He awoke to a cold bed and the rattle of rain hitting and trickling down the window. His head felt thick and sluggish. Not surprising with the amount of booze and weed he'd taken on board last night. He groaned and sat up, holding his banging head in his hands. Never again, he thought. Never again until the next time. The cold air did little to wake him. Caramarin couldn't face the thought of getting up now, so snuggled down under the duvet again.
Narcisa pushed the door open and brought in a tray with toast and coffee. She placed it by him. "I've got no sympathy," she smiled, gathering together some clothes before leaving. A moment later he heard the bathroom door open and close.
He sat and ate his breakfast. How much could he trust her? After last night he thought he could but all the same he didn't know her that well. On the other hand, he had no choice. Especially as he didn't speak English which cut his options down like a drunk working through his last two bottles. Trust her or not. They were his only options. And the banging in his head didn't help with rational thinking.
He'd finished breakfast by the time Narcisa returned. She'd dressed in a warm, purple sweater and black jeans, her dark hair tied back with a red ribbon. He stood to use the bathroom himself. Narcisa pushed him back onto the bed.
"Stay with me a few minutes," she said. He nodded. Was funny how women didn't like men to know that they needed to use the bathroom too. He crossed his legs and grimaced. Draining the last of the cold coffee, his bladder told him he couldn't last out any longer.
Their girls' bathroom was at the other end of the upstairs landing; it looked at least a kilometre away as he shuffled down the corridor. Too late, Ewelina in her white robe opened her bedroom door and darted into the bathroom. He heard the bolt slide shut behind her and then the shower starting.
Fuck-shit. Nothing for it. He ran downstairs, nearly falling at the bottom, flung open the back door to the yard and pissed down the drain in an unending stream, his hot urine mixing with the steaming shower water. Artur looked out of the door and grinned.
"Can't beat the first piss of the morning, can you," Artur said in bad Russian. "And I bet you satisfied Narcisa last night as much as you're enjoying that."
Caramarin nodded, unwilling to speak. Eventually, his flow stopped. He looked around. Rain falling from a low hanging leaden sky onto a bare backed hung over man pissing his life away in a litter strewn back yard in a city that doubled as God's own flushed toilet. Slate grey roofs over closed back windows. Aches and pains all over his beaten and battered body. Was this as good as it got? He shuddered, cold rain slashing against his nearly naked body.
No. But only he could improve matters.
Back inside, he fetched the cardboard tube from its hiding place under the couch. He took it upstairs. Narcisa was tidying her room. Her rag doll was back on the bed, its button eyes seeming to mock him.
"What's that?" Narcisa asked, spotting the tube. He was too tired to think of some double entendre. He took a deep breath, made his decision and then took the woman into his confidence.
"You work in that pawn brokers. Do you ever get people trying to sell you gear that's a little... hot?"
She looked at him, her dark eyes creasing with worry, frown lines appearing on her forehead. She fiddled with one of her hoop earrings. "What are you saying, Nicu?"
"Well, you must get the local gang bangers trying to offload gear that doesn't... technically... belong to them."
"It does happen. But not a lot as we always ask for I.D. And they know that. Most of the stuff we sell is from people who've fallen on hard times, or just need a bit of extra cash to take them to their next welfare cheque or pay-day. Or stuff the boss has bought cheap at auctions or wholesale."
"All right, then. But you must know where they're not as strict with the... formalities as your place."
"Maybe I do, Nicu. But what's going on? What are you into?" She looked at the cardboard tube with suspicion. "What's in there?"
Caramarin popped the end cap off and slid out the Picasso. He spread the painting out over her quilt.
Like himself back in Odessa, she didn't recognise the artist and he didn't tell her. No reason why she should recognise it.
"I know it's unfinished, but it's still worth a bit," he said.
"Is this the reason you got beaten up? Were they after it?"
He nodded, not seeing any point in telling Narcisa that it was him who had taken it. " Sort of. Just wondered what I could get for it. But I don't think I could take it to a proper art gallery for a valuation. If you know what I mean."
This time she nodded. "You couldn't prove its provenance is what you're saying."
"What's that mean?" Caramarin asked.
"No receipts, no bills of sale from an art dealer, nothing about who painted it or how you came to er... acquire it?"
"No, nothing like that," admitted Caramarin. "This painting's all I've got."
"In that case, the man you want is Mike Bronstein. I can give you his address."
"Bronstein? Any relation to Trotsky?"
"Who's Trotsky?" asked Narcisa.
"Think he played with Che Guevara in Jefferson Airplane," sighed Caramarin.
"Well, he's never open on a Saturday anyway," said Narcisa.
There seemed nothing more so Caramarin said he wanted to go back to his lodgings for a while. Gathering together his holdall and cardboard tube he left, but not before giving Narcisa a kiss on the doorstep. He turned up his collar, adjusted his keffiyeh and walked back to his bed and breakfast. The rain was still falling.
His landlady was vacuuming the lounge. She started having a go at him, forgetting he didn't speak English. Probably wondering where he had been for the last couple of nights. Caramarin just said 'yes' or 'no' to the angry woman, whatever seemed most appropriate to how she sounded. She shut up when he passed her another handful of notes from his pocket for another few nights' stay.
He threw himself onto his lumpy bed and switched on his cell. It kept beeping and flashing, telling him he had messages. One from his sort of girlfriend, Valeriya, back in Odessa; thanking him for the money and hoping he was okay.
Then there were several from Timur Ozgan wondering with increasing annoyance how he was getting on. More from a number he didn't recognise asking him to call back urgently.
No way did he want to speak to Ozgan at this point. Not until he'd decided what to do with the Picasso, anyway. He looked at the messages from the unknown number. Taking a chance and pressed the call button.
A man's voice answered in Romanian with a guarded 'Hello?' Caramarin identified himself and asked what the other man wanted.
"You won't know me," the man said. He had a strong Bucharest accent. "My name is Pompiliu Stanga. I heard about your fight the other night and I was impressed. Very impressed. Mihai Pojer is one tough man. Wondered if you'd like to go to another meet tonight."
"First," said Caramarin, "how did you get my number? And second I'm not fighting anyone tonight. Not for any money."
"Didn't think you could," Stanga laughed. "I saw the state you were in. I got your number off of Pojer after he went with gay boy to the hospital. So, you interested or what?"
Caramarin thought. Knowing this was probably a bad idea but tempted anyway. What else had he got to do in this horrible country? "Yes, all right," he said. "Where?"
"Can't say just yet. We're only told at the last minute, anyway. Where shall my car pick you up?"
This was getting worse. If this Stanga knew about and wanted the Picasso, this could be a bear trap. But if anything went down, it was Caramarin who still had hold of the painting.
"No," said Caramarin. "When you find out when and where the meet's taking place, call me back. Okay?"
"Don't blame you for being cautious – I like that. I'll call you about six," said Stanga.
Caramarin closed the call. This sounded like a bad idea. But what was the alternative? A night in on his own watching TV programmes in a language he couldn't understand or maybe going back to Narcisa's? No thanks. He showered, changed, watched some loud bizarre game show where he had no idea what was going on and dozed.
The phone's shrill ring jerked him out of sleep. The dream, something about a ruined shop, faded from memory. He sat up. His tongue felt like sandpaper. "Caramarin," he said thickly.
"The meet's at the old Horse and Groom pub on Rochdale Road," his new friend told him. "Eight pm Okay? You sure you don't want me to pick you up?"
"No, I'll see you there."
He dressed, gulped down a litre of water, and then checked out Rochdale Road on his street map. It was kilometres away. He'd call a cab.
Caramarin was at the old Horse and Grooms almost an hour early. He stood almost invisible in the deep shadows of a shop doorway over the road. The pub was a large three storied building, once grand, with sandstone windows and door frames. But now it was an abandoned wreck.
The pub’s windows were all tinned over and graffiti marked its walls. Weeds were growing out of the guttering and water cascaded out of broken down-spouts. A faded "BUSINESS TO LET" board hung from an upper window. It didn’t look to Caramarin like there would be many takers any time soon.
However, he saw a number of cars in the parking lot. An obvious heavy sat in one, guarding them from the local kids. More cars arrived every few minutes with a variety of men, and even some women. The visitors disappeared round the back of the pub.
The men were of all types, mostly British he thought but some darker Romanians or East Europeans. There were some Asians; they seemed to have invested their money in the best cars of the lot. All the men seemed tough and capable whoever they were and whatever they were wearing.
Caramarin felt much happier. There were too many people for it to be a set up to take the Picasso and cash off him. And there was no way that all these different races were all in the same gang. If it had just been a few, then he would have walked away. However, his sixth sense was quiet tonight.
He dodged a shower of rain and hurried across the road and then through the parking lot to the back of the pub. Two giants were standing guard over a metal back door. One put out his arm and said something. Caramarin gave the giant the name of Pompiliu Stanga and they stepped aside. One looked at his battered face and nodded with respect.
Inside a short, dark corridor led to what was probably the snooker or pool room when the pub was open. He smelt damp plaster and neglect. The corridor looked hacked about, saw grooves in the woodwork where the copper wiring had been ripped out.
Inside the old snooker room, another boxing ring had been set up under temporary spotlights. He heard the thud of a generator coming from a side room. The reek of petrol fumes from the corridor masked the smell of decay and rot. The people were mostly grouped around the ring, except for some standing by the re-opened bar. Caramarin saw few ethnic divisions here, all the men united in tense expectation.
A man hurried over to Caramarin with his hand outstretched. They shook.
"Pompiliu Stanga," he said. "After your bout the other night I thought you'd enjoy this. I’d be interested to know what you think of the fights." Stanga introduced Caramarin to his driver, a tall thin man with bad acne scars called Tibor Budescu, and then led Caramarin over to the bar. Stacked up on the bar and piled behind it, were crates of lager but there were also bottles of vodka, bourbon, and rum. Stanga bought Caramarin a drink before leading him back ringside.
Caramarin glanced at his new friend. The man was older than him, maybe in his early fifties now. He was several centimetres shorter than Caramarin, maybe one metre seventy five but Stanga was much broader, even barrel chested. A heavy set face with full lips. An old scar ran across his left cheek.
But the man's grey eyes were flat and dead with all the compassion of a statue's. Stanga kept his gaze fixed to the front. The man was wearing a dark green polo neck sweater underneath a tan leather jacket. Glancing down, Caramarin saw expensive looking loafers on Stanga's feet.
"Hope you like the fights," Stanga said. "Probably nothing special but what do you expect? This is a run-down pub outside of Manchester, not Caesar’s Palace, Las Vegas."
Caramarin nodded. He'd never been to Caesar’s Palace, Las Vegas anyway. First up were two teens from the local estate. The warm up act. They stripped off their trackies to reveal spotty, undernourished bodies. The taller had a badly drawn Manchester United tattoo on his shoulder.
The two set at each other furiously for a few minutes but neither had the wind or the stamina for a long bout. They were soon leaning on each other, gasping with exhaustion. The ref broke them apart and they took a few weak swings at each other. The audience booed and catcalled or made ironic cheers. If this was the standard of fighting Caramarin could expect tonight, he thought he might as well have stayed at home.
They were let go after a points decision, then the two lads hung about the bar helping themselves to the lager. Not a bad reward for their night's work. Next up, a couple of burly labourers; they looked to Caramarin's eyes like roofers or tarmac layers. These two hammered each other with iron hard fists, the blows falling fast and heavy on each other's work hardened bodies as the crowd cheered. Caramarin bet on the red haired one. He lost. But he still had plenty of Ozgan's money left.
Caramarin was wondering whether to stay or go when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He startled and wheeled around, fist half raised reflexively. Behind him stood Engin Hasanov with Mihai Pojer. Pojer's face looked almost as bad as Caramarin's. He had a huge bruise and two black eyes. Caramarin vaguely remembered butting the man hard on the nose. Pojer’s left arm was bound up in a sling.
"You haven't told my... uncle... about recovering his Picasso yet, have you?" said Hasanov over the roar of the crowd.
Caramarin didn't know what to say. He hadn't expected to run into these two jokers tonight.
"Haven't quite got around to it yet," he shrugged.
"If you're looking to rip him off and sell it on, cut us in, lovey." said Hasanov. "You've got my number."
Caramarin nodded. "No, I'm calling Ozgan tomorrow. I’ve been laid up the last couple of days. Your mate rather battered me about." He nodded acknowledgement to Pojer. "I've only just got back on my feet again."
"You're lying to us, lovey. But I don't care. Ozgan's nothing to me now I've got Pojer. But you've got to cut us both in."
Caramarin nodded again. "Like I say, I'll be callin’ Ozgan in the morning. Nothin’ to cut in."
Mihai Pojer stepped forward. His eyes were not smiling now. His white sling stood out against his black leather jacket. "Listen to my friend. Cut us in."
Caramarin had a lot of respect for Pojer as a fighting man. Far more than he had for Hasanov, anyway. He tapped the man on the shoulder. "Don't worry," he told them.
This was an unexpected development. He needed time to think. Casually, Caramarin walked over to the bar and ordered vodka. He watched the next couple of fights but any fun had poured out the evening like dishwater down the drain. He hadn't given any thought to Hasanov and Pojer; hadn't included them in his plans but now he'd have to reconsider.
Caramarin dropped his plastic beaker to the floor and ground it into fragments. All of a sudden, he'd had enough. While the crowd was baying for blood, he let himself out of the derelict pub and stood breathing in the fresh cold air out in the car park under the watchful stare of the doormen.
Shoving his hands in his pocket, he walked down the road and caught a cab back to his bed and breakfast. His brain was hurting almost as much as his body. Swallowing the last couple of codeines he threw himself onto his bed. Sleep wouldn't come.