The place was intended to look elegant, but it smelled of mold, cheap air freshener, and even cheaper perfume. Despite the low light inside, Manuel saw that the paint was peeling along the baseboards. The warmth inside did nothing to counter the moisture glistening on the walls. The humidity was invisible but almost tangible, an intensification of the oppressive feeling that had enveloped Manuel since he arrived in Galicia.
A dozen men sprawled in armchairs of imitation leather. They were variously involved with about the same number of scantily clad women. Another two men at the bar were buying drinks for girls who’d sidled up to whisper in their ears. Nogueira was pleased to find an open corner at the bar. He took a seat and motioned to Manuel to do the same. He openly surveyed the clients.
A bartender in his fifties attended to them promptly. “Good evening, Lieutenant. What’ll it be?”
“A gin and tonic.” He jerked a thumb at Manuel. “And—?”
“A beer.”
“A beer!” said Nogueira scornfully. “Have a drink, man!”
“A beer will do,” said Manuel to the bartender, who nodded and got busy with the drinks.
“And, Carlos, tell Nieves we’re here.”
The man gestured toward upstairs. “She’s busy, but she won’t be long.”
Soon afterward a woman came down a set of stairs from some obscure locale above. Manuel caught the envious looks of some of the girls and the sudden tension that made them straighten up.
It was hard to guess Nieves’s age; she could have been anywhere in her thirties or forties. Her blonde hair was cut so it fell straight across her shoulders. She was short and not particularly shapely. Her relatively wide-set eyes might have been blue, but of a shade that the dim bar lighting made look almost black. The hard set of her mouth suggested the merciless determination needed to run a place like this. Nogueira greeted her with a kiss on either cheek, and Manuel shook her hand.
Nogueira was quick to pay when she asked the bartender for a drink. She sipped it.
The policeman was in a hurry. “So tell him what you told me yesterday.”
Her expression was provocative. “All of it?”
He did his best to hide the smile that flickered beneath his mustache. “You know what I mean.”
The woman feigned innocence as she made eyes at them across the rim of her glass. “As you like. But remember I’m sharing this as a special favor to the lieutenant.” With great dignity she declared, “If there’s one thing I insist on in this house, it’s discretion.”
Nogueira nodded, still impatient.
“Lots of VIPs here, you know?” she confided, instantly undercutting her previous assurance. “Top brass from the military, board members of big corporations, mayors . . .”
Nogueira’s exasperation was becoming more evident, but he tried sweet talk. “Come on, darling little Nieves.” He broke into Gallego. “Que non temos toda a noite.”
She pouted. “I know we haven’t got all night. Listen, se?or, yesterday I reminded the lieutenant that don Santiago is a well-respected regular client. He visits us at least every other week, sometimes more often. Sometimes his brother comes with him.”
Nogueira held up his cell phone with a photo of álvaro. “When was the last time?”
“His brother? It’s been a while. Months. But don Santiago was here maybe two weeks ago.” She tapped the screen image with one bright-colored artificial nail. “Yes, that guy. I don’t know his name, but he’s the one. The good-looking guy.”
Manuel stared at the photo in disbelief. “Are you sure?”
“Not a doubt in the world. He liked to take ‘Baby’ upstairs. She isn’t a baby, really,” the woman added quickly. “She’s nineteen, but we call her Baby, because she’s the youngest by a long shot. And hardly developed at all.” She waved toward a girl who was giving a client a languid lap dance. “She’s busy right now.”
Baby did look young. A long sweep of brunette hair covered her shoulders, and her dark-skinned legs were thin. An unsuspected strength became evident from her rippling muscles as she teased the john. Manuel leaned over and caught a glimpse of delicate feminine features. He found he was attracted despite himself by her sensuous dance moves and the suggestive fluttering of her hands.
Nieves’s voice seemed to come from far away. “Don Santiago usually goes with Mili, but he doesn’t mind an occasional switch. Mili’s not here tonight. Her mother’s dying. For the second time this year,” she added with malice. “If she croaks, Mili’ll be back in a couple of days; and if it’s another false alarm, she’ll be back tomorrow. ’Cause I already warned her it’s about time for her mama to make her mind up once and for all whether she’s going to kick the bucket.”
“All right,” Nogueira replied. “At least we can talk to the other one.”
“You’ll have to wait your turn. Right now she’s busy. Looks like it might take a while.”
Baby couldn’t have heard the brothel owner’s comment, but she rose and enticed her client to the back stairs. She looked back toward Manuel, and for a fleeting moment their eyes met. She ascended the shadowed stairs, unaware of the abyss her dark glance had torn in his heart. His eyes followed her until she melted into the shadows. He woke from his trance and turned to Nogueira. “Let’s go.”
“Be patient, man, it won’t take long. Never mind what little Nieves says. Around here ‘a while’ is never more than half an hour.”
The owner gave him a wry little smile and sauntered out to benches where men were lounging. She paused, turned, and eyed Nogueira. Nothing was said. She gave him a little nod of invitation. The policeman responded immediately. “Won’t be long,” he muttered. He tossed a fifty-euro bill on the bar to feed the tab and gestured to the barkeep to keep the newcomer supplied.
Disconcerted and feeling completely out of place, Manuel accepted the glass of draft beer the bartender delivered with great ceremony. He’d have preferred to drink straight from a bottle. Unwilling to meet the bartender’s eyes, he took a swallow. With an ominous hiss on his palate, the bubbly liquid blended with the unpleasant tang of air freshener from a vaporizer above the bar. He stared at the foam rapidly subsiding on the amber surface of the beer. He left his glass on the polished wooden surface of the counter and went outside.
The rain had settled into a regular rhythm likely to continue all night. He cursed his lack of foresight in not driving his own car. He looked bleakly at Nogueira’s old BMW. Lit by the hectic neon lights, the vehicle looked like a reject from a carnival ride. The opaque windshield was a sign the interior was still warm. The temperature had fallen. The almost tangible presence of humidity enveloped him like a clammy shroud, even in the shelter of the awning. He went out into the rain and walked to the edge of the road. The road was hung in both directions with uncertain mists that obscured the hot brilliant neon. He was only a few yards from the club, but the mist had already covered up its gaudy beckoning call. The lot was almost deserted, but traffic was heavy. Cars sped past with little heed for the beating rain. He sensed a malevolence in their unceasing flow, as if every few seconds a new driver were deliberately trying to blind him by projecting those shafts of dazzling brilliance against the curtain of rain.