Steering with his knees, Chris dipped a coin into the baggy nestled between his thighs. His focus on the coin as he lifted it to his nose and sniffed. In the passenger seat, Ricky watched this gyroscopically narcissistic display with rising anger. He imagined what his old man would make of this. Fly into an apoplectic rage, that vein in his temple throbbing. Ricky's father, hands at 2 and 10, eyes forward, back straight type of guy.

Though, now that he thought of it, Chris' blatant disregard for road safety was not the issue. His flagrant use of coke was getting up Ricky's nose. Ricky, not enjoying the reminder of what he was missing out on. Being around people drinking didn't bother him. He'd had a love/hate relationship with alcohol anyway. But seeing that tempting chang made his nostrils quiver.

Chris glanced his way. "Sorry mate, I wasn't thinking. Fancy a toot?" Dangling that baggie between his thumb and forefinger like a forbidden fruit.

"I'm good," Ricky said, turning his face to the open window. Catching a brief scent of orange blossom as they blew past a citrus grove.

"You know what I miss about Ireland?"

Chris sniffed. "The constant rain?"

"Funny. The smell of fresh cut grass."

Chris sniffed again. "I don't smell nothing. My hooters blocked-up worse than Elvis' shitter."

Ricky stared at him with incredulity. "Course you can't smell it. We're in a semi-desert, ain't no grass need cutting. That's why I said I miss it."

"Alright mate, no need to get the hump about it."

"When you were young, you get that fresh green scent of a just-mowed lawn, you knew summer was on the way."

"What're ya worried about? This is Spain. It's Summer eight months of the year." Chris missing the point, as usual. Ricky was about to tell him as much when he sneezed. His allergies playing up. "Sure you don't want a toot? Sort those sinuses right out."

"Jesus tap-dancing christ, how's coke gonna sort my hay-fever out?"

Chris looking at him, now, with a smarmy half-grin. "What's with that daft American accent?"

"I don't got an accent," Ricky said. Defensive.

"You sound like a Paddy what's been raised on a diet of Pam Grier movies."

"I lived in Boston for a while. You spend enough time in a place, you pick up linguistic hitch-hikers."

"You've been here nigh on fourteen years and I don't hear you speaking like Enrique Iglesias, eh Ricardo?"

"If you focused on the road as much as you do on my verbal mannerisms, I wouldn't be getting palpitations over here."

"Sunshine, I've been driving since I could barely see over the wheel. I'm Lewis Hamilton on steroids."

Ricky sighed. "You've been playing with your ding-a-ling since you were ten. Don't make you Casanova."

Chris' incessant coke-jabbering died off when they passed under the stone-arch entrance to Quesada village. He muttered something about knowing a few faces 'round this neck of the woods before clamming up.

He didn't speak again until they passed La Marquesa golf course, asking where it was exactly they were going. Ricky, watching a middle-aged man in pleated shorts and a sweat-soaked collared shirt plastered to his gut tee up a shot, tossed out a street name.

They pulled up behind the black SUV parked outside the whitewashed, semi-detached house. Chris adjusted the bill of his red baseball cap. "You need me, or—"

"I only needed a ride," Ricky said, opening the passenger door. "I'd of called a cab. Hop to, and look alive."

Chris hung back, letting Ricky press the buzzer on the intercom embedded in the gatepost. The grubby, tattered yellow and white striped awnings inside in marked contrast to the polished SUV outside. A crackling voice came through the intercom, "Ja?"

Ricky stooped to answer. "Mr Green sent us." Seconds later, the buzz sounded and Ricky pushed the black-barred gate open. A brown liter bottle of beer stood on the concrete table in the shaded seating area. Next to a ceramic ashtray piled high with cigarette butts.

The two men walked around the side of the property, where a railed stair led up to a white PVC door. Before they had gotten halfway up the steps, a gym-built guy with a lantern jaw and cropped white-blond hair opened the door. He looked like a poster boy for the Lebensborn program. Said "Hallo," in curt Hollandish. Ricky thinking to himself, how some of these Dutch dudes looked more Aryan than the Nazis themselves, as the guy's cold blue eyes gave them the once over.

The air in the house was musty, like god knows how many spores might be floating about. Ricky's eyes took their sweet time to adjust to the dimness. Shutters pulled three-quarter way down on the windows. In the kitchen area to the right, flies hovered over the remnants of chop suey floating in the aluminum trays scattered across the table. Ricky, not exactly an ardent fan of house-cleaning, but this had crossed the line from messy to unsanitary.

"You bring de money?" Dutchy said, speaking to Ricky but staring at Chris.

"You got the guns?" Ricky said, his antennae twitching. Something wrong with this picture.

"Sit," Dutchy motioned with his head to the midnight blue sofa to their left.

Chris sat perched on the sofa's edge, scratching the back of his neck, head lowered. "Sit," Dutchy reiterated when Ricky failed to move. Ricky remained still, hitting him with a hard 'make me asshole' look. Dutchy smiled coolly, acting unruffled, but his shoulders tensed, like he was ready to get ugly. "Luuk," he shouted to somebody in the back of the house, his eyes locked on Ricky.

Ricky broke eye contact when a dwarf in knee-length jeans with a steampunk paperclip belt chain hanging under the left hip pocket entered the room. Seeing Ricky grinning his way, Luuk shot him a filthy look. "Something amuse you?"

"The Nazi memorabilia store shut the day you bought that shirt?" Luuk's blue tee depicting what looked liked a caricature of Hitler in full uniform. Except it was Charlie Chaplin in The Great Dictator. The actor's name written in black cursive, with an arrow pointing to the mustachioed representation. A bunch of them for sale in the local Chinese markets for eight euros a pop.

"Everyone knows who it's meant to be," Luuk said, proud. "But this way I can't catch shit for wearing it in public."

"Ingenious. You really are the epitome of the master race."

Dutchy said something to Luuk in Hollandish, the pair looking over at Chris. Luuk took out his cell and hit a button.

The call did not last long, the two men talking again. Dutchy eyeballing Ricky in a manner that suggested shit was about to go down.

Luuk left the room, prompting Ricky to say, "Are we about to do business?" Dutchy didn't answer. His jaw muscles bunched, eyes flicking from Ricky to Chris.

Ricky, catching negative vibes, like it was time to bounce before shit got heavy. But still wanting to conclude the transaction.

Before he had decided on a definitive course of action, Luuk returned with a clunky carrier bag. He handed the bag to Dutchy, and walked over to Ricky, presenting him with a small silver pipe, cocaine rock sat beside it on his outstretched sweaty palm.

"The fuck is this?" Ricky said.

Luuk smirked. "They not teach you that at law enforcement training one-oh-one?"

Ricky saw the silver flash in the corner of his eye. Dutchy aimed a stainless steel 357 Magnum revolver at his face. Luuk said, "If you're not a pig, what's the problem?"

"I gave up coke for lent."

"Under the circumstances, I'm sure Jesus won't mind. Besides, he's big on forgiveness."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then, two seconds from now, you'll be having FaceTime with your saviour."

Ricky accepted the pipe from the grinning dwarf. Followed by the rock and a Bic lighter. He put a flame to the pipe and inhaled until the steel wool stuffed in the stem turned red hot. Let it cool for a moment, then popped the rock on top. And away we go...

The rush of warm euphoria swept through his body, Ricky's legs turning to jelly. He staggered over to the couch, sweat oozing out of every pore. Heard the laughter swirling around his ears. Fought every instinct he had to keep his eyes shut and float away in this surreal dream.

Blinking back reality, he saw the revolver muzzle. Knew there was a bullet with his name on it loaded at the of that dark tunnel.

Ricky shambled to his feet. He didn't fight the reel, went with the sway. Much to Luuk's amusement. Ricky grinning now, too. "You know what you remind me of?"

Luuk, still smiling, his eyes saying, yeah, go ahead, make your height joke, asshole, it'll be the last one you ever crack.

"The Jack Russell terrier that lived upstairs," Ricky said. "Bane of my life, that bastard. Every time I came out of the flat, out of nowhere, this vicious little fuck would appear. Yap, yap, yapping out of him, chasing me down the stairwell. Loved nothing more than to nip at my ankles. Made its day. Made my life a living hell."

Ricky switched his gaze to Dutchy and the barrel of the .345. "Until one day, I must've been about twelve. Out I go to the stairwell. I hear the thing, Yap, yap. Bounding down the steps. I turn, and it's on the third last step, and I just dive on the fucker." He looked at Dutchy, the intensity still evident in the eyes, but a slight curiosity there, too. Wanted to find out where this story was going.

"I grab it by the scruff of the neck and march back into the flat. And all I'm thinking is the years of torment this mutt had put me through." Ricky smiling, now, "There's no-one home, and this mutt is in my hands. Not yapping any more, moaning, little squeals. Legs kicking like ninety." Dutchy's eyes. alive with anticipation, grinning back at him.

"So, I held the thing down..." One chance, Ricky thinking, now, his right arm dangling by his side, fingers tingling. "...and I fucked the shit out of it." Silence in the room, Dutchy scrutinizing his face for signs he was lying.

Ricky heard Luuk's high-pitched laugh and Dutchy saying, "You crazy, cowboy," before barking out a laugh. Chris' laughter in the mix. Dutchy laughing harder, now. One hand on his stomach, the hand holding the revolver dipping.

Ricky's right hand reached behind his back, finding the curved handle of his .38. Whipped it from the elasticated band of his Bermuda shorts. Pointed at Dutchy, and squeezed the trigger. Dutchy's face registering shock, about to raise his piece when the second round pierced his neck. Slumping forward, just as Chris shouted, "Look out."

Ricky spun around, firing at Luuk. The shot, missing its target on account of Ricky aiming too high.

A burst of gunfire from the Remington compact .380 in Luuk's left hand.

Ricky lowered the Colt and squeezed off another round. Blood and bits of skull splattered across the white finish kitchen table, the dwarf dropping to the floor.

Ricky walked over and put another bullet in the immobile body. Came back and emptied the chamber into the lifeless lump that had until recently been Dutchy. He stood there for a moment, bemused. Was he dreaming? A trickle of warm blood crawling down his temple flicked his brain back into action. His hand went to his head, feeling for a wound. Nothing. Just a graze.

Ricky grabbed the carrier bag from the floor, saw the sticky blood seeping from Dutchy's corpse. Violent red against the off-white tiles. The shock wore off, Ricky's mind reconciling with the fact he had wasted two people. His stomach heaved.

He pulled the plastic bag open and hurled, covered the guns inside the bag with thick, warm vomit. Eyes watering, he saw Chris disappearing into the back bedroom.

Neither man spoke a word 'til they got back on the motorway, too busy checking mirrors and windows for any sign of police cars. Fear keeping all thoughts of the earlier carnage at bay.

Chris scratched at an eyebrow. "That... what you said back there, about the dog... did that—"

Ricky tutted. "Christ, no. What kind of sick maniac you take me for?"

"The kind that'd plug a little person."

"All I saw was a neo-nazi with a head full of malicious intentions. Man's height never figured into my thinking."

The click, click, click of Chris' signet ring tapping against the steering wheel doing a number on Ricky's last nerve. He turned to the open window and inhaled a lungful of fresh air, the metallic taste of sick stuck in his raw throat.

"Those guns are gonna be a bastard to clean," Chris said. "Why'd you have to puke in the bag when you had the entire floor to aim for?"

"Are you..." Ricky shook his head. "I didn't think it'd be clever to leave my DNA sticking to the tiles for the homicide dicks to scrape up."

Chris scratching at his eyebrow again, said: "Good thinking Batman."

They fell silent, Chris glancing Ricky's way twice like he was building up to ask him something. Finally. he came out with it. "That your first?"

"What do you think?" When Chris didn't answer, Ricky said: "I rob banks, I don't waste people. I'm not a psycho."

"You just offed two geezers," Chris said, grinning. "One more and you'll be classified as a serial killer." Ricky's stomach churned. "What's up with you? You're turning a funny shade."

"How many people have you killed?"

"None that I know of."

"Well, best you back off, or I'll be hitting Hannibal Lecter status 'fore this day is through." Chris gave him a simple half-smile. "And you better do a Guy Fawkes on this motor, too."

"Ah, what. This is Tracey's car."

"I give a shit it's James Dean's silver Spyder, it's connected to a double-homicide—torch it. Besides, once we find a buyer for that kilo of coke you lifted from the bedroom, you can buy her a new one."