Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

“What do you mean—get rid of him? If you mean what I think you mean, I’d want no part of that.”

“Don’t be a fool. I meant pay him something and run him off.” He paused then added, “A threat of some kind might be a good idea. We don’t want some young lad going goodie-goodie at our expense.”

“Ah… umm… that reminds me. I’m going to need some sort of advance for expenses. I’m a bit strapped at the moment. Those lads want something up front if they’re to be on standby.”

“All right, all right,” Lyle said, obviously annoyed. “But you should have thought to ask Lenny. He handles the purse for such things. Or did I forget to give you his number? He couldn’t make it today. Other business.”

They all settled back in their seats and said nothing. The buzzing of a fly drew their eyes to the ceiling, where it flew quickly into the light fixture and fell instantly, joining the accumulation of dead insects already there.

Linus was the first to speak. “Well, if that’s it then. I’m off to the pub for that pint. Care to join me Fergus?”

Before Fergus could answer, Lyle got up quickly and said, “You had better not let your love of a pint interfere with what I require of you. I want to see the trucks tomorrow—early. Keep your phone on you while you’re gone. You’d better hope they look professional… and official.”

“I told you, my mate is just out of the nick. Did four years for his trouble. One of the best at performing cosmetic surgery on the occasional high-end ‘motor.’ Fearing the boss wasn’t convinced he embellished further. “He could paint the royal seal on a plumber’s lorry, and the queen would climb right in.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll see them tomorrow and then be the judge.”

* * *

Lenny Jordan reached into his pocket and fumbled with the Euros he had exchanged at the airport. He paid the driver then got out and grabbed his large bag from the back seat. The cab left him standing on the narrow sidewalk checking his phone for messages and scanning house numbers. Just to his left, set back from the noisy street, a small derelict house sat in the middle of an oversized lot. It was surrounded by dead grass and lay some distance from the adjacent houses. Patches of dingy white stucco had peeled away, exposing the underlying brick and mortar. A roof of chipped and missing tiles completed the sad picture. At the front were a few scraggly shrubs with plastic grocery bags tangled in the brown foliage. The cracked cement walkway to the front door nurtured a proliferation of weeds, and a lone beer can had been dropped in the dirt beside the tiny porch.

He picked up the bulky duffle and approached the entrance. Once on the porch he tried to open the paint-chipped door with the key he had been given. It wouldn’t give, so he applied the heft of a shoulder. It broke loose, flew open and banged the wall. Only having arrived in Pamplona early that morning, he had been in a time crunch and was forced to rent the tiny house sight unseen, based on the description given by the agent he had found, courtesy of the rental car clerk. He now intended to look it over and get things ready for its use. The main room was dank and somber, with trash having been swept into one corner. The combined odors of mustiness and spoiled food hung in the air. The room was devoid of any furniture other than a few folding chairs, a futon frame with dingy-looking pad, a table and small refrigerator—its white color obscured by dark smudges and dried food. Cockroaches scurried across the dirty counter that held only a hotplate and open microwave. Mildew rimmed the edges of the chipped porcelain sink, and rust had accumulated where the faucet was slowly dripping brown-tinged water.

As he looked into the few cupboards on the wall, he wondered how long he might have to stay in the awful place and made up his mind he wouldn’t be the one to clean it up. He wandered through an archway into what looked to be the bedroom and found nothing but two old mattresses on the floor and a cot folded up in one corner. The only window was covered from the outside with wrought iron grill work, as were the windows at the front of the house. He noted that as a lucky coincidence. A thin and tattered curtain partially covered the window. Trash had been swept to one corner in this room as well.

Lenny peered into the small bathroom, which was as dirty as the rest of the place, except that he could see rat droppings on the tile floor and in the small sink. The toilet was badly stained, and he pushed down the handle, glad to find it in working order. The window had been nailed shut, and in one corner there was a drain in the floor. A lime-encrusted showerhead dripped rust colored water into a puddle surrounded by a trail of ants. But regardless of how cheaply he had rented the place, the presence of rats was the last straw. Lenny decided that regardless of the house’s purpose, it had to be cleaned before his guests arrived and he was forced to stay there. Any concern was for his comfort alone, and time was short.

Anxious to get out of there, he quickly stuffed the duffle into the back of the only closet. He locked the front door and strode a couple of blocks to the nearest bar, all the while wondering who could have lived in those conditions. The establishment’s interior was cool and rather dark, its general appearance worn and faded. A thin haze of cigarette smoke obscured the patrons and gave the whole scene a shadowy feel. He ordered a beer and settled himself at a corner table near the