"Fair Deal at La Cabeza del Toro"



Terri Baker, a pretty twenty-five year old with blue-eyes and medium length auburn hair, disembarked with a song in her heart knowing that she had four weeks' shore leave. She was wearing her favourite off-duty outfit of hipster jeans, a short white top and flat casual soft shoes, whilst over her shoulder she carried her much loved 'kitchen sink' leather bag.
    
Perhaps May is the most beautiful time in England. Perhaps not. But the light drizzle which greeted her in Portsmouth in no way dampened her spirits, for surely there'd be sunshine tomorrow? And for a period she could forget her chosen career, forget all about a life at sea, and as with ships' crews down through the centuries, enjoy her home-coming.

After ten days of torrential rain, she was not so certain, and loitered with more than casual interest inside the porch of the travel agents in her little home city of Wells, in Somerset. The best offers seemed to centre on The Costa del Sol, Ibiza and Mallorca. Why not? Why not - she could kill two birds with one stone, and knew in Ibiza she'd at least be sure of a generous welcome from her Spanish Grandmother.....
     
     *     *     *     *     *

Felix Gresham was not really a nice man, although in reality he himself had never even considered the matter. Nevertheless, for those who bothered to look, his character showed clearly in his appearance. A small man, with dark ferrety eyes that were rarely still, thin lips which matched his frame - almost underweight - and with raised bones prominent in his skinny hands. His clothing always drab and well-used, partly due to his meanness, and partly because he feared being thought of as wealthy, lest it was considered his business prospered too much.

An early career working for a bank in his native Zurich had come to an abrupt end when he had been discovered laundering money, the product of a U.S. security van heist, for a substantial back-hander in good ol' American greenback dollars. In the Swiss way, it had of course all been hushed up, but he was left in no doubt that his own career with any Swiss financial institution was over.

His name then, of course, was not the English sounding 'Felix Gresham', but that was many years ago. Now he had his Spanish 'Residencia' and his 'Fiscal', both of which gave evidence that he was a person to be trusted, and officially accepted as a resident of Ibiza.

He ran what he liked to consider a high class antiques and 'objets d'art' shop, based just off the Vara de Rey in Ibiza Town, where, although he had a few larger items of furniture on display, he specialised in small items easily carried home in tourists' suitcases. His most profitable regular line was a range of genuine ancient Ibicencan wooden figures, carved from either olive wood or very hard sabena pine. The fact that they were anything but ancient, volume-produced in an African village, and came over from Morocco in a rusty Transit van driven by a black Moorish 'Looky-Looky' man called Abdul Amir rested lightly on his conscience but heavily on his ever-growing bank balance.

Some of the articles in his shop were genuine, such as the slightly damaged set of willow-pattern plates on display, the Grandmother clock by the old English makers 'Masons of Rotherham', or the set of porcelain thimbles, and some of these items represented bargains, for in truth he was not an accurate valuer of antiques. His skill lay more in working egg white and cow's urine into brass to instantly age it, or taking a small dark oil painting produced in the style of the Dutch masters by a Belgian artist living in San Miguel, and placing it in the Ibiza sunshine until the oil paint started to crack, creating just that small element of doubt in the mind of a potential buyer as to its true age. Oddly enough, his best line of sales patter with the dark cracked oil paintings was partly honest, "I'm afraid I know nothing about paintings - not my line at all," he'd say truthfully, before adding, "in fact I bought it with some items of furniture from the estate of a very old Dutch lady who'd lived here for many years."
    
In that way, and taking care to only ever have one of the paintings on display at a time, he averaged a sale of one every two weeks throughout the main holiday season, with the majority of the optimistic purchasers coming from the Netherlands itself.
    
Every day, he closed his shop early by Ibicencan standards at seven pm, having learnt that the richer tourists would generally be back in their villas or hotels by then, prior to re-emerging to see the sights sometime after ten. In high season, he re-opened at that time for a couple of hours until midnight, finding that people happy with drink and possibly a good meal inside them were apt to spend their money more freely.
    
He was a man of habit, carefully locking the day's takings away in the floor safe, concealed underneath a metre-high carved wooden Indian elephant, before collecting his Renault car from an underground carpark for the twenty minute drive home to Santa Eulalia, where he lived alone in a small house, Casa Tengo, which he always referred to as 'his villa'. Having parked his car at the side of Casa Tengo, he would head for a nearby Spanish bar called 'La Cabeza del Toro' - 'The Bull's Head' - which he liked for its mixed race clientele, its lack of TV or music, and its general ambiance.
    
La Cabeza del Toro is as typical as a Spanish pub can be - chunky wooden furniture, wooden beams with a few 'jamóns' hanging from them, a selection of beers on tap and a greater selection in the bottle, and probably best of all, an attractive and frequently replenished counter of tasty and reasonably priced 'tapas' produced by the owner's wife, Maria.
    
Often, for he was not a big eater, two snacks of Maria's tapas was sufficient for an evening meal for Felix Gresham. And of course that meant he'd fed himself without having either to cook or fork out for a proper restaurant dinner.
    
Entering the pub, and ignoring the Spanish custom of paying for his food and drink only upon leaving, he placed exactly the right change on the bar, picked up the small glass of dry sherry which had been produced without his even asking by the rotund bar owner, Diego, and returned with it to his customary corner seat. Smugly pleased with himself, he had good reason. For was it not less than two hours ago that a fellow dealer had offered €750 for the brooch he carried in his waistcoat pocket? And was it not only last week that he had paid just €20 for the self same brooch?
    
His thin lips tightened and spread into what he fondly thought was a smile, but would have been described by anyone watching as a smirk. He closed his eyes and recalled the stupid old woman, wearing a traditional black Spanish dress and headscarf, who'd sold it to him. The razor sharp cunning he had developed over a life-time dealing in other people's prized possessions had at once informed him both that the old twit had no idea of the value of the item, and was also desperate for some cash. Expecting to have to go to €50, he'd been pleasantly surprised when she'd accepted his first offer. Then she'd called him 'Señor', and humbly added 'mucho gracias' as she left his shop.
    
'Silly old bat,' he thought, and sipped his sherry in satisfaction.
   
A girl, wearing hipster jeans and a short white top, pretty, with blue eyes and auburn hair - although such attributes were lost upon him - was perched on a stool at the bar, and entertaining some of the regulars with card tricks. Or rather, her incompetence at card tricks, for Felix Gresham's quick eyes spotted that money was changing hands. And most of it away from the girl, who was unknown to him.
    
Intrigued, Gresham joined them. The girl explained that she was trying to learn a new trick that her boyfriend had shown her just before she left England. She fanned out the cards face down. Would Gresham be kind enough to choose one? Gresham would. And kindly replace it? He did.
    
Gresham noted that the girl was not very dextrous with the cards, and had no hesitation in a friendly wager of twenty cents on her ability to produce the correct card.
    
She dealt the cards one by one face upwards into a single pile. Just over half the way through the pack, she hesitated in turning over a card. "This was the card you chose," she said with a confident and not uncultured west country accent, turning over the King of Diamonds.
    
Gresham smirked, again fondly imagining he'd grinned. "Sorry, it was the Ace of Clubs," he replied in his usual whining squeaky voice, as he happily trousered the twenty cents.
    
The pretty girl smiled wryly. "Give me another chance?" she asked. "Perhaps for a slightly higher stake?"
    
Warning bells rang in Gresham's head. Was this a set up? "Alright," he agreed, "but only for the twenty cents."
    
The girl shuffled the pack, a little clumsily, then again fanned them face down for Gresham to select a card. The other locals, watching over his shoulder, saw that he had taken the Queen of Spades. He returned the card, still face down, to the pack, which the girl then cut. Next, and just as she had done before, she started dealing out the cards, one by one and face up, into a single pile.
    
Gresham watched, subconsciously counting the cards. 21, 22, 23, 24 - the Queen of Spades. The girl had missed it, continued dealing. 25, 26, 27, 28. Gresham watched, said nothing. Then she hesitated over the 29th card.
   
 "I know I'm right this time," she said. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to raise the stake a little?"
    
Gresham, secure in his knowledge of the girl's error, had no hesitation. "I'm a sporting man" - the greed shone from his eyes - "make it a euro if you like. Even five."
    
The girl eyed him confidently. "I come from a long line of gamblers myself - Dad was a bookie, before he went broke. I'll make it as high as you like. What say a hundred euros?"
    
Gresham could hardly believe his luck - after the brooch, this was too much. "A hundred - five hundred! Whatever you like." He had difficulty keeping the tremor from his voice, which had suddenly moved an octave higher.
    
Then caution entered. Supposing the girl didn't pay up? "I trust you have that sort of money?" he added.
    
Without a word, she withdrew from her enormous leather bag a sealed polythene bank packet, bearing the legend '€1000 - 20 x €50'.
    
"You're prepared to bet that?" Gresham squeaked.
    
The girl nodded.
    
Gresham was by now sweating with excitement, his hands hot and moist. He produced his wallet and counted out the contents - €400, and this he placed it on the bar.
    
"You want to bet the €400?" asked the girl.
    
Gresham could hardly get his breath. "No, no - the full thousand. Eagerly he pulled out the brooch. "Only today I was offered €750 for this - I'll put it in instead of the €600."
    
The girl picked up the brooch and examined it. "I'll accept that in the pot instead of €500, but not €600." Gresham wasn't really bothered - he wasn't going to lose anyway. "Alright, I'll put in a cheque for €100."
    
"No cheques."
    
Gresham was stumped. Should he reduce the bet to €900? That would be throwing a hundred away. He called the barman.
    
"Diego, will you cash a cheque for a hundred euros, drawn on Banca March?" He tried to keep calm.
    
The bar owner nodded. "I should think you're okay for that, Señor Gresham."
    
Eagerly, Gresham's scrabbling fingers wrote the cheque, then grabbed the two fifty euro notes as the barman handed them over.
    
"There, €1,000 - now let's see the card!"
    
The girl held up his hand. "First in view of the amount of the bet, I think you should write down your card on a piece of paper."
    
The barman ripped the top sheet from his pad, and passed it to Gresham. Gresham wrote 'Queen of Spades', unseen of course by the girl.
    
The girl looked at the others. "Has he written down the correct card?"
    
Gresham coloured. "What are you...."
    
The girl cut him short. "No offence meant, of course."
    
The locals nodded.
    
Gresham folded the piece of paper, and placed it with the brooch and the little pile of money.
    
"Now show me my card!" he demanded.
    
The girl ignored him. "Before I accept the bet," she said, "let's be certain that we both agree what it is." She paused. "I bet you one thousand euros to your five hundred and that brooch, that the next card I show you will be the card you chose, and have written down on the piece of paper. Is that correct?"
    
"Yes, yes, that's correct. Now show me the card."
    
"If you insist," the girl murmured. She picked up the pack. Then she smiled, and put it down again. Instead, she picked up the discarded pile, and flipped quickly back through the top few cards until she came to the Queen of Spades. She turned the other cards over, face down, leaving only the Queen of Spades face up.
   
 "This is the next card I'm showing you, and I believe it's the card you chose." She picked up the piece of paper, and unfolded it. "Yes, I had an idea I was right." She then allowed her pretty face to break into a lovely smile as she scooped up the cash and pushed it into her bag.
    
Felix Gresham had heard the expression 'speechless', but never quite believed it. Until now. His eyes had popped nearly out of their sockets, and his strangled voice wouldn't come. He was actually speechless.
   
 The girl picked up the brooch. "Nice to have this back again."
   
 Gresham found his voice. "You - you cheated me! And what do you mean, 'nice to have this back again'?"
    
"I did not cheat you, Mr. Gresham - you thought I had made a mistake and sought to take my money because of it. But then, you're used to taking other people's money, aren't you?"
    
"You cheated me - you know I thought you were going to the other pile!"
    
"Mr. Gresham, I have no idea how or what a mean and greedy person like you thinks, but I suggest you mind your tongue - I'm getting a little tired of being called a cheat when I'm not, and might just lose my temper. I should perhaps warn you that I'm a karate black belt, by the way." The girl's voice had gained steel. "It was a fair bet, and had you not been greedy, you wouldn't now be five grand poorer."
    
"Five grand - what on earth are you talking about?"
    
The girl eyed the brooch lovingly. "This brooch - it's only a month ago that I paid four and a half thousand U.S. dollars for it in Singapore. It has to be worth at least that in euros here. And then of course there's the cash."
    
She could see that Gresham didn't understand.
   
"I suppose you'd like me to explain?"
    
Gresham nodded.
    
"I'm an entertainer on a cruise liner - mainly magic and cards - though I make more money from poker than in wages," she added happily. "I thought that brooch would make a nice present for my old Spanish Gran, so I bought it and sent it to her only four weeks ago. I'd no idea that she was so hard up, of course, or I'd have given her the cash instead - she'd just been too proud to tell me. But when I asked her if she liked her present, and learnt the truth about what had happened to it, I became so angry I knew I had to do something to get even with the man Gran called a nice antique dealer. She sobbed when she confessed that she'd sold it to Señor Gresham for €20. So yesterday I followed you from your shop, assumed you were a man of habit, and today I was ready for you. Wasn't I, Mr Gresham?
    
The light dawned on Gresham. "The old..."
    
"'Fool'? 'Bat'? Or more likely, 'Sucker'?" the girl interjected. "What exactly was the word you were searching for, Mr. Gresham?"
    
Gresham's eyes dropped, and he didn't answer.
    
"Anyway," the girl continued, "I've got it back now, and with a bit of interest."
    
She dropped the brooch in her bag to join the cash, slapped Felix Gresham on the back, and her tight bum wiggling jauntily, walked happily from the pub.
     
___________________________________________________________________

First published as an eBook in 2013 by Acorn Classics House Ltd., PO Box 1565, Wedmore, Somerset, BS28 4YA, United Kingdom

Copyright  ©  Trev Hunt 2013 ~ The right of Trev Hunt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988, and all rights are reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. This eBook is to be read on-screen and no part may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, stored or introduced in any form whatsoever into any information storage and/or retrieval system without the express written permission of the copyright owner.
   
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places of incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

eISBN 978-0-9548058-2-1 (The collection of stories called 'Ibiza Shorts') ~ eBook conversion by www.ebookpartnership.com

___________________________________________________________________

     If you enjoyed this story, please tell your friends by email, Twitter, Facebook, blog or even face to face over a beer or a cup of coffee. Also why not buy the full collection of 14 stories - plus a bonus free poem ? ! ?

I like people to read my books!

Kindest regards,

Trev Hunt

Somerset, UK.