6. CASTELLDEFELS

A coastal town, a handful of kilometres heading south from the city. A collection of sun bleached houses, garish clubs, camp sites and holiday flats with a dual carriageway running through the middle, dissecting it neatly in half. Ugly, yet proud it clings to the coast, sprawling down and stretching back - the only sights worth shouting about are the castle and the beach but most people prefer the beach. Especially today. Especially on a hot, stagnant day in July, where the heat strokes the body with a clammy, heavy hand.

Pepito leans over the handlebars, knees in and elbows out. He's doing his best to keep up with Carlos driving a pristine 1964 Alpine in front. As it was, he'd almost missed the turn off; a dirt track road that swung to the right carrying him past a shady stretch of pine trees and up. Up that narrow dirt track that skimmed the length of a field and over. Over a badly placed crossing (he would have missed it if he blinked), twisting left, then right and onwards. Onwards, along the more affluent streets at the back of the town lined with palm trees and villas and through. Through a car park. Down a side street. Round a bend. Over. Over another dodgy crossing. And stop.
Easing himself off the Vespa he pulls it onto the pavement beside Carlos and looks up at the apartment block in front. Only four stories high with balconies that ran the length of the building. It was modern without being too offensive, sleek and surprisingly classy.
"How long you been living here?" he asks as he follows him up to the entrance.
Carlos scratches his head, he's taking his time to answer, counting maybe. "Couple of years now," he eventually says as he slides the key in the lock.
Pepito follows him up the stairs taking two at a time to keep up with Carlos who, surprisingly agile for such a hunk of meat, is gaining ground. When he reaches the top he stops to catch his breath as Carlos opens the door with a twist of his wrist. He enters the flat. Pepito follows close behind, with both feet sliding over the threshold and both hands clutching his heart.
They're standing in the hallway now, a small, oblong space with a coat stand jammed in the corner and several doors leading off to the rest of the flat. Shuffling around Pepito, Carlos opens one of the doors and enters the living room. He beckons Pepito inside with a clumsy paw swiping the air and closes the door behind him. Pepito doesn't waste any time. He crosses the room to the window and looks out.
"How long have you known Rosa?"
"About a year, we met last summer." Carlos dips his head and flops himself down on the sofa, watching Pepito from the corner of his eye as he circles the room.
"Mind if I look around?" He has to ask, a formality really, a means of lulling the other into a false sense of security as though permission is actually required. Carlos shrugs. He turns his head. Pepito continues pacing the room, picking up odd pieces; an ashtray, a magazine, a coffee cup with a disinterested air before dropping them back where he found them. He's not really sure what he's doing here because the truth is, he's never done this before. Never had to look around someone's space, poking through their life and what he's supposed to be looking for is anyone's guess. That's the tricky part - knowing what the question is when the answer is staring you in the face. At least, he hoped it was. He moves towards a cabinet at the side of the room and opens some of the drawers; papers, a TV guide, a sewing kit, photographs. He picks one out, holds it up and recognizes the same dark eyes, clear skin and cure face. She's laying on a beach, one arm cupping her breasts and the other stretched out towards the camera. She's laughing, her mouth open and lips stretched over her teeth. Clean, white, square teeth, perfectly spaced and nicely shaped except for a chip in the corner of her front tooth. On her outstretched arm, as it reaches for the camera, he can see a tattoo. A rose. A bright, red rose, its petals spread open and placed just above the knot of her wrist on the inside of her forearm.
"When was this taken?" He turns around and hands the photograph to Carlos who takes it and leans back creasing his brow, squinting at the photo.
"Last summer, I think."
"Was that when she moved in here?"
"Yeah."
"And the last time you saw her?"
"Wednesday morning."
"Wednesday?"
He nods his head. "She went out that door," he glances behind him, "said she'd see me later we had stuff to arrange ...."
"Stuff?"
"Yeah, for the wedding." He's still looking at the photograph, holding it gently between his fingers, staring at the image of her face, one arm cupped and the other outstretched towards him. A tear spills over the rim of his lid and slips down his cheek. He swats it away with the back of his hand and stands up abruptly.
"How's any of this gonna help." His voice is strained, impatient, forced. "She could be anywhere by now, she could be .." He breaks off unable or unwilling to finish the sentence. Still holding the photograph he moves towards the cabinet with shuffling, halfhearted steps and drops it into one of the drawers. Pepito is watching him from the corner of his eye as he moves around the room, continuing in his quest for miscellaneous objects, turning them over and replacing them without any real conviction or any real clue. He can't quite put his finger on it but something tells him that Mariquita was right. Call it a hunch, call it what you like but somehow he knows that Carlos had nothing to do with Rosa's disappearance. In fact, he has no more of an idea of her whereabouts than Pepito right now, that much is obvious, from the droop of his shoulders to the wilt in his step. Watching him now, Pepito feels a spasm ripple through his heart, which may have been his age but then again it may have been the sight of Carlos pad around the living room, helpless.
"Listen Carlos," he eventually says. "I want to help you I really do," and he means it, "but you're going to have to help me too."
Carlos nods his head and turns his back to the cabinet, his large, flat paws braced behind him.
"What do you wanna know?"

A couple of hours later and Pepito is heading back to the city. The wind slides through his shirt and down his back and he is grateful. Grateful for this short respite from the blistering heat and grateful to Carlos who had informed him of a few things he needed to know. Like Rosa. He has a clearer idea now of who she is and what she wants. A simple girl, pretty and sweet, at least, that's how Carlos sees her. But is it ever really that simple? She has no family or none that Carlos knows of, grew up in an orphanage on the outskirts of the city but ran away for reasons that were never alluded to. She ended up in the city, fifteen years old, alone and broke. Call it bad timing if you like, unlucky certainly and perhaps that's all it comes down to in the end. Luck. A simple twist of circumstance, an unfortunate arrangement of fate. She was in the wrong place, with the wrong people, at the wrong time. According to Carlos, she fell into prostitution the way most women fall into it - for the money. She could make double what any factory payed her, triple what a domestic made, not bad for a girl who barely finished school. At first, she fell in with a group of girls at a club in Castelldefels but they all had to pay part of their takings to the man who owned it, a skinny little number with a nervous shrug. She hated that, Carlos said. Hated the fact that he skimmed off almost half of what she made, for what? Just for the pleasure of having a headboard slam her head and a soiled mattress cushion her butt. So she left. She never looked back. Staked out a place by the side of the road, one of the many obvious attractions on the drive to the coast. And sure, it was dangerous. Any Tom, Dick or Harry could pick her up but the financial gain and the freedom far outweighed the risk. She was on her own, exposed, unprotected but everything she made, she kept - which could be up to 400 euros on a good day. And then, of course, there were the drugs. Cocaine mostly, an expensive habit. She was quickly trapped in that downward spiral of selling her body to feed her habit, or perhaps she needed the habit to sell her body. It's an age old story. Easy to slip into but difficult to climb out. And then her luck changed. She met Carlos. He picked her up one night by the side of the road and took her home. And she stayed. She stayed clean as far as he knew and they fell in love. She got a job at the club and the rest is history. Or maybe it was the beginning? The start of something good. She was planning to get married to the man who loves her. Maybe even start a family and do all the things any young couple would do with the rest of their lives stretching out before them. And yet. The had it all planned. They had their future set. There was even hope that she would finish school and an endless scope of possibilities right at her fingertips. And yet. Something didn't feel right, not to Pepito. Something didn't entirely add up. Would she run away, again? Risk her job, her man, her future? Why? What was she running from? The past or the present? She's young, she has her whole life ahead of her and smart enough to know it. And yet. And yet. And yet.
Something just didn't make sense.

He stops in front of the shop and checks his watch. 3.36pm. He's late. Damn it, he's late for lunch. It was a habit they'd both fallen into, based on a persuasive combination of convenience and economy. In other words, Gloria would cook and Pepito would eat. Although, to be fair, it suited Gloria because it meant she didn't have to fork out for the price of a meal in a restaurant and it suited Pepito because he didn't have to cook period. He hated it. Hated the fact that all that effort was wasted as soon as the food was raised to the mouth and the only thing you had to show for it was a bulging belly and a dose of flatulence. Somehow, he seemed to miss the point. Cooking to him was not a means to an end but an inconvenience, an interruption in his day and most importantly, something that was best left to those who knew what they were doing. Gloria, he assumed, knew what she was doing. In fact, it was her idea in the first place. She needed to save the money, which made sense to Pepito, and if she was willing to put in the effort the least he could do was eat it. Still, he's late. Nothing was going to change that simple fact and with a certainty that claws from his insides out - he knows that she will be waiting.

She's sitting at the kitchen table, her elbows tucked into her sides and her wrists resting delicately on the tablecloth. She doesn't look up when he enters but continues to chew slowly, thoughtfully, her eyes fixed on the remaining meat on her plate. Pepito sits down opposite and pours a glass of wine. He's nervous, he knows he should say something but he doesn't know what so he leans over the table with his fork stretched out to spear a steak and accidentally knocks his glass with his elbow. It spills. Spills all over the table, seeping into the pristine white tablecloth like a shameful blush. He grabs a dishtowel from the counter behind and starts to dab at the mess but only really succeeds in staining the dishtowel as well. And all this time, Gloria has been watching him. Silently, she shakes her head and a smile begins to creep across her face; the kind of smile that begins with indulgence and ends in forgiveness. She stands up and moves around the table. Taking the dishtowel from his hands she pushes him gently back in his seat.
"It's all right," she says, "I'll do it, you eat."
He does as she says, carefully reaching out to the mound of rice piled up in a dish in the middle of the table and with contrite little spoonfuls, places it on his plate. As he lifts the fork to his mouth his eyes flick up towards her. She's standing close beside him pouring salt over the stain, distracted, she seems to have forgotten everything else and he's grateful.
Grateful that he doesn't have to explain.

Later that night, a wind picks up out of nowhere. It races through the flat, slamming doors and banging windows. Pepito awakes with a start. He sits up on the sofa, disorientated. He screws up his eyes at the grainy image of Bogart in a scene from Key Largo - the one when the storm picks up and shakes the set to its very foundations. Bogart has his body braced against a door frame, his lips are moving but no sound comes out and then Pepito remembers, he hit the mute button before he drifted into sleep. The window crashes behind him and Pepito spins around, his heart racing and his head pounding. He jumps up to close the window, pushing his weight against the frame to close it. Moving methodically through the flat, he closes all the windows and pulls the curtains to block out the drafts before he descends to the shop. He moves towards the door. Opening it, he steps out onto the street. A gust of air crashes around the corner and collides with his body. He stumbles backwards, a solid man and still he stumbles. It's then that he notices the vespa on its side by the road. He looks around but there's no-one on the street. He checks his watch. 2.19am. He stands for a moment beside the bike, his arms spread out, his head flipped back and his eyes tightly closed against the wind. It lashes over him in warm bursts and he relishes the movement of air through his clothes and the thrill of his breath as it struggles for release. Opening his mouth he gulps down the wind in great lungfuls, swallowing the air as it rushes over his tongue and puffs out his cheeks. Gasping, almost choking, he closes his mouth and opens his eyes, breathing deeply though his nostrils. He blinks, lowering his lids, moisture spilling though the slits of skin and moves towards the bike. He bends down towards it and hoists it up by the handlebars, running his hand over the worn leather seat with a delicate touch. Squatting down, his back pitched towards the wind, he checks the sides for damage and when he's satisfied he wheels it into the shop. He props it against the counter and moves back towards the gaping door. He closes it, pushing against the frame with his shoulder, pushing with all his might, his legs braced at an angle and the air whipping around the sides, blowing in his face. Then he stands back, runs a hand through his ruffled hair and with his mouth opened wide in his wind-skelped face, he starts to laugh.

5. MARIQUITA

It's the kind of place you can walk past and never even know it was there. Tucked in the corner of a side street that sweeps down from the eccentric sprawl of Park Güell, it's a place the locals know well. Especially Pepito. It was the first place he came to when he discovered the clothes, the first place he'd stop on his rounds of the bars and clubs that littered the city. Sometimes, you would find them in the most obvious places and sometimes, like this, they were the last place you would think. But most importantly for Pepito, it was the place where he had first laid eyes on Mariquita. Six years ago, almost to the day, when he stepped over the threshold and into that place.

He stops the Vespa outside and pulls it up onto the curb. He checks his watch. 9.16am and scans the street. A couple of women dragging their shopping barrows behind them pass on the other side, their heads down and their faces twisted against the morning glare that slips between the buildings. Pepito watches until they are out of sight before he dismounts and steps towards the door with his finger outstretched. He presses the buzzer, no hesitation. He waits, tapping the outside of his thigh with a nervous hand until he hears the click of the intercom and a voice, low and challenging barks through the speaker. He gives his name, Detective Pons, slowly and clearly, relishing the shape of the syllables in his mouth, the sharpened T's and the pop of the P. He leans in close to the door and flexes his fingers until he hears the grating rasp of a bolt being pulled aside and the door swings open. A slab of a man in a track suit stands before him and beckons him forwards with a flick of the head.

He's in. He stands at the side of the main room and watches the receding expanse of man-made fibres disappear behind a curtain at the back. He takes his time and looks around noting the changes since his last visit. The bar, larger and centred in the middle of the room is lined on both sides by a stage, like a catwalk. The tables are larger too, solid looking, substantial and each has its own pole which rises from the middle like a monstrous erection, buffed to perfection and glinting in the overhead lights. He flicks his eyes upwards and notices the ropes which hang down almost touching the floor and the trapezes which are placed in strategic points around the room. He reaches up and grasps one of the metal bars suspended above his head. He holds the cold length of steel in the palm of his hand before releasing it with a push from his fingertips. All in all, it's an impressive sight. If he stretches his imagination he can fill the place with naked women and braying punters. He shakes his head, a smile creeping up from the corners of his mouth and runs his hand over the back of his neck. He has to admit, she'd come a long way from those early days. Days when she was a dancer herself, working in some seedy dive downtown for a couple of notes and all the tips she could make. She had indeed come a long way and she'd worked hard, it was obvious. Hard enough to scrape up the deposit for this place, although rumour had it she'd had a helping hand. A lift up the ladder, so to speak. But even so, she'd made the changes herself (that much was clear) she'd made her mark, expanded her empire in the mass marketing of flesh which was designed to keep you coming. Designed to keep you coming back.

From the corner of his eye he catches sight of her. She is moving towards him, gliding almost, her feet obscured by a long, burgundy dress which wasn't tight exactly, just clung to her body in ways you'd never expect. Small, dark, compact, with a shock of russet hair that stretches half way down her back. She is beautiful, although not conventionally speaking, her eyes are too deeply set, her mouth too wide and her nose a little crooked. But to Pepito, she is beautiful. As beautiful as he remembers. She stretches out her hands as he turns and takes him by the shoulders, her fingers releasing a fleeting pressure before removing them and standing back. She appraises him, her eyes moving slowly downwards from his face to the floor and back up. And then she nods her head, just slightly. Just enough for him to feel that out of all the men in the whole damn city it was him, Detective Pepito Pons that she wanted. This was her special gift. This was her success.

They sit in her office, a large room, carefully arranged with unerring taste in creams and expensive tones of polished dark wood. It's set behind the main stage with a window, one way of course, which runs the length of the stage giving excellent views of the floor in front. From here, you can see everything and he wonders, with a pleasant knot in the pit of his gut, if she had stood here and watched him.
"Been a long time," she says, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She's standing by the sleek black lines of a coffee machine, tipping the liquid into a cup, her back turned and the remark thrown casually over her shoulder. Pepito thinks back to the last time they met, or rather, the last time he had seen her snaking her way through the tangle of men to the stage, her hands lingering on the faces of a few who craned to whisper in her ear. She would laugh, that explosive burst of pleasure in her throat and playfully push their faces away. The she would take to the stage. She would dance. She would dance as if she were the only living soul in the room, eyes closed, oblivious. She would dance, it seemed to Pepito, for no-one else but him. She crosses the floor towards him, cup in hand and sets it down on the table beside him before moving towards her desk. Pepito leans forwards, reaching for the coffee and tips it to his mouth.
"Thanks," he says, placing the cup back on the table, "I needed that."
"Glad to hear it," she opens a drawer, pulls out a photograph and returns to Pepito.
"Rosa," she says dropping the photograph with a plop on the table beside him, "she's one of my dancers, last time anyone saw her was three days ago, no-one's seen her since."
Pepito picks up the photo and looks at the girl; nineteen years old, perhaps twenty, clear-skinned, dark eyes, cute face. He leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out in front, crossing his feet at the ankles.
"Have you called the police?" He has to ask but guesses that this is something in which she'd rather not have the police involved and who can blame her? In her line of work she's just about tolerated as long as she keeps her nose clean, her head down and safely out of sight.
"Do you have to ask?" she says, crossing the room to the window. But we know that he did.
"Look," she says suddenly coming towards him. Pepito flicks his eyes down and notices for the first time that she is barefoot. "I think we understand each other, I need this to be kept .." she turns, moves towards her desk, decides against it and returns to the window. "Carlos is the only one who knows you're here besides me." He guesses Carlos is the gorilla in the track suit who ushered him in with such rare finesse.
"Aren't you forgetting someone?" She turns her head quickly and fixes him with a startled look.
"Raphael?" Pepito ventures.
She stifles a laugh. She moves towards the desk having regained some of her composure and leans forwards with a flirtatious tilt of hip. "I'd say he doesn't really count."
"So I've been told but don't worry, he won't be a problem." He slips the photo into his pocket and stands up. "Mind if I keep this?"
She shakes her head.
"Good." He stoops to pick up his coffee cup and moves towards the machine. "Mind if I have a refill?"
She shakes her head again and sits down on the edge of the desk, her eyes following his movements. She's trying to work him out. Trying to put her finger on just what it is about him. His hair, his age, the way his feet splay outwards when he walks? Or is it the clothes?
"You want me to track her down?" He throws the question out casually as his hand works the spoon in circles around the cup. "I presume that's why I'm here." He flicks his eyes up to gauge her reaction although he has a hunch he wasn't far off the mark.
"Isn't that obvious?" Her mouth almost breaking into a smirk.
"Nothing's obvious in my business .." He crosses the room towards her and hands her a cup. "Let's say she's been laying low for awhile, spending time with a boyfriend .. I assume a pretty girl like that has a boyfriend?"
She regards him for a moment, an eyebrow raised to the ceiling and a hand poised on her hip.
"So she's shacked up with her boyfriend, unless ..." He takes his time, slides his butt up on the desk with one leg hitched up beside her and the other propped on the floor for support. "Unless ... you have some reason to be worried."
He was setting a trap she could smell it, he was trying to draw her out but it wasn't necessary really, she was ready to tell him everything. Everything she thought he wanted to hear.
"I suppose .. " She stops herself and rising, suddenly, turns towards the window with a dramatic twist. "Carlos is her boyfriend, in fact, they were going to get married."
"The guy in the track suit?"
She nods.
He dips his head and slurps his coffee. Of course, this changed things slightly. But it didn't put him off.
"And when was the last time he saw her?"
"Wednesday morning I think, you'd better ask him that."
"Was she working that night?"
"She was meant to ... she never showed up."
"How did Carlos feel about her working at the club?"
"How should I know? Ask him" She turns around sharply, her fingers reaching for the strands of hair that fall across her face.
"I intend to."
"He wasn't jealous if that's what you mean, he knew the score .. maybe things would be different once they were married."
Pepito nods his head, he can understand that. It would be difficult for a man, any man to watch his wife naked in front of other men, even if it was her occupation. A professional hazard, so to speak. Although Pepito himself had never been married he sometimes thought of it. Imagined what it would be like to be bound to a woman for the rest of his life, tied to her by church and state. He shudders at the thought, slides off the desk and moves towards the window to stand beside her.
"Tell me about Carlos." It's a command more than a question but she doesn't seem to mind. Instead, she throws her head back and laughs, her throat vibrating with the effort.
"You think he's got something to do with this? You must be crazy."
Pepito shrugs.
"Look I've known Carlos a long time and he does what I tell him ... besides, he's as gentle as a lamb."
Pepito watches Carlos from the window as he lifts a crate of lager like it was a dishcloth and swings it onto his shoulder.
"You sure about that?" he asks, flicking his head to the window.
"Yeah, I'm sure." She dips her head and smiles.
"Maybe he slapped her around?" He's still watching Carlos but he can feel her presence beside him. She's close, so close he can smell her perfume; a cloying, feral scent, subtly intoxicating, it claws at his throat and makes his head swim. He closes his eyes. He steps back and when he opens them to look at her she's already shaking her head.
"No," she says, her voice suddenly flat. "No."
"Why not?" He's taken off balance, maybe it's the perfume still swimming inside his head, he can't be sure. Feeling a desperate need to regain control and resurrect his composure, he decides to press her buttons and push it a little further. "A big guy like that ... maybe there's something he hasn't told you, maybe they had a fight, the fight got out of hand and he scared her off ..." He reaches for the desk and clutches the side, back straight and head flipped to one side. "Or worse."
"No," she repeats, turning to face him. "He didn't touch her ... never has and never would."
"How do you know?"
She gazes at him coldly, her lips set in a stifled grimace and her hands pulling on the sides of her dress.
"I know because he loved her."
"Loved?"
"You know what I mean."
Pepito shrugs. "Sure .. stranger things have happened."
Her mouth twitches at the corners but she manages to tease them into a half smile and moves towards the desk. She sits down heavily beside Pepito and swings one leg over the other so that a portion of her calf is exposed. "Poor bastard ..." she dips her head towards him, her breathing brushing the side of his cheek, "but trust me on this one and believe me, I know ... he didn't touch her, wouldn't so much as ruffle a hair on her head. He loves her, it was his idea they get married."
"And Rosa?"
"Oh, she knows a good thing when she sees it .."
"You don't seem to have a very high opinion of her."
Now it's Mariquita's turn to shrug. She slips off the desk with the skill of a cat and moves towards the window. Her back is turned towards him as her eyes float absently over the stage in front.
"Let's just say that I've met her type .."
"And what type is that?"
She turns around to face him, resting her back against the window, a smile curling the edge of her mouth. "Why detective Pons," she purrs playfully. "You must know the type .. the professional manipulator? It's almost an art ... quite something to watch one in action, they bend you and twist you with just the right amount of pressure so that in the end you're not sure who is controlling who."
"Did she control Carlos?"
"You figure it out."

He felt quite sure that he would, eventually. For now, he had enough to be going on with and a talk with Carlos was the most obvious place to start. He moves towards her flicking the hem of his jacket behind him as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. For a moment, her eyes skip down to the gun snug in its holster and back up to his face, in a heartbeat, so fast that Pepito almost missed it.
"Call when you need me, day or night." He hands her the card with a flourish and as she takes it from his fingers she dips her head just slightly, so she can spare him the smile that is tugging gently at the corners of her ruby stained lips.

4. TOBACCO

Sixty odd years and counting with cropped bottle black hair that cups her skull like a helmet, a fleshy slope of nose and large, thick-rimmed spectacles which seem to defy expectations, swallowing her eyes. She presses the key in the lock and opens the door to the shop. Light seeps around her, nudging its way into those awkward nooks and crevices, washing over the rows of tightly packed shelves on the drab brown walls, like a luminous flood. Picking out the languid swirls of dust that hover in the air around her head and land, without any apparent motive, on the scratched glass counter in front. She sighs quietly to herself, a barely audible stretch of breath, takes off her cardigan and folding it, places it on a hook underneath the counter. She does the same thing on this day that she has done for the last twelve years. Today is no exception. So she opens the pock marked cash drawer and fills the little compartments with the appropriate change, tipping the coins mechanically into their proper place and smoothing the notes down with her fingers. And no, she has never been tempted. Not once. She is reliable, loyal and as honest as the day is long. And her name is Gloria.
Gloria walks to the doorway behind the counter, cocks her head to one side and stretches her neck forwards, her eyes fixed on the stairway beyond. She waits. She waits like this for some moments, suspended in time, breathing subdued, straining to catch the slightest sound from the flat above. But there is nothing - no sound of movement, no stirrings of life. Only silence, like an absence of air that floats down the stairway and fills the shop. She shouldn't be worried, not really but a familiar sense of foreboding is beginning to tickle inside her gut so she grabs a duster from a shelf beneath the counter and starts to wipe the glass with wide, sweeping movements of her arm, spasmodically cocking her ear to imaginary sounds from above. Silly to worry really and what's worse, she knows it's so. So really, very silly but she can't help imagining the worst. A grown man, whose life she still knows nothing about except that little chink she glimpses in the shop. That peek into the person she steals by just being there, day in and day out, must count for something after all. But such a solitary person, she can never draw him out. And she's tried, lord knows she's tried. She's tried because she loves him and she worries because she loves him, even though it's so, so silly.
Turning towards the shelves behind her she moves the duster along the endless rows of cigarette packets, sending more dust swirling out into the air. She pinches her nose with her free hand and stifles a sneeze. Strange how every day she repeats the same procedure and yet, there is always more dust. A thin, grey layer gently coating every surface, just waiting for her to disturb its repose with the cloth and then land again in another place. Sometimes, she wonders why she bothers, the dust seems to breed overnight and no matter how thoroughly she cleans and wipes there's always more. There's always more the next day. Chin up her husband used to say long before he left her. Chin up. She raises her chin a fraction, her head tilted to one side and continues chasing the dust.

Pepito was already awake when he heard Gloria in the shop downstairs. He lay for some moments, face down, on the mangled bed listening to her shuffle around the shop before deciding to get up. Now, standing before the mirror, half-naked and groggy with sleep, he slaps his cheeks with the rigid palm of each hand, right then left, until the blood flows beneath his skin with a sobering sting. He checks himself in the mirror and runs his hands over his flushed face, down over the darkened slope of jowls where his palms snag on the bristles with a muffled rasp. Stepping over to the dressing table he picks up the razor and returns to the wardrobe, moving the blades over his face as he walks, listening with muted satisfaction to the churning whine of the motor. Using wide, circular movements he moves it up over his cheeks and round over the back of his neck, catching those awkward little hairs that are sprouting up and growing with increasing regularity down towards his back. This was his mother's little job - the clipping of the hairs on the back and shoulders. She seemed to take pride in it and relished the chance to exert her motherly claim, pushing his head forwards with the tips of her fingers and clucking with her tongue as she guided the razor over his skin. It was her way of saying - look how much you need me, who else is going to keep those hairs in check when you can't do it yourself. But, of course, he could do it himself and yet, he allowed her that one little dignity. It was the least that he could do.
Placing the razor on the bedside table he checks himself in the mirror, turning his head left and right, then stretching, arms pushing upwards he flexes his spine and opens the wardrobe. A row of shirts of various blues hang to the left side while on the right, neatly pressed and perfectly creased are various pairs of trousers, all closely resembling each other in cut and colour. His choice is somewhat limited but still, his hand wavers between the various browns of the trousers and the different blues of the shirts. It's the same procedure every morning, a sacred procedure almost. He chooses his clothes which he slips on his skin and then covers with a light cotton lab coat for the purposes of his work. Only he knows about that life beneath the lab coat. That secret life that the clothes contain. Nobody else would guess that at the end of each day he sheds his coat like a serpent sheds its skin, renewed, reborn and already dressed. Except, there's something different about this morning. This morning, he is even more meticulous about the particular choice before him. For today he has decided. He's coming out. And for a man like Pepito, first impressions count. He stands for some moments, head pitched to one side, eyes narrowed in concentration, tapping his chin with his finger before pulling out several combination's of trouser and shirt. Holding them up to the mirror he scrutinizes each combination. Sky blue and chocolate brown. Dark blue and camel. It's an endless deliberation until finally he decides on a teal shirt and beige trousers. He stands back. He examines. It's a daring move he knows but you can tell he's pleased by the slow, sly curve of his lip.

She heard him. She heard him moving around upstairs. Dropping the duster she hurries to the foot of the stairs, her hand hovering over the banister and waits. Should she call to him? Let him know she's here? She's not so sure. Her heart says hurry but her mind says no. She wavers, left foot hitched to take the stairs and right one planted firmly on the floor. Which should she listen to? Her heart or her head? Left foot or right? She isn't quite sure. She contemplates her options, lining them up in front of her. She could turn around and go back into the shop, turn the sign, dust some more and wait for him to descend or she could climb those stairs, one at a time and make her presence known. It was a tough call. A fragile balance between tact and desire that was strung out on a tightened wire that she'd walked each day for the last few years. One wrong move and she could loose her footing and slip forever into that definitive chasm of rejection. Or worse yet, she might actually alarm him. And she knows she does. Sometimes, on those very rare days when she throws caution out the back door and with reckless abandon she moves a little closer, steals up behind him, brushes past him accidently, she can feel his back stiffen, smell the pungent sweat of fear. And it's all so silly. So very, very silly. Silly that beneath the cracked veneer, pulsed the heart of a passionate woman.
Tilting her chin, she gazes up the stairway and listens. She counts to ten, then shifting her weight onto her left foot she takes the first step. She stops. She listens again with her head half turned and eases herself onto the second step. Then the third and fourth. And it's plain sailing from there.

Meanwhile, primed and prepped, Pepito is considering his options. He has a meeting to fulfill with the owner of the strip club, Mariquita and his first instinct is to go straight there but then there is Gloria and she was bound to be a problem. Not a major one, for sure but nevertheless one he has to deal with like a persistent itch in the middle of his back - awkward to reach but still, he needs to scratch. Usually, he took his place beside her in the shop, serving the customers, checking the stock, placing new orders and counting the hours until the end of the day and his real life could begin. But not today. Today he has other plans. Plans that didn't include the buying and selling of tobacco, or Gloria, or any of her prying questions and she was bound to ask, she always did. And he knows he's taking a risk, exposed in daylight playing a role he usually reserves for the shady cloak of night but quite frankly, he doesn't give a shit.
He's juiced up on adrenalin, dressed up for a purpose but most of all, he's ready.
He's well rehearsed.
He moves over to the side of the bed, picks up the holster from the bedside table, buckles it around his waist and slips his father's gun inside. It's a snug fit, hugging his belly like a weightlifters belt but it feels good. It feels right. Then he shrugs on the jacket and tugs on the lapels. Slipping his fingers through the scattering of hairs that spring from his scalp, he takes a last look at his reflection and displays his approval with an affirmative nod of his head. He moves to the door and pulls it open just as Gloria has her fist primed to knock. Startled, she withdraws her hand and lets it fall idly by her side, shuffling nervously from one foot to the other as though her conviction had been erased by the sudden sight of Pepito on the other side of the door. But he doesn't wait for her to recall her purpose, her reason for climbing those stairs. Closing the door behind him, avoiding her eyes, he squeezes past, his back pressed flat against the wall and his protruding gut grazing her wrist.
"Just going out .." He calls over his shoulder as he retreats down the landing. "Shouldn't be long."
Moving quickly, he grabs his helmet and has already bolted down the stairs and out of the shop before she has a chance to open her mouth.
No questions asked, just the way he likes it.

3. SOMETHING BIG

"FIX HIM UP DOC."
"S'not ..."
"FIX HIM UP."
"S'not .. I don' ..."
"FIX HIM."
"Don' wanna fix him .."
"DOC ..."
"S'juss I can' ..."
"DOC ..."
"Seem .. t'focus .."
"DOC?"
"Hmmm ..."
"FIX HIM UP:"

He had known, at some point, it would come to this. He grits his teeth and holds his breath as he pushes past the doctor swaying in the doorway, almost knocking him to the floor. Clearing a path through the garbage with a sideways sweep of his foot he sits Raphael down on a chair at the back of the room. Then he heads towards the kitchen as if he's been here all his life and starts rummaging through the cupboards, pulling out whatever comes to hand and discarding it with a flick of his wrist. The doctor follows his movements, his mouth opening and closing in silent fish-like protest. He starts to speak but is startled into silence by the sharp hiss of splintering glass that follows the bottle as it slips from his tremulous grip and crashes to the floor.
Flinching at the sound Pepito stops his search and turns around slowly to face the doctor.
"Coffee," he says, his jaws tightening in disgust so that the word is spat out through his teeth. The doctor points to a jar in the corner and Pepito grabs a cup from the top of a pile of dishes abandoned in the sink, fills it with water and empties half the jar of coffee on top. A quick swirl with his finger and he hands the cup to the doctor who takes the cup with a dubious look and tips it to his lips. He drinks, downing the contents in long, breathless gulps as Pepito moves towards the doorway and waits. Waits until the mixture hits its target and the doctor stumbles to the sink, back hooked and vomit projected in ruckus, violent spasms.

It can be safely presumed that the doctor had seen better days. Days when the future opened before him like the innocent unfolding of a bud. Days in his youth when his dreams were assured, assured by his certainty and a will to succeed. Days that were glorious, untroubled and bright.
But today is not one of those days.
Raphael watches the proceedings from the other side of the room. He moves his body forwards, a hand bracing his ribs and tries to stand but a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest stops him and he slumps backwards. It's no use. He closes his eyes and drifts into sleep, waking momentarily to see the hazy outlines of the doctor and Pepito leaning towards him. He can hear them talking, a distant wash of words that ebbs and flows with his consciousness.
"He'll be fine .. bruising ... couple of stitches .. nothing serious .. let him sleep it off .." The words slur around his head and his eyes flicker open for an instant and he sees Pepito, his face large and distorted, looming over him, peering through half closed lids. But the image fades and he slips into a fitful sleep. A sleep punctuated by the murmur of voices and the stale odour of alcohol.

Raphael awakes with a start and his hand rises instinctively to his ribs. Fingers twitching warily over the bandage wrapped tightly around his chest he tries to swing his legs to the floor. Carefully, but it hurts like hell although he manages it and now he's sitting upright at least. He glances around the room. The doctor lays curled in a chair across from him, his chest rising and falling heavily with each laboured breath that wheezes from his throat. Pepito is sitting in another chair, in the corner, flicking hastily through a magazine. He stops when he hears Raphael and throws the magazine to the floor. Straightening his back, his arms resting loosely on his legs, he leans forwards.
"Feeling better?" It's a trick question. Raphael knows he's not supposed to answer. Instead he grunts, neither yes nor no and leans forwards himself, hoping to stand upright. But it's not as easy as it seems and on his first effort the pain shoots across his chest like a bullet. Grimacing, he stifles a cry and tries again with Pepito watching him closely, one eyebrow raised in expectation. This time he succeeds and stands triumphantly before Pepito, his left arm cupped beneath his ribs and his right, circling the air for an encore.
"Let's go," Pepito says, nudging his head to the door. He stands up, digging his wallet from his pocket and pulls out three notes. He gazes at them for a moment before crossing the room. Then he holds them aloft between finger and thumb and watches them flutter gracefully onto the wheezing chest of the doctor.

It's already 6.46am and Raphael needs to eat. A ravenous chasm has opened in the depths of his gut and is stretching its jaws and proclaiming its vacuous state with fierce, gurgling rumbles. They head back up town to the Estaçió de França, an impressive art deco style railway station from the late 1920s and one of the few places open at that time of the morning. Pepito sits down at a table in the station bar, his fingers drumming restlessly on the aged wood, while Raphael disappears into the gents to check the damage. When the waiter arrives he orders a plate of cold meats and another of bread with anchovies, olives and two coffees, black. Then he sits back and waits for Raphael to return, his fingers idly picking out the beat of a song that's playing in his head. He swivels around and checks out the place, humming softly under his breath. A few men sit propped by the bar, railway workers most likely; drivers, guards, their shoulders hunched against the day ahead, heads bent over the sports section, coffee cups poised at their lips. Pepito lets his gaze drop to the table, his eyes picking out a stain on the surface and waits because patience is the key and for a moment, a fleeting thought, he's back behind the counter in the shop. He's counting out some change, he can smell the coins, taste their dull, acrid bite and feel their cold, hard shape nestled snugly in his palm. He can feel the weight of them, pulling on his fingers, pulling on his eyelids, dragging his whole body down, slowly, until he is weightless. His head droops forwards, heavy on his neck and he's nodding, nodding. Then snap, he's back. Jolting upright he shakes his head, wipes his brow with the back of his hand. It's then that he remembers. It all comes back. The bar, the backroom, the men, the doctor and Raphael, emerging from the gents with a lazy swagger lifting his step.

"I heard something you might be interested in." He's talking with his mouth full, a habit Pepito finds hard to digest. A small, wet fleck of bread lands on his hand which he wipes absently on his trousers. Pepito hands him a napkin which he takes, without thinking and scrunches into a ball in his fist.
"Not eating?" Pepito shakes his head and motions for the waiter to bring more coffee.
"Just keep talking." He says and lowers his head so he doesn't have to witness the fate of the food in Raphael's mouth.
"Like I said .." He always starts this way, prolonging the moment like a child prolongs a story, for effect, control and the listeners undivided attention.
"Know a strip club down Carrer Larrad?"
Pepito nods. He knows the place. The owners name is Mariquita. Started the club as a small place ten years ago, a handful of girls, some loyal punters and an owner who kept her place clean and her eye on the takings. Over the years, the girls increased as well as the takings and the punters kept coming so she expanded the place. She now has a chain of cubs around the city and her eye on other ventures.
"Seems the boss is looking for someone .. one of her girls has gone missing and she must have something going on 'cause the boss is putting out a lot of money to find her." He glances up at Pepito. "She's been asking for you .." He catches Pepito's eye. "Says she won't take anyone else ... says she's heard good things about you." He holds his hands up in mock submission. "But she didn't get it from me, honest." He lowers his hands and leans forwards, his voice dropping to an exaggerated whisper. "Says you'll know where to find her." He stops, picks up an olive which rolls onto his plate and pops it onto his tongue. As he bites into the olive a meandering slick of juice drips from the corner of his mouth and slides down his chin. Pepito leans back in his chair, stretches his neck with a satisfying crack and studies Raphael's face. A short, slender face, almost girlish with sharpened cheekbones that jut out savagely beneath darkly hollow eyes. Low brow and long lashed, it was a surprising face, a beaten face, a face you could count on but never quite trust. Pepito leans closer, his eyes still scanning the face, picking out the clumsy stitching above the eye down over the the swollen lump on his cheek, finally coming to rest on the ugly split of lip.
"Did she speak to you herself?"
"Who?"
"The boss .. Mariquita."
Raphael snorts. "Nope .. she sent some guy, big fucker .. bouncer or something." He wipes his chin with the back of his hand.
"She say a time? Or a place where I'm supposed to meet her?"
"Yeah .. she wants to see you ASAP, morning's better ... at her old place .. says you'll know where it is."
"And this bouncer told you this?"
Raphael nods, cramming the remnants of the bread into his mouth.
"Did he tell you anything else?"
Raphael shrugs, his head jerking from side to side as his jaws work overtime.
"Did he tell you about the girl that's gone missing?"
He shakes his head and swallows hard.
Pepito stands up and lowers himself on cracking knuckles to the side of Raphael's head. "I'll be in touch." Then he straightens his back and cracks his spine. Raphael shifts uneasily in his seat, relieved perhaps to be released from the weight of Pepito's presence, he starts to laugh. A small, high-pitched whine rises from his throat, a hand reaching to restrain his ribs and he feels good when, with a slow, practiced gesture, Pepito reaches into his wallet and peels of a couple of notes. But it's not just the money. There's something else. He watches as Pepito walks towards the door, his legs flung forwards, hips locked and the swing of his jacket as he stops in the doorway and turns.
"Stay out of trouble." Pepito says as he disappears through the door with a frown on his brow and a hand on his holster.

Even as Pepito mounts the Vespa he knows it's something big. Real big. Bigger than all the tip offs he's had before. Bigger than a crooked card game, illegal fight, stolen wallet and all the other insignificant crimes that littered the city. This was it. The biggest challenge of his nocturnal career, a chance for him to excel in his covert profession.
A chance for him to test the method.

2. A BEGINNING contd.

Pepito checks his watch again. 12.36am. He's late, by half an hour at least and it was all arranged. Money for information, that's how it works. Of course, he could have another drink but he decides against it, preferring to keep his head clear, clear enough to think. Tilting his chin upwards he scans the place, his eyes darting restlessly over the heads of the punters, over the stage, loitering for a heartbeat on the swiveling hips of the dancer before they come to rest on a door at the back of the room marked PRIVATE in large chalky letters. It seems like a good place to start. Slipping from the bar stool, he stands up. He needs to be certain of his next move and so, with slow, deliberate steps and a hand which rises to smooth the few remaining hairs on his head, he makes his way towards the door at the back of the room. He knocks and waits and when there is no answer, he knocks again with the butt of his gun.
A muffled scraping of chairs, movement and the door is opened to the width of a gash. An eye, puckered at the edge and yellowed surveys him. There is no way around, above, below or beyond the eye. No space around the gash for him to see the room behind, although, he knows it's there. Only the eye, unblinking and unmoving, observing him with the confident certainty that comes from control. Complete control. Control of the gash, the door, the room behind and who may or may not be admitted.
Pepito is not.
Pepito is not impressed.
He pulls out the gun and rests it seductively beside the crack in the door, beside the eye. It registers in the dilated pupil, but just for effect, just for the hell of it, he pulls back and takes aim, arms outstretched, feet splayed, Hollywood style. The door swings open and the eye expands to a sweating body, overweight in a stained shirt, sleeves rolled up and fleshy hands in the air.
"Don't shoot," the fat man stammers, stepping backwards. He won't. He flicks the gun from side to side and the fat man follows its movements, eyes bulging to the side of the room. And now. Now he can see. He can see the chairs, pulled back hastily, one on the floor. Two more men, both sweating, shirts damp and hands in the air. A table, burning cigarettes propped in an ashtray, money, a deck of cards strewn untidily across the floor and Raphael. Raphael sitting motionless, slumped forwards and his head, anointed in its own blood, is turned towards the gun. Through one bleary, bloodshot eye he tries to focus, moves his puffy blackened mouth in recognition and smiles, a painful twist of lip. Pepito moves towards him, his gun still trained on the men.
"Get up," he barks and pulls at the outstretched arm. Slowly and with obvious pain the youth emerges from his stupor and pulls himself upright. He throws an arm around Pepito and they hobble with clumsy, indignant steps towards the door.
"Hey!" one of the men yells, "he owes us money." Without turning, without speaking, Pepito digs into his trouser pocket and pulls out a handful of coins which he disperses across his shoulder in a silvery, tinkling sweep as they exit.

There's no need for words, he can't even speak. He's angry, angry as hell and yet, curiously, a creeping sense of exhilaration, a pride is swelling in the pit of his gut like when he walks into all those scummy little bars and everyone turns to look at him. At him. Detective Pepito Pons. He likes the sound of it, always has. And how could he not? Picture the scene - a boy of nine, his mine stuffed with his father's heroics, sitting in the front row of his local cinema, legs swinging, mouth loose and eyes feasting on the flickering images of grey-toned cops and robbers - it was inevitable, really. Inevitable that he would then race home with his imagination loaded, cocked and ready and in the seclusion of his bedroom, where all our dreams begin, act out the scenes, alternating between the good guys and the bad, with a natural leaning towards the good.
Of course, Bogart was his favourite. And why not? He'd studied his movements, his manner, his badly dubbed speech, standing for hours before the mirror on his wardrobe, the same mirror that witnessed the clothes, cocking his head and creasing his brow until his mother called him from the foot of the stairs. It was only a matter of time before he perfected his art. Chiseled and honed it, like the great man's jaw, until he stood on the brink of middle age and after a lifetime of sacrifice (for his good mother's sake) he was finally ready. Ready to play the part. If Humphrey could have seen him, he would have been proud.

12.56am and the night is heavy and sticky with heat and yet, Raphael shivers as they step out onto the street. Not from cold exactly or fear either, rather the shock of knowing that somehow Pepito is always there, lurking somehow, just out of reach but always there when he needs him. And Raphael, Raphael is impressed. But he can never tell Pepito. Detective Pepito Pons, who barely a year ago plucked him from the depths of a scam and waved money under his nose, saying - smell that? Money for information, that's how it worked. If he had something to tell, he would tell it, the only stipulation being, he had to keep his mouth in working order. He hadn't bargained on that night. Hadn't bargained on the card game. In the back room. Killing time. He hadn't meant to cheat - some things are in the blood.
He hadn't meant for the men to get so angry, outraged, insulted.
DIRTYCHEATIN'LYIN'LITTLEFUCKER.
He hadn't meant to be in the way of their fists.
He lifts his head as Pepito drapes his jacket around his shoulders and tries to smile a broken, bloodied stretch of lip. But Pepito doesn't notice, his mind is elsewhere, ticking slowly but methodically. Thinking what to do next. His natural inclination is to take him to the hospital although in his heart he knows that it's out of the question. Too risky. He has his identity to maintain, that curious weave of fact and fiction that he's spent his whole life perfecting. You see, for Pepito his chosen role is no game but an essential component of who he is, like the air, hot and still, which he draws into his lungs with each carefully executed breath. If he took him to the hospital questions would be asked: What happened? Where did you find him? And Pepito would feel compelled to lie, something he found distasteful for its own sake: Why he found him by the side of the road .... a hit and run no doubt ... and because he's a good citizen ... a decent man ... he brought him here ... on the back of his Vespa ..... he was bleeding all over the road ... you see ... you see don't you? But they wouldn't. They wouldn't see, they wouldn't understand that to a man like Pepito, the simple blunted daring of a man, who had constructed his life from the depths of a dream, conviction is the key. He'd stake his reputation on that simple fact. Which is why, against his better judgment and with the weight of Raphael pressing on his back, he spat into the winds of reason and headed down to the harbour to purchase the dubious skills of a physician for a small fee, paper of liquid, it didn't really matter.

And the truth? What of it? His name is Pepito Pons. He owns a tobacco shop, something he inherited from his mother, God rest her weary soul. The truth can be as simple as that.