The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [136]
“Hola,” he said.
He was standing at the far end of the dishwashing station. He had a knife in his hand. Slobodan slowed down and steadied himself against the dishwashing machine.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted in English. “Get out!”
“Take it easy,” Manuel said, his smile only getting wider. “We have some things in common. Have you forgotten? I am happy here, and I am useful.”
Slobodan stared at the Mexican. That insolent devil was laughing at him! He recalled the old conflict so many years ago in Malmö. That time he was the one who had been holding the knife.
“Leave!” he screamed.
“I will work a couple of more days,” Manuel said calmly. “Then I’ll go. But by then maybe you have disappeared.”
Slobodan stared, astounded at him. Not a trace of yesterday’s meekness remained. Was it the knife that made the difference? Was he so damned impudent that he was threatening him?
“What are you talking about? What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”
“You are sitting on a fortune; it must be tempting to see other places,” Manuel said with a smile.
Slobodan turned on his heel, pushed open the doors to the dining room, and left. He walked right up to the bar and told Måns to pour him a large Bowmore.
“Has be been fired?” Måns asked, and Slobodan could sense the criticism behind the innocent question.
“That’s none of your damn business.”
Mans made a face, reached for the whiskey bottle, and poured Slobodan a glass.
“He’s still here, in other words,” Måns said, grinning.
By the time the glass was half-empty, Slobodan had managed to calm himself somewhat. It was really not worth getting upset about. The Mexican had a need to assert himself and feel good about himself for once. Slobodan decided to forget about him. He had said he would leave in a couple of days. Never again would he use any of those tortilla guys. In future he would stick to Spaniards.
The reason for his clemency, and he freely admitted this to himself, was that the man’s unusual generosity in delivering the unexpected load of cocaine had solved many problems. After the fateful fire at Konrad’s house he had suddenly found himself without any goods, unable to distribute what he had promised, and that was devastating. The clients would sour and find new channels.
So certainly he was justified in celebrating with a glass or two. He wondered how Manuel had managed to get a hold of the drugs in Germany. He was probably not as innocent as he had made himself out to be. He had probably been with Angel on his journey up through Europe, and then when the brother died, he had simply taken over. They are alike, Slobodan thought smugly, hold up a couple of dollars and they come running.
He waved his chubby hand and Måns poured him a beer.
“Is this going to be a repeat performance?” he asked, but Slobodan did not have time to answer before the bartender had turned his back.
Johnny and Donald were busy picking up in the kitchen, rinsing the floor, and cleaning the stovetops. Tessie and Eva were clearing the tables in the dining room while at the same time being attentive to the remaining guests. A party of six that had eaten their way through appetizers, main courses, and desserts had asked for coffee and cognac, and Eva guessed that they would be sitting around for a while. Apart from them, the room was getting empty. A young couple Eva had served paid and left. They had left a tip of one hundred kronor. A hundred kronor, she thought. I can’t have been so bad. She placed the small tray with the money on the counter with a certain measure of pride. Måns entered the amount, tucked the hundred kronor note in a large partition where the tips were kept, and turned to her and smiled.
“Did you notice that they were newly in love?”
Eva nodded. She had felt old when she looked at them, even though there was probably no more than ten years between her and the couple. She had felt a tinge of envy when she had seen how he placed his hand over hers, how they had joked and bantered with each other, sometimes lowering their voices and whispering