Gunrunner by Graham Ison

get a job as a driver with Kerry Trucking when he’d got that sort of form, guv?’ asked Tom Challis, the ex-Stolen Car Squad sergeant, who took an interest in anything on wheels.
    ‘They probably didn’t take up references,’ I said, ‘but we’ll ask Bernard Bligh when next we see him.’
    ‘When d’you propose to do that?’ asked Dave.
    ‘Tomorrow, I think, Dave, but this evening we’ll pay a visit to the Spanish Fly, and see what Señor Rodriguez has to say for himself.’ I glanced around until I spotted DC Chance. ‘You’re a Spanish speaker, aren’t you, Nicola?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Good, then you’d better come with us in case his English is a bit shaky.’
    The Spanish Fly nightclub occupied large premises in Mayfair. Over the door there was a depiction of a blister beetle.
    ‘I wonder why he called it the Spanish Fly, Dave.’
    ‘Probably because of the misconception that Spanish fly is supposed to be an aphrodisiac, guv,’ suggested Dave. ‘Might be good for business.’
    We approached the door and Dave pressed the bell.
    It was opened by a shaven-headed individual, who appeared to be too large to fit into his badly cut dinner jacket.
    ‘Are you members?’ he enquired politely, glancing suspiciously at the three of us, and fingering his earring.
    ‘I don’t think we’d want to be,’ said Dave, producing his warrant card.
    ‘Ah! Is there a problem I can help you with, sir?’ The doorman looked at me. He clearly didn’t fancy engaging in a prolonged conversation with Dave.
    ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘We’ve come to see Mr Rodriguez.’
    ‘Just step inside, lady and gents, and I’ll see if he’s available.’ The shaven-headed one turned to a house telephone and made a call. Within minutes of his replacing the receiver a young girl appeared. Attired in a furry bikini, she had long legs encased in the inevitable fishnet tights, and wore abnormally high-heeled shoes. ‘This is Carmel,’ said the bouncer, ‘and she’ll take you to Mr Rodriguez’ office.’
    We followed Carmel through the gloomy area of the nightclub. It was crowded to capacity with small candlelit tables, each of which was occupied, and upon which champagne seemed to outweigh any other form of beverage. Some were being served by girls wearing similar outfits to that worn by Carmel. On a dance floor not much bigger than a pocket handkerchief, a number of couples were shuffling around to the accompaniment of a three-piece combo dressed in Spanish costumes. At the far end was a bar, its clients, male and female, perched on high stools.
    Carmel eventually showed us into an office where we were greeted by a man of indefinable age. He wore a silky sort of dinner jacket, and had jet-black hair plastered closely to his skull. Sideburns adorned his face and terminated in a point almost at his mouth. There was no doubt that he was Spanish, at least in appearance.
    ‘Mr Rodriguez?’ I asked.
    ‘That is I, señor . I understand that you are from the police. I can assure you, señor , that I run a respectable club here. We have many distinguished patrons, including some lords and ladies. There is even a member of royalty who comes here occasionally, but I have to pretend I do not know who that person is. Also, I have many inspections from your Vice Squad, and they are completely satisfied.’ Unsurprisingly, the entire monologue was spoken with a pronounced Spanish accent.
    ‘Bully for you,’ said Dave. ‘How well d’you know Kerry Hammond?’
    ‘Please take a seat, señors and señorita ,’ said Rodriguez with a flourish of his hand. ‘May I offer you a drink?’ His other hand hovered over a bottle of whisky on his desk.
    I got the impression that Rodriguez was playing for time. ‘No thank you,’ I said, ‘but perhaps you’d answer my sergeant’s question.’
    ‘Ah, Señora Hammond. A beautiful lady,’ exclaimed Rodriguez. ‘She comes here many times, and with her husband, also, occasionally. Yes, I know