Midnight Picasso
by
Leslie Cameron
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Leslie Cameron on Smashwords
Midnight Picasso
Copyright © 2010 by Leslie Cameron Peck
ISBN
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Fraud is like sex : so much better if you take it slowly.
*****
1.Corinne
*****
“I want you to pick-up a girl,” Michelle told me.
Yes, was her idea. I just followed instructions. It was a Friday morning. We were sitting in the Costa shop in Fenchurch Street. She was paying - so it had to be important. “What’s she done?”
“You name it, she’s tried it - but she’s good with artwork.”
“Painting, selling or stealing?”
“Re-distributing.”
Michelle was fair-haired, in her forties and loved anything with a designer label. Today, her chosen theme was Gucci red. I didn’t work for her - but sometimes, I worked with her. I solved her problems. She identified them, I found answers - and she paid good money.
“What do you want?” I asked.
Michelle paused to sip her cappuccino. “She’s trying to sell a Picasso,” she said, “and we would like to stop her.”
I didn’t ask her about the ‘we’. “Is it real?”
“Who knows - who cares?” Michelle smiled, “but we can sell it for a much better price.”
“Where do I start?”
Michelle pulled a notebook from her briefcase. “She’ll be in Edinburgh on Thursday,” she said. “Our girl is booked on the KLM flight to Schiphol.”
“You have a ticket?”
Another visit to the briefcase. “Here you are – you have the seat beside her,” and she produced a photo of this curly-haired blonde with designer glasses. “She calls herself ‘Corinne’.”
“Is that her real name?”
“As far as we know,” Michelle replied.
“And my job?”
“Get to know her - let her think you’re a career criminal.”
“How will that help?” I like to know what Michelle is thinking.
“If you click, you’ll discover where she’s hiding the Picasso.”
Is that all? It sounded hit-and-miss. “Will she accept me?”
“If she needs a fall-guy,” Michelle promised. “It’s how she works.”
Thanks, Michelle - that’s all I need. “And if she doesn’t?”
“You get a freebie in Amsterdam.”
“All expenses?” I asked.
Again, the briefcase came into play. “A thousand now - more if you need it.” The cash was in fifties and twenties.
“Worth a try.” I stuffed the cash in my wallet.
“Text me when you get to Schiphol,” and she handed me a bright pink cell-phone. “Corinne must not know about me,” Michelle finished.
“And she’d better not know about this,” and I buried the pussy-phone deep in a trouser pocket.
On the Thursday, I flew up to Edinburgh and boarded the 16.30 KLM to Amsterdam. Michelle had put me in the two-seat zone. I had the aisle - and the window seat was being used by this very attractive blue-eyed girl in designer glasses, just like in the photo. So far - so good.
Sometimes they chat – sometimes they don’t. If this was Corinne, she was worth the price of the ticket. Today, the curly-haired blonde was wearing a brown T-shirt.
I checked the overhead locker and found a denim jacket with embroidered flowers on both sleeves. Rule One: never miss an opportunity. “Excuse me, is this yours?”
She stood up. “I will move it.” She had a German accent.
“Didn’t want to crush it,” and I eased my backpack into the space she made. “I’m Mike.”
“Nice to meet, you, Mike - I’m Corinne.”
I gave a nod of appreciation and sat down.
She was listening to an iPod. It’s hard to chat-up someone with an iPod, so I dug my own out of a pocket and called up Shirley Bassey. Corinne also had a book: it was in German – and it looked like a serious read. My book was a very easy-going Jack Higgins.
For a while, we listened to our music - but when she started to read her book, I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “What’s it called?”
“Kalifornia,” she said. “It belongs to my mother – it’s supposed to be a thriller,” and she pointed to the German blurb on the cover.
“And does it?”
She turned her head, asking for an explanation.
“.... thrill?” I finished.
“Yes, I suppose so.... in a sexual way.”
Fair enough, Corinne, you started it.
“And I am surprised at my mother,” she went on.
“Mothers don’t have sex?”
“I’m sure mine does!” she laughed.
Enough about mothers - let’s move on. “Where next?” I asked her.
“Munich.”
“For?”
“The festival!” she laughed.
Of course - the Munich bier festival. “Someone special?”
“I’m going to get drunk, make love and have fun.”
Note the order of her targets. “Never been,” I confessed.
“And you?”
“On to Vienna,” I said.
“Why?”
In for a penny... “Business,” I told her.
“I’m in TV,” she said.
“As what – a writer, actor, director or producer?”
“Anyone or anything with a decent budget!” she laughed.
In time, we landed. We disembarked and headed for the delights of the Schiphol Shopping Plaza with its perfumes, jewellery, spirits and tobacco. We stopped by a Departures board and checked the flight information. I was due at the Vienna gate by 20.10.
“Long to wait?” I asked Corinne.
“Two hours… not so bad,” she replied.
“Fancy a drink?”
She thought for a second. “Yes - find me somewhere nice.”
So we made our way past Perfumes, took the escalator to the first level and headed for the Brasserie. Girls with class don’t go for coke-&-coffee shops. “This OK?" A waiter showed us to a table-for-two.
Now that she was sitting opposite, I could see her better. Gorgeous is an easy word to use – but in Corinne’s case, it worked for me. She had bright blue eyes, long blonde, curly hair - and don’t forget the bouncy breasts. I tried to look her in the eye. It wasn’t easy.
“I’m only here because I ditched my boyfriend,” she began.
Nice one! “What did he do?”
“Nothing much....”
“Silly boy!” I grinned. “He should have used the pill.”
Corinne knew what I meant. “He’s an American - works in Inverness.”
It hurt to think of an American playing softball with those wonderful breasts. “Shame,” I said. “Blame it on the internet.”
“We stuck it out for seven years,” she said.
Even worse! “Who broke the mirror?”
“He was too far away,” she carried on. “So I found someone else.”
“You could have phoned him.”
She shook her head. “After seven years, he deserved better.”
“Lucky Mr New Guy,” I conceded.
“Or I might stay single for a while.”
I held the idea for half a second. “Single can be fun.”
She pursed her very kissable lips. “When I told my girlfriend, she just said Oh my God!”
“I can well imagine,” I grinned.
“Why?”
“A single Corinne could spell trouble for a whole stack of boyfriends.”
That hit home – but then she changed the subject. “What about you?”
“On my way to Vienna,” I reminded her.
“You have someone special?”
“Not in that way,” I smiled. “It’s only business.”
“What kind of business?”
“Precious stones,” I said.
“Buying or selling?”
“Transfer of ownership,” I said. Would it bait the hook?
But Corinne let it go. “What else?” she asked.
“Dogs,” I told her.
“Oh I just love dogs!”
“Great!” I laughed. “That’s one of my interview questions.”
“And the other?”
“Can you make an apple pie?”
She smiled broadly and her breasts bounced with enthusiasm “And if I get that right, am I on the short list?”
I nodded my head. “You’d be invited to the second interview,” I told her.
“Where would that be?”
“Somewhere snug and warm where we could check your details…”
Corinne smiled… but made no comment.
The waitress came back to take our orders. Corinne asked for a glass of red wine and we decided to share a Chicken Wrap.
For a while, we kept to the easy topics – like whether Brits are better at being football hooligans than the Germans. Her new boyfriend (so she told me) was called Herman.
“He’s a Bayern supporter,” she confessed.
Tough luck, Herman – you should get out more.
We moved on to her eyes. “I want laser surgery,” she told me.
“Shame! You look so sexy in those glasses.” Wrong answer!
“No!” she snapped, “I hate my glasses!” and she whipped them off, dropped them on the table and gave me the cold-eyed Attila glare.
Oh sod! “Forgive me,” I tried. “It was how I saw you first,” and paused for effect. “But now, I can see how beautiful your eyes really are.” OK - a load of old fanny - but it served its purpose.
“Not until after the festival,” she continued. “My mother is coming for her birthday.”
Oh no - back to her mother again. “When’s that?” I had to ask.
“October 9th.”
“I will think of her,” I replied. “That’s the day my dog gets his vaccination.”
“How kind of you!”
“When’s yours?”
“March 31st.”
“And...?” I wanted to know her age.
“Guess?”
From experience, not too many girls will commit to a relationship before the age of twenty-two. Add seven – and one for her birthday. “About thirty?” I guessed. “Give or take?”
Wrong! And she gave me her go lower signal.
“It was the seven years,” I conceded.
“I started early,” she smiled. “I’m twenty-seven.”
As I couldn’t squirm any more, I went back to the apple-pies. “Do you live in Munich?”
“With this northern accent?”
“Silly me,” and I shook my head. “It was your perfect English...”
Corinne laughed. “You speak German?”
“Ein bier – zwei bier,” I confessed, “as demanded by my time in the army.”
“How long?”
“Altogether – about four years in Germany,” I said.
Our Chicken Wrap arrived. It was on a bed of rice and smelled spicy. Corinne sliced it across the middle and we used our forks to eat it.
“These precious stones?” she asked.
Story time: “Easy money,” I said between forkfuls.
“How does it work?”
“Find a rich woman, get her drunk, take her back to her hotel - do the needful and relieve her of the jewellery.”
Corinne looked horrified. “Is it really so simple?” she asked.
“Never go back in the same year,” I said.
“And this week, it is Vienna?”
“And if it doesn’t work, on to Bucharest.” I checked my watch: 19.55. I stood up and took out my wallet. The delightful Corinne would not be left in any doubt. “I have to go - time, planes and jewellery wait for no-one.” I placed my business card on the table by her wine glass. “I have enjoyed meeting you – and would like to see you again.” Count to three. “If you want to take this further, you can e-mail me. I will always answer.”
Then I waved to the waitress – handed over twenty Euros for the meal and waved ‘goodbye’ to the beautiful Corinne and her wonderful breasts.
*****
2.Rubies to Go
*****
A month later, I had a text from Corinne. It was a simple message: Meet me in London - and gave an 0171 phone number. When I called, her instructions were clear and concise.
“I want to see you operate,” she said. She claimed to be working in a casino used by rich-bitch women, just waiting to be screwed. “You will you do that for me?”
“And then what?” I asked.
“I might have something special for you.”
Did that include the breasts? “When?”
“Call me next Monday,” she said.
Next job: call Michelle and bring her up to date. She was already aware of the Schiphol story, but this would make her really happy.
“Sounds OK,” she agreed. “You can screw me any time you like!”
While it was always nice to have a willing business partner, her definition of ‘screw’ was not the same as mine.
In the soft-glow light of the casino, Michelle looked stunning. Flaming red hair and her nicely rounded figure added glory to a green silk dress. Best of all, she wore with a 12-stone ruby necklace.
She was easy on the eye and hard to miss. As I watched, a cocktail waitress swished by, carrying a tray of drinks, mostly shorts. I had to look twice. In that kitten costume, Corinne looked completely different.
“Can I have a whisky?” I asked her.
“Seen anything tempting?” she whispered.
“There’s one at the Blackjack table who might,” I replied.
“Try the red-head at the bar,” Corinne disagreed. “That necklace is right up your street.”
“I never work to order,” I objected.
“Just go for it,” Corinne told me.
We were south of the river, in one of those red-plush places with chandeliers and comfortable seats. In the background, roulette, blackjack and poker games were making money. But Michelle was alone, sitting by the bar and drinking vodka.
I moved towards her. “Mike,” I said. “Buy you a drink?”
She smiled softly. “Michelle,” she replied. “Vodka, please.”
I leaned on the bar, waved to the barman and pointed at Michelle’s glass. “Same again -and a whisky for me.”
The barman nodded and supplied the order.
“I was admiring your necklace,” I continued.
“Most people do,” she said.
“A Happy Christmas?” I tried again.
“A fond-farewell from my ex,” she told me.
“Lucky girl,” I said. Women like their jewellery to be admired.
“Gets me where I want to go,” she smiled.
“Does a beautiful woman need the extra?” Then I changed the subject. “Here to play?”
“May do,” she replied. “When I’m ready.”
We chatted away on nothing special for the next ten minutes. Then Michelle slid off her chair. “Play time! Are you coming?” and she made her way to the nearest roulette table. I know very little about the game, but followed on. We sat together.
She opened her purse and produced a wad of notes. “One thousand,” she asked the croupier.
She liked to play on streets or squares, carefully placing her chips on a three-number column or in the centre of a group of four. Sometimes she won – sometimes she didn’t. Money wasn’t a problem. If she ran low on chips, she just bought more. While she played, I supplied her with vodka. Sometime after midnight, I’d seen enough. “Let’s go,” I whispered. “Time for bed.”
“Anything you say, my darling,” she purred.
“I’ll see you safely back to your hotel,” and I gathered up her chips to cash them in.
Together, we crossed the floor to the cashier’s desk. “Cash or cheque?” he asked me.
“Cash, please.” It came to more than £4000. I slipped the money into my trouser pocket.
Outside, we called a taxi and told the driver where to go. She was staying in a hotel not that far from Victoria. She was still awake when we arrived.
“Coming up for a drink?” she asked me.
Why not? That’s what we were here for.
Her room was basic standard – bed, bath/shower and a large TV. “You OK with vodka?” and produce a nice new bottle from her bedside cabinet.
“OK by me,” I said.
“So pour me a big one!” she smiled - and then came out of character. “OK, so far,” she said. “You have the money?”
“Yes - about £4000.”
“And take the necklace.” As she gave it to me, she added a condition. “Make sure you keep it,” she said. “It’s only on loan.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. “She thinks it’s how I make my living - but what about the money?”
“She’ll want that for her cash-flow,” Michelle told me. “Hand it over - keep her happy.”
“And now?”
“We’ll sit and have a quiet drink for half-an-hour - I’ll go to bed - you can go to work.”
“Shame,” I grinned, “but thank you for a lovely evening!”
Outside the hotel, I found Corinne sitting in her car and waiting for me. I went over, opened the door and sat beside her.
“That was quick!” she grinned.
“Service with a smile,” I said.
“Was it worth it?”
“No complaints,” I replied.
“What did we get?”
“About four grand - and the ruby necklace,” and I showed it to her.
“Is that my birthday present?” she laughed.
“That’s my profit,” I said. No way was she getting that.
“Cheeky sod!” Corinne laughed, “but the cash will cover expenses.”
By now, we had crossed the Thames and were heading for Highgate. Traffic was light and Little Miss Kitten was burning rubber. “Aren’t you bothered by the cameras?” I asked.
“Why?” she laughed. “We won’t be here to get the letter.”
“Forgive me,” I said. “I thought the cash was for speeding tickets.”
At some point on the ride, she made a left and pulled up in a parking zone – and made her offer. “How would you like to make a fortune?”
“Is it legal?”
“Not a chance!” she laughed.
“Count me in,” I agreed.
We split the cash and agreed to meet again in Gran Canaria. One week later, on a Monday morning, I arrived at Las Palmas airport, strolled through passport control, collected my holdall from the carousel and found a taxi.
By midday, I was in Telde, sitting at a one of the red tables of La Frater in the plaza of San Gregorio. It was the perfect table, nicely under the ancient laurels of the yellow-painted church. Some say these trees have been around since Roman times. I don’t know for sure – but I’m glad they’re here. In the noon-time sun so close to Africa, it’s easy to burn.
At the next table, an old man in a Gran Canaria T-shirt was smoking a cigar and reading the sporting pages of a local newspaper. Further along – at the yellow tables of Carte d’Or - two young girls were framed by the lilac jacaranda blossom and enjoying dishes of ice cream. Pretty as they were, my attention was devoted to the BBVA Bank, just as short walk down the tree-line boulevard.
I was waiting for Corinne. First stop – visit bank, she had replied to my text message.
Barbara, the gorgeous Cuban girl who ran La Frater, came up to my table. “Buenas Dias, senor!” As always, she was dressed in black.
“Cuba Libre and a croissant mixto, por favor.” My Spanish isn’t all that clever, but I know enough to order rum and a cheese sandwich for breakfast.
“Your girl - she meeting you?” Barbara was making conversation.
“Let’s hope so,” I said, my eyes still firmly fixed on the BBVA.
“She will come for Cuba Libre!” Barbara promised.
As I waited for my order, an officer from the Policia Local rode up and parked his blue and white motorcycle by the fish fountain. He stood in the shade of the laurels and lit a cigarette. Maybe he was only passing time - but he also seemed to be watching the BBVA.
To break the vibes, I concentrated on the blue-fronted farmacia near the bank and tried to think of aspirins. When that failed to work, I moved my gaze to the paella billboard near my table and counted the number of prawns on the various dishes. Valenciana came out top with a big fat juicy three.
Then I saw her! Today, the sun-kissed Corinne was wearing a full-length cotton skirt and a flower-patterned blouse that showed-off her generous cleavage. She had left the bank and was making her way towards me. As she came up to my table, I snapped her picture with my cell phone. She was looking radiant - and I wanted to capture the moment.
When she reached me, she held out a wad of Euros. “Here you are,” she smiled.
“How much?”
“Ten thousand.”
Amazing. “How?”
“Sure you want to know?” As a clue, she bounced her breasts.
I had to smile: the honey trap. “Where did you find him?”
“In a casino in Las Palmas,” Corinne explained. “Rich Arab – poor little German girl.”
“And your mother needs an operation...”
Before we could go on with the post-scam breakdown, Barbara appeared with my breakfast order.
“Looks good,” Corinne decided. She pulled out a chair and sat beside me. “Same again,” she told Barbara.
Behind us, the policeman dropped the end of his cigarette and squashed it with his boot. He then remounted his motorcycle and rode away. He had seen enough of San Gregorio for one morning.
I offered her my croissant mixto – but hung on to the Cuba Libre. “Will it cover our holiday?” I asked.
“It’s a start,” Corinne told me, “but not nearly enough.”
“Depends what you want to do,” I said.
My little man in the GC shirt had finished his cigar and was about to leave. Two tables away, a party of three older women had joined the plaza for their morning coffee. Their golden tans and long black hair suggested they were Spanish.
“We’re going to hit the big one,” Corinne promised.
“Want to tell me how?”
“Not yet – all in good time.”
“Why the mystery?”
“Fraud is like sex,” Corinne smiled. “So much better if you take it slowly.”
Just like Corinne: drinks first, details later. Time to move along: “First, I need somewhere to stay,” I reminded her.
“No problem there, Senor Forrest,” Corinne promised. “I have room in my flat.”
Telde is a small town, maybe 20 kms down the GC-1 from Las Palmas. Thanks to a former mayor, most of its houses are painted in pastel colours. According to Corinne, the town provided the paint and promised two years free of civic taxes if they used it to pretty-up their houses. One glance through her front-room window showed the plan had worked.
Corinne’s flat was in Herradura, an area beyond the ring road, on the south side of the city. Her street – Valsendero – was lined with flowering mimosas. Up on a hillside, it had a view that swept across the pink, yellow, blue and lime-green dwellings to the ocean. To our left, the Municipal Sports Stadium - an all-weather football area dedicated to Guerrita, the champion Spanish wrestler.
“Will this do?” Corrine asked.
She lived on the first floor of a two-storey block. It was long and narrow with a bedroom at the front, a studio with books, a music centre and a TV set. Beyond that, a corridor led to the kitchen, bathroom, her bedroom and a service area for general storage. She had given me the room with the view.
I sat on the king-sized double-bed. “Thanks,” I said. “It’s perfect.”
“Beer in the fridge – take anything you want.”
“What’s for lunch?” I asked her.
“Probably pizza.”
She was right. We left the flat, walked over the hill and through an avenue of jacarandas to the local Herradura centre: six shops and a roundabout with a giant horseshoe in the middle.
“Why?” I asked. Stupid question.
“Herradura means horseshoe,” she explained.
A bakery, a farmacia and a bank were along one side and the Cafeteria Pizzaria ADENA was on the other corner. Its blue-&-white striped awning made it cool and welcoming. Inside, the air was heavy with the smells of fresh-baked bread and coffee. Half-a-dozen tables, two gaming machines and a display of grown-up DVDs made up the in-house furniture. Three men on stools at the bar were watching the Spanish news on TV. A good-looking dark-haired woman in her forties was behind the bar. She was wearing a grey zip-up jacket.
Corinne introduced me.”Delia,” she opened. “Meet Mike,”
Delia smiled. “Buenas dias!”
“Good to meet you,” I said.
“And we’ll have pizza and Cuba Libre,” Corinne finished.
Delia half-filled each glass with rum then topped them up with cola. “Enjoy!”
Behind the bar, plastic cabinets and storage boxes were filled with bread rolls and cheese sandwiches. Bottled beer, cigars and lottery tickets were neatly stacked on shelves. Popular wines and spirits were on the bar, all within easy reach.
“I’ll take one of those,” I said and pointed to a tin of cigars.
“Ah!” Delia laughed, “he want Senorita!”
I looked at Corinne for an answer.
“It’s the name of the cigar,” she explained.
“She can read my mind,” I smiled.
Delia handed me a Senorita and provided a light.
“Perfecto!” I thanked her. One day, I really must learn real Spanish.
We chose a table near the back of the café, next to the DVD display. I couldn’t read the titles but the covers explained the content.
“Want to rent one?” Corinne asked.
“Not today,” I thanked her. For the moment, I was more interested in a set of photos over the bar. They showed a well-built wrestler in action. “What’s the connection?” I asked.
“That’s Agustin,” Corinne told me. “He’s her boy.”
He looked enormous. “Can we see him fight?”
“Not right now,” Corinne went on. “Injured his knee.”
I tapped my cigar into an ashtray. “Tough sport,” I said.
Our pizza arrived – a good twelve inches of cheese, tomato paste and anchovies, cut into six equal shares. Corinne smiled her thanks to Delia – and asked for two more Cuba Libres.
We each took a slice of the pizza. Then I asked the question that had been hopping around my mind since breakfast in the plaza. “What comes next?”
Corinne finished her second slice. “First, we have to talk to Rinzi,” she told me.
*****
3.Varinia
*****
“Who’s Rinzi?” I asked. We were back in Valsendero, sitting by the window in my room. We were sharing a bottle of Ron Miel, a delicious Honey Rum that I could drink from now till Christmas. From here, we could see the roof-top gardens of the flats in the next street down the hill. In one of these gardens, a woman was hanging washing. In her white sleeveless blouse and flower-patterned trousers, she looked ready for a day on the beach. Instead, she was working her way through a basket of household laundry – but making the most of the sunshine.
“Her full name is Varinia,” Corinne told me. “She’s a friend.”
“Why do we need to speak to her?”
Corinne paused to top-up her drink. “She’s good at what she does.”
“And what would that be?”
“Making money!” Corinne smiled.
Back to money-gathering: “Why do we need it?” I asked. “You collected a nice little handful from the bank this morning.”
Corinne laughed. “We’ll need more than that,” she told me.
“Are you going to tell me why?”
Corinne took a sip of her drink and put her feet up on the window ledge. As if planned, her skirt fell away to show me her long sun-tanned legs. It was her way of taking my mind off her intentions. “Not yet,” she said. “See it as a game of poker – one card at a time.”
“And Varinia is the next card?”
“We’ll know that when we meet her this evening,” Corinne promised.
Corinne arranged to meet Varinia in Las Arenas, a shopping mall in Las Palmas. The quality of clothing in the dress shops screamed high class at every turn. Out of interest, I spent a moment in the FC Barcelona shop, but decided against a replica shirt - not at those prices!
After that, I checked out several gift shops – most were selling take-home jewellery. I made a mental note to come again. Girls I know back home are always on the look-out for something different in the world of necklaces or bracelets.
After my third distraction – this time, for an eye-stopping cascade of chunky ropes of amber beads, Corinne tugged my arm. “Don’t forget Varinia,” she reminded me.
“As if I could,” and I followed her out of the shop.
At the far end of the mall, we found this open-air café. White chairs and tables circled a central bar. About half-full – and judging by the number of carrier bags around the tables, most of the women had been shopping. Corinne chose a table away from the bar, called a waitress and ordered two glasses of red tea.
“OK for you?” she asked. For our evening out, Corinne had selected a lime green blouse that was loose enough to give her two best friends the room to dance with joy. Who was next in the firing line?
“Nothing better,” I replied. In the heat of Gran Canaria, a glass of red tea can always bring me back to life.
The ruby-coloured drinks came in tall thin glasses.
“OK now?” Corinne grinned.
“Back on track,” I told her.
“Good,” Corinne smiled – then sharpened her claws. “Someone special for the beads?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Not many men would be so interested.”
“Could be for my sister,” I tried.
“Never in a million years!”
“That’s unfair – I love my sister!”
“Cat’s piss!” Corinne scoffed.
That hurt. “Does it matter?”
“Not to me,” Corinne declared. “We’re not an item – but keep your mind on the job and I don’t care how many girls you have back home.”
And so the king-sized bed fell out of the equation. “Only for my sister,” I lied. Back home stays back home until you tell me what you’re up to, lady. However, before we could dive any deeper into my back-home life, Varinia arrived.
She was as pretty as her name suggested. Tall and slim, bronzed from a life in non-stop sunshine and with her long black hair tied up in a yellow bow. She was wearing a matching yellow shirt and designer jeans.
Corinne made the introductions. “Rinzi - this is Mike – my business partner,” she said, making sure the facts were out in the open.
“Delighted to meet you,” I said, standing up.
“Varinia organises the Spheres,” Corinne went on.
A good line on any CV. “Tell me more,” I said.
As her deep dark eyes met mine, Varinia gave me a glowing smile. “First, I would like a glass of your tea,” she said.
Corinne called our waitress back and asked for three more glasses of the red reviver. Then she turned to me. “Have you heard of Spheres?” she asked.
No, I hadn’t.
Varinia smiled. “It’s like your credit union,” she said. “People pay in – and when their time is right, they collect a lot of money.” On top of her other attributes, she had a good command of the English language.
Although she made it sound easy enough, there had to be a catch. “How does it really work?” I asked.
Corinne’s turn. “We set up a meeting, and invite people to join.”
“And Varinia’s part?”
“She runs the meeting,” Corinne told me.
At least that left me sitting on the sidelines. If Varinia was there to do the hard bit, that was fine by me. “How does she pull them in?”
Before the question could be answered, our waitress returned with our refills. Once the refreshments had been distributed, Corinne explained the secret of the Spheres. “By promising a large reward,” she said.
“Nothing wrong with that,” and I raised my glass of hot red tea. “Here’s to a successful operation - how do we go about it?”
Corinne gave me one of her special smiles. “All been done.”
I looked at them both. “What’s been done?”
“We’ve set the meeting for tomorrow,” Varinia told me.
“Isn’t that a bit soon?”
“Not at all!” Corinne laughed. “For the past two weeks, we’ve been spreading the word.”
“How?”
“Adverts in newspapers – flyers on windscreens...”
“Every car park in Las Palmas,” Varinia added.
“And we’ve booked a hall.” Corinne pulled a flyer from her handbag to show me.
I held the piece of paper in my hand and tried to read it. Although it was in Spanish, the date and time were easy – and the €100,000 in big red letters told the punters all they really wanted to know. “How much is it worth to us?” I asked.
Varinia smoothed her shirt to maximise the setting of the yellow fabric. In contrast to wealth of riches stored by Corinne in her lime-green shirt, Varinia’s smaller breasts were perfect for her tall, slim figure – and looked just as tempting. “On average, fifteen thousand Euros,” she told me.
*****
4.La Marinera
*****
“I’m still no wiser,” I said. We’d left the shopping mall and were now in Vegueta, the older part of Las Palmas. It was a sight-seeing trip. We were here to improve my education.
Corinne smiled at me. “It will be worth the wait, I promise.”
“Is it really that special?” After all, a scam is a scam. Some are big, some are small. What was the story behind this one?
We were standing in the Plaza de Santa Ana - an open square with palm trees that framed a building fronted by a colonnade. Our part of the plaza was guarded by several bronze dogs. Each dog had a plaque - and each plaque had a telephone number for tourist information.
“Don’t bother phoning,” Corinne advised. “I’ll tell you anything you need to know.”
The old cathedral of Santa Ana was behind us. From this angle, it was hard to see her properly – but she was tall with latticed windows and heavy wooden doors. Railings along the front had been securely pad-locked. Santa Ana didn’t look open for business.
“If you know where to look,” Corinne continued, “you can still see the marks of the cannon balls.”
“Who fired them?” I wanted to know.
“Your gracious Lord Nelson.”
“All by himself?”
“He may have had a little help,” Corinne admitted.
From Santa Ana, she guided me along a cobbled street. Each house opened straight into the street and their upper windows had narrow balconies. One house displayed a sign for art and monumental work. One day, the art and monumental mason might get round to repairing the cannon-ball damage.
At the end of the street, we came to the Plaza Del Pilar Nuevo. It’s most important building was a square white house with a massive ornamental door. A stone surround had floral columns topped by mythical beasts.
“Where Columbus stayed on the night before he sailed to America,” Corinne explained.
“Not a bad little B&B for a sailor,” I muttered. There was a fountain near the door. For luck, I splashed my hand in the water. “All this – and running water.”
Maybe Corinne didn’t hear me. She kept on walking down the Pasaje Pedro de Algaba to the tiny church of Santa Lugar. “Where Columbus prayed before the journey,” she told me.
A sign said something about 1492 and I was tempted to hammer on its large dark brown door and ask for the English version – but thought better of it. In some parts of the world, it doesn’t pay to take the piss out of local history.
“He took risks,” Corinne added. “We’re only following his example.”
Up till now, this part of the city had been deserted. Then, round a corner and down another empty street, we came across a pavement café – mostly used by the young Las Palmas set - passed the library and found ourselves in a precinct with a Marks & Spencer.
“Feeling more at home?” my guide smiled.
“Well, I don’t need shirts – but I wouldn’t mind a meal,” I said.
“You like fish?” Corinne asked.
“Has been known,” I confessed.
“I know just the place,” said Corinne, “and if you buy me a drink, I’ll tell you a little of the story.”
We strolled back to where we’d left her car – a neat blue Jimny with a canvas top. By now, the evening was almost dark. So with the headlights on full, Corinne worked a cross-town route until she reached the main highway that runs along the coast. Overhead gantries warned against speeding and displayed the charges for going too fast.
After Club Nautico, the gardens of Alonso Queseda and the Santa Catalina clinic, we plunged into a tunnel and came out by the docks. Seconds later, Corinne left the highway, eased her way through the crowded streets of Santa Catalina and followed the beach-side road until she found a car park.
“This is it,” she promised – and led me up to the promenade and along to this delightful restaurant beside the sea. “La Marinera,” she announced. “Finest seafood on the island.”
“It will do for me,” I agreed.
From here, we could see right along the three-kilometre stretch of the Catalina water front. Hotels, bars, shops were brightly lit and ready for the evening trade. In the half-light, we could see the deckchairs waiting for another day – and a tractor was drawing a harrow to collect the debris and prepare the sand for tomorrow.
Our chosen diner had a large Restaurante sign along the front and according to Corinne; the La Marinera part was dedicated to the women who volunteered to serve on the fishing boats. “In any capacity,” she added.
“How long were they out there?”
“Weeks - sometimes months.”
“Cooking? Washing?”
“And the rest of it - they were fishermen, not monks!”
The restaurant was all glass windows. It looked classy: white table cloths, clean white lighting, a well-stocked bar and plenty of tables. A waiter met us at the door.
“For two,” I said.
Right next to the entrance door, there was a separate room for private parties. Tonight, it was in use and everyone was having fun. Judging by the range of ages, it was a family occasion. Someone’s birthday? Maybe they would share the cake around the rest of us.
We were given a table by the window. Outside, the sea was breaking gently over a small rocky reef. I noticed the figure of a dolphin.
“It’s a memorial to Jacques Cousteau,” Corinne told me. “He kept his boat here.”
“The famous Calypso?”
“Refurbished in Brittany - and still sailing,” Corinne went on.
Monsieur Cousteau’s sea-soaked dolphin danced in the light from the windows. Like the old man himself, it seemed happy to be wet.
“What would you like to drink?” I asked Corinne.
“Let me see the wine list.” Corinne took the card, checked both sides - and chose a medium-priced Rioja.
“Is that OK with fish?” I asked.
“It’s all wine,” she laughed, “so don’t get stiffy with me!”
If only.
The wine came, the waiter showed us the label, poured a taster - and when Corinne smiled, he filled our glasses.
“Here’s to success,” and we clinked our glasses. “Now what’s it all about?” I wanted to hear her story.
“OK,” she agreed. “It’s nothing serious - we’re going to advertise a painting.”
Advertise – not sell? “Doesn’t sound too difficult,” I said. “What’s the catch?”
“A very special painting,” she said, “and it comes with a story.”
At that moment, our waiter ghosted back with the menus.
“Give us a minute?” I asked - and he left us to it.
“My grandfather was a pilot with the Condor Legion,” she said.
Weren’t they connected with the Spanish civil war? “My old grandpa was at Arnhem,” I tossed in as a comeback. “Found himself with unlimited German hospitality.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Corinne replied. “How did he get on?”
“No problem,” I told her. “Warm bed – three meals a day – and no-one shot him.”
“So he made the best of it.”
“Sure did – learned German – made a couple of friends.”
“Did he make any money?”
“Not that he mentioned,” I said.
“Stick with me,” she promised. “We will put that right.”
Promising! “Just tell me the story,” I said.
Before she opened her Pandora’s Box, she had another question. “How far are you willing to go?” she asked.
“Depends on the prize,” I said.
“Try this for size,” she continued. “During his time in Spain, he came across the jewel of a lifetime – a painting by Picasso - never shown in public.”
Now she had my full attention. “Does it have a title?” I could open the Picasso website and check it out.
“Remember the Guernica painting?”
A Spanish town destroyed by carpet-bombing in the Civil War? Who doesn’t? “All too well,” I replied.
By now, Corinne had worked her way through the dishes on offer. “I’ll have the lemon sole,” she decided.
“Me too,” I agreed – although I was far more interested in her story. “Is there a connection with the original Guernica?”
“Oh yes,” Corinne went on. “This is a draft for the twin – Guernica by Night – town in flames, everyone burning. But because the great man never named it, my grandfather called it the Midnight Picasso.”
“How come I’ve never heard of it?”
“Because my grandfather stole it,” she said.
At a signal from Corinne, the waiter returned to take our orders – and gave it to him in Spanish. “Por favor,” she finished.
“What did he do with it?”
“Brought it home and kept it safe.”
“Did he ever try to sell it?”
Corinne smiled. “He never had the chance,” she said. “He was reported as ‘missing in action’ at Stalingrad.”
“Am sorry to hear that,” I said.
“My grandmother kept it safe for sixty years – she didn’t know how to deal with it.”
“And we’re going to help her?”
“Wouldn’t that be the nice thing to do?” Corinne went on. “But my brother found it and wants a quarter of a million Euros to hand it over.”
“Greedy little sod” I refilled our glasses and waved the bottle at our waiter for a second.
“He has gambling debts,” she confessed.
“So what’s the purpose of our enterprise?”
“To raise enough to buy him out,” she told me.
I made a mental count of the bank money plus the possible takings from the Spheres – and came up short. “How you to plan to find it?” I asked. “Play the Euro Lottery?”
“Nothing so basic,” she smiled. “Watch and learn!”
Before she could go into detail, our waiter arrived with the wine, closely followed by two young Spanish girls with our meals.
“Gracias,” I said.
Corinne looked pleased with her choice. “No more shop tonight,” she said. “Let’s enjoy these beautiful fish!”
*****
5.Valle de los Reyes
*****
The fish was good, the sauce had a delightful tang of lemon and the frittes had been lightly waved across the flames. We worked our way through the second bottle of wine and finished off with plums in brandy syrup. I was very glad that Corinne was driving.
“Stop worrying,” she laughed. “In Spain, wine is a soft drink!”
As you wish, madam.
She drove us back along the GC-1. Traffic was light – but the Carrefour shopping centre was still going strong. At the turn for Las Remudas, she swung the Jimny off the highway and took us through palm-lined avenues of yellow houses until we reached the Herradura.
“Are we here to wish Delia a sweet good-night?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” Corinne warned me. “We have a date with Agustin!”
“At this time of night?” It was close to eleven. I’m not into late-night drinking sessions.
“It’s a part of the learning curve,” she promised - then made two sharp rights around the one-way block to park outside her flat. “This way,” she said.
Apart from a couple of dog-walkers on the waste ground by the Guerrita Municipal Stadium, the street was empty. But two doors up the incline, she stopped by a flight of steps. A sign over the door promised Valle de los Reyes. From here, it looked like a nightclub. As Corinne had promised that I would learn something new, I had this image of pole-dancers and scantly-dressed waitresses.
No chance! Inside, it was like a village hall on bingo night. Glaring lights, trestle tables, plastic chairs – and a tea bar tucked in a corner, being serviced by a middle-aged woman in a green overall. Half-a-dozen men in working clothes were watching football highlights on TV.
“Beer?” Corinne asked.
“Good plan.”
She bought two bottles of Spanish and picked a table away from the TV set. “This will do for us.”
I sipped my beer from the bottle. “It’s different, I’ll give you that,” I said.
“It’s the local community centre,” she told me. “They use it for anything and everything.”
“Right next door - very handy for a late-night bevvy.”
“Not so late – they close at eleven – but I thought you ought to see it.”
“And reasonably private - can I ask a question?”
“So long as you don’t expect an answer,” Corinne agreed.
In this glaring light, the lime green blouse became transparent. I tried to focus on the main topic – but her dark brown nipples were far more interesting. “Earlier, you mentioned ‘advertise’ – you never said anything about ‘selling’.”
Corinne smiled. “I wondered if you’d pick that up,” she said. “Think about it for a moment.”
So I thought about it while I sipped my beer. Then the penny dropped. “Before you can sell it, you have to get it back.”
“Correct,” she said. “We need someone with a lot of money.”
“Then what?”
“Encourage him to spend it,” Corinne laughed - but she wouldn’t take it any further.
Although I asked more questions, none received answers. For tonight, the subject was closed. Finally, I changed the subject. “What happens tomorrow?”
“I’ll take you for a drive,” she promised. “The meeting’s at seven – so we have all day.”
“Anywhere in mind?”
“Could be the mountains – could be the beach.”
“The beach sounds good.”
“Are you ready for a day with naked women?” she laughed.
“Try me.”
“I am not so sure,” her blue eyes smiled. “I think the clear cold mountain air will be so much better for you.”
As I was considering the options, this giant of a boy came over to our table. “Buenas tardes!” he grinned at Corinne.
“Agustin! - sit down and join us - this is Mike.”
“Nice to meet you, Agustin,” and I shook hands with the gentle giant.
This boy had muscles that I never knew existed. OK, he limped a bit today - but everything else was in full working order. When he moved his arms, his T-shirt rippled like a stormy sea. “My mother told me you were here,” he said. He spoke slowly, choosing words with care. “Good it is to see you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Your mother makes amazing pizzas.”
Agustin smiled his thanks. “We have more beer?”
“Let me,” and I collected three more bottles from the counter.
It didn’t take long to move from social niceties to business talk. “My mother said you wished to talk with me?” Agustin asked Corinne.
“We may have use for a man like you,” she agreed. “If I asked you nicely, would you hit someone for me?”
Agustin laughed. “Your boyfriend needs a lesson?” and he looked at me.
Come on buddy - would you really smack the guy who bought the beer?
Corinne jumped in quickly. “Not Mike - he’s my business partner.”
Agustin flexed his biceps. “So who?”
“No one yet - but one day soon, I will need your help.”
“Anything for you, Senorita!” he agreed.
“Gracias!” and she leaned across and kissed his cheek.
Job done. We finished our beers and returned the bottles to the bar.
“Buenas noches,” Corinne thanked the woman.
Back in the flat, I asked Corinne if I could use her laptop. “Need to check my e-mails.”
“Help yourself,” she agreed. “You can use it from your room.”
E-mail? – pissballs. I wanted to check on the Condor Legion. I had no reason to doubt her story, but a little background always comes in useful.
Corinne’s laptop was connected to the internet by a router. Once up and running, Google gave me pages and pages of Condor information. There were over seven thousand entries. I picked three or four at random.
One gave me a brief history of the Legion – how it was formed – who was in command – the head-count of men and the numbers of aircraft.
The next selection told the story of the 26th of April, 1937; how the Junkers-52’s had made a practice raid on the neighbouring town of Guerricaiz in the morning, had gone back to base for lunch – and then returned in the late afternoon to demonstrate their carpet-bombing routines on Guernica.
According to the history files, some 19,000 Germans served in the Spanish Civil War. There was no reason to question if Corinne’s grandfather had been among them. Now that I knew what she’d been talking about, I cleared the toolbar history, closed the laptop down and went to bed.
I slept well that night, just me alone in that king-sized ocean of possibility. There were no surprises, no unexpected visits – and no early-morning cups of tea. When the sunlight filled the room and woke me up, I felt refreshed and ready for whatever Corinne had in mind.
Next morning, it was just on nine before I dared to move. I heard her bedroom door creak open and gentle footsteps in the corridor.
“OK to use the bathroom?” I called out.
It was a start. Next thing, she was standing in my doorway, dressed only in a flimsy gown. She looked irresistible – the kind of girl you only dream about in wild fantasies.
“Sleep well?” she asked.
“Thank you, yes – terrific bed - shame to waste the extra space.”
“Who knows what Santa may bring you for Christmas!” she smiled.
“You’d look good in Christmas stockings,” I tried.
“Stick with the train set,” she said and left me to it.
“What next?” I asked Corinne. We were in Los Alisios, a restaurant beside a roundabout with flowers, dumpy palm trees and a giant mushroom. Inside, it was like an American Diner – Formica tables set in rows, a gleaming chromium-plated bar and staff in clean white uniforms. We had eggs and bacon and a flagon of coffee.
“Did the laptop do its job?” she asked me. For today, she was wearing a red T-shirt and a white cotton skirt.
“Thank you yes,” I said – then went for the honest approach. “I was reading about the Condor Legion.”
“Anything useful?”
“General history,” I said. “Who did what – to who – and when.”
Corinne flashed her iced-Attila look. “He wasn’t on that raid.”
I decided not to argue. For thinking time, I placed the last piece of egg on a corner of toast and speared it with my fork. “It was only a history lesson - I wasn’t accusing anyone.”
She was still pissed. “What next?” she asked. “Dunkirk?”
Was that necessary? But if I didn’t knock it on the head right now, we’d spend the rest of the day with Rommel in the Western Desert. “I was thinking of checking on Picasso,” I said quietly. “He should have a website.”
Now we had a smile. “Good boy,” Corrine agreed. “Go find some kind of a reference to our picture.”
It was enough. No point in pushing in a no-win situation.
A dozen other customers were spread around, drinking coffee, eating doughnuts, reading newspapers. Just like us, starting their day with friends.
“That was good!” I was now well into the fresh-brewed coffee.
“They do OK,” Corrine agreed. The spat was over. We were back in business. “Next time, we must try the Churros.”
“What’s that?”
“Doughnuts dunked in hot chocolate!”
“Sounds inviting.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Corinne promised.
“What about today?” As the meeting wasn’t due until this evening, I was keen to make the most of our free time.
“Valsequillo?” Corinne suggested.
“Any reason?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “It has a sweet little wine bar!”
Fight over; time to kiss and make up. “Take me to it.”
Valsequillo was the next town out of Telde, almost in the shade of the mountains. Main Street had shops down one side and expensive-looking villas on the other. Pastel tones for the walls and clean white paint for trims and windows out showed how much the people cared about their town.
We parked outside a dress shop and walked the last two hundred yards towards the white-stucco church. Today, a stall was selling wickerwork; brushes, baskets, hats and corn-dolly decorations.
“Anything you need for your sister?” Corinne asked. She was still digging at my interest in tourist jewellery.
“I’ll manage for now,” I told her.
Her favourite bar was a buff-coloured building – one door, one window. It was dressed for summer. Outside, a white plastic table with a clean white Coca-Cola parasol was there for smokers who needed refreshment, but had to stay outside.
“In or out?” she asked.
It was hot and the sun was beating on my un-tanned arms. “In for starters,” I decided.
“Then welcome to the Restaurante Monzon!” Corinne laughed.
Inside, the restaurant was dark and cool. A full-length bar had beer pumps and a wine barrel at one end - and an ice bucket (with a pretty girl in a blue dress) was advertising Clipper. An adjacent room – the actual restaurant - had pinewood chairs and tables. Well-filled bottle-racks were cut into the walls.
A middle-aged woman was waiting to serve us. She was large and jolly, with bleach-blonde hair and a fetching smile.
“What’s your poison?” Corinne asked me.
“You’re the expert – give me something fruity.”
Corinne translated for the woman - and both broke into laughter. Maybe ‘fruity’ means the same in Spanish as it does in English.
The woman selected a bottle from her under-counter stock and showed us the label. When Corinne nodded, two glasses were taken from the cabinet, placed on the bar and filled with ruby-coloured wine.
I tried it. “As good as it looks,” and I smiled my thanks.
“Then let’s enjoy,” Corinne said.
As I’m never very good with stools, I suggested one of the little tables by the wall.
“Good idea,” Corinne agreed – and brought the bottle with us.
Once we had drained the first and taken refills, I asked about Agustin. “What’s his role in your project?” I asked.
“With luck, we won’t need him. Call it ‘insurance’.”
“More like ‘protection’,” I said. “Are we expecting a rough-house?”
“He’s better with us than against us,” Corinne answered.
Time to change the subject. “Tell me about the Spheres,” I began. “Are they legit – or are we here to scam the locals?”
Corinne smiled. “For the first part, maybe,” she said.
“In what way?”
“For a long time, the authorities tried to make them illegal,” Corinne explained. “But they proved so popular, they couldn’t be stopped.”
“How many are there?”
“Thousands!”
“Really?”
“Not only here and on the other islands,” Corinne went on, “but all over mainland Spain.”
“Do they all make money?”
As Corinne finished her second glass, I gave her a top-up. “They were so successful, those who tried to stop the Spheres joined in and made fortunes.”
“All good for publicity,” I said, topping-up my own glass.
“So true,” Corinne agreed. “They run them in the towns, the villages – and smaller Spheres in the universities to help the kids pay their tuition fees.”
“And ours will be a large one?”
“All depends on how many turn up,” she said. “But as we’re only charging 100 Euros, we should get a good turnout.”
Now for the second part of my original question: “What happens to the money?”
Corinne smiled as she sipped her wine. “We will invest it,” she said.
“Dare I ask in what?”
“My grandfather’s Picasso.”
At least it wasn’t going on a horse. “Where does Varinia fit into the story?” I asked.
Corinne smiled. “I wondered when you’d ask about her!”
I gave myself another shot of the wine. “Is she a part of the scam?”
Corinne gave me one of her special looks. “What did you think of her?”
Not an easy one to answer. But as Corinne had said we weren’t ‘an item’, why not try another furrow? “Delightful,” I said. “Loved the long dark hair.”
“Yes,” Corinne agreed, “she’s very attractive.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
Corinne placed her glass next to mine. “You fancy her?” she asked.
I played with my glass, letting the rims come close enough to touch – like kissing. “I wouldn’t turn her down,” I said.
Corinne laughed. “Don’t you love me anymore?” she teased.
“Depends who’s paying for the wine,” I replied, finishing the bottle.
*****
6.Spheres
*****
Back in Telde, it was far too hot for anything more than a traditional siesta. The heat had settled and the afternoon was peaceful. Nobody moved or made a noise and even the Herradura dogs were keeping quiet. It was a very good time for thinking.