More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman (22 page)

It was busy, even for a Tuesday, one of the changeover days. With the nights starting to become colder, plummeting to a chilly 60 Fahrenheit, our customers were forsaking al fresco dining for the nine inside tables. Those in long-sleeves and long trousers waited in the bar for their coach transfer to the airport and overnight flights home. The new arrivals, adamant that shorts and T-shirts would be worn no matter what the temperature dictated, studied their faces and exposed skin like it was a barometer for what they could expect.

There were also those foolish few who insisted on wearing beach wear all the way back to the arrivals gate at their UK airport. The wisdom of their choice would be seriously questioned when they stood ruffled and shivering, shuffling from foot to foot at the luggage carousel, as clouds of breath carried muttered obscenities across the empty luggage carousels.

The end of a holiday is like the day after Christmas. The thump of reality presents itself in many guises; the Hoover lying in wait when you return the suitcases to the cupboard under the stairs; the pile of florid laundry seemingly out of place in such familiar and faded surroundings; the thick waft of cold air as you put the cat out last thing at night. All serving to remind that the fortnight of fantasy is now just another memory, destined to fade as quickly as an Anglo-Saxon tan.

‘Right, Joe, thanks for all your cooking. We’re off now.’ Another family had popped their heads into the kitchen to say goodbye. This always made me nervous, as it was usually at this point that one of the hardier cockroaches that had somehow escaped the exterminator would be taking an evening stroll along the ceiling or one of the white-tiled walls.

‘Take care. It was nice meeting you. See you next year.’ I waved them off with a dripping spatula.

Most people only shouted a cursory farewell, aware that it required intense concentration to keep the orders flowing and not frazzle anything. Some, however, took the opportunity to show off their ‘special relationship’ with the chef by spending as long as possible leaning on the serving shelf, forcing a conversation.

Despite the fact that I, or David, would be dashing around the kitchen in near panic, trying to concentrate on the matter in hand and only grunting when we guessed it was necessary to respond, they would still carry on with their chosen topic, getting in the way when Joy would try to take out the plates.

‘Anyway, nice to talk to you. I can see you’re busy,’ they’d say eventually, unaware of just how close they were to being surgically fitted with a pair of catering tongs.

‘Joe, look who’s here!’ Joy exclaimed, leading an old couple into the kitchen. She often did this. Not as any act of public relations, just because she liked to see me squirm. She may have had a photographic memory capable of recalling the names, preferred drinks, favourite food and collar size of every single customer that walked through our doors, but she knew damn well that I wouldn’t have the slightest clue as to the identity of the people being paraded in front of me.

‘Heeellooo,’ I said with feigned sincerity. ‘Nice to see you again. Long time no see.’ Thankfully this was always enough to fool them into thinking that I really did remember. Behind them, Joy was knowingly shaking her head, dismayed at my lack of recognition.

‘Yes, it’s exactly a year,’ said the man. He was dressed in a blue blazer, one of the old school of airline passengers.

‘Well, it’s good to have you back,’ I said with all the sincerity I could muster. ‘I’ll come out for a drink in a minute and we can talk then.’ Joy would wheel them out, making dumb gestures at me for my memory deficiency.

Not only was the night busy for orders, it was also busy with people bidding farewell and Joy trying to catch me out with new arrivals. However, I did recognise the next person she brought in, and this time Joy wasn’t smiling.

‘Tell him what you’ve just told me.’ Joy had her arms folded and was standing behind the Czech girl blocking the doorway.

‘I have problem. I no place to go Friday,’ said the girl quietly.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but you have to leave. The owner’s friends have booked the apartment from Friday. Sorry,’ I said sympathetically.

‘My boyfriend he know law. You not make me sleep on beach. He talk with lawyer. I not leave Friday. I use money I owe you for lawyer.’

‘Whoa, hold on,’ I said, waving a meat cleaver. The girl recoiled. ‘You
are
leaving on Friday and you
are
going to pay the rest of the money.’ I was leaning over the serving shelf, inches from the girl. She was nervous and understandably uncomfortable with the cleaver waving but still adamant that she wasn’t moving out.

‘I want speak with owner,’ said the girl.

Siobhan still didn’t know that there was someone renting her apartment. Joy was worried that she might think she was letting it out behind her back in order to keep the money, a common ploy in resort areas. She dialled Siobhan’s number and told her what had happened, apologising at the end of every sentence.

‘Put her on,’ demanded Siobhan. She was not a woman to be messed with. We had seen her turn on her husband on several occasions, almost reducing the ex-soldier to tears. Joy handed the phone to the girl. The colour drained from her face as soon as Siobhan started.

‘Right, you bitch. You get out of my apartment, do you hear? I have friends coming on Friday and I want you out. And if you don’t pay the rest of that money, you’re in deep shit, lady. Do you hear me? DEEP SHIT!’ I could hear Siobhan’s sharp, Northern Irish accent from across the kitchen.

‘It’s not me. It’s boyfriend. He know law.’ The girl was almost apologetic but Siobhan was having none of it.

‘I don’t care if it’s you
or
your boyfriend. Get the fuck out of my apartment. Now put Joy back on the phone.’ The girl passed it back to Joy, ashen-faced.

‘Joy, get that fucking bitch out of my apartment.’ The line went dead. Siobhan had slammed the phone down. The girl started to walk out.

‘Hey, you’re getting out on Friday,’ said Joy, grabbing her arm.

‘No,’ said the girl, shaking her head. I rushed round the serving shelf, still brandishing the cleaver.

‘Yes – you – are,’ I said, emphasising each word with a jab of the knife. I was furious, both at the girl’s obstinacy and also the fact that she’d thrown my concentration into disarray. The girl quietly walked out with her head down.

‘What are we going to do?’ said Joy, panic in her eyes.

‘She’ll go,’ I said. ‘She’ll
have
to.’

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

The following day we visited the community president. Roger was a retired headmaster who spent every other month in Tenerife with his wife, Brenda.

‘Ahh, our very own smugglers,’ said Roger, looking down his nose. ‘Do come in.’

Since taking over the bar and renting Roger’s apartment for the first few weeks we had tried to stay on the right side of the community committee, and Roger in particular. Residential committees can make life difficult for an on-site business owner, regarding commercial enterprises as a necessary evil.

We had only fallen foul of the community rules and regulations twice. The first occasion was when Gary and Michelle had forgotten to turn the outside speakers off as required at midnight. ‘Good Vibrations’ were certainly not forthcoming the following day from residents and committee members after The Beach Boys had warbled well into the witching hour.

Fortunately the police weren’t called. Any bar that gets stung three times by their decibel meter is immediately shut down and wrapped in pretty red and white crime scene-style tape for a period of time ranging from one week to three months – a pretty serious punishment for an overdose of The Beach Boys.

The second time was after our clothes maiden buckled under the combined weight of two dozen wet bar towels and Buster’s acrobatics, as he hunted for a soft surface to sunbathe on. Sheer apathy in the midsummer sun had prevented us from making a trip to the nearest hardware shop to replace it. Instead we hung all our clean washing on the backs of the terrace chairs. It was not a pretty sight, I have to admit, especially as some of the bar towels were charred and fraying.

‘Move those towels,’ the president had bellowed, following murmurs of community discontent. The timeshare reps were also none too happy. Trying to persuade stubborn holidaymakers to invest in ‘a piece of paradise’ wasn’t made easier when paradise looked like a Chinese laundry.

Being community president is a thankless task. It’s a post that requires a thick skin, an authoritative tone and the ability to keep warring nations apart during disputes over what television channels should be made available to the community.

Who in their right mind would want to stir up the dust as chief castigator and troubleshooter in such a paradisiacal environment, and all for no reward, neither verbal nor financial?

Well, those who feel at a loss once retirement strips them of any authority. A retired headmaster for one. Roger certainly revelled in the role. Rarely would he be seen without a clipboard on his daily tours of inspection, jotting down notes and taking offenders’ names should the opportunity to formally chastise arise.

Just as when members of the local police force would drop in for a drink, Roger’s beer was always on the house. An obvious ploy but one that was seemingly appreciated as it made his role seem even more authoritative. Joy. of course, also managed to work her charm on the president, flirting like they were secret lovers.

It was because of this attention that Roger would overlook some of our less serious crimes, like not flattening our boxes in the rubbish container or keeping a pet on the premises. It was also why he was always willing to help if we had a problem that related to the community.

Inside Roger’s apartment, Brenda sat on a large, pale orange sofa reading a book. Her feet didn’t quite reach the floor and the scale of the oversized furniture made her seem like a child. She looked up and smiled a shy smile.

Roger led us past and out onto the patio where two white plastic sunloungers faced the sea. He insisted we sit down while he stood, arms folded, nodding sympathetically as we told him about the Czech girl and her threats of not moving. Having a squatter on the complex would certainly not look good for him as president and his cheeks grew red with rage as he listened intently.

‘Right, well, we’ll throw her out. Simple as that. I’m not having some hippy think she can take over my complex.’

We made a plan to enter Siobhan’s apartment when we knew the Czech girl was out, pack her things and change the locks.

The following day Wayne was set on detective duties and told to inform us the moment the girl left for work. After he did, we called for Roger who in turn commandeered Miguel, the
technico
, to follow with a new lock.

The four of us climbed the stairs quietly while Wayne maintained his vigil on Cardiac Hill.

‘Have you got the keys?’ he whispered to Joy.

‘Yes, they’re here,’ she replied, handing him the bunch.

Roger took the key and put it in the lock.

‘It won’t turn,’ he hissed.

‘Here, let me try,’ said Joy.

‘They’ve changed the locks,’ said Roger solemnly. The stakes had been raised.

David had become increasingly withdrawn over the past few weeks. His attempted reconciliation conversations with Faith were ending in a race to see who could slam the phone down first. He decided that as it was quiet, he would go back to the UK for ten days in a last ditch effort to persuade Faith to return to Tenerife. If it proved that this was not going to happen, he could begin the process to sort out the sale of his house in Salford. This meant that Joy and I would be running the bar alone for the next ten nights. The extra worry of the squatters couldn’t have come at a worse time.

Joy and I were unloading our car with what I hoped was enough stock to last us for a few days to spare the daily shopping routine, though there was a limit to how much you could fit in a hatchback.

‘
Podemos hablar
?’ From over an armful of kitchen rolls I could see no more than the receding hairline of a man standing in front of me.

‘Sorry?’

‘He said, can we talk?’

I recognised the voice of the Czech girl. I dumped the kitchen rolls back into the boot of the car and turned to face them. The girl was standing behind a wiry Spaniard in a blue checked shirt that was several sizes too big for him. A thin moustache partly obscured a wry smile. He stared, unblinking, waiting for my response, eyebrows raised, challenging me.

‘Can you speak Spanish?’ asked the girl. She kept her gaze on the floor. Her long brown hair was scraped back and up, fastened messily on top of her head, making her look altogether more severe.

‘No,’ I replied curtly.

‘Then we need a translator.’

‘You translate,’ I said.

‘He doesn’t want it.’

I led them to the Altamira where Marie, one of the receptionists, was picking her nose. I explained the situation and Marie agreed to help.

The man opened the conversation claiming that because there was no contract he wasn’t moving out.

‘Hang on a minute,’ I said. ‘You’re not even in. How can you move out? Our agreement was with the girl, not you. As far as we’re concerned you’re not even there.’ I waited for Marie to translate. The man listened impassively. When she had finished, he told her that he was called Pedro and was the girl’s boyfriend and he was living with her. He said it didn’t matter who the initial agreement was with.

‘This is the first we’ve heard about this scumbag,’ said Joy to Marie but she just shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands defensively.

‘Hey, I’m just translating, remember?’

Pedro turned round and mumbled to the girl quietly.

‘Listen,’ whispered Marie. ‘Be careful. This man is dangerous. Just watch what you say.’

He continued to explain his side of the story to Marie.

‘He says that he’s lodged the money he owes you at the court in Granadilla until you settle the dispute. After that the owner of the apartment can go up there with a receipt and collect it.’

We repeated that the owner’s friends were due out the day after tomorrow; did he expect us to make them sleep on the beach? But as Marie translated, the man just shrugged.

‘He says it’s not his problem,’ said Marie. She sighed, ‘He says if you want him to leave your apartment, you’ll have to find him somewhere else to stay.’

Like us, Marie was realising that this was no ordinary chancer trying to get a few weeks’ free rental. My stomach began to knot at the realisation that this wasn’t going to be resolved easily.

‘How long are you planning on staying there?’ I asked.

Marie relayed that he was due to move into another apartment soon but it was being renovated. Maybe it would be ready in two weeks. I offered to pay for a room at a hostel in Los Cristianos for two weeks if he’d move out right now. He smiled. ‘It’s not that simple,’ he told Marie. ‘He’d have to speak to his lawyers and would meet us again tomorrow.’

Marie apologised and said she had to get back to work.

‘I’d get a lawyer if I was you,’ she whispered. ‘This man is no good.’ She walked back behind the reception, leaving Joy and I to face Pedro and the Czech girl alone. Pedro was staring at me, a smug smile on his face. The girl was pretending to study a rack of postcards on the reception desk.

Joy and I brushed past him, maintaining eye contact.

‘
Mañana
,’ he shouted after us as we crossed the car park on our way to get the bar ready.

‘Have him done over,’ said Frank matter-of-factly. ‘It’s the only way you’ll get him out.’ The night had started slowly, allowing us time to tell him what had happened.

With two days to go before Siobhan’s friends arrived, it was a serious consideration. The more people we told, the more we heard the same advice. Later that night Wayne accompanied a familiar figure into the kitchen.

‘Joe, this is Adam. He’s offering his services.’

‘Hi, we’ve met,’ I said, shaking his hand. It was the man who had come knocking at my door in search of Micky, but the blank look suggested it wasn’t a mutual recollection.

‘He’s here to help you with your problem.’ said Wayne.

This was all happening too quickly. I hadn’t come to Tenerife to start employing hit men. I was a bar owner, a taxpayer, a nice guy. I also didn’t want to seem ungrateful to a burly hit man who was standing in my kitchen expecting employment.

‘I thought you worked for Micky?’ I asked.

‘I do,’ he answered, ‘but I do a bit of moonlighting. I’ve got a family to support.’ He suddenly looked alarmed. ‘Don’t tell Micky, though.’

‘Err… course not. How much is it, out of curiosity?’ I asked, not wanting to dismiss him without so much as a whiff of curiosity about his line of work.

‘Depends what you want,’ he barked. ‘Here, take this. Give me a call.’ He handed me a piece of paper.

In my hand was a typewritten list of services ranging from ‘ruffed up a bit’ to ‘lost at sea’. The prices ran alongside. He must have been running a special on two broken legs, as the cost seemed much more economical than just having the one broken.

‘Seems very reasonable,’ I commented, failing to think of any other response that might be appropriate. ‘I’ll give you a shout.’

Adam left.
What was I getting into?
In just one short phone call I could change somebody’s life forever – end it even. It would also change mine. I would have crossed the line, opened the door to gangland. The thought made me go cold, but it was also strangely empowering, like holding a loaded gun. I glanced again at the list. There was no listing for ‘scare him a little but without hurting him’. I screwed the piece of paper up and threw it in the bin. Then I thought of the smug smile on Pedro’s face and picked it out again, smoothing out the creases on the worktop. I filed it under the microwave with our health and hygiene certificate.
Just as a last resort
, I told myself.

Although deep down I had no intention of employing Dial-a-Hit man, the revelation that this kind of service was so readily available gave me an idea for our next meeting with the squatters.

They were already at the reception desk when Joy and I arrived. Pedro was attempting to make conversation with Marie, but she had her head down and was busying herself shuffling papers.

‘
Buenos dias
,’ he said to us with a smile.

‘You don’t mind me taking your photo, do you?’ I asked, revealing a Polaroid camera that I was holding behind my back. Before he could answer I pressed the shutter. Pedro was startled but made no attempt to conceal his face.

‘I have nothing to hide,’ he said through Marie. With one arm resting on the reception desk, and a hand placed cockily on his hip, he posed again. The flash popped for the second time.

The Czech girl was standing behind him and looked away.

‘Why do you want my picture?’ he asked as I pressed the shutter for a third time.

‘I have a friend who wants to see it.’ I emphasised the word ‘friend’. His cheesy grin faltered and his bushy eyebrows that were raised in cocksure manner collapsed downwards. He put out a hand to stop me taking any more and turned to Marie.

‘He says he didn’t manage to meet his lawyer and has arranged another appointment at 10.30 on Monday morning,’ translated Marie. Pedro’s speech was gaining momentum, his arms gesticulating wildly. Marie put her hands up in defence and turned to talk to me. ‘I told you to be careful what you said,’ she sighed. ‘He’s saying you called him a
bandido
and if you’re not prepared to come to some agreement, he’s taking you to court. He also wants me to give a witness statement but I told him I’m not getting involved. I don’t mind translating as a favour for you and Joy, but I’m not being drawn into any legal battles.’

I apologised to Marie for involving her so far and asked her to arrange one more meeting for the following Monday. It was evident that the squatters had no intention of leaving soon. Tomorrow Siobhan’s friends arrived and we would have to find them alternative accommodation.

I waved the Polaroids in Pedro’s face and gave him what I hoped was a threatening a stare.

It worked. So much so that he had shared his anxiety with the
Guardia Civil
, a high-booted member of which was now standing in the doorway of my apartment, waving a
denuncia
at me for ‘insulting and threatening behaviour’.

The
denuncia
, or complaint, had been formally made by Pedro and required me to attend a court hearing to determine if the charge was to be upheld. Any thoughts of employing a leg-breaker were out of the window. If any harm came to Pedro now, having already informed the police that he had been threatened, a leather-gloved finger would be pointing my way quicker than I could say ‘one-way ticket to Manchester, please.’