Dead Man's Time

you, Augustine?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Coz you’re a moron! You’re always fucking apologizing!’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    Daly lit the cigarette, then answered a phone call from his bookmaker in Brighton. Immediately his mood soured. He’d placed a bet on a horse race, and paid on his Amex, but it had not gone
through. It was a long-odds hot tip, a dead cert, from a bent trainer he knew who had a horse running at Brighton. He’d bet far bigger than usual. If the horse, Fast Fella, won, it would give
him some welcome respite from his immediate problems.
    He pulled into a layby, and hastily gave his bookie the details of another card, which he kept for emergencies and which was not yet maxed out. Then they drove on in silence, which was usual.
The Apologist didn’t have a lot of conversation, unless the subject was football, about which he could talk for hours. He knew everything there was to know about every football team in the
whole of Britain, their strip, their key players’ names, their goal count for the season. Lucas avoided talking football with him; it was like pressing the switch on a machine that had no
off
button.
    And besides, he had other stuff on his mind. A lot of stuff. Bad stuff.
    Total shit.
    One particular loan shark, who had recently bailed him out of his latest problem, was turning nasty. He’d been stiffed on a major deal. And his cantankerous father was refusing to help
him. His best hope was for the old bastard to die soon. Alternatively a change in his run of bad luck with the horses and at the gaming tables. Hopefully this bet would be the start of it.
    Driving past Marbella and Puerto Banus and on for a few more miles, they headed along the main drag into the neighbouring town of Estepona. To their left was the pyramid shape of the Crown
Plaza. To their right, a large Lexus dealership and a closed-down car wash. The arrow on the satnav was pointing right, but Lucas Daly knew where he was.
    They drove up past a short promenade of shops and bars into a residential area of small, white houses and apartment blocks. Ahead on their left was a row of shops, at the end of which was a bar
with an outside terrace and the name LARRY’S LOUNGE printed in red capital letters on a scalloped awning. Two shady-looking men in their thirties, in dark glasses,
accompanied by a bored, tarty-looking younger woman, were seated at an outside table. One man was smoking a huge cigar.
    Daly pulled into a parking space a short distance past the bar. They climbed out into the searing heat, and headed towards the bar. Daly, a lightweight bomber jacket slung over his shoulder, was
dressed in white T-shirt, jeans and brown suede Gucci loafers, and walking with his customary swagger; the Apologist, a foot taller than him, wore a T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers.
    Inside the bar was a cool blast of air. Half a dozen men lounged in front of a TV screen, mounted high on the wall, showing a replay of some football game. Three of them, heavily tattooed, wore
singlets and cut-off jeans, like a uniform. All of them were holding beer cans, and shouting at the screen. A few years ago, Lucas would have known the faces in here, but these were strangers to
him.
    The Apologist stopped and stared at the screen for some moments. ‘Manchester United and Sunderland. Not a good game.’
    Two of the men glared up at them suspiciously. They walked on.
    The interior was a cross between an ersatz English pub and a bodega, with an L-shaped oak bar, wooden stools, beer pumps, oak barrels on the wall lined with bottles, and shelves stacked with
spirit bottles. Tiffany lamps hung from chains all the way around, and British football club pennants decked the walls, along with framed signed photographs of past Manchester United, Newcastle,
Arsenal and Chelsea teams.
    Behind the counter stood a tall, wiry man, with short thinning hair, dressed in a grey button-down shirt, opened to the navel. A tall glass of lager stood in front of him. He looked at Lucas
Daly. ‘Seen you before, haven’t I?’
    ‘Yeah, you might have done. Used to own a place in Banus. Drank here a few times – until that fellow got shot.’
    ‘You and half of the Costa del Sol. Screwed my business totally,’ he said, in an East London accent. ‘That was five years ago, but people got long memories. No one comes here
no more – apart from a few regulars.’ He pointed at the slobs watching the footy. ‘I have to work as a window cleaner some days, to