SEVENTEEN
Johnny pulled the car into a nearby side street and phoned Alfonso Calderon.
“Johnny,” said Alfonso, chirpy as always. He sounded as though he had his mouth full, and a little too eager for Johnny’s liking. “How the devil are you?”
“It didn’t go too well,” said Johnny.
“Oh, sorry to hear that. How do you mean, exactly?”
“I mean the b****y mother-in-law got away and one of your boys is hurt.”
A silence. Johnny swore he could hear munching. Perhaps lunchtime came late for Spaniards. “I see. When you say ‘hurt’, what exactly do you—?”
“I mean he’s gone to hospital. His brother’s with him.”
“His brother? Which of them do you talk about, my friend? Jerome or Lawrence? Who is hurt?”
“The other one told me, but I can’t remember. They both look the f*****g same, Al, but the one
