9. OF SCAMS & MEN contd.

Maybe he should have gone home. Back to the shop. Back to the flat. But he just couldn't face it. Instead, he finds himself cruising down the Ronda Sant Antoni on the lookout for a prostitute. Not just any prostitute either but a high-busted, round-cheeked chiquita named Carmen, although it wasn't sex that he was after. At least, not today. Sometimes, he just needed someone to slip his shoes off, rub his back even. And sometimes he just needed to talk and know that someone else was listening. He swings his bike over to the traffic lights, doubles back and takes a trip up the street again, just in case he missed her the first time. She's not in her usual spot, in an alcove by the electrical store and he's just about to turn around and head home when he spots her. She's standing in a side street, backed up against a wall while her pimp gesticulates some finer point with a clenched fist rammed in her face. As she crumples forwards, Pepito jumps from his bike. He sprints towards her just as the pimp is winding his fist up for another strike but Pepito is there before the pimp can sink it home. He grabs his wrist. He spins him around. He pokes his nose in the other man's face and growls.

"Don't even think about it." If there's one thing Pepito can't stand - it's violence, any kind of violence, especially against a woman. With a twist on the wrist, just to make his point, Pepito releases his grasp. The pimp takes one step back then two steps forwards. Stops. Rubs his wrist. Lifts his eyes to check out his opponent then turns on his heel and saunters off down the street. Only when he's safely out of Pepito's reach does he open his mouth for a parting comment.
"I'll be watching you .." His words ring out as he turns the corner and disappears out of sight.

He takes her back to her flat. Sits her down on the edge of the bed and asks her if she has a first aid kit. But when she looks at him with the arch of her brow rising in derision, he shrugs it off and searches through his own pockets without pressing the point any further. He pulls out a handkerchief which is a little soiled and even though the bleeding has stopped, he still dabs at her lip with the cotton. Small, cautious little flutters around her mouth like he's afraid he's going to hurt her. She pushes his hand away, grabbing the handkerchief with an exasperated gasp and throws it on the bed beside her. She stands up. She twists around, her back towards Pepito. Her hands rise to claw through her hair then fall abruptly by her side. She turns around to face him.
"What the fuck?"
"What?"
"What the fuck were you thinking?" She paces across the room.
"I thought .." He starts to speak, starts to explain but she cuts him off with an icy glare and the palm of her hand in the air.
"No, no, you didn't think and that's your fuckin' problem."
Pepito stands up, he reaches out towards her.
"You think that's it, that's the end of it?" She slips out of Pepito's grasp. "It's okay for you .. you can just go on back to your own life but me .." She jabs a finger into her chest. "This is my fuckin' life. And guy's like that ..." She swings her finger out, pointing roughly to the window. "Guy's like him are ten a' fuckin' penny." She snaps her fingers and slumps down on the bed.
"I'm sorry, really .." He moves towards her with his hands stretching out to placate her. "Really, I didn't mean to make it any worse, I didn't think ... your right, I didn't think."
"Yeah well," she touches her lip and dips her head, "next time you come chargin' in with your fists cocked .. you just think how it's gonna be for me."
He nods his head and tries to smile but he's not sure if he can manage it.
"You come for the usual?"
He shakes his head. "I just want to talk, that's all."
"Fair enough but it'll cost you just the same." She pats the bed beside her and he sits down.
"What do you wanna talk about anyway? The weather?"
He shakes his head again and eases himself backwards. His legs feel heavy, his head aches and the thing he wants to do most right now is curl up on her crumpled sheets and fall into a deep and endless sleep. He feels her lift his left leg and slip his shoe off, then the right.
"Tell me something .." His voice is curious, pitched down low in the depths of his throat. "How does a girl get into all this?"
"All this?" She twists her head and lets her eyes move slowly over the room. Picking out her things with a critical air, all those possessions she'd picked up along the way. "Easy money, I guess."
"Easy?" He feels his voice falling further from his body.
"Why not?" She leans in close. "Sure it has it's moments .." Unbuttons the shirt at his throat. "But it's not as bad as you think .. it's a job .. I do my work and I stay out of trouble, nothing kinky see and if I'm lucky it's all over in a couple of minutes ... you tell me where else I can make the same kind of money for a few minutes work?"
"Don't you mind?"
"Mind what?" She moves her hand down to unbuckle his belt.
"Different men .. strangers."
"Not all of them are strangers."
"Like me?"
"Like you ..." She slips the trousers from around his waist.
"It's okay," he says, his eyes closing despite themselves, "I'm too tired that's all."
"I know," she says as she tugs the trousers from his ankles and smooths them down on the side of the bed.
"And I'm sorry ..." He feels his voice growing fainter, trailing into the distance. "I'm sorry for everything."
"So they all say."
But he doesn't hear her. And he doesn't feel the warmth of her swollen lip as she brushes a kiss on the side of his head.

9. OF SCAMS & MEN

Always, the scam goes something like this: A man, an upturned cardboard box and a small, wary crowd of people. They look like they're on their way somewhere but have stopped, with a lazy interest, as they watch the man place an ace and two jacks down and swirl them around. Real slow. You know where the ace is. You kept track, watched it slide over the box and swirl around but you're not the only one, someone else says so. They come from behind and lay down their money and bet and win and bet and win until eventually, you're hooked. Then they wind you in so fast you can hardly keep your eyes on the cards, swirling and sliding, you were sure it was that one and you bet again and again until someone behind you shouts and they all run. In all directions. And for a moment, a few hasty steps, you run too, confused and dazed until you stop and think and pat your empty pocket. But there's one thing you should know, before you're too hard on yourself. They were all in on it. The man, the upturned cardboard box and the small, wary crowd of people. The only genuine schmuck was you.

Pepito stands a short distance away and waits for the sprint. He could have stood there all day, waiting for the moment, the perfect time to act. Just as he'd waited his whole life to play this part, standing patiently in the wings, watching and learning. Waiting for his life to start. And when did it start, truthfully? Was it his mother's death? Could he finally breathe when she drew her last breath? Perhaps it was then that he ceased to be the obedient son - respectful, courteous, obeying her every command. Tucking his dreams away for the meantime, out of sight but not out of heart. And the truth was; it wasn't so bad. She'd been good to him, sure. Cared for him, nurtured him, gave him everything he needed except, it was never enough. Not the business, not the shop. None of it. Not for a man like Pepito, with a restless dream in the pit of his gut and yearning to follow in his father's footsteps. Follow where his instincts led him and his instincts had told him to be wait. Be patient, for one day your life will start.
Waiting still, he observes the Menendez clan in action. He's seen them before and he has to admit they make a good team. A dying remnant of the hustling art. Holding its own against those outside forces that were flocking to the city from far flung places and changing the face of petty crime. But not in a good way. He steps forwards and watches Raphael's mother as she plays the bait. White streaked hair and darkened roots, nails like talons sharpened to a point, she leans over to place her bet. An uncle stands behind and throws some money down too. Now here comes the schmuck. He's stopped, he's interested, he kept track of the cards and while he convinces himself he'll win this time; Raphael has already slipped up behind him an palmed his wallet. Pepito catches him just as he's about to disappear into the crowd and takes his cue like a pro. Flashing his badge, Detective Pons takes control.
"Hand it over," he says.
"Wha?"
"You know ..."
"Wha?"
"The wallet."
"But .."
Pepito grabs him roughly and twists his arm.
"Okay, okay." He hands it over.
"Don't let this happen again." Pepito says and the schmuck nods.
He pulls Raphael over to the side of the road, cuffs him and leads him towards his vespa, a little too roughly perhaps, considering his ribs but what the hell, it's all for effect.

Who would have thought it, certainly not Pepito. His first big case, something to get his teeth into and here he was forced to relay on the dubious talents of a seventeen year old boy. He couldn't believe it and neither could Raphael.
"You wha?" He stands back an arm defensively placed around his ribs, blinking through the other blackened eye that Pepito knows wasn't there the last time. He nods to the eye and asks what happened but Raphael shrugs his shoulders, says he can't remember.
"Your old man?" He presses the issue but Raphael has already swung around with his back to Pepito.
"Leave it .. okay." His voice trails off and Pepito shakes his head. He pulls out his wallet, flicking through the notes, counts out fifty and holds them out to Raphael.
"Here," he says, "take it .. there will be more when you get back to me." Raphael takes the money grudgingly and asks again, for clarification's sake, what it is he has to do.
"It's easy," Pepito sighs, "Just find out who placed a call to the police about the body of a young woman found on a building site this morning. Okay?"
Raphael nods. He folds the money carefully and slips it into his back pocket. "Who is this woman anyway?"
"A stripper, worked at Mariquita's place .. you put me on to it, remember? She was missing and I was supposed to find her."
Raphael laughs throwing his head back and snorting through his nose. "Congratulations Detective Pons, you found her."
"Watch it," Pepito says moving to cuff him around the ear then thinks better of it. "Her name was Rosa ... heard anything about her?"
Raphael shakes his head, wipes his nose with a grimy paw and cocks his head to one side.
"She had a tattoo, just here ..." he points to the spot just above his wrist, "a rose."
Raphael stops for a moment, his face screwed up in thought. "Yeah," he nods, eventually, "yeah, that rings a bell but I heard she was a hooker not a stripper."
"A hooker?"
"Yeah, high priced too."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, sure I'm sure .." he trails off distracted by some tourists milling about on the other side of the street.
"How'd you know?"
"How'd I know wha?"
"How'd you know she was a hooker?"
"Friend of mine told me .." he answers absently, his eyes wandering after the tourists, impatient to follow. "Her and this other girl worked the hotels, businessmen, you know."
"Who?"
"Who wha?"
"Who told you?"
"A friend .."
"Which friend?"
"Does it matter?"
Raphael is already wandering off, his attention fixed on the tourists who are obviously lost. Pepito lets him go. He has more important things on his mind. Besides, he knows where to find him when he wants to. In one sense, Raphael was right; Rosa had been found. Found dead poor bitch. The case had been changed and the lines reset in one, windy night. Changed from a missing persons to a possible murder inquiry, something he wasn't prepared for. Although, he couldn't be sure - she may have killed herself. It was possible, anything was possible, especially for a man like Pepito. Possible but not plausible. Lifting his chin he squints in the harsh sunlight and slips his helmet over his head. Then he hitches his left leg behind him and slides onto the bike. His mind is ticking overtime, digesting the events of the morning and trying to reconcile them with the clear, smiling face of the girl in the photograph. He dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out the photograph. The same face with the dark eyes and the mouth stretched wide to reveal those perfect pearly teeth stares back at him and the more he stares the more he realizes that his knowledge of her is limited. Limited to a few simple facts of life. A short, troubled life but he needs more than that. He needs more information, more than Raphael can provide. He needs to know exactly how Rosa died and luckily, he knows just the man to help him.

Squat, bow-legged and in need of a shave he stands with his arms crossed and his back to the wall observing all who enter and leave the square with the hawk like twist of his one good eye. The other is glass, polished to perfection by Pitchi himself and his alarming habit of plucking it out between finger and thumb when the mood takes him. Rolling it in his soiled palm, admiring the crystal blue of the iris as it glints upon his skin, marveling at its perfection is the closest he'll get to love of any kind. And he loves that eye. In spite of its uselessness, or perhaps because of it, plucking and buffing in the crease of his crotch until it glimmers and shines like a marble. What fate befell the original is hard to tell because the story itself changes according to Pitchi's mood and the person with whom he's sharing it. In one breath it may have been mashed beyond hope in the depths of a fight. In another, it may have been extracted by the mob on the point of a knife. Or even, as had been his whim on one particular occasion, nibbled by a ravenous rat when he was just a boy. Wherever the truth lay, Pitchi didn't care to mention it, maybe it just wasn't as important as his many tales. Tall perhaps, but invariably entertaining, he took as much pride in their telling as he did in the buffing of the replacement.
Pepito has been watching him pluck and buff, hold it up to the light, cloud with breath and buff again until it shines like the sun itself. He waits for him to finish, wavering between respect for his right to this most intimate of moments and a powerful disgust at the sight. Slowly, he crosses the square towards him, slipping amongst the people gathered outside the Cathedral and edging fitfully forwards. He's careful not to startle him, knowing all the while that if his one good eye should spot him sliding furtively through the crowd, he'd be off with his best foot forward, like a rabbit out a trap. And Pepito is no greyhound. He takes it easy, moving closer, one foot in front of the other, hanging back and waiting for his moment to pounce. Pitchi turns his head for a moment, he's distracted by a group of nuns outside the Cathedral door, huddled amongst themselves and staring up at the carved stone walls, lost in reverence. One of them digs a small, beaded rosary out of a pocket in her shapeless grey dress and lifts it to her mouth, kissing the beads and dipping her head. Pitchi dips his own head, mimicking the sign of the cross on his own striped shirt - chin, sternum, left and right; while Pepito, timing his moment to perfection, moves in for the kill.
"Pitchi, Pitchi, Pitchi." He strides towards him, shaking his head with the practiced gesture of a pro and his arms stretched out in greeting. "Now, isn't this nice? Two old friends meeting by chance on such a fine day." Leaning towards a nervous Pitchi, a lazy smile playing on his lips, he enfolds him in his arms and stifles any chance the other has to escape.
"Walk with me Pitchi, walk with me," he coaxes and leads the little man away with a firm hand gripping his elbow. They turn down an alleyway and continue down, in silence, until they reach the bustling throng of the Rambles. Pepito stops, his arms resting heavily across Pitchi's shoulders his hand curling gently round his neck.
"You know Pitchi," he eventually says, "I have this little problem, nothing major now but nevertheless, it's something that needs fixing."
Pitchi starts to speak but a subtle twist from Pepito's hand stifles the words in his throat.
"Now," he continues, "now ... I know what you're going to say, you're going to offer me the benefit of your invaluable experience, aren't you Pitchi?"
The little man nods.
"Which is just as well really because today Pitchi ... today is your lucky day. Out of all the roaches that plague this fair city, you're the one that can help me with my little problem. You Pitchi ... you ..." he says patting his back with a firm hand as they push their way through the crowds to the other side of the Rambles. "You Pitchi ..." he continues as they turn off into one of the side streets, "yes you Pitchi ... are the right man for the job."
Of course, Pitchi was a wise choice, unorthodox perhaps, but what the hell, Pepito had no other means and he had to play it by ear. Make it up as he went along. Literally, pushing a nervous Pitchi a few steps ahead of him until they arrived at a dark little slit of a door, secreted between two dumpsters. Pitchi's place. His home sweet home. Pushing the door with his foot, Pepito steps inside pulling a reluctant Pitchi behind him. They climb the stairs to the first floor and stop outside a battered wooden door peppered with the tiny holes of termites.
"Don't worry." He says as Pitchi fumbles with the lock, "its not what you think."
But Pitchi is far from convinced, particularly at that delicate moment when the door creaks open to reveal a place, sparse in furniture but rich in merchandise. This is Pitchi's trade, a lifetime's work. An odd consortium of various goods and an entrepreneurial streak which loosely revolves around the principles of buying and selling. Anything. Anywhere. Anytime. From fake ID's to knocked off Nikes and everything in between with a liberal sprinkling of drug dealing on the side. If you need something in a hurry, cut price, bit of blow. Pitchi is your man.
Pepito brushes his way passed boxes piled high in the hallway and into what should be the living room but there's a bed in the corner, with the sheet laying twisted on tops as if the occupant has been spewed out and swallowed by the mess. Along the sides of the room are more boxes, piled one on top of the other, some open with their contents spilling over the top and onto the floor. Pepito steps over a selection of ladies footwear and crosses the room to the window. He pulls back the curtain and looks out. Pitchi moves around the room behind him, picking up a drawer full of watches as he goes which he thrusts with a vigorous kick beneath the bed.
"Sit down Pitchi." Pepito says, his face still turned to the window. Pitchi sits down. Pepito turns around, his rear end resting against the window ledge and his arms crossed over his chest.
"Here's the thing ..." He starts slowly, relishing the moment, rolling the words in his mouth, tasting their sound. "How are your connections these days in the world of medicine?"
For anyone else it would have seemed a surprising question, a foolish question in fact but Pepito was no fool, he knew his man. He knew that Pitchi supplied one of the lab technician's of the district's top pathologist with a choice of the finest Colombian cocaine, cut price of course. He presses his point home.
"Come on Pitchi, it's a well known fact."
Pitchi stands up, plucking his eye with nervous fingers and rubs it over his crotch. "Yeah, well."
"Yeah Pitchi, just like I thought." He turns back to face the window avoiding the crucial moment as the eye is pushed back into the socket.
"What's this all about?" Pitchi asks, his lids closing in rapid succession as a profusion of sweat trickles down from his hairline.
"What's it about?" He turns back to face Pitchi, his hands hitched up on his hips and his eyes bouncing over the boxes. He's reluctant to tell him, searching for an excuse but the more he thinks about it the more he realizes that it's safer to stick with the truth.
"There was a body found this morning on a building site in La Mina .. ring any bells?"
Pitchi steps backwards and shakes his head with his hands raised in the air. "Now wait a minute," he starts to speak but Pepito cuts him off.
"Relax Pitchi, it's not your style. I just wanted to know if you've heard the news, that's all." The little man breathes an audible sigh of relief and sits back down on the bed.
"No," he says, wiping his brow, "haven't heard a thing."
"That's a shame," Pepito continues, "ever heard of Rosa Perez?"
"The hooker?"
That was the second time he'd heard her described that way and he was still no nearer to accepting it. He crosses the room and reaches into one of the boxes, picks out a CD and turns it over, his eyes running down the play list.
"Was she?"
Pitchi nods his head. "One of the best they say."
"Who says?"
Pitchi shrugs. "Dunno, it get's around ... talk, you know ..."
But Pepito didn't. He throws the CD back in the box and moves to the window. He pulls back the curtain and gazes out over the narrow street. It would have been simpler if she was just a plain stripper. It would have been simpler if she wasn't dead.
"What do you want from me Detective Pons?"
Pepito spins around roused by Pitchi's voice.
"What do I want?" He moves towards him, slowly, one hand resting on the holster at his hip and the other smoothing the bristles on his jaw. "I want you to use your contact and find out how she died." A tall order perhaps but he has no other choice. Besides, Pitchi is an expert, an expert at getting what he wants, when he wants it. All it takes is a little persistence and the right kind of bribe. A taste for cocaine in this case. Everyone has their price.

He leaves him sitting on the side of the bed, clouding his glass eye with breath while the good one follows Pepito as he picks his way to the front door. There was no sense in hanging around, Pitchi had his orders and would get back to him when he had something to tell. Sometimes, a little trust goes a long way and even further when it's wrapped up in crisp, clean bank notes.
Like I said, everyone has their price. Even Pitchi.

8. ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE

Mariquita sits on the terrace at the back of the house staring out over the hills of Collserola down to the city below. She hasn't slept. The wind kept her awake most of the night, rattling the windows and whistling through the trees and when it finally died down it was almost dawn. She'd left the club early, earlier than usual. Usually, she stayed behind to count the takings and place them in the safe, making sure every penny was accounted for and recorded, with meticulous detail, in a big leather bound ledger. But last night she left early, just before midnight. Perhaps she was tired, it was a plausible explanation, a reasonable excuse but the truth was she was sick of the place. Standing, as was her custom, by the window in her office, her eyes flicking distractedly over the bodies on the stage in front she'd felt a weariness sink into her bones, pulling on her limbs. Pulling on her conscience. Resting her head against the window, she'd closed her eyes and relished the cold chill of glass as it stung her cheek. When she'd opened her eyes again nothing had changed, everything was still the same. The punters were still there pulling notes from their wallets, waving them in the air so that the dancers would move that little bit closer. Closer and closer. Bending down with their breasts swinging loose and the men straining forwards holding out those notes, creased and tempting, between their oily fingers. Her stomach had turned and not for the first time. Not even the thought of all those notes, piling up in the safe behind her could quell the nausea that lurched in her gut. So she told Carlos to put the money in the safe himself and enter the amount into the ledger. She trusted Carlos. She knew he would do as she said. And she left. Drove through the city with the streetlights glittering, the top of her convertible rolled down so that the wind whipped through her hair and blew it out behind her in a tangled mass. She didn't drive straight home either but made her usual detour through some of the most unsavoury parts of the city. The housing schemes, every city has them, the ugly slabs of concrete and crumbling debris that is pushed to the sides and tucked out of sight. And yet, she sought them out. For some strange reason, they soothed her, reminding her of where she'd come from and how far she'd had to crawl. She let the graffiti, the litter, the boarded up shops wash over her like a familiar hand swept across her brow because she needed them, after all this time. She needed them still. Like an addict needs a fix.

She must have arrived home sometime after two, although she couldn't be sure. She'd parked the car in the garage by the side of the house and walked around to the swimming pool at the back. And she'd stood for a moment by the side of the pool, looking out over the hill and down onto the myriad lights of the city below, letting her eyes wash along the length of the coast and out into the sea. Then she undressed. Stepped out of her clothes as if shedding a skin and danced. Danced alone. Danced for no-one. Throwing her head back and closing her eyes, weaving her arms through the stagnant air, grinding her hips slowly, luxuriously, her hands slipping over her breasts and down. Down to that restless place between her legs, over the fleshy slope of her thighs until she was breathless. Sweating and breathless, she'd jumped into the cool water of the pool with her body tensed, straight as a dart as she sliced through the surface. Sliced through the surface with her head tipped back and let the cool, clear water slide over her limbs, cleansing her. By the time she'd surfaced the wind had already picked up. Dripping wet, she'd gathered her clothes and hurried into the house.

She stands up, cradling the cup in her hands and moves back into the house. She glances at the clock, it's just after ten and continues to the kitchen, snapping the radio on as she goes. The voice of woman rolls over her as she reaches for the coffee; the words fired rapidly, the tone flat and emotionless drips slowly into her consciousness.
A body has been found in the early hours of this morning in La Mina, as yet unidentified ... She is only partially aware that she is listening. She cocks her head as she pours the coffee. Police are appealing to the public for any information ... She lifts the cup to her lips and blows chastely over the liquid. Distinguishing mark is a tattoo in the shape of a rose on the forearm ... Hot coffee splashes her robe as the cup hits the floor and she bites her lip to ease the pain, or shock. Or both. She runs through to the living room, grasping the wet material with one hand and turning up the volume on the radio with the other.
Police have no real clues but are anxious to trace anyone who may know anything about the woman believed to be around twenty years old ...
She turns the radio off, unable to hear the rest and paces around the room. "
Fuck .. Fuck ..Fuck .." She repeats it slowly to herself, like a mantra, a way to contain her thoughts and control her emotions. Her hand rises to her head and grabs a fistful of hair, squeezing and twisting until the pain shoots through her skull and she stops. She stops dead in her tracks. She moves through the house and into the bedroom, quickly, effortlessly and picks up her bag, rummaging through the contents until she finds it. She pulls it out. A small, unassuming card, no frills no logos no magic. Just a name and a number. She holds it up and grabs the phone, her mouth still repeating the mantra and her fingers trembling over the buttons as she punches the numbers home.

The persistent trill of the phone enters Pepito's consciousness like a distant drip of water and rouses him from his slumber with annoying insistence. He struggles out of bed and lurches towards the door, cursing under his breath. What time is is, he can't be sure but he knows it's Sunday and perhaps that's why he grabs the phone from its cradle and rams it against his head.
"Detective Pons," her voice sounds strained, close to breaking, "I need you to come here straight away .. it's Rosa, I mean, I'm sure it's her .. they found a body .."
"A body?" He repeats her words although he knows it's dumb but he's stalling, trying to rouse himself, unclog his brain, unfurl his memory. "Where .." he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, "Where are you?"
"I'm at home .." He can hear her breathing on the other end, a stifled, ragged gasp of breath, as though she has been crying or is trying not to. "You have to come now .. I'm sure it's her ... fuck ... fuck." She breaks into her mantra again and then stops, suddenly, as though she remembers something. She draws in her breath. "My God," she cries, "Carlos, I'll have to tell him ... I'll have to phone him now." Pepito manages to get her address before she hangs up but not much else. He hurries towards the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face, running a hand over the toughened bristles as he slaps himself awake. But there's no time to shave as he dries himself quickly and returns to the bedroom. He opens the wardrobe and pulls out the first thing that comes to hand, a pale blue shirt and dark brown slacks and dresses with unusual haste. When he's ready, he pockets the piece of paper and slips his gun in its holster. He doesn't even bother to check himself in the mirror before he runs downstairs, two steps at a time and grabs the Vespa. He's already out the door and on his bike before he has time to check his watch.

He hopes by the time he reaches her house in Vallvidrera she will have calmed down, calmed down long enough to make more sense at least. As it was he'd grasped the basic premise - Rosa's body had been found. She was dead. He castes his mind back to the day before. The flat, the random signs of life, the mundane scraps of evidence that spoke of her existence. Even Rosa herself laying on the beach, laughing, one arm cupped beneath her breasts and her hand stretched out towards the camera in silent protest at being snapped at that particular moment last summer. Last summer, when her life had begun again, her second chance. Pepito shakes his head, an image of her cold and lifeless body stretched out on the mortician's slab keeps flashing before his eyes. At least, that's how he imagines it.
He pulls up outside the house and Mariquita steps out of the doorway and comes running towards him. She must have been waiting there, watching and waiting for him to arrive. He slides off the bike and pulls the helmet from his head and then he hears her. She's sobbing, swallowing great lungfuls of strangled breath. Startled, he stands motionless and when she throws her arms around his neck he buckles slightly under her weight. He moves his hand around her waist and holds her steady while she sobs into his shirt soaking the material, the wet fibres clinging to his skin and her body shaking beneath his grip. She stops, suddenly, as if at that moment she has just become aware of herself. Slowly, she pulls her head up, she steps back, dabs her eyes with the sleeve of her robe, her lips pressed tightly together and walks towards the house. Pepito follows, his fingers picking nervously at the damp stain as he walks. She leads him towards the back of the house, her hips restrained from their usual strut and steps out onto the terrace. She sits down heavily on a chair and motions for Pepito to sit opposite. He nods, his head dipping just a fraction as he pulls it forwards slightly so that his knees almost touch hers. Almost but not quite. He waits there until she's ready to speak. Slightly confused but eternally grateful that out of all the necks in the whole damn town, she chose to cling to his.

Carlos had been arrested. She told him in fits and starts, rising from her seat and pacing back and forth, between controlled sobs and genuine disbelief she spat out her story. She'd called, that was the extent of it, she'd called his flat but instead of speaking to him, she'd spoken to the police instead. They were taking him down to the station for further questioning. Then she tells him with repetitive detail what she had heard on the radio that morning, her voice almost as flat and emotionless as the original.
A body had been found .. on a building site in La Mina, as yet, unidentified ... female, around twenty years old with a distinguishing mark ... a rose on the forearm ...
She trails off, slumps forwards and buries her head in her hands. Pepito sits back in his chair and scratches his head. He's confused. With his eyes skimming the back of her head and his hand moving over his jaw he hits the rewind button in his head and runs over her story again for a closer look. What did she say? The body was found this morning and she thought it was Rosa, but the body was actually unidentified, which meant she was guessing and by the sounds of it, so were the police. Then what did they want with Carlos? Unless. He considers the possibility, stroking his chin with ponderous fingers, laying all the pieces of information he has at his disposal before him, placing them together, turning them over, examining them until it finally strikes him, like a fist in the gut. Someone must have had some information after all. Someone must have told the police. Someone must have blabbed. Any information? Of course it was obvious, even to a man like Pepito, slightly out of his depth and yet curiously rising to the challenge - someone had filled in the blanks. Pepito knows how it works, he knows the score. Except, the police didn't pay for their information, they had other means and the weight of the law behind them, which helped. Which is unfortunate for Pepito, who at this moment is becoming increasingly aware that he's in over his head. He shifts in his seat and cups his chin, his fingers moving backwards and forwards along his jaw, snagging on the tough little bristles massed there. He needs to think, he needs to be sure. He needs to be sure of what he'll do next. Which, at this point in time is anyone's guess. But at least he is sure that the police are no closer to the truth than he, after all, they'd picked up the wrong man. The most obvious choice and yet, Carlos is innocent. He was sure of that. Although, he couldn't say why, at least, not yet. Right now, his main concern is who pointed the finger in Carlos' direction but he has to be smart. The police would be close behind him and it was only a matter of time before they worked it out themselves. The best he can do for now ... is stay one step ahead. He stands up abruptly and leans towards Mariquita placing a hand on her shoulder. She looks up and smiles at Pepito who, in his own awkward way, smiles back.
"There's something I think you should know," she starts to say, her eyes glossy and wet. "Carlos is innocent, you have to believe that."
Pepito nods his head. "I know."
"You have to help him," she rises moving towards him of softly padding feet, "you have to help him get out of this mess."
"I understand and I'll do all I can to help him."
She reaches forwards and grabs his wrist. "No, you don't understand ... he means more to me that you know .." Pepito listens his head drooping downwards, bracing himself for the sting, knowing all the while there was something else but reluctant to hear it from her own lips. Loosening her grasp on his wrist she turns and moves to the edge of the pool. She stares down at her reflection, shimmering on the glassy surface.
"Carlos you see .." she continues, "Carlos is my son."
And now he knows. The phone call. The tears. The drama. The arms around his neck. Yes, even the arms around his neck.
Suddenly it all makes sense.

7. THE BODY

It's early, too early for most people. This time on a Sunday morning, most people are still in their beds. Except for a lone tramp and his dog, the building site is deserted. They pick their way through the debris of rubble and dust on the ground to an abandoned building on the far side of the site. He'd stumbled on the place, literally, drunk on cheap wine, a couple of nights before as he'd trudged around the streets. It was a gaping black hole of concrete and dust earmarked for destruction by the end of the week but for now it would serve as home. The wind had already died down hours ago and the air is calm as the tramp and his dog make their way towards the building. The only evidence that remains of the wind are the broken fronds of palm trees littering the streets. Most people slept through it. Most people except for the tramp who picks up a stick that's been snapped from a tree and throws it for his dog. The dog bounds after it with great lolloping strides, leaving flurries of dust in its wake. It stops, picks up the stick between its teeth and bounds back to the tramp. He throws the stick again and they work their way through the building site in this silent complicity of man and beast. The dog never tires of fetching the stick and the tramp never tires of throwing it.
They continue like this for some moments until the tramp reaches the building and stops. He turns on his heels and whistles for the dog to follow and the dog scampers up with its tail beating behind him and the stick clamped tightly in its jaw. Ducking inside the tramp makes his way to a room at the back with the dog following wet nosed and obedient beside him. He sits down on a mat and empties his pockets, pulling out two tins and a knife from the lining. He stabs one of the tins and a small hiss of air escapes as he works the knife around the rim and empties the contents on the floor for the dog. Then he stabs the other and tips the tin to his mouth, his head pitched back and the red juice of the tomatoes staining his chin as he greedily gulps down the contents. He wipes his mouth with a grimy sleeve and places the can by the side of the mat. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a bottle of wine and pulls the cork with his teeth which he spits on the floor. The dog watches cautiously as he laps at his meat. Then he clamps his mouth around the neck of the bottle and tips his head back so that the wine can flow down his throat without the need to swallow. The dog sits up and starts to sniffle around the floor, searching for more meat. He licks his paws and thumps his tail and the tramp lays a hand on his head, between his ears, which he draws down the length of his shaggy, matted coat. The tramp leans back on the stained mat and closes his eyes but the dog stirs. He's restless. He moves off on four paws with his nose close to the ground, snuffling through the litter of rusted cans and empty wine bottles. Leaving the room where the tramp lies dozing he pads through the place with his tail held high, occasionally stopping to lift his head and sniff the air. He moves through the building, cocking his leg from time to time, spraying his name as he goes.

He knows this place. Knows all the nooks and crannies. Knows all the good places to dig. And he's moving there now, on softly padding paws to a hidden, secret place at the back of the building. That's where he hid his bone. A dirty scrap of nothing, half gnawed by the rats but at least it's his. His bone. Scampering over the rubble, fallen beams and banks of stones he makes his way to his secret place. He stops and sniffs the air and knows he's close. His jaws, slack from panting, tongue lolling to one side dribbles saliva in a snaking trail behind him. He's closer now, he's almost there and as he reaches the spot he stops in his tracks. He stops dead still, his shackles rising and sniffs the air.

The tramp awakes with a start to the echoing sound of a dog howling somewhere in the building. He pulls himself upright on shaking arms and calls the dog's name. No answer. He waits, his skin prickling instinctively at the hollow sound of the dog's cries. He stands upright, the bottle falling from his lap and shattering on the floor. He curses and starts to make his way through the building, kicking cans and stones in his path, towards the empty howls of the dog. He calls again, louder, his voice bouncing back to him but the dog doesn't respond. He keeps moving, legs unsteady, eyes still crusted with sleep. He trips, he stumbles but he keeps on moving, hurrying through the gutted rooms, to the sound of a baying dog.
When he finds him, the dog is snuffling around the edge of a large pit in the floor. He circles the hole with his front paws scratching on the shattered tiles and his head disappearing inside. The tramp calls his name and waits for him to respond but the dog is still rooting around in the hole. He calls again, louder. Harsher, reprimanding the dog with his tone. And the dog looks up. Finally, he looks at the tramp but he doesn't move towards him, he stays where he is. His front paws scratching, digging, clawing with his tail wagging furiously as he pulls at something with his teeth. Pulls with a growl vibrating inside him and the tramp starts to walk towards him, still calling his name but he's dropped the impatience in his tone. He's curious now. Cautious and curious.
What's that you got there boy? What's that? You got a rat there boy?
He edges towards him, closer and closer, picking up his pace until he stands beside the dog and looks down. He places a hand on the matted coat and the dog sits back, his tail thumping on the ground, mouth open, panting, head cocked to one side. Waiting. The tramp moves closer, gets down on his haunches with his face stretching forwards, peering into the depths of the pit. He ruffles the dog's fur and squints at the thing sticking out of the dirt. He can't work it out. It looks like something, something familiar but he doesn't expect it and he can't quite place it. And then he sees it. He shakes his head. Shakes his head to erase it. Shakes his head to deny it but he can't ignore it and it all comes crashing down on his senses with sickening clarity and those tinned tomatoes, those tomatoes in his gut rise up to meet it. Rise all the way up the protruding arm. Scratched and dirty and limp at the wrist with the elbow twisted and the tattooed petals. The red tattooed petals etched beneath the skin.