“What are you up to, Conde?” Candito drank in small gulps. “I’ve not seen you in ages.”

The Count tried the ham.

“I’m in the doghouse, because they suspended me after I had a row with an idiot there. They’ve put me on form-filling and won’t let me as much as look into the street… But you’ve switched tack completely.”

Candito took a long swig from his bottle.

“No choice, Conde, and you know it: you can’t let yourself get burnt in any business. The shoes thing was half down the shoot and I had to change track. You know it’s real hard in the street and, if you don’t have a peso, you’re no longer a player, you know.”

“If you get caught, you’ll be in dire straits. God won’t spare you one hell of a fine… And if they catch me here, I’ll be in the doghouse for the rest of my life.”

“Don’t get like that, Conde, I tell you there’ll be no dire straits.”

“You still go to church, I suppose?”

“Yes, sometimes. You’ve got to keep on good terms with some people

… Like the police, for example.”

“Stop talking shit, Candito.”

“Leave off, gents,” interrupted Skinny. “These beers are dead and gone. Tell them to pour me another, Red.”

Candito lifted his arm and said: “Three more.”

The fair-haired guy served them again. The melodious drunken voice of Vicentico Valdes was now playing on the cassette recorder – confessing he was sure he knew where to find the moon’s missing earrings – and, as he downed his third beer, the Count felt he was relaxing. The fact that he’d been in the police for more than ten years had created tensions which pursued him.