A Shortcut to Paradise by Teresa Solana

you say you’re not detectives. What the hell are you then? Judging by your mugs, I’d say you’re legal beagles…” he rasped as scornfully as he could.
    â€œNot exactly,” I answered. “We’re consultants, we run a company…”
    â€œSo you aren’t lawyers, then?”
    â€œNo, as I was saying…”
    â€œAre you armed? You carrying a bazooka?”
    â€œNo, we smoke Camel Lights,” replied Borja, taking a packet from his pocket.
    â€œThat’s right… My partner is a real joker… Ha, ha, ha…. No, we’re not carrying guns,” I said after he noticed how red I’d gone. “Times have changed, what with computers and all that…” I continued apologetically. “As my partner said, we’re not detectives, but in exceptional circumstances…”
    â€œNo need to tell me your life story,” he cut me off in full flow. “I could make a couple of calls. I still have
friends in the force who owe me a few favours. What’s in it for me?”
    â€œSay five hundred euros?” my brother suggested timidly.
    â€œMake it a grand. Three hundred in advance,” he went on, giving us no chance to bargain. “Come here on Tuesday, same time. I’ll be here. And if you need to hire a man with a bazooka…” he concluded, tapping his jacket pocket.
    â€œThanks. We hope it won’t come to that,” I responded, hoping he didn’t decide to show us his pistol. Just then a couple of mossos on their beat were briskly wandering our way.
    We dug deep into our pockets and came up with two hundred and eighty euros between us. When we left home that morning, we’d never imagined we’d end up doing a deal with a low-life Barcelona detective and weren’t carrying any more cash. Lluís Arquer carefully pocketed the notes and coins while giving us a withering look. It was clear that neither our dress sense nor my brother’s courteous manners cut any ice with him. He gulped down what was left of his beer and stood up.
    â€œI have to hit the road. This is on you.” And he was gone.
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    Lluís Arquer had pulled a good trick: he’d cleaned us out completely at the Ambos Mundos and left us with a bill on the table of seven euros ninety. That was the cost of the three glasses of draught beer we’d drunk, although Borja, who was on a diet because according to him (and him alone) he was developing a paunch, hadn’t even sipped his. We’d been forced to give the detective all the money we were carrying, and now needed to get money from a cash point. My brother had mislaid his wallet, which was par for the course (particularly when he’s dining with Merche), but luckily I had mine. Relatively lucky, that’s to say, because on the short walk between the terrace of the Ambos Mundos, where Borja was waiting under the steely gaze of the waiters, and the cash point on the Ramblas where I was heading to extract money, my wallet mysteriously disappeared from my pocket.
    I won’t deny that it was my fault, because I had been daydreaming for a few seconds, hypnotized by the perfectly synchronized movement of a pair of round, tanned breasts coming my way braless under a low-cut, tight-fitting tank top. There wasn’t a cent in my wallet, but unfortunately it did contain my credit card as well as my ID, and that was a real nuisance. Luckily, as it was a few minutes to two, the bank was still open. I went in and explained my problem, but it was a complete waste of time. However hard I worked at telling them my wallet had just been stolen, I couldn’t budge a single bank clerk, let alone get to see the manager. They were very sorry, they said, but they couldn’t give me a single euro if I didn’t have my ID. I persisted but finally had to give up. I knew the bank employees had their hands tied and could do nothing: I’d spent twenty years of my life