée, her daughter, for a week earlier in the season. They shared a common shyness as well as love. But this time, the timidity was gone. He had shaved his head and the roundness of his body had been squared off, taut in every way, including his manner.

‘How y’doing,’ he said, accepting a handshake without a smile.

‘Terry insisted on coming,’ explained Siobhan. ‘I said there was no need, we were getting it sorted, but he wouldn’t have it.’

‘I’m going to teach that fucking slimeball a lesson,’ said Terry. The muscles on his jawbone throbbed as he clenched his teeth. He looked like he was going to explode.

‘Hold on, Terry,’ said Joy. ‘We’ve just come back from court today. We can’t just wade in. This guy knows what he’s doing. If we lay one finger on him, Joe and me will be back in front of the judge again and this time we might not be so lucky. Let’s just stick to the plan and then, down the line, when the dust has settled, you can do whatever you like.’

‘All right, but if I see him I can’t promise he won’t get a smack,’ said Terry. ‘Just keep him away from me.’

Joy gave Siobhan a key to our apartment. They were staying with us, hopefully only for a night if things went according to plan tomorrow.

‘Tuesday 8.13 a.m., white Caucasian male leaves apartment.’

Barry was reading from a small, black notebook he had bought for ‘the operation’. ‘Tuesday 9.15 a.m., white Caucasian female leaves apartment.

‘Tuesday 5.10 p.m., white Caucasian female…’

‘Barry?’ Joy interrupted.

‘Yes?’

‘Call them Pedro and the Czech girl will you.’

‘Oh. Okay. Right, where was I? Ah yes. Tuesday 5.10 p.m., white Cau… sorry… Czech girl and Pedro arrive back at the apartment together. Wednesday 8.10 a.m., Pedro leaves. At 9.22 the Czech girl leaves. Thursday is the same, give or take five minutes.’