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.
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