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Coke on the Rocks

by Lucy Wright

368 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-0737; ISBN 1-4120-2909-0; US$28.50, C$32.60, EUR23.50, £16.50

Lifts the lid on the infamous 'Costa del Crime' which tells you all you need to know about the reality of living there and surviving.

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about the book      about the author      excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book Coke on the Rocks is a powerful drama set in sunny Spain, about a group of expatriates struggling to live a normal life on the Costa del Sol. But it seems impossible for them not to get drawn into the insidious underworld of criminal activity. This book has terrific pace and is a wonderful example of fiction enhanced by fact. It is written in a way as to entertain as well as inform, and is very funny in parts due to the colourful characters whose lives we follow as they evolve and grow. Drug smuggling is on the increase, and the cocaine consumption in Spain is higher than anywhere else in Europe. Prostitution and promiscuity are two more examples of the darker side of life, hidden behind the seductive high life that is advertised in the brochures and the media. Some of the scenes in this novel will shock and may seem unbelievable - but trust me - there is far more fact than fiction in Coke on the Rocks. This book is not only a must for all expatriates but also a warning to anyone in the U.K. who is thinking about moving to Spain. The Costa is a fabulous place to live - but only if you are aware of the pitfalls. Before you buy your dream villa you really must read Coke on the Rocks.

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About the Author After the murder of her first husband, Lucy Wright re-evaluated her life. She threw herself into her career and became a successful 'therapist to the stars' in one of London's leading Psychiatric hospitals. She now lives on the Costa del Sol where she juggles her career as a therapist with her writing. She appears regularly on local English speaking television and radio, where she gives advice to the thousands of expatriates who have settled in Spain. Although she has written many self-help articles this is her debut novel. Lucy has three grown up children and one granddaughter.

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Excerpts

Terry had the right hump. He had left more than enough messages on Frank's mobile, but Frank being Frank, he'd chosen to ignore him - and Terry didn't like to be ignored. He hated the way Frank only spoke to him when there was something in it for him. He really was the most selfish bastard he'd ever had the misfortune to meet.

The Moroccan drug runners, who were based down in Gibraltar, had been hassling Terry for days about their wages, and he was sick and tired of being the one to get all the hassle. It was him who got it in the neck. Being middleman was not his idea of fun.

But then Terry shouldn't really be surprised that he was always the guy caught in the firing line, because that was exactly what he was paid to be - the fall guy. Now Terry's patience was exhausted, and he wanted answers, and he wanted them yesterday.

'I'll try you one more time baldy,' he yelled out into the hot air.

'I'll try you one more time and then I'll......I'll....'

But there was nothing to be said. Frank, because he paid Terry's wages, had got him by the balls. The knowledge of this fact depressed Terry.

Just as he was about to punch the wall for the tenth time that day he heard his two precious Rottweilers barking furiously.

He rushed out of the villa and watched as Saddam and Hussein bounded across to the grass to the large wrought iron gates which were always kept locked. He could see a woman trying unsuccessfully to fit her key in the lock. Well, thought Terry, it's lucky for her it is locked, because my dogs are trained to attack and kill at my command.

Terry's dark eyes, with even darker rings around them, took on a steely glint. This was just what he was craving - a scenario to help him get rid of his pent up aggression.

'Hey, what the fuck d'you think you're playing at you dozy bitch?' he yelled out as he charged over to the gate, all bovver boots, long tousled hair and flailing skinny arms. He made absolutely no attempt to pacify Saddam and Hussein. Quite to the contrary, he was winding them up to a point where they were beginning to foam at the mouth.

Charlie scowled back at him.

'I am trying to get into my villa. And just who the might you be?' She had automatically put on her posh voice. But she needn't have bothered, as she could not be heard above the barking, and she certainly didn't fool Terry with her bravado - not one little bit. Fear was etched on her face. He both knew it and loved it. God how he loved confrontation!

'Wot makes you fink it's your drum darlin'?' he sneered, revealing crooked yellow teeth. The raw wildness of him made Charlie take several involuntary steps backwards. But her resolve stood strong.

'This is MY villa, or drum, as you stupidly call it,' she yelled.

'Sorry darlin. I don't think so, and if you don't scarper pretty sharpish I'm gonna set me babies onta yer.... Ain't I boys?'

He reached up as if to open the gates and set the dogs free, but Charlie was already backing off towards her hire car, pulling her suitcase as she went. She might be plucky, but she wasn't mad.

'That's it darlin'. Glad to see you know what's good for yer - and don't come back or else....'

But Charlie wasn't listening anymore. She was back in the car, off up the dusty road and back onto the Carretera in search of a bar. She needed liquid oblivion, preferably in the form of a great big gin and tonic!

---

Back in the gardens of Villa Lukia, Terry patted Saddam and Hussein lovingly.

'You nearly got a dinner to die for boys.'

All traces of tension had evaporated, and he was now in a mellow mood. He looked over in wonderment towards the luxurious villa that he was lucky enough to inhabit. Life was sweet when he was in this frame of mind.

He hated his ever-fluctuating mood swings. He knew that he should take his medication regularly, but he just kept conveniently forgetting, as the side effects of the lithium were disgusting. It made his mouth taste like Ghandi's flip-flop, and his tongue would hang limply out of one corner of his mouth, making him look like a moron.

He was resentful of the life with which he had been dealt. In his opinion it was a real bum deal. He didn't even have a clue what 'bi-polar' meant. He had heard people call him a 'schitzo', and although he didn't know what a schitzo was, he knew by the way they said it that he'd rather not be one.

But he wasn't going to worry about that right now. The kidney shaped pool was beckoning him. Grinning from ear to ear he stripped off, raced across the lawn, and dive-bombed into Charlie's lovely pool. He liked to pretend that he was the bloke on the John Smith's advert. He admired his style.

And right now he loved his life. He thought about Dolly, who was patiently waiting for him in the bedroom. He would go and put a smile on her face when he'd finished his swim. Fabulous.

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Charlie's dream of finding peace in paradise was turning into a disaster. Talk about no room at the Inn! She had tried everywhere to find an affordable hotel with a vacancy. But her efforts were all in vain. It was, after all, the height of the summer season, and this was one of the most popular resorts in Europe. The posh had taken up all the luxurious rooms in the plush hotels, whilst those holidaying on a shoestring had snapped up all the cheap deals in the less prestigious places. Even the motels and hostels were packed out with students living off bread, cheese and cheap Spanish wine.

After mistaking a brothel for a motel she finally gave up. Even Charlie, who found most things funny, had a sense of humour by-pass at that point.

Now she was speeding as fast as she could east towards Fuengirola, praying that she might find a room there amongst the mass of high rise hotels.

She was still trying to convince herself that she would find a room before nightfall, but the clock on the dashboard now said seven o'clock, and time was running out almost as quickly as her energy levels.

However, in the moment that she had taken her eyes off the busy road to check out the time, a young Spanish girl on a moped, who was trying to avoid a deep hole in the road, swerved in front of her. Fortunately, Charlie managed to miss her, but as she shot across into the fast lane, a Porsche that had been speeding along, only just managed to brake in time.

How a major pile up was avoided, only the Lord knew. Loud horns were honking all over the place. Rude gestures were coming from every angle, and dust was flying everywhere.

And then it was all over, just as quickly as it had begun. The girl on the moped had disappeared down a narrow road leading to the sea, and the Porsche was long gone.

But Charlie's ordeal was far from over.

Now trembling uncontrollably, and blinded by tears, she knew she had to stop driving. It was all becoming too dangerous.

Years ago this particular stretch of the Carretera, the N.340, had deservedly earned the nickname, 'The Graveyard of Europe', and although the Spanish had made some improvements, it was still a death trap.

A large sign by the roadside told Charlie that she was approaching Calahonda. A smaller one read 'Cabopino'.

Without a second thought she pulled off the Carretera, drove down a short narrow road and into a large dusty car park.

Under the shade of a tree she pulled on the handbrake, switched off the engine, and cried, and cried, and cried until there were no tears left.

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CHAPTER 3

Terry was mixing his favourite concoction of pasta, tuna, tomato ketchup and soy sauce when the landline rang. Cursing loudly, and without wiping his hands, he picked up the phone, smearing grease all over the handset.

'Yea,' he growled in his usual surly manner, certain that it would be one of the Moroccans calling. They were really getting on his nerves lately. But then most things got on Terry's nerves. It often slipped his mind that the only reason he was living in luxury was because part of his job was to man the phone.

'What do you mean, yea? That's no fucking way to answer my phone.

'Oh sorry Frank, I thought you were...'

'I don't care who you thought it was, you answer my phone properly, and if you can't do that you can fuck off. D'you hear me?'

'I hear you Frank'. Terry screwed up his face, making him even uglier than he already was. He ran his mucky hands through his long greasy hair and began to grovel. What he wouldn't do to get the chance to have a pop at his bald, fat, old bastard of a boss.

'Have you seen Vladimir anywhere?'

'Nope,' replied Terry through gritted teeth. 'I ain't seen him all week.'

'Shit, I can't get hold of him anywhere.'

'Why don't you try his club in Banus?' Terry was half-heartedly trying to pacify his boss, and it galled him to have to do so. But he didn't want to lose his job, or a roof over his head. He knew only too well, that as long as he was protected by Frank, the Old Bill would be kept off his back. What Scotland Yard wouldn't do to throw him in the slammer and chuck away the keys?

Now keen to impress Frank as to what a good minder he was, he said quickly, 'There was some 'old sort' here yesterday, but don't worry mate, I sent her packing. Nearly had to set Saddam and Hussein on to her. Right snotty cow she was an' all.'

'What you on about Terry? Who was she? What did she want? Was she an old brass?'

'Nah. Not on yer life. Far too posh. Far too classy. She had a suitcase wiv her. Reckoned this was her drum.'

'What did she look like?' He had Frank's full attention now.

'Blonde. Bit of a looker, if you like that type. Can't say she did much for me.

'Shut the fuck up Terry. Just describe her.'

'Big tits, long legs...quite spunky too. Got right on her high horse about me being here. I scared her off though. She won't be coming back round here in a hurry - not if she knows what good for her. Come to think of it she could be high-class brass.'

'You dopey prat. That was no brass. That was my missus who's gone on the missing list.'

There was a pregnant pause, during which time Terry's heart skipped a beat or two, whilst he waited for another verbal bashing from Frank. But when Frank did eventually speak, his voice was low and purposely controlled.

'Terry.'

'Yes Frank'

'Where did she go?'

'I dunno boss.' He wished this conversation could be over, as he was starving,

'Who was she with?'

'Er...I don't fink she was with anyone.'

'Terry.'

'Yes Frank.'

'Find her.'

The line went dead.

Slamming the phone back into its cradle, he turned and punched the wall. It didn't hurt. His knuckles were far too used to punching things.

It was then that he smelt burning.

'Fuck it, me pasta!'

He raced into the kitchen, picked up the saucepan, burnt his hand, cursed again and then threw the pan at the wall. Next he picked up the bowl containing the tuna mix and hurled it through the air. The strange mixture of ingredients splattered all over Charlie's once pristine kitchen.

Stomping his feet like a spoilt child, and no longer aware of any hunger pains, he stormed from the villa in search of an almighty row with any unsuspecting person he could find.

---

Charlie stood outside the police station in San Pedro biting her bottom lip, and trying to muster up the courage to go in and ask for help. The truth was, she was absolutely petrified that she would not be taken seriously, or even worse, that they would believe her, but there would be nothing they could or would do, to help get the squatter out of her villa.

All day long she had been nursing a hangover, and itching like mad where she had been bitten by the mosquitoes. She had been drinking water by the litre, and had even managed to eat a little food in a tapas bar.

She'd used the beach bar toilets to wash and change into shorts and a T-shirt, and had secured her none too clean hair back in a tortoise shell clip.

Now, she took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and entered the fabulously cool building, looking anything but cool herself. The outside temperature was nudging thirty- eight degrees, and she had built up a sweat of monumental proportions.

In comparison to her lack of composure, the officer behind the desk looked both calm and refreshed. He took not a blind bit of notice of her entrance.

But now that she had been brave enough to go and ask for help, she was damned if she was going to be ignored. She cleared her throat, but he still didn't even look up from his paperwork.

'Por favor Senor?'

She had his attention now, but his expression was one of sleepy boredom.

'Si'.

'Ablo Ingles?'

He shook his head.

'Un momento'. Without even bothering to stand, he threw his head back and roared, 'FELIX!'.

Seconds later, from out of the back office, lumbered a thickset policeman with a black moustache and swarthy complexion. He was, thought Charlie, a typical looking Spaniard.

When he spoke in rapid Andalucian dialect to the desk officer, it was clear from his gravely voice that he was a heavy smoker. He had a swarthy complexion and black hair that was greying at the temples.

The two men exchanged a brief conversation, and Charlie was in no doubt about the fact that Felix was none too happy with his colleague's attitude.

When he turned to Charlie, wearing a helpful smile and addressed her in broken English, she was mightily relieved.

'Can I help you Senorita?'

'Si, mucho gracias. I have a problemo with a, um, poco loco hombre who is er, habitué en mio villa.'

Felix's face broke out into a broad grin, and his rugged face softened in an instant.

'Senorita. You can speak in English. I think I would be able to understand you better.

'Oh. Si, I mean yes. Thank you.' And she told him the story.

When she finished he was looking stern.

'How long has this man been in the villa?'

'I haven't got a clue.' Charlie thought for a moment.

'The last time I stayed in the villa was in the October just gone. I came out for a week with my husband. Well, sort of ex-husband now,' she corrected herself quickly.

'Has your husband been out since then? Or any of you friends or family?'

Charlie shook her head, and then shrugged her shoulders.

'I was going to say no, because to my knowledge no one has been out here. But to be quite honest with you, although I was given the villa as a wedding present, my ex has a set of keys as well.'

She stood wracking her brains for a while, her face screwed up in concentration. 'I'm sure Frank hasn't been out here this year.'

'Where is the villa?'

'It's on The Atalaya Park estate - or urbanisation, I think you call it.'

Felix gestured for her to wait a moment. He disappeared out the back again, and then a few minutes later reappeared with another officer.

'Come,' he said. 'We can see what we can do.'

---

Ten minutes later the police car turned into the tree lined road leading to Atalaya Park Hotel. Half way down they turned right into a side road, and then left at a t-junction.

'That's my villa. The one over there called Villa Lukia. I named it after my grandmother who was Greek.' She was rambling, due to the nervous energy that was now pumping around her body.

The car pulled to a halt and all three got out.

Felix took giant steps over to the villa, but his sidekick hovered way behind. The gates were locked, but full of hope, Charlie held out the key to Felix. 'I couldn't get this key in the lock yesterday, but that might be because I've got weak wrists.'

Felix tried the lock, but just like the day before, the sound of the rattling gates brought the dogs running. Seconds later, Terry appeared wearing nothing but pink shell suit bottoms and a menacing scowl.

'Oi, bitch, I thought I told you to fuck off,' He was not in the least phased by the police presence.

Charlie's chin hit the floor. This guy was unbelievable.

She then looked pleadingly at a wide eyed at Felix, who in turn cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak.

But Terry, pointing a finger at the tubby member of the Policia Locale, was too quick for him.

'And you can fuck off 'an all. She don't live 'ere no more. Me and my dogs do.'

Felix was now backing away. His mate, who was not exactly your dedicated cop, was already back in the safety of the car.

His wife was cooking paella today, with great big pink juicy langoustines, and he wasn't about to miss that exquisite culinary delight. Not for anyone.

Charlie was aghast. She just couldn't believe what was happening. She was absolutely blown away by how ineffectual the police were proving to be.

Now she knew that the only person she could rely on was herself, and suddenly she was angry. Having gone from quietly fearful, to full on, red mist fury in ten seconds flat, she began to shout at the top of her voice. If Terry had experienced her posh side before, he was now about to meet the witch who lived inside, and only flew out on a broomstick when she was really, really mad.

'Now don't you fucking well mess with me, you skinny piece of shite. This is my....villa, I repeat, my villa. And you are trespassing. And if you don't understand big words, what that means is that you are squatting you're bony arse in my property. And when I call up my husband Frank, in the U.K., he will go ape, and believe me fuck-face, no one, but no-one messes with my Frank. When I let him know you're taking the piss out of him, he'll put you to sleep. I swear he will. Never to wake.'

She was shaking uncontrollably now, but to her astonishment, Terry threw back his head and roared with laughter.

This had not been the response she had expected. And as he laughed, the dogs barked, and the cops took refuge in the car.

Charlie, however, was at a loss as to how to respond. She thought the guy must be completely nuts. Which of course, he was. Terry was demonstrating mania at its very highest level, and all Charlie could do was stand and watch.

When he eventually composed himself, he looked Charlie right in the eye, and then surprised her by telling her; 'You're a spunky little bitch.'

It was of little consolation that Terry's estimation of her had grown. She now knew that she was most definitely homeless.

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Catalogue Information

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