A week of debt collecting and manual work took it out of him more than he expected. Although he stayed away from anything complicated, he fixed three gates and refitted a kitchen unit back onto the wall. His old Dad would have been proud of him, Caramarin thought. However, there was nothing he could do about number twelve's fuse box. Using mime, Caramarin explained he didn't touch electrics.
Rather than hang about his increasingly annoyed landlady's guest house, Caramarin spent his evenings at the bookies on Cheetham Hill Road playing the Fixed Odds Betting Terminal. He found the flashing lights and electronic music to be more addictive than cocaine and, despite some wins, his money vanished into the machine's maw.
* * *
Sunday morning, he was up later than he wanted. He listened to the rain pattering against the window before calling Narcisa. His battered face was getting better now, although the bruises still looked like a horror mask, and fortunately it didn't hurt as much. Or maybe he was just getting used to the pain. Even his battered right eye was beginning to open.
"You sure you want to do this?" Narcisa asked when he showed up at the girls’ house in Crumpsall.
"No, I'm not, not really. But what's this Bronstein like? Can I trust him?"
"He deals with crooks," Narcisa gave him a hard look. "What do you think?"
"Probably not then. But let's see what he offers. C'mon, comrade," he said.
Narcisa stopped him by the front door. She was smartly dressed, in dark trousers and a fitted jacket. She had a sparkling blue scarf wrapped around her neck. She'd also taken time with her make-up. Her sultry, dark brown eyes were set off to perfection and her shiny lips were made for kissing. So he kissed them. She pushed him off.
"Men," she said. "It took me ages to look like this." She made a kiss for the mirror and reapplied her lip gloss.
"You didn't have to. You always look gorgeous to me," said Caramarin.
"Charmer! But it's not for you, Nicu. It's for someone far more important than you."
A tenseness gripped Caramarin's heart. Relieved only when she told him she'd already been to an Orthodox church that morning. He glanced at his watch and picked up the tube.
"C'mon," he said. "Let's do it." He took her arm in his, and then they walked through the still falling light rain to Middleton Road where he flagged down a passing black cab. He settled back on the back seat as Narcisa spoke to the driver.
Still clutching his tube, Caramarin stepped out at journey’s end. Immediately, their cab pulled away, splashing through an oily puddle as it did so.
"This the right place?" asked Caramarin with a frown. They were the only people standing in the street. It looked like some post apocalyptic film set in a long abandoned industrial wasteland. A place where everyone had died of some hideous, futuristic plague. He half expected to see a horde of crazed, flesh-eating zombies lurching down the road towards them, desperate to suck out their brains.
Opposite them was a faded, rain streaked sign over a lock-up brick warehouse in what looked like a totally abandoned and shuttered up street. "ROWLIN_ON ND SONS" the sign read.
"Bronstein bought out the business years ago. Before I came to Manchester," said Narcisa. "Way I heard it, he never changed the ownership. Officially at any rate – it's probably some tax dodge."
"Sounds like a smart man."
"He is. Be very careful in there, Nicu."
They rang the bell. A tinny voice out of an answer-phone told them to look up into the camera. After a moment for verification, the door buzzed open and Caramarin led the way up several flights of narrow concrete stairs. At the top a door stood ajar. It had a glass panel on which was painted a now faded sign labelled 'Rowlinson and Sons'. Caramarin rapped on the glass and pushed it open. He was met by a tsunami of heat.
Surrounding a battered wooden desk were several electric heaters all on and all pumping out heat. On the desk was the largest, most old fashioned computer monitor he'd seen for ages. Not a modern flat screen. It looked like something Noah would've used to keep a tally of the animals when they entered the Ark. The monitor took up at least half the desk.
The other half was buried under a mountain of paperwork and an overflowing ashtray. On the wall behind the desk were posters of Tel Aviv's beaches. Together with a red 'No Smoking' sign with the 'No' scribbled out.
Mike Bronstein stubbed out his smoke, stood and greeted them. He was tall, thin with curly brown hair that no amount of combing would ever tame. His eyes were framed by round John Lennon style glasses and he wore a pale blue Oxford shirt teamed with khaki chinos. A gold chain peeked out from under his collar.
Bronstein was maybe a year or two older than Caramarin. Despite the overpowering heat, his hand was dry. Rougher than Caramarin expected; the man had obviously worked with his hands in his time.
"The lovely Narcisa Ganea. I never expected to see you here." He leaned over the untidy desk and kissed Narcisa's cheek. Caramarin felt a stab of jealousy.
"Didn't think I'd ever need to," she replied. Her voice tightly controlled. Caramarin realised this visit was a high price for Narcisa to pay.
Caramarin dragged two chairs over to the desk, dumped some boxes off one then took off his jacket.
"Sorry about that," said Bronstein. "I lived in Israel for a long time. I still haven't got used to the cold and damp here."
"Then why'd you leave?" asked Caramarin through Narcisa. He heard Narcisa soften the tone as he hadn’t intended to sound so rude.
Bronstein looked sad. "Some of my friends were blown up by a suicide bomber during the second Intifada. All they were doing to harm the Arabs was by having coffee one evening. Just like anyone in the world should be able to do after a hard day's work. Go out with friends and chill.
"Although I still have family and friends there, I couldn't live there any more, not surrounded by a hundred million nutters all of them with only one aim in life – to strap on a martyr's belt then meet and greet their seventy virgins in some fucking gardens of paradise."
"Sorry to hear that," he said through Narcisa. Caramarin knew there was far more to the situation over there than Bronstein's summary but now was not the time and place.
"I might go back one day," said Bronstein. "But not yet. Only when it all calms down. Which won't be any time soon. Anyway, what have you brought that might interest me?"
After Narcisa translated, Caramarin opened the tube and slid out the canvas. He unrolled it and held it up.
"What do you think about this?" he asked, handing the painting over. He didn't need Narcisa to translate that. Even though Bronstein couldn't speak Romanian, the intention was obvious.
Bronstein carefully held the oil by the edges. He walked over to the window and inspected it, turning it in the grey light.
"Wherever did you get this? No, don't answer that. I probably don't want to know. I take it no receipts or paperwork comes with it?"
After Narcisa explained, Caramarin shook his head.
"Look," said Bronstein, "I'm no art expert. I'll never get picked to present 'Antiques Roadshow'..."
Caramarin turned to Narcisa, a question in his eyes as she translated. "A television programme they have here. Old people bring in valuables for art experts to value," she explained.
"As I said, I'm no expert. If it's what I think it might possibly be, it's a bit out of my league. May I keep it for a couple of days to get a second opinion?"
After Narcisa told Caramarin what Bronstein had said, Caramarin used up most of his English vocabulary. This time he didn't need Narcisa to translate his reply. "Fuck off, no." He dug out Ozgan's original computer print of the painting. "You can keep that," he told the man. Bronstein nodded and placed the image on top of the mountain of paperwork. It nearly slid off onto the floor before Bronstein pushed it back.
"Then I'll give you a call in the next couple of days. See what I can work out and I'll let you know. Unless there's anything else?"
Caramarin and Narcisa glanced at each other after she told Caramarin what had been said, then both stood. Bronstein shook hands with Caramarin and kissed Narcisa on the cheek again. Bronstein showed them out of his cluttered office and as their footsteps receded down the concrete steps, he made a few quick calls on his cell.
Neither of them noticed a small, pale man in a dark jacket leave the back of the warehouse then follow them home.
"No. No way," said Caramarin. "I don't do repairs." Memories of that nightmare involving a radiator flashed through his mind.
Stanga turned to his driver, Tibor Budescu and both laughed. "We heard about that. The woman was on the phone for ages to my office – wanted us to replace her flooring and pay her compensation and everything. Just stick to the debt collecting."
There was a knock on the door. A moment later Mihai Pojer stood in the room. His arm was free of its sling and his face didn't look too bad considering the head butt he'd taken. Caramarin jumped to his feet. Alarmed.
"Mihai's back on the books now. But if you want you can carry on." Stanga grinned like a wolf. "Maybe you'll learn how to fix a radiator."
The men laughed. After a moment, Caramarin joined in.
* * *
With the two men working together, they had no trouble collecting rents or loan repayments. No-one was willing to tackle the two big men. After an initial wariness, Caramarin and Pojer got on well together. It was like their bare knuckle fight had formed a foundation of mutual respect. Not like they were friends but over the next few weeks they became sort of allies.
Most afternoons they spent time in one or other betting offices. Pojer liked to bet on the horses or greyhounds. Caramarin told the other man that most of these races were fixed and unless you had a contact on the inside who could pass on any tips, you were wasting your money. Pojer took no notice. He studied the racing form and reckoned he could pick a winner more often than not. Judging from the amount of screwed up slips he threw to the floor, Caramarin wouldn't ask Pojer for any predictions.
Initially bored, Caramarin found himself leaning against one of the Fixed Odds Betting Terminals. Horse racing was not for him but he could play an electronic form of roulette on the Terminal. That was a game he understood. He'd met his sort of girlfriend, Valeriya, when she worked as a croupier in Odessa's casino. For a moment, he wished he was back in the opulence of the casino rather than standing next to a down and out in a scruffy betting office in a boarded up precinct.
The electronic machine beeped and the lights flashed. It was the only source of glamour in the entire betting shop. The down and out took out a pouch of tobacco and some papers and shuffled to the door. The man's head never looked up from the floor.
Caramarin took out a note and fed it into the Terminal. It vanished. The lights flashed and whirled hypnotically and electronic music came from its speakers. The machine waited. Caramarin thought for a moment. With roulette, he preferred to play the outside bets – odds and evens, high or low, black or red. He always felt he had a better chance of winning that way.
He touched the screen. Red. Shit, no he should've played black. It was gonna be black. He knew it. Too late now. The wheel spun on the screen, slowing now. Slowing still more. The image on screen was realistic and Caramarin stared at it, willing the ball to stop on red. Even though he knew it was going to be black. Fifteen seconds later the ball stopped on red 32.
Caramarin punched the air. The screen flashed up his winnings. He glanced around and saw Pojer staring up at a screen as the horses hurdled a fence. He bet again. If it was red this time, it would... probably... be red again. For sure. He made his bet, adding his winnings to the stake. He pressed the screen and watched as the wheel spun and the ball became a flash.
Yes, yes, yes. Red twenty-one. Perfect. The amount of his winnings racked up.
Third time lucky? For sure. Caramarin put the whole lot on red. The machine took the wager and the wheel spun again. Yes. Other side of the wheel this time. First number, red number one. More winnings racked up.
Caught up in the excitement, Caramarin was about to play again when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun round, his concentration broken now. Pojer stood there tossing the van keys from hand to hand. "It's stopped raining. Shall we make a move?"
Caramarin nodded, collected his money from the girl behind the counter and the two men walked out into the damp. Water dripped down from the walkway's covers onto the cracked concrete flags.
They finished early that afternoon but the sky was already darkening. The moon slid out from behind a rain cloud casting a cold light over the shopping precinct before slipping behind the next. Pojer dropped Caramarin near Crumpsall, blipped the horn and drove off.
Caramarin stood deep in thought. He handled his winnings and then, on an impulse walked into a florists over the road. The woman smiled and said something to him. Caramarin nodded politely, and chose half a dozen bouquets almost at random. If they were large and showy, then that was what he wanted. He carried them over to the counter and handed over the cash. The woman smiled even wider – an unexpected large sale near the end of the day. That would do wonders for the week's takings.
She said something else. Caramarin shook his head so the woman took his sleeve and guided him over to a rack of cards. Caramarin got the idea straight away. Something to explain the flowers. The trouble was all the cards were in English. Okay, some were obviously no good. There were some picturing a man and a bride standing in front of a country church. Well, that meant a wedding. He grinned as he spun the rack. He didn't want to give Narcisa ideas or anything! Those with numbers on were for birthdays so he was safe to ignore them.
Oh, that would do. A white one with a simple design showing a bunch of lilies. There was some writing in ornate silver script over the lilies but it could mean anything as far as he knew. Narcisa was right. Maybe he should make an attempt to learn this language but hopefully he'd be back in Odessa soon. He shook his head.
For some reason the florist had stopped smiling and a sympathetic look crossed her face. She patted his shoulder. Caramarin paid for the card and took a cab back to the girls' house. On the way back, he picked up a bottle of champagne. He arranged the bouquets around their living room, standing back from time to time to judge the effect. Satisfied, he ripped the cellophane off the card and wrote his message. Then all he could do was wait standing from time to time to make minor adjustments.
The front door opened. Caramarin leapt off the couch as if a high voltage electric shock had been passed through him. Hurrying into the hall, he was pleased; pleased and relieved that it was Narcisa and not one of the other girls. Caramarin helped her off with her coat, shook off the raindrops and led her into the lounge.
"What's all this, Nicu? What's going on?"
"Oh, nothing. Just to say thanks for seeing Bronstein with me the other day. I know you weren't happy about it."
Narcisa walked around the room, looking at the flowers. While she did that Caramarin fetched in the champagne and two glasses. He popped the cork, attracting her attention but thought it best not to spray it around the room like a winning Formula 1 driver.
"So what are you into now, Nicu? Have you sold that painting?" Narcisa was frowning and she looked tense and wary as she accepted a glass. They touched glasses but the frown never left her face.
"No, of course not. I'm waiting to hear from Bronstein. Now I've got a job I thought I'd celebrate..."
"Working for that Stanga character? I've heard of him," Narcisa said with contempt. "I've heard he hurts people badly."
"... Oh, he's all right. And it's a start, isn't it? You wanted me to find some work, didn't you? And then I touched lucky in the betting shop so I thought I'd treat you. I only want to make you happy. I thought you'd be pleased," Caramarin finished. He smiled and handed out a glass of bubbly. Narcisa took it and they drank.
She picked up the card from the mantelpiece, and slit it open with her fingertip. Caramarin didn't expect Narcisa's reaction. She burst into laughter. Great gales of laughter. Narcisa took another look at Caramarin's face and started laughing again.
Despite himself, Caramarin smiled and started laughing.
Eventually, when Narcisa calmed down, Caramarin held her in his arms. Narcisa's sides still quivered as she tried to control her mirth.
"Go on – what have I done now?" Caramarin asked, genuinely confused.
"It's the card, Nicu. Don't you know anything – it's a card people send when someone's died. A card expressing sympathy. You don't know anything, do you?"
"A funeral card?" Caramarin couldn't see the humour in that but laughed along with Narcisa.