SWING WAS SITTING outside a cafe that was offering all-you-can-eat English breakfasts for five euros. It was a tatty place but they did a good cup of tea and the owner, Mike, a tattooed, balding ex-con, just wanted a quiet life and as such made the best breakfast in Benalmedena and kept himself to himself.
Swing took a handkerchief from his pocket with his initials JR embroidered on one corner – his real name was John Russell – and mopped his brow. The fact that his initials were JR but at times he felt more like Sue Ellen wasn’t lost on him. Since the debacle at the wedding the year before where, as Markie’s best man, he let slip after too much booze and a couple of Es that he’d slept with the bride, Swing had become persona non grata within the Markie and Mac empire. He and Markie had made an uneasy truce and Markie had made it clear that he could come back and earn but that he didn’t want any dealings with him; he had to work through Mac. Mac was alright, Swing thought, but he was getting on a bit and his incessant stories about the old days, blokes he’d never heard of who were still serving twenty in Strangeways because they were being loyal to some nob-head who’d long since died, could grate.
Swing wiped the handkerchief across the top of his bald head and pocketed it again. ‘Everything alright?’ Mike asked, clearing Swing’s plate.
‘Lovely,’ Swing said, patting his non-existent stomach. Swing was a gym man. That was one of the reasons that a trip to the Costas wasn’t something that particularly floated his boat. He spent as much time in Fizeek, Bradington’s number one steroid gym, as he could. He felt like training kept him sane. He wasn’t into steroids, not any more. He’d seen too many people messed up on them. But here in the apartment where they were staying, the thing that they tried to pass off as a gym was like one of those all-in-one affairs from the Argos catalogue. Swing could have lifted the entire thing above his head if he wanted to.
He quite fancied the idea of opening his own place out here, but that took time and money. He had plenty of time; it was money he was short of. He hated the fact that he was still at the beck and call of Markie even though he wouldn’t even look him in the eye these days. They’d grown up together, been mates throughout school. But one stupid mistake – and it was a stupid mistake in Swing’s opinion; Markie’s ex Mandy had been nothing to write home about – and he was cast aside, forever to do what Mac wanted him to do. And Swing was finding that what Mac wanted him to do was increasingly more extreme. He felt that Mac was becoming ruled by his ego. But Swing wasn’t about to tell him that; he needed the work too much. Take this weekend, for instance. Swing had been sent on a wild goose chase. He’d had to come over here on a false passport, in Mac’s name, and now he was sitting here like a lemon, waiting for Mac to turn up, to receive further instructions, like some half-baked Bond villain. Where was Mac? he wondered. His plane was due in at eleven; he should be here by now. Swing wondered how many passports Mac had and why he felt the need to have so many; it was hardly like he was Ronnie Biggs.
Swing watched a taxi draw up at the side of the road. He pulled his aviator shades down and watched Mac get out of the car. He had a small weekend bag with him; he didn’t look like he was intending to stay long, but you never knew what Mac was planning from one minute to the next.
Mac walked towards him. Swing almost laughed. Today he reminded him of the Man from Delmonte – all George Peppard hair and chinos. Mac shook his hand and sat down, ordering a beer from Mike.
‘Thought you’d be drinking G & Ts,’ Swing said, taking a swipe at Mac’s attire.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’ve had a hard week. I don’t need any smartarsery from you.’
Swing didn’t respond.
‘Right. There’s another passport in there. I need you home on it this aft. I’ve got some sorting out I need you to do then you’re back here as fast as your little legs can carry you. And make sure no one sees you, yeah?’
Swing nodded. That was all Swing ever seemed to do when Mac was around, nod. Nod like Mac’s own personal nodding dog.