Chapter Eight
If they wanted proof that Joey hadn’t prospered during his years of living in Spain, they wouldn’t find it at his apartment. Big and brash, just like the dead Joey Briggs. Or at least as he used to be when Rafferty knew him, though his corpse told a different tale. He recalled his scrawny body as it was laid out on the mortuary slab, needle marks in his arms and legs, and thought his killer could have saved himself the trouble, as he hadn’t looked long for this world.
The building looked decidedly over-the-top on the outside, more bougainvillaea, more balconies, than any apartment in the row, and the huge face of Ché Guevara with his black beret and cigarette, adorning the side. The bar man was right—you couldn’t miss Joey’s pad. Rafferty briefly wondered whether that extra
