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.

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.