The next few days, Caramarin spent at the Kugulu Parki with his little radio. Now he was some sort of regular, he noticed that the older men took no notice of him. Thinking about it, he realised they probably thought he was unemployed and whiling away the long hours of the day. Maybe they looked down on him for sitting there instead of getting out there in the rain, hustling for a job.
Every time he wiped away the condensation, the view hardly changed. Unhappy people hurrying past wearing dark clothing. Plenty of pram faced young women, their hair scraped back; their babies gumming on Gregg's dummies. But there was still no sign of Engin Hasanov. And still it rained. And rained. And even when it didn't rain, it had either just stopped or was just about to start again.
Caramarin had taken Narcisa Ganea out a couple of times since then, picking her up from the pawn brokers. Both enjoying the time spent getting to know the other but both slightly wary, not wanting to give too much of themselves away until the other opened up a little more as well. Narcisa had tried to teach him a few more words of English.
On the last occasion, when he had escorted Narcisa back to her home in Crumpsall, one of the other girls had teased Narcisa when she kissed Caramarin on the doorstep. The girl had wolf-whistled at him and shouted something in English when he walked away down the rain-wet street. He'd have to ask Narcisa what that other girl had said.
The café’s door opened like it had for the twentieth or thirtieth time this morning. Caramarin wasn't counting. Engin Hasanov was standing at the counter with another man before Caramarin realised it. He blinked, double checked Ozgan's photograph and then waited for Hasanov to sit before approaching them. Caramarin thought for a moment wondering how best to approach them. He didn't want to create a scene.
"Engin Hasanov?" he asked.
Caramarin drew up a chair and sat at the head of the table, between the two men. Hasanov himself was young, no older than his very early twenties. He was slim, almost skinny. Too thin to win as his old drill instructor back in the Romanian army used to say.
Hasanov's black hair was long and floppy, small raindrops on the tips of strands. He sported a narrow Errol Flynn moustache over narrow lips. He wore a dark grey double-breasted suit under a black leather jacket. The only splash of colour was a bright blue and red silk tie. If Caramarin was asked, he'd have to say the young man was handsome in a weak willed way. Not that Hasanov did anything for him!
Hasanov looked startled and glanced at his companion who was a much bulkier man.
"Who wants to know?" Hasanov asked in Russian.
"I'm working for your uncle, Timur Ozgan. He says you've taken some things that don't belong to you. A Picasso and a hundred thousand euros." Caramarin replied in the same language.
"My uncle!" the young man tittered. A shrill noise that grated on Caramarin's nerves. "That's what he's calling himself now?"
"Whatever. I'm not interested. All I want is the man's picture and the money."
"They're not on me, of course. But don't worry, they're in a safe place though aren't they, Mihai?" Hasanov's voice was soft and high pitched for a man.
Caramarin turned to the other man, as he nodded. He raised an eyebrow. Hasanov introduced the other man as Mihai Pojer.
Hasanov's associate was older, maybe Caramarin's age or thereabouts. He was of Turkic appearance, bigger, heavier built, but looked like he could handle himself in a tough situation. His hair was short, like a military cut grown out a month and greying at the temples. Like Hasanov, he wore a black leather jacket – in Pojer's case buttoned up to the throat. Maybe he felt the cold as unusually the man had not taken off his leather gloves. His grey eyes glared.
"Let's go back and pick them up, then," suggested Caramarin.
Hasanov looked at his companion and shook his head.
"Uncle Timur's welcome to the painting. It's been no use to me, lovey. But I need the money. After all, he owes me that much at least doesn't he, Mihai? Maybe more. Anyway, I've spent some of it."
"How much is left?" asked Caramarin. He didn't fancy going back to Odessa with too little. Timur Ozgan would come to the conclusion he'd skimmed off a little extra for himself.
"Oh, I don't know, lovey. I have to take my socks off to count past ten, don't I?"
"I'm not interested," Caramarin said. "Finish your coffees and we'll go get the money and painting, okay comrades?"
The young man once again looked to his larger companion for support.
"No, and you can't make me leave. If you try anything, I'll scream and scream and Mihai here will fight you. And he's very good at fighting, aren't you?" Hasanov patted his friend on the arm. The other man nodded. "And then the police will come and arrest you and you'll get nothing back, nothing at all, will you?"
Hasanov thought for a moment. "In fact, Mihai here's fighting tonight. Why don't you come and watch him in action? I'll bring the Picasso so you can tell Uncle Timur it's safe and sound and maybe some of the money and we can talk about things then. Have a nice little chin wag."
Hasanov finished his coffee and the two men stood.
"Don't try to follow us," growled Mihai Pojer, placing a heavy hand on Caramarin's shoulder.
Realising he'd been had over but nothing much he could do about it now, Caramarin asked where and when he should meet them.
"Give us your number," said Hasanov. He did so. A moment later, Caramarin's phone beeped. He looked at the text giving details.
"You'd better be there," Caramarin said, "Or our next meeting will be more painful. Understood?"
"Ooh, promises, promises. You're so butch," said Hasanov. "See you later, big boy."
The two men left, Caramarin dashed to the café’s door and saw them stepping into a white BMW three series. He caught the registration before it turned out of sight and quickly made a note on his phone. Back in the Kugulu Parki, Caramarin looked up Hasanov's proposed meeting place in his A to Z guidebook. It was well out of the centre of Manchester; it looked like it was out in the country near a place called Oldham. He shrugged. It didn't matter where it was so long as Hasanov showed with Timur Ozgan's property.
Get the painting and money, and then go home to Odessa, Caramarin told himself. It couldn't come too soon.