Conchetta was waiting on the porch as Ieuan turned along the path towards home. She had her coat on, which was a message rather than a necessity, given the heat. She unfolded her arms, picked up her blue string bag,
and marched to meet him.
"Ah Con.."
"That child." She interrupted, having pointed back to the house, then unable to use the language she wanted, to describe Ieuan's son, repeated herself with an exasperated shake of her head, "That child."
"I'm sorry," Ieuan was unsurprised by this greeting, "what did he do today?"
"Today, today, he will not eat, not a thing, and I cook him what he eats. Then, when I tell him off Pshah! he throws away the plate, breaks it. Wastes good food."
"I'm sorry Conchetta. I will tell him to behave."
"Behave. Ha! He does not understand how to. He needs a good beating." She poked Ieuan's chest with her finger and pushed by, Ieuan watched her haughty stride take her away.
"We'll see you tomorrow?" He called, in fearful hope. She stopped, the back still to him.
"I cleaned up the mess." She half turned and they exchanged sad smiles and she left, swinging her bag, her shoes clack clacking down the street.
"Howell!" Ieuan called, pushing the door shut with his foot and hanging up his coat. He waited and receiving no response, knew where to find his son.
Inside the bedroom he saw a lump under the bedspread, the net curtain caught in a lazy warm draught from window to door and slowly drifted inward, settling like a soft cloud on a row of silver aeroplanes displayed on the cill. Ieuan kicked aside a ragged leather football and sat on the edge of the bed, placed the music box on his lap and closed his tired eyes.
"Conchetta said what you did." There was a muffled sniffle from the lump. "We need her Howell. I need her here so I know you are looked after while I'm at work, and you need her to get you off to school and back, and then get you some dinner."
Ieuan turned the key on the music box and the notes tumbled out, casting a glow of serenity. The lump wriggled and Howell's thick red hair, scrumbled in different directions emerged first and then his red rimmed eyes, which found the music box. His cheeks were wet and he was still wearing his school uniform, creased white shirt and grey shorts. They sat silently until the tune spent its last sounds and Ieuan rewound it but shut the box to keep the music waiting.
"Mama used to sing a song like that." Ieuan closed his eyes again. The boy was like an armadillo at a termite mound, armour plated and always digging, causing no end of damage.
"I'm tired Howell." A warning. He looked at the boy, into those wary green eyes and saw how tired he was too. Ieuan laid a gentle hand on his son's shoulder.
"Do you like the music box?" Howell nodded dumbly.
Ieuan leant forward, his forehead pressed against the side of Howell's coarse hair, encouraging the boy within his arms. Howell gratefully rested his head on his father's chest.
"This is no good Howell. No good for any of us. No more breaking plates or being rude to Conchetta eh?" He felt the boy slowly nod and a little voice spoke muffled in his shirt.
"She says you're going to give me a paddling." Ieuan sighed.
"Who says?" Silence. "Who? Howell. Not the cat's mother. Speak her name respectfully." Silence. A fly buzzed a sedentary circuit of the room.
"Conchetta." Howell whispered.
"Sorry?"
"Conchetta, Conchetta says you'll paddle me." Ieuan gave him a hug.
"I'm not going to paddle you. But everyday you disappoint me with bad behaviour will be another day without dinner." Howell extracted himself from his father's arms with a shocked expression.
"No tea?"
"No tea. Any tantrums tomorrow Howell, and it's no tea then either. I've told Conchetta." He lied. Howell considered this. "You'll either get very good or very thin." Howell buried his head back into his father's chest with a tired sob.
Ieuan opened the box and allowed the music to work its magic, and slowly the boy began to droop sleepily, so Ieuan slid him gently to the covers and laid a protective kiss on each of his hands.
He pushed aside a grubby collection of cigarette cards on the bedside cabinet and left the box still playing. As he made his way to the door, Howell rolled over and called after him.
"Is Mama happy where she's gone?" Ieuan puffed out his cheeks, the armadillo was at work again.
"I don't know Howell. Go to sleep."
(
For beginning of story see Madigan)
Ieuan the Welshman stood at the bus stop, looking at the daily paper, occasionally he checked his watch. He flicked open the paper and tried again but the words just blurred out and he found himself looking at the watch.
He was tired, it was hot and humid, the end of a draining evening shift. Some 10 minutes earlier he'd turned the corner and seen his usual bus away up the street in a pawl of dust. It had left early. The driver had been ahead of schedule so he'd sailed by the stop without waiting.
'Bastard'. Ieuan muttered and shielded his eyes to watch a Southern Caracara circle on the blistering thermals high above. To pass time he ambled up the sidewalk into the shade of an awning from one of the shops, and perused the goods on display.
The pawn broker always had a strange collection. Today laid in rows were: a number of hunting knives, a guitar, opera glasses in a leather case, a stack of cooper pots and pans, a pair of battered shoes (size 10), a stuffed lizard, some watches, a wooden box, he looked more closely at the label, it read 'European Music Box'.
Ieuan checked the street, no sign of the bus, he pushed at the door and went inside where the heat hung in an oppressive cloud without a fan to move it around. The shop was dark, the only light came from the window, which striped on the floor between shadows thrown from a heavy iron grill, to stop pilfering. Opposite an internal door was also locked away behind a cage and the counter area was barred with a close knit of wire, as though to stop glass being thrown through.
There was a rectangular opening in the counter cage which allowed Ieuan to ring a bell. A black shutter flew up and revealed a man in a white sweat puddled vest sat on a stall before a high bench. He had the physique of a flyweight boxer, narrow tight muscles stretched over bones and sinew. He hid something beneath a oily rag and jerked his head up implying 'what?'.
"In the window, the European Music box." The man pretended not to understand. Ieuan was used to it, his accent amused people, they liked to make him speak. He repeated himself. The man jerked his head again.
"You want to buy it?"
"I want to have a look at it." The man scowled.
"You want to buy it or not?" Ieuan turned to leave, "Wait. Wait." The man instructed, he collected a huge ball of keys with a long chain from a hook and disappeared out of the work shop. The internal door to the shop opened and the flyweight reappeared unlocking the cage between himself and Ieuan.
The acrid unwashed odour of the man swarmed into the room, overwhelmed by it Ieuan rubbed his nose. The window bar was unlocked and the man thrust the box into Ieuan's hands.
"Mahogany." He tapped the lid, leaving a sweat finger mark. Ieuan turned the key and was pleasantly surprised by the clarity and gentleness of the tune. The man snorted.
"You want it?" Ieuan pulled a face pretending to be unsure.
"15 Pesos?" He implied it was over priced.
"15." The man confirmed. "Mahogany, European, classical, 5 for each of those."
"I'll give you 5." Ieuan offered, the man reached to take the box back, quickly Ieuan suggested "7." The man wiped his brow with his forearm sending forth a new wave of vinegar stench.
"13. I have a business to run." Ieuan pushed the box into the man's vest with a shake of his head, but the flyweight didn't take it. Behind Ieuan the door opened and the flyweight's eyes flicked away to see the newcomer and quickly back to Ieuan.
"10." He said holding out his hand for the money.
"Okay." Surprised by the quick lowering of the price, Ieuan flicked through a thin clip of notes and paid. Holding the door open was a broad man with a wide brimmed hat and suitcase on the floor beside him. He looked carefully at Ieuan there was a lump in his cheek where he'd stowed a cud of tobacco. He tapped the brim of his hat and unexpectedly smiled, revealing a mouthful of teeth all twisted like a row of rotton tombstones. Ieuan nodded politely and exited, desperate for some fresh air.
The next bus was coming down the hill as Ieuan emerged. He raised his hand and despite the heat sprinted up the road towards the stop. The driver had to bang on the brakes. The bus shuddered to stop.
"Thanks." Ieuan said as he climbed aboard.
"You come out of nowhere."
"I was buying a present for my boy."
(For start of story see 'Madigan')
"When was he found?"
"We took the call at 3am, he was long gone. They'd cleared out the house and dumped the body outside."
"Is it this bad batch again?"
"Possibly, the doc's booked the Post Mortem for later today."
"Any ID?"
"Federico Sosa. I've checked the address out. They confirmed he lodged there. Ran three jobs, bellboy and pot washer at a hotel nearby, and usher at the Colon Theatre."
"That a lot of work for a drug addict."
"Maybe he needed the work to feed his habit, the landlady said he sent money home to his parents up north."
"Previous?"
"Nothing."
"How old?"
"19. Landlady said he was pretty quiet, polite. Kept his room tidy and washed up clean in the bathroom. She wasn't aware of any drugs problem."
"You think he was just unlucky? First timer, bad batch, dead."
"The doctor says it looks like he'd been at it for a while."
"OK. Anything else before we close it down?"
"Just this. It was in his wallet."
"What is it?"
"Looks like a pawn brokers ticket, see here."
"Sergio. Do we know him?"
"Runs a little place near the car plant. A few years ago we searched and found some stolen goods, he got off blaming an employee who we never did manage to track down. No reports since then."
"Segio got clever you mean."
"Uhuh."
"Okay, what've we got here? Gold bracelet 12'', cigarette lighter, Ladies clutch purse with powder compact, music box? what's that doing in this lot? Tortoiseshell opera glasses in leather case. Looks like Freddie had light fingers at the opera. You contacted The Colon yet?"
"No. They had a big premier last night."
"So?"
"No-one available yet today, they're cleaning up after yesterdays performance, a right old fiesta, we had to send extra officers down there to keep the crowds under control.It's in all the papers."
"Not the ones I read. What are you trying to say?"
"No-one's going to remember anything today. The cast and audience were out partying, making sure all the papers got their pictures for todays edition.They probably think they've just left these things in whatever bar or hotel they were drinking in."
"Have we confirmed Federico was working last night?"
"Not yet. It would have been easy for him in a big crowd, who notices an usher walking around with a tray of drinks?"
"Exactly. He collects a nice little haul, nips down to Sergio's, gets a tidy amount, buys a fix, but he can't take it home in case the landlady throws him out. So he buys a bed out the back where he over doses or the coke is bad, Good Evening St Peter. The dealers get everyone out, throw him on the street and set up shop somewhere new."
"Looks like it."
"His Mama isn't going to happy when you go knocking."
"Me? Can't we get the local boys to deal with it?"
"Sure."
"I'll get the doc's report in and notify the family."
"Good. I want this body out of here and up the rails back home ASAP."
"Yes Sir."
(For begining of this story see 'Madigan')
Conchetta was waiting on the porch as Ieuan turned along the path towards home. She had her coat on, which was a message rather than a necessity, given the heat. She unfolded her arms, picked up her blue string bag, and marched to meet him.
