Caramarin sat and thought as he crunched toast in the girls' kitchen. He was way out of his depth. What could he do? Either Mike Bronstein had robbed him or Engin Hasanov with Pojer. Reckoned either could have followed him back. But he still thought Bronstein the most likely.
He knew he needed help in a city where he had no friends. He needed some bigger guns on his side. Unless he ran away from the whole fuckin' farrago there was only one possible option left open. But what price would be demanded of him in return?
Reluctantly, Caramarin pulled out his cell and dialled his new friend Pompiliu Stanga. He apologised for leaving the fights early Saturday night. Fortunately, Stanga sounded pleased to hear from him. Arranged to meet at his club in Manchester City Centre. Caramarin thanked him again. Not sure what Stanga could, or would, do to help but had to try anyway.
Checking through the many pockets on his camouflage jacket, he found he was nearly out of funds. Now the holdall with Hasanov's money had vanished he owned little more than the clothes he stood up in. No money for a cab, especially if it went the long way round, so he had to walk. He wrapped his keffiyeh scarf tighter around his neck and turned up the collar of his jacket before heading out into the drizzle.
Catching sight of himself in a shop window, Caramarin was shocked. He looked like a local now; head down, scowling, hurrying along, wrapped up in his own world. He stopped, ignoring the cursing from a young woman who ran her pushchair into him. The baby dropped its Gregg's pasty and bawled. Caramarin took no notice. He stood straight; pulled his shoulders back smiled and ignored the rain wetting his head. That felt better as he stepped forwards again.
With the confusing street layout, Caramarin had to check his street map several times before he found Stanga's nightclub. It was situated near an industrial estate between the railway tracks and a main through way called Oldham Road. A hand painted sign advertised it as a Romanian social club. Knowing the man, Caramarin doubted that was all the place was.
The front was shuttered but a blue painted rear door was propped open by a fire extinguisher. A dark haired young man was wheeling in boxes of colas on a hand truck. He splashed through some puddles.
"Stanga in?" asked Caramarin.
The lad took one look at Caramarin's beat up face and combat jacket and glanced around; looking for help if this stranger started any trouble. There was no-one else in sight.
The lad shrugged. He was used to strange, furtive characters showing up at the back door. "In there."
Caramarin nodded his thanks and walked through a store room smelling of beer and disinfectant, and then along a dimly lit corridor, its walls gouged by trolley scars and into the main room of the nightclub. His breath condensed in the unheated room. It felt even colder in than out.
A few men wearing coats sat in front of a stage looking up. He recognised Stanga's bulk among them. They were all smoking, with a blue haze swirling above them. The room was dimly lit with pools of darkness except for spotlights illuminating the stage.
"Next, I said," called Stanga. A young woman stepped onto the stage. Unnoticed by the group, Caramarin leaned on a scarred table just behind them.
"Next time, hurry up," said Stanga to the girl. The girl was wearing a short, spangly sleeveless dress teamed with glittery heels. Her hair was down to her shoulders. One of the men switched on a CD player. The latest R'n'B tune that was on the radio all the time blared out. The girl paused and looked hesitant.
One of the men switched off the CD. "C'mon, love. Haven't got all day here," shouted Stanga in the silence before switching the CD back on.
This time the girl gyrated to the music, dancing, swaying to the beat, arms up to her hair, letting it fall around her face. She unzipped her dress, dancing all the time, holding it against her body before letting it fall in a quicksilver puddle onto the stage. She danced in her filmy black bra and knickers, the underwear standing out against her pale body. Her toned belly moving sexily. Caramarin noticed a rose tattoo under her belly button.
Then the dancer unclipped her bra, clutching the underwear against her breasts, moving around the stage before dropping it onto the dress. She made good use of her arms, raising them to her hair, lifting her breasts and showing them off to best advantage. No fan of football breasts, Caramarin thought they were natural, which he liked. Her boobs weren't that big but nicely shaped with upturned nipples; very prominent in the freezing cold air of the club.
"And your knickers," Stanga called up as she danced. "We don't like to cheat the punters here." The girl made a small grimace then slid her thong down her thighs and stepped out of the tiny panties. Her hair had been trimmed into a neat landing strip. Nice. She made a few small pelvic thrusts and wriggles before the music stopped.
"Thank you. I'll let you know," called Stanga. The girl gathered up her dropped clothing and ran off stage.
"A possible," said one of the other men. "Seven out of ten?"
"Seven and a half," another said.
"Shall I call the next?" said the third, his voice bored.
Caramarin coughed and stepped forward. Immediately, the three men turned to face him. Caramarin saw one of the men's hands fly inside his sports jacket.
Stanga patted the man's shoulders. "It's all right, Daniel. I asked him to swing by."
Pompiliu Stanga stood and introduced Caramarin to the two men. "Daniel Perianu, the manager of this club and Tibor Budescu, my driver." They shook hands.
While the next dancer took the stage, Stanga led Caramarin away from the others and listened to him. Concern on the nightclub owner's face. But that sympathy never reached his cold, dead eyes.
"So, you need me to have a word with Bronstein, ask him if he's got your missing painting? And recover it for you? Before your friends back home come looking?"
Caramarin nodded. He hated negotiating from a position of weakness but this time he had no choice.
Stanga continued. "I've made a few discrete enquiries. You're not known in this country, which is good. And I know you've killed before. How many?"
Caramarin shrugged. "More than a few. But I'm not proud of it; I'm no psycho nut-job. I just did what I had to at the time." He had a nasty feeling he knew where this was heading.
"Like you did in Odessa?"
Caramarin nodded. "It was either them or me, I had no choice."
"You caused me a bit of trouble, friend," smiled Stanga. "I used your old boss, Maiorescu, a number of times. Now I've got to deal with the Albanians. Fucking animals, they are."
Caramarin shrugged his shoulders. Shit happens.
"Once you get your hands on this painting, I take it you're going back home?"
"Too right. First flight out," said Caramarin.
"Come with me," said Stanga. "I've a little job for you." He called Tibor Budescu, his driver, over. Stanga unlocked a door at the side of the nightclub and led the way up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top, a dimly lit corridor led past a number of doors to a barred window, which let in the dismal grey light Caramarin was getting used to. On the floor, a threadbare red carpet muffled their steps. Caramarin smelled cheap perfume and disinfectant.
Stanga knocked on one of the doors. A thin woman in her forties opened it. Home dyed blonde hair and bloodshot brown eyes were the first things Caramarin noticed. She had probably once been good looking but decades of booze and hard living had taken its toll on her features. She wore jeans and a red sweater over which a crucifix dangled between her flat breasts. Stanga spoke to her, quickly and too quietly for Caramarin to hear what they said.
The woman unlocked the next room and showed them in. Inside was an unmade bed, faded posters of puppies and kittens on the wall and a sticky blue carpet pocked with cigarette burns. The curtains were drawn and the room was almost dark. The woman switched on the light and an energy saving bulb glowed dimly into life.
But under the smell of perfume and disinfectant was the stench of piss and shit. Caramarin almost gagged. On the other wall to the bed was a large green metal locker. It looked old and solid. Fuck knows how they'd got it up those stairs.
They crossed to the locker and the woman unlocked it. The door creaked open. Cowering inside was a woman, little more than a girl. The stench flooded out with the opening door. Stanga grabbed the girl's hair and pulled her out into a heap on the carpet.
The girl was completely naked, her body covered in bruises and whip marks. She was petite, slender with small girl-like breasts. Caramarin saw dried blood on her inner thighs, her legs sore from kneeling in her own wastes. The girl curled into a foetal ball, protecting herself as much as possible, her head tucked away from the men. She shivered uncontrollably in the cold room.
Caramarin shuddered, hoped the other men didn't see him. He thought about the girls he'd driven from Odessa into Romania earlier this year for his old gang boss, Maiorescu. How many of them had ended up in a living hell like this?
Stanga crouched by the girl. He jerked her head up by her hair and looked into her eyes.
"Last chance, bitch. Will you do as you're told now? I paid good money for you and you need to start earning your keep. So, will you be a good girl now?" he finished more gently than he started.
The girl didn't respond. She just shook with cold and terror.
"Look at you, bitch, you disgust me," he said. Stanga slapped her face, bloodying her lip then dropped her head and kicked her hard in the ribs. The poor girl just lay there, took the blows, only a low moan betraying her pain. Caramarin stepped forward but a hand on his arm from Tibor Budescu stopped him.
"Nothing I can do with her," spat Stanga. He held out a hand. The driver placed a small pistol into his palm, Stanga racked the slide and handed the pistol to Caramarin. He recognised it as a Czech made CZ-75 semi-automatic, one of his favourite hand-guns.
"Doom her," Stanga ordered.
"What!?" said Caramarin, grimacing with shock and disgust.
"You heard. Doom her, cap her, slot her. Whatever the phrase is out east."
Caramarin glanced around. Noticed Budescu with his hand underneath his jacket. The older woman passed Caramarin the pillow from the bed as a makeshift silencer. The girl still lay curled up on the floor. Maybe she understood what was happening as a stream of dark yellow urine wet a circle under her, the carpet turning darker blue.
"Filthy animal," said the woman.
The two men and the older woman stood and watched. What a hell of a price to pay for Stanga's help.
"Hurry up, I've got things to do this morning," said Stanga.
Caramarin crouched by the girl, she curled up even tighter. He folded up the greasy pillow into two, held it to her head then pressed the muzzle of the CZ-75 pistol tight to the pillow. He took a deep breath.
Pulled the trigger.