Caramarin rolled over and cursed. He swept his hand over the bedside table, knocking his cell phone onto the floor. It carried on ringing, that annoying ringtone drilling into his ears. Unwilling to expose his body to the chill early morning air Caramarin stuck his arm out from under the covers and fumbled his hand over the carpet. His fingers caught the edge of the phone, knocking it further away. With another curse, he sat up, swung his legs out of the bed and sat up. Sighting the Nokia, he leaned forward looking momentarily like a man like a man sick to the depths of his soul. He picked it up and pressed the green button.
Caramarin thought he'd been too slow, that he'd missed the call even as he said 'hello' but he recognised the voice on the other end. It was his new friend from last night. Pompiliu Stanga.
"You weren't impressed with the quality on offer last night?" asked Stanga.
Caramarin wasn't sure what to say. But he didn't owe this Stanga character anything. "Seen better."
"No, I admit they weren't top class. I wish I'd seen your fight against my man, Mihai Pojer. That's all the talk amongst the cognoscenti at the moment."
That took Caramarin aback. "Your man? Pojer? I didn't know he worked for you. I suppose I thought he worked for...," Caramarin fell silent. He didn't want to show his hand to Stanga. However, Stanga didn't pick up on his slip.
"Yeah. Pojer worked for me. I never thought he'd get beaten at one of these shows – I lost a load of money that night." Stanga chuckled, a surprisingly warm, rich laugh. "Never mind. I'll make it up. However, I'm in a little difficulty now."
"Oh, yeah," said Caramarin warily. He wondered where this was leading.
"Yeah," Stanga said a little more forcefully. "Among his other duties, Mihai Pojer worked as a debt collector for me. His temporary absence leaves me with a bit of a problem."
"Oh, yeah?" said Caramarin even more warily.
"I need a new collector. But I don't want just anyone. I need someone who has something about them. Someone who can command respect amongst the low-life I deal with."
"What sort of debts?" asked Caramarin despite himself.
"Nothing major," said Stanga airily. "I own a large number of properties I rent out. I need a man to collect the rents from my tenants. And some have loaned money off me. Some of them can be... reluctant... to pay up. They think I'm some sort of charity and can live rent free."
Caramarin thought for a second. "I think I know what you're saying. But I'm not the man you're looking for. I can't speak any English for a start."
Stanga chuckled again. "Neither do most of my tenants..."
"Romanians?"
"A few. Some Roma gypsies. No, most of them are asylum seekers or others that Manchester Council is forced to re-home. The homeless, junkies. Those types. The council farms 'em out to any landlord who will take 'em. A man who can persuade these people to pay up on time is more useful to me than a man who can speak English."
"That's me?"
"When word gets out, as it will, that you beat Pojer I don't think you'll have much trouble."
Caramarin thought. Maybe having a job – even one working for someone like Pompiliu Stanga – might make a good impression with Narcisa. And he didn't want to skim too much off Timur Ozgan's stash.
"Okay. I'll do it," Caramarin found himself saying.
Stanga told him where to meet before closing the connection. As Caramarin replaced the phone on the table. Why did he agree to this? It wasn't like he needed the money as he had a holdall stuffed with euros under the girls' couch. But no, best not to take too much from out that holdall. That little powder-puff Hasanov would be sure to tell Uncle Timur how much he'd handed over to Caramarin. No prizes for working out which of the two men Ozgan would believe if it came down to a question of denials. Blood is always thicker than water.
And, on the other hand some sort of job would give Caramarin some reason for his income – something that might make Narcisa and the other girls less suspicious.
Caramarin wrapped his arms around his body and shivered. He looked longingly at his bed. The old mattress still held the impression of his body. No. He shook his head and stood before he could have second thoughts. A quick shower, and a hurried breakfast later saw Caramarin queuing with others for the bus into town. Like the others, his head was hunched into his shoulders and he scowled down at the sidewalk to keep the rain out of his face. A tinny treble leaked from the earphones of the young man standing next to him. He wondered if you could get a small electric shock from listening to music in the rain. He hoped so. Nothing lethal – just enough to stop that annoying hiss.
Caramarin stepped off the bus, checked his street atlas, and walked through a number of run down streets. Many of the houses had posters in the windows, most of them for nightclubs, and he thought they might be occupied by students.
Turning the corner he saw over the road a small café. Checking the road several times as he'd still not got used to the way traffic drove on the left instead of on the right, he crossed and a moment later was inside the greasy spoon.
It was almost as wet inside as out. Water had been tracked in from the sidewalk covering the worn linoleum. From behind the serving counter, food steamed on trays, the vapour reaching to the ceiling while condensation trickled down the windows. The café was busy and everyone seemed to have a steaming mug of tea next them. Caramarin loosened his jacket and shook droplets from it, adding to the general dampness.
Sitting near the counter, Caramarin spotted Stanga talking to a couple of men dressed in workman's coveralls. Cement and plaster dust covered their arms. As he approached, Stanga pushed out a chair with his foot inviting Caramarin to sit. The two builders stood, nodded to Caramarin and left the café.
"They're doing up a house for me. The last tenant left it in a bit of a state. Bloody foreigners." Stanga stuck his finger in the air and the waitress brought over a mug of tea that looked like tar.
Caramarin sipped the tea and tasted the harsh tannins. "What do you want me to do?"
Stanga reached into his breast pocket and brought out a notebook. Flicking through the pages, the man explained. "These are the addresses and these are the sums owed. Nearly all only owe the last week's and that's how I like it. These..." he pointed to some entries in green ink "... owe two weeks and these in red owe three. I want you to see them first and don't take no for an answer."
Caramarin noticed none owed more than three weeks money. He had a feeling that after three weeks, stronged measures were called for than a quiet visit. He glanced at his watch. "Do you want me to start now? Will they all be in?"
"Sure. They're mostly on welfare. This country gives away money like water. The government here pays their rent so they can afford to sit about watching TV all day. Unbelievable. You wouldn't get that back home."
"I suppose not. But what if the tenants haven't got the money?"
"You simple or something? Haven't you been listening to what I've been saying? Of course they've got it – they get money thrown at them by the government and council. Just get what they owe me off them."
The two men discussed Caramarin's wages. It wasn't enough but he had plenty hidden under the couch. No way would Timur Ozgan know how much Caramarin had skimmed off. Stanga stood and Caramarin knew his job interview was over. They shook hands and Stanga led him over to a beat-up Vauxhall Combo van. It looked like someone had rammed its side at some point in the distant past and a rusting dent took up most of its right hand side.
Stanga took out a set of keys and unlocked the back. Inside was a toolbox, lengths of pipe and wiring, a set of socket wrenches with only a few missing, timber, tubs of emulsion paint with a set of brushes on top and a new set of coveralls. Caramarin raised an eyebrow and stepped back. "You want me to torture them?"
Stanga laughed. "Of course not. Not unless they get too far behind." He saw Caramarin's face. "Only joking. No, some of my tenants might need some small repairs making. While you're collecting the rents you could also try and fix them up."
Caramarin didn't know what to say. "I'm not a plumber... I know nothing at all about house repairs, comrade..."
"Well do what you can. You look like a handy man but if you can't fix things, give me a call and I'll send out my team later."
Caramarin nodded as Stanga handed over the Combo's keys. He watched as Stanga walked to a Range Rover 4x4 and drove away. Clearing away the clutter that covered it, he spread out Stanga's notebook and his street atlas on the passenger seat. Do the red numbers first. That's what Stanga had told him. He engaged first gear and drove away.
The first house was only a few streets away. On the outside it looked well presented with a fresh coat of paint and double-glazed windows. A tabby cat lay out of the rain under a child's trampoline in the front garden. Caramarin pushed open the gate, and rang the door bell.
He wasn't surprised when nobody answered. He rang the bell a second time. Still nothing. Caramarin smiled to himself. He wasn't making much of a success on his first job. But these people owed three weeks, according to Stanga, so it was time to pay up. Shading his eyes with his hand, he peered through the window into the front lounge. Through the net curtains, he saw what looked like a wide-screen TV but could see no sign of any movement. To the side of the house, Caramarin noticed a wooden gate. Turning to the gate, he saw that like the house it had a fresh coat of paint but underneath the wood was rotten.
Glancing up and down the street, he saw nobody nearby. Only an old lady wheeling a shopping trolley and she was several houses away. Putting his shoulder to the gate, he forced it open with a crack. Once again, Caramarin looked around. Nobody seemed to have noticed. The padlock hung from the wood by a couple of screws. The gate led onto a narrow passageway between the side of the house and the next.
Trotting down the passage, Caramarin came to a paved yard. More children's toys littered the yard. There was also a back door. Caramarin turned the handle. It was unlocked. He opened it and entered the kitchen.
"Salut," he called out. Shit, that was Romanian. What was the English word? That was it. He was about to say, "hello," when a man holding a baseball bat stepped into the kitchen. Caramarin had an impression of size and a face filled with fury. The man jabbed the club straight at Caramarin's face. Taken unawares, he recoiled backwards. His hand knocked a set of saucepans onto the floor. The clattering sounded loud in the small kitchen. The man, maybe Turkish or Kurdish or something swore in his own language and took a fresh grip on the haft.
Caramarin's hand connected with the handle of a frying pan. He snatched it up and fended off the man's next swing with the pan. The shock vibrated up his arm. The kitchen was small and the man had little space to swing his bat. He raised it to his shoulder. The man was strong but was no trained fighter.
Realising this, Caramarin swapped the frying pan to his left hand just as the man launched his next swipe. Caramarin fended it off and then kicked out, connecting with the man's kneecap. The man cried out with rage and pain his swing going nowhere. Caramarin dropped the frying pan onto the counter and snatched the baseball bat from out of the man's hands.
The man backed away, fear taking the place of his anger. Caramarin dropped the bat to the floor. Slowly, he took Stanga's notebook from his pocket and showed the right page to the man. The man said something in a language Caramarin recognised as Turkish from his time spent in that country years ago. He still sounded angry but more resigned. A woman's head covered by a headscarf peeped around the door jamb followed by a couple of smaller heads. The man waved them away and the upturned faces vanished.
The man spoke again. Caramarin shook his head, still not understanding, and pointed to the red entry in the notebook. Shrugging. the man opened a drawer. Caramarin tensed, half expecting a knife but instead the man took out an envelope. He held it out to Caramarin who took it. Opening it he saw a sheaf of twenties and tens. Counting it, there was enough to take this family back into the black. The man held out a receipt book and Caramarin filled it in. Correctly he hoped, as he couldn't understand all the English writing.
Despite the aggro, Caramarin was glad. Pompiliu Stanga was not a man to get on the wrong side of. Taking the envelope, Caramarin backed out of the kitchen and yard and to his Combo. Making an entry in the notebook, he switched on the wipers and drove to the next address. He grinned to himself. That visit had been a baptism of fire but nothing he couldn't handle. All the same there had to be easier ways of earning a living.