The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman Read Free Page B

For Atticus, it meant climbing a rung of the career ladder, there was no doubt about that. The issue called for someone experienced, in whom the company could place complete trust. But it also meant a significant change to his routine. He would be forced to leave England for an indefinite period and defer other matters that currently occupied all his energies.
    He ordered another pint.
    The task, after all, was simple. Unpleasant, yes, but simple. He would have to travel to Madrid and close down Librarte magazine, fire all its staff, hand out severance checks, shake hands, put up with tears, explain the reasons behind such an extremedecision in the nicest way possible, and lay all the blame on them: They were responsible for the economic losses, the lack of foresight, the irreparable damage to the Craftsman brand, et cetera.
    â€œThere is one more detail you should know,” his father had said between a pause and a cough. “ Librarte magazine has only five employees. Five. And it so happens, son, that they are all women.”
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    How hard can it be? thought Atticus in the pub. Even so, for some strange reason, he felt the urgent need to inject alcohol directly into his veins. Four pints later, he stumbled home. Perhaps that’s why he forgot to pack many of the essential items that he would soon miss in Madrid.

CHAPTER 4
    I nspector Manchego had managed to convince his friends that mus was a country bumpkin’s card game. Due to, he said, the use of chickpeas as counters. Someone suggested that they could swap them for something else, like pebbles, jacks, or sugar cubes—something easy to find in the bar or nearby—but Manchego insisted that they hadn’t left their village, put up with hardship, and made their way in the capital only to ruin everything on account of a game like mus. He also banned them from ordering tumblers of wine or tapas like Russian salad. Lousy bunch of yokels. As for him, he intoned solemnly, he was going to learn to play poker and drink whiskey. There were, at first, some dissenting voices, but the guys soon got into the swing of meeting to play poker on Thursday evenings. What Manchego didn’t know was that his friends took turns standing on the corner so they could see him coming and raise the alarm, allowing the others to quickly hide the Spanish deck of cards, gulp down their wine, choke themselves on croquettes and squid before, very seriously, welcoming him with the chips laid out and their poker faces on.
    They went to all this trouble for two reasons: first, because they were genuinely fond of him, and second, because he was theonly policeman in the group, and in their neighborhood it was every man for himself against thieves, drug addicts, loan sharks, and parking fines. Manchego had helped all of them get out of fixes or protect their businesses. And he didn’t ask for anything in return, they reminded themselves, except this obsession with poker, the poor guy, and in the end it was no skin off their noses to make him happy.
    So, regular as clockwork, that Thursday shortly after nine o’clock, Macita, Josi, Carretero, and Míguel (yes, with an accent on the “i”) were waiting for him with the whiskey on ice.
    Manchego turned up with an odd kind of look, a half smile, eyes sparkling. He greeted them, as usual, with slaps on the back. Then he sat down, spreading his legs wide.
    â€œ Guess what? ” he said, wiggling his eyebrows up and down to signal suspense.
    He had news.
    â€œI’ve got a case,” he continued, before any of them had a chance to come out with something stupid like “You got a raise” or “They finally installed your broadband.”
    â€œDrugs?” asked Josi.
    â€œMaybe, Josi, maybe. I don’t rule anything out, you know that,” he replied, pleased with the shrewdness of his friend, who owned a garage and was his star pupil. “But no. On this