An Artistic Way to Go by Roderic Jeffries Page B

Mallorquin form was being encouraged, to the confusion of everyone). When it had merely served the fishermen, it had consisted of two stone breakwaters, now it was a network of jetties at which were moored a bewildering variety of yachts and motor boats. Only a few years before, the water had been crystal clear, now it was virtually opaque and not even a starving Andaluz gitano would willingly eat any fish that came out of it.
    Alvarez walked along the main western arm, past a restaurant whose prices were such that even if someone else had been paying the bill he would not have enjoyed the meal, to reach a boatyard. Two men were cleaning the keel of a yacht with very high-pressure water hoses. He asked where Delgado was. Not bothering to turn off his hose, shouting to overcome the noise, one man said the other was in the office.
    Delgado was rich because he had the ability to impress a client with the belief that he put excellence before profit. That was why he dressed poorly, went to work in a rusting Panda and left the Mercedes at home, and frequently spoke of impending bankruptcy. Indeed, one yacht owner who boasted about the size of the debts he’d left in ports from Bridgetown to Suva, was so moved by the sad story that he’d paid his account on the day it was presented.
    When Alvarez walked into the small, cramped office, equipped with ancient battered equipment, Delgado was on the phone. After a moment, he replaced the receiver, leaned across the desk to shake hands. ‘It’s a difficult world,’ he observed mournfully.
    â€˜Is the government increasing the wealth tax?’
    â€˜Probably, since they’ve increased every other one until a man can’t afford to live, and can’t afford to die.’ He indicated the stained chair in front of the desk. ‘What brings you here?’
    â€˜I’m looking for an Englishman.’
    â€˜Sadly, there’s no lack of them.’
    â€˜Do you employ any?’
    â€˜Now that the rules have changed and it’s no longer necessary to fake the work permits, I’ve three. So many boat owners don’t speak Spanish that it’s useful to have someone who can communicate. None of ’em does a proper day’s work, of course.’
    â€˜That’s fair enough, since you don’t pay ’em a proper wage.’
    â€˜Always the humorist … What’s the name of the Englishman you’re looking for?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Which is why I want you to call each one in turn in here so I can have a word with him.’
    â€˜Who pays for the lost time?’
    â€˜Charge it up to entertainment.’
    Delgado stood, left. He returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Bradley is out in the bay with a client, trying to find out why one of the engines is badly down on power, Hewitt and Burns are here. I’ve told ’em to come along one at a time, Hewitt first.’
    Almost as Delgado finished speaking, a man in a heavily dirt-and-sweat stained boiler suit entered.
    â€˜You want something?’ Hewitt asked, in inaccurate but recognizable Spanish, as he faced Delgado.
    Alvarez said in English: ‘In fact, señor, it is I who wish to speak to you.’
    He turned. ‘Yeah?’ His thick features held sullen lines.
    â€˜I have a message for you from Señora Rachael.’
    â€˜Who? Don’t know any bird of that name. And I never mess with marrieds. Not worth the aggro.’
    â€˜Then I’m sorry, there seems to have been a mistake.’
    â€˜Think nothing of it, squire. And if this Rachael has a younger sister who’s not married, tell her I’m free between eight and nine tonight.’ He swaggered out, a plebeian Don Juan.
    â€˜What was he saying?’ Delgado asked. ‘I couldn’t understand much of it.’
    â€˜He could spare an hour this evening in which to pleasure a young lady.’
    â€˜Are you in the poncing business?’
    â€˜Would I be