Seagulls in My Soup by Tristan Jones Page A

scattered on the carpet, and slid through the double doors of the Royal Suite.
    There was a moment’s silence after the Frenchman left, until Shiner clapped me on the shoulder. “Well, mates, what d’ye think of this pad,” he said. He strode over to the wide windows, the length of the room, and swept his arm out over the view of the whole city of Málaga, laid out below like a map.
    â€œMust have cost a bloody packet, Shiner,” I observed.
    â€œTwo hundred bucks a day,” he replied, “but it’s worth it. If you’re doing business with the Frogs or locals, then it pays to have your nest . . .
well-feathered,
my old son.”
    He took Tony and me by the arms, led us over the pile of banknotes on the floor, and escorted us through the doorway into the hall.
    I turned to Shiner. “What about all that akkers . . . all that money on the floor?”
    â€œOh, these blokes in this hotel—and the sheilas, too—are as honest as the day is long. They won’t touch it.”
    â€œDon’t you think it’s a bit . . . ostentatious?” asked Tony in a querulous tone as we strode to the elevator.
    â€œWell, I could have put it in the desk, but if they see it there they’d think I don’t trust ’em . . . and you know how the Spanish are.” Shiner spoke as if to a pair of schoolboys.
    Tony and I took that in silently as the elevator dropped from the Olympian of the Royal Suite down to levels of ordinary mortality.
    Shiner did us proud that night. First he showed us our rooms so we could drop our seabags. Both rooms had twin beds. “If you trip over any sheilas . . .” commented Shiner, winking at us. “Only natural, anyway.” Then he treated us to a slap-up nosh—tiny eels, steak, baked potatoes, and fresh whiting, all washed down with the best Amontillado. Afterward, as we sipped Napoleon brandy on the restaurant terrace overlooking the million lights of Málaga and under a hundred thousand stars, I grinned at Shiner. “That French bloke . . . what’s his name . . . Pierre . . . seems to be a pretty all-right feller?”
    â€œOh, yes,” replied Shiner. “I’m glad you followed my lead about your boats being in Gibraltar.” He looked at me craftily over his brandy glass. “The less these blokes know about your assets and their whereabouts, the better, eh?”
    â€œYeah,” I replied as Tony peered at the pair of us.
    â€œAnyway,” continued Shiner, “how do you feel about the money side, Tris?”
    â€œGreat. It looks like Tony and I, and our crews, will be set up for the whole winter.”
    â€œWell, as soon as Pierre mentioned his problem to me . . . he’s an acquaintance of a friend . . . I thought about you and the way you’ve been scrounging around to stay afloat and make a living. So I put in a good word for you.”
    â€œThanks, mate. I’ll remember that when I see some good beach-front property for sale cheap, somewhere that’s ripe for development,” I offered.
    Shiner grinned. “Hope to Christ it’s not in Greenland!”
    Tony the Specs laughed out loud at this. Then the three of us adjourned to the bar and spent an hour or two cracking yarns.
    As I fell asleep that night I reminded myself to ask Reynaud for a fifty-percent advance on the delivery fee the next day, so I could send some of it to
Cresswell
and Nelson and Sissie, to cheer them up.
    When Tony and I met Reynaud at the hotel in the morning he was dressed much less formally, but still all in black. He wore a black leather jacket over a black shirt and pants, and calf-length black leather boots. As we approached him he sailed up so brightly that I was afraid he might grab us and kiss us on both cheeks in the habitual French way. Instead he shook our hands and hurried us out of the hotel,