THE CHOP CHOP SHOP

I should have known better. Any dame that looks like Mao Zedong dressed in skimpy white scrubs holding an open bottle of baby oil is bad news. You might as well get ready for a rare form of Chinese torture.

***

I was in Bar Mariona on Trafalgar when I remembered this kid named Hu. He's a cunning Chinese hustler who's in thick with the slot machine mafia. I busted him one day, handful of jack, and learned the tricks of his trade. You might have read about it in The Chinese Angle. My exclusive expose on the tragaperras gangs on Trafalgar street.

Turns out Hu’s family was having problems in their wholesale clothing shop and he wanted me to help out. Hu called me “fat man”, which is an affectionate way for the Orientals to say “powerful man”. He said, “Fat man. I have job for you. Come by fatha's store. 1000 Secret Moda.”

So I was hanging fire, scoping the fine frails on the scene, when the beeps of the slot brought the encounter with Hu back. I finished my Mascaró and asked the butch camarera where 1000 Secret Moda was. Turns out it was right around the corner. I footed it to Girona and crossed up until I got to the Ronda Sant Pere.

The entire place was filled with knock-off Chinese duds. Sandals, handbags, t-shirts, negligees, lacy panties, denims, faux leather coats. The walls were covered with cutsey shirts and blouses. The floors were littered with a chaotic arrangement of open cardboard boxes, each containing more clothing by the bulk. In every corner psychotic looking Chinese mannequins posed in various states of undress. Hu and I spotted each other instantly. He was dressed in the same salmon-colored blazer and black tee as on the day I saw him working his magic on the slots. He squawked, “You, fat man, come for job?”

I nodded and followed him through a portière. He left the outer store unwatched and I soon realized why. When we came to his sallow old man, resting on a couch, I noticed three television monitors showing the premises. The old man had a whirl of thin silver hair springing out in the back where he had been resting his head, a long goatee of the same whisper thin hair. When I came in with Hu he stirred meekly and sat up. He took a pair of horn-rimmed specs from a coffee table and put them on. Squinted. Grunted something that sounded like, “Hhhhhhehh!”

Hu chinned with him in his squawky voice. The old man answered with gutteral grunts. Hu turned to me.

“Fatha say ok. Now I must tell you problem. Many month no make money. Clothing business is no good. Fatha is vely sad. Mother is sad. Sister must take care of both. I must take care of shop. We not no why the Chan blos always so busy!”

“These Chan brothers. They got another shop like you?”

“Yes. All clothing business bad, but Chan blos make mucho dinero!”

The old man grunted and nodded vigorously when he heard that.

“Always many customer in Chan blos shop. Our shop, no one!”

The Chan brothers obviously got Hu's Chinese choners up in a knot. Turns out lines of customers formed outside the Chan brothers' shop sometimes. Even on Sundays. Hu's shop was almost always empty.

Hu said he wanted me to dope out why. I broke it down to him. 150 a day, plus ex's. The old man pulled his lips back into a smile revealing yellow stained dentures. Hu went behind another portière and I heard him bound up some stairs. While he was gone the old man looked me over and grunted, “Heehhhuhhhh!” Hu came back and dropped a c note and a half in my mitt.

“Fat man. My father put trust to you!”

I hit the streets and walked towards the Chan bros shop on Ali Bei and Bailen. The Chan Brothers joint was called Modus Chan. It was hopping, I could see that from my plant in the bar across the street. I could see 6 or 7 customers near the entrance inside. Some were even lounging around. I ordered a shot of brown and shot it down my gullet. Ordered another one and burned through a Ducado.

I was sure Modus Chan was a front for an underground Chinese gambling parlor. Every Chinaman I’ve ever known has had an unusual proclivity for gambling. They set up gambling parlors wherever they go. When they finish work – in a shop or restaurant or beauty parlor, you name it – they go to these underground gambling joints. They play a special kind of Chinese poker and throw down big time smackers.

I deduced as much after seeing the customers lounging around. No one lounges around in wholesale clothing shop. I knew just what to do. Once I knew they were running an illegal gambling operation all it took was one call.

Well, their operation was far more salacious than I could ever have doped out.

I dropped 6 euros on the counter and walked across the street to Modus Chan. First thing I noticed was the customers lounging around were all Spanish. This was a new factor in the equation. The underground Chinese poker mafia is tight knit and they are highly suspicious of anyone outside their race. I'd bet my boots these Spanish fellows couldn't even handle a pair of chopsticks.

An older gent with a brown beret was trying to parlay with the counter girl. She was like a little flower blossom. Long lustrous hair, tight pink tank top over her petite frame, worn jeans, also skin tight. The Spanish gent was chewing a cigar, mumbling something I couldn't understand. The girl giggled and shook her head.

“No comprender, senor!” She giggled some more.

“Ping Ping! Ping Ping! Quiero ver a Ping Ping!”

“Ahh!”

She giggled some more and nodded her head. She went to a door leading to the back and cracked it. She leaned in and chirped, “Ping Ping!” I heard some light footsteps scramble up to the door. She turned to the old Spanish gent.

“Venil aqui! Ping Ping lible!”

The old man hobbled to the back door and went inside. Amazing, I thought. Maybe the Chinamen were opening a new gambling racket for Spanish ludopatas.

And their shop. It was a clothing shop like Hu’s, nothing extraordinary about it. Nothing that would make it stand out in my opinion. In fact, the whole place was kind of shabby looking. Even more than Hu's shop.

When I thought it couldn't get any weirder, another bird approached the counter girl and blurted out:

“Ping Ping! Ping Ping!”

“No Ping Ping!” she replied. “Ko! Ko!”

“Vale! Ko!”

He followed her to the back door and she let him in. I could see the other gentlemen getting restless so I beat them to the counter girl. I was sure this Ping Ping fellow was the big fish around here and Ko was probably his thug. I wanted to talk to Ping Ping himself.

“Ping Ping!”

“No Ping Ping!”

“Ko!”

“No Ko! No Ping Ping! Venil aqui 2 holas!” She was tight-lipped and not so pretty looking now. I knew it was impossible to penetrate her enigmatic Eastern thought.

“Vale! 2 horas!” I could hang fire 2 hours in the bar kitty corner to their shop. I needed a stiff slug of Mascaró anyhow. “Nos vemos!”

I drank half a bottle of yac in that joint, and read a copy of Sport. I was watching an absurd television program called Salsa Rosa on the boobtube mounted to the wall when two hours rolled around. The camarero gave me 20 back from my 50 and I walked out. I had a nice glow on. I was ready for this Ping Ping fellow.

I walked in and saw there had been a rotation. All Spanish birds still, just different varieties of them. I stepped to the charming counter girl.

“Ping Ping!”

She giggled and went to the back door and peered inside. She chirped “Ping Ping” and turned to me. “Venil!”

I stepped through the door. I recoiled at the sight of what I saw. A 50-year-old woman with combed back black hair, round forehead, protruding cheekbones and a round jaw was boring into me with black empty eyes. She looked like a cross-dressed Mao Zedong, wearing skimpy white scrubs. Her hand outstretched she said, “20 eulos!”

I handed over a 20, which I figured was the cover charge for the gambling parlor.

“Venil!”

I followed her and asked for Ping Ping. She said, “Yo Ping Ping!” The hallway was fluorescent lit and cold. It smelled like yesterday's Kung Pao chicken. She stopped at the second to the last door on the right and swept aside a stained canvas fabric hanging in the door frame. I entered. She squawked “Quital lopa!” and disappeared.

The room was also fluorescent lit. To my right was a massage table. Dividing the room down the middle was a stained yellow white curtain. I could hear some movements on the other side. I guess I was a little too lit for my own good, because I did what Ping Ping said. I stripped down to my choners and threw my clothes on a chair in the corner. I hung my hat on a corner of the back of the chair. Just then the female Mao came back holding a bottle of baby oil. She told me to get on the massage table.

“Boca abajo!” she squawked.

What happened next I can only describe as a rare form of Chinese torture. She squirted my back with the baby oil and clapped her hands together and slammed them down on my back. For such small hands they sure were strong. They kneaded my poor back like it was a Chinese dumpling, along the spine, the shoulders. I complained once but she hissed and shoved my face back down. I was getting heartburn when she squawked again, “Boca aliba!” I turned around, face up. She rubbed me from head to foot like she was drying off a kitchen counter. She casually brushed against the little soldier a couple times. I raised my head.

“Chop chop?”

“Plopina! 20 eulos!”

I was saved by her cell phone going off. She stepped out of the room and answered it. I could hear her yapping in Span-ese to what I guess was a Modus Chan client. I stepped into my pants, threw on my shirt without buttoning it. Slipped on my brogues without tying them. I had just finished putting on my gabardine and my hat when Ping Ping came in. I flipped open my buzzer. Kovaks PI. Ping Ping started squawking, another girl behind the curtain started screaming. I heard footsteps bounding down the hall. A Spanish guy tripped past the curtain and ran down the hallway with his pants around his ankles. I could hear an angry Chinaman giving orders. Feet pounding down the hallway towards me. I grabbed the bottle of of baby oil. The canvas curtain swiped back and a Chinaman wearing a track suit burst in. I smashed the bottle in my mitt and sprayed baby oil all over his face. I shoved him back hard and he went tumbling into the hall and knocked the back of his head on the opposite wall. I burst out and could see Ping Ping running out to the front shop. I pounded the linoleum and reached the shop just as she ran out the front door. Bells tinkled. The shop was empty. All the Spanish birds had taken air. I beat it before the Chan brothers could sic their minions on me.

On the way to Hu's shop people were looking at me funny. I realized my fly was open and zipped it just as I reached the front door of 1000 Secret Moda. Hu was sitting sullenly at the register and jumped up at the sight of me.

“Hu, we gotta talk to the old man.”

He led me back and I explained everything to them. I told them about the hidden massage parlor with chop chop amenities. His father grunted and ordered Hu to get some Tsing Taos. We made a toast and downed our brews.

Two weeks later I stopped by 1000 Secret Moda to see how Hu and the old man were making out. It was a different scene all together. There were old Spanish birds everywhere. They even had that tinkly Chinese music going on. A charming flower blossom was at the counter. I figured her for Hu's sister. I asked her for Hu.

He came out and shook my hand.

“Fat man. You make chop chop?” He burst out laughing and led me to the back.

SMALL TIME CROOKS

I was nursing an infernal hangover when I heard a knock at my hotel room door. The clock on the nightstand said 10:06 am. I growled, “Who is it?”

A young woman’s voice answered, “Hello … uh Mr. Kovaks? This is Elsa Bauer … They tell me I can find you here.”

I kicked an empty rye bottle under the bed where it found a home between my girlie mags and my dirty choners. I threw on my bathrobe and opened the door. “Come in, darling. Please excuse my untidy quarters, the butler has the day off.”

She was Alpine sunshine, one hundred and ten pounds of rosy-faced radiance. Her blond mane was slightly tussled and crazy looking, and even though she donned casual gray sweats, I could tell she had a killer bod. She batted her green eyes at me and took a seat at my desk chair. I sat opposite her on my unmade bed.

“I was robbed, and my mother, she will kill me!”

I set fire to a Ducado and patted one up and offered it to her. She declined. I threw the deck on my cluttered nightstand.

“I arrive yesterday to Barcelona from Zurich, by bus. I am only here to visit because my sister, she is getting married and I am here for the wedding. When I first arrive everything seems okay, I mean I did not recognize anything strange, no missing things. But when I get back to my hotel I recognize my baggage was opened. Someone, some criminal, stealed my great grandmother’s wedding ring! The ring I need to give to my sister!”

I took another drag on my Ducado. She continued:

“They also steal my iPod and my camera, but those things, they do not matter. This ring is special from my family. It is a mystery. Everything was in my baggage the whole time, Mr. Kovaks. But somehow it disappeared in the voyage …”

I was weary of her intentions. Perhaps it was my booze-brained paranoia, but a saucy dame barging into my hotel in need of some sleuthing wasn’t normal. I pumped her for more information. She told me she had found out about me after reporting the theft to the mossos. One of the bulls took her aside and said they knew all about the mysterious thefts at the bus depot, but couldn’t do anything about them. He told her about me and how to contact me. He said I was the only tourist crime specialist in this burg.

“It ain’t hard to dope out, sister. Your valuables were looted in transit. Could be an inside job. Someone handling the baggage for the bus company.”

“Yes, I thought about it, and I even tell the police my suspicions. They say this is happening for many months. So many tourists come to them with the same complaints, so they make some investigations, but nothing. They did not find anything suspicious.”

I tapped ash and continued, “Did you see anything out of the ordinary during your journey? Any folks that just didn’t look right?”

“There is one thing I remember, Mr. Kovaks. It happened two hours before we arrive to Barcelona. We make a stop in Girona for a twenty minute rest and everybody went out of the bus to take some air. Before we go in the bus again I see two new passengers speak very loudly and aggressively with the bus driver. It was strange because they wanted to load their bag by themselves, and they argued with the driver when he tried to do it. It was a large bag. For a short trip, I thought it strange.”

She said when they arrived at the Sants Estació bus depot, the two men quickly hauled the bag off and disappeared. She had watched them the whole time and never once saw them come near any one else’s baggage. She forgot about it until she got to her hotel. That’s when she realized someone had ganked her goods.

“Those gypmeisters could be melting your precious family heirloom as we speak.”

“Yes I know, Mr. Kovaks. I’m so desperate. My mother is going to kill me!”

“I can nab these yeggs like duck soup, babe. This is the deal. I charge one hundred and fifty euros a day plus ex’s. I don’t tumble to dame no matter how sleek she is, and I can beat a jackhammer in a fistfight. Ain’t no gypmeister in this burg bested me yet. So, you got that kind of scratch?”

She left and came back from the cash machine twenty minutes later with a c-note and a half for a retainer.

It was about noon when I set off to Estacio Sants and took a plant near a churro and frankfurt stand. I needed some grease to sop up the excess alcohol in my system, so I scarfed down a couple dogs with fried cheese. The whole time I was on the look out for JDLRs, and there were plenty. All kinds of shady characters, but none working in pairs, none that fit the description of the fellows little Elsa described.

After I finished the dogs I ordered a big cream-filled churro covered in chocolate and a cup of joe to wash it down. This was a bad idea.

Twenty minutes passed. Three buses had pulled through and nothing. Just when a bus pulled in and two JDLRs fitting Elsa’s description got off, I felt a rumbling in my bowels. The mix of churro, cheese, frankfurt and coffee was doing evil things to my guts. I couldn’t wait any longer. I dashed inside the main station and made a beeline for the men’s bathroom. The last stall on the left was unoccupied and I burst in and plopped down on the can. About five minutes later something very strange happened right after I dropped a heavy-duty deuce.

The bathroom had emptied out and I heard two sets of footsteps and two different voices speaking in urgent tones.

“Venga hombre, ábrelo ya ... no hay nadie.”

The sound of something being set on the ground.

Then I heard a zipper, then a third voice gasping for air. A high-pitched voice:

“Joder … joder … tenemos algo gordo esta vez!”

“¡Si lo has hecho bien Romagnoli nos llevará esta noche de putas para celebrarlo, seguro!”

I braced my arms on the side of the stall and peered under. What I saw was unbelievable! Three pairs of legs, each wearing polyester trousers and running shoes, standing next to a large, unzipped sports bag. Two of those legs were stubby, real stubby. They belonged to a midget! He was pulling things out of the bag. MP3 players, purses, a laptop.

I’d seen similar things in the orient when I was a young man in the merchant marines. It was called the Chinese Trunk Man Con. Pint-sized punks would hide in the trunk of a taxi and rifle through the passenger’s goods mid-transit.

So this bantam burglar and his gypmeister pals thought they had the scam of the century. This was obviously some kind of midget mafia, and some creep named Romagnoli was running it. I waited until the three crooks left before I exited the bathroom.

***

The next day I planked down a c-note for a Mercedes CL rental. I put on my track suit disguise and some large shades. I pulled up behind the taxi stand between the bus depot and the main station. Burned through a half a deck of Ducados and finished half a flask of Mascaró when I finally saw the perps.

The two JDLRs from the day before were walking from the depot towards the main station, carrying a large sports bag between them. Undoubtedly the sports bag containing their little friend and the pilfered goods. I ignited the heap and rolled towards them, cutting them off. I rolled down the window and said:

“Hey … hey … peligroso dentro … there are police, policia dentro!”

I threw a monkey wrench in their gypmeisting machine all right. I popped the trunk and got out and held it open. They looked at each other, then down at the sports bag containing the looting lilliputian.

“Come on! Romagnoli … he’s waiting!”

“Quien eres? Tu … how you know Romagnoli?”

“I’m his cousin … me primo de Romagnoli. C’mon! Fast!”

They hoisted the bag into the trunk and I shut it. They took the back seat and one of them pulled out a cell phone. Before he had a chance to punch a number I rolled up the volume on the radio and gunned the motor. I mashed the pedal all the way down and forced that luxury heap to 11,000 rpms. Then I shifted that mother into first and popped it. The tires screamed and smoked. The raw g forces threw them back and the cell phone went flying. The radio was blaring some infernal teen pop music:

Booooooommmmba!

I laughed like a whacko in the booby hatch. I clutched the wheel and shot down Tarragona towards Plaça Espanya. I zig-zagged through traffic, blew through three lights milliseconds before they turned red. I rocketed into the roundabout at Plaça Espanya and took the bend. The two weak sisters cried as the centrifugal force of the turn smashed them both against the right back seat door. I shot out of the roundabout and into Gran Via. I turned the radio up even louder:

Una mano en la cabeza

I put a hand on my head.

Otra mano en la cabeza.

I recklessly put my other hand on my head. Acting like a loon is a great tactic to break down a gypmeister's resistance. I gripped the wheel and yanked it just as we were coming up on car. We served around just in time. One of the gypmeisters blew chunks all over himself, his friend screamed over the noise:

“Estas loco! Estas loco!”

Una mano en la cintura

Otra mano en la cintura

“No lo hagas, no lo hagas!”

It sure stunk in that heap! It smelled like gypmeister breakfast! My laughter was olympian. They were hyperventilating with mortal fear, hugging each other. I gunned it through four yellow lights in a row, barely missed half a dozen heaps with wide-eyed drivers. I couldn’t imagine what the pint-sized punk was going through in the trunk!

“Haaaaaa haaha haaahahahahahaha!”

I took a sharp turn on Pau Claris, the tires screeched and groaned. I steadied the heap and punched the gas.

Suavesito para abajo, para abajo, para abajo

“Almost home boys!”

I hit a green in Plaça Urquinaona and barreled down Via Laietana towards the Med. Just past the bingo parlor I slammed on the brakes and swerved to the right. Pedestrians screamed and jumped out of the way as I brought the heap to a full stop in front of the central police station. A couple bulls came running out just as the two gypmeisters stumbled out weak-kneed. It smelled like burnt clutch. The two gypmeisters pointed at me and cried like little babies:

“Este tio esta loco, esta loco!”

The bulls looked at me.

“Loco? Moi?”

These guys are never short of ideas! I stepped to the back of the heap and popped the trunk and hoisted the bag out.

I tossed it to the ground and something in it yelped in pain. I unzipped it and sure enough, their puny partner in crime was in there.

“I’ve had it up to here with midgets! I mean, up to … here” I said, leveling my mitt at the bottom of my beer paunch.

I got a slap on the wrist for reckless driving, and the three members of the midget mafia got thrown in the clink. Those weak sisters spilled their guts the moment they were under the lights. They told everything, even sent their boss Romagnoli to the big house. When they searched their digs they found thousands of euros in stolen property, all from that dastardly depot of deception.

They recovered Elsa’s ring just in time for her sister’s wedding. Elsa practically wept with joy when I returned it to her. She even tried to put the charm on me, but I resisted. Poor kid.

I left her hotel three c-notes richer and went down to a joint near my place, Bar La Plata. Ate some pescaditos and downed three ice cold brews. This burg. Full of lousy thieving palookas, but the grub is damn good.

ONE CROOKED KITTEN

The first time I saw this crooked kitten she was falling into a cab, oiled to the gills, blathering something in French. She was a dream. A deluxe hustler whose tomatoes got my motor racing every time I peeped them. I watched this all go down in front of a bar near the Liceu subway stop.

It was early evening and getting nippy, but she was wearing a teeny lamé dress and large oval-shaped shades. The kind uptown sharpies wear. She had long wavy cornflower-blue hair, mussed up by the breeze from the Med. Sidling in after her was a little bit of a man in his early thirties. Shaved dome to dissimulate his bald spot, sharp-looking plastic framed glasses, brown suit. He was chinning something in American.

"You just tell me where you wanna go ..."

"Izz too much. It izz too much. Monsieur, are you sure?"

She pronounced "sure" with a hard "s". I knew something was wrong. This sweet-looking jane and this young sprout without clout. Takes no genius to tumble to it. Before the hackie shut the door I heard: "Merci, merci monsieur. How can I ever repay you?" I made a mental note. I remembered that figure.

The second time I saw her she was near the Drassenes subway stop. She had a bleach-job or some kind of blonde hair piece on, a zebra-patterned charmeuse dress with one of the shoulder straps loose. I recognized her by her oversized shades and those mesmerizing curves.

I was leafing through some girlie mags in the kiosk. Next to me this forty-ish English tourist with a Liverpool football jersey. She wedged herself between me and the Englishman and went into her spiel. This time she shed her French accent for a German one.

"Entschuldigung, sir ... entschuldigung ... sprechen Sie Deutsch ... no? You speak English?" She had a weird drawl when she jawed in German.

"Why … why yes, certainly," he stammered.

"I am so sorry to bother you, but you look like a nice man and something terrible has happened. The Moroccans ..."

She sobbed a story about how she got fleeced by members of the Track Suit Mafia. She was cleaned out until she could go to the embassy tomorrow morning. Her encantos were in full view. A bird flying over would've gotten vertigo and crashed just looking at that cleavage. The Englishman walked off with her. I had a date with Magic Hands that day. Otherwise I would've shadowed them.

The third time I saw her I was in a joint near the Parallel subway stop. One of those typical tourist traps with Spanish trappings and hooks on the wall for tourists to hang their Mexican sombreros. I was near the back corner, lighting fire to a Ducado and waiting for the camarero to bring my rye when this flustered tourist came in. You take a textbook example of what a perfect target would be for a gypmeister and he would be it: unwieldy “love” handles on the sides of his waist – which were obvious despite his blazer and baggy pants - and map in hand. Yup, this town is full of sheep ripe for sheering.

He ordered in some kind of Spanish. A "sir-vay-za". Pulled the barstool out and plopped his fat derriere on it. Laid his map out on the worn varnished counter to study it. I blew out a plume of gray haze and tapped ash. A dame wearing big shades walked in at this moment. She had curves that could give an entire geriatric ward cardiac arrest. It was her all right, except this time she had a short bob hairpiece, jet-black, and she was wearing a navy-blue airline stewardess uniform. Walked right up to the tourist fellow and shimmied her fine behind onto the barstool next to him. Then she started weeping gently.

The tourist gent stopped studying his Rand-McNally and looked at her. Seeing her teary expression he asked:

"I ... I'm sorry ... is anything wrong? Oh ... how terribly rude of me ... tu ... tu hablo ingles?"

"Yes ... yes I do ... I'm American."

I was starting to get ill. The camarero brought my drink and I knocked it back and took a deep drag. Instead wringing her gold-digging neck I clenched my teeth. Blew out another long gray plume.

"Oh really? I ... I'm so sorry, I didn't want to assume ... Heh heh ... what on earth is the matter?"

With tears streaking down, making grayish trails on her mascara, she replied:

"Oh I feel so silly. I really don't want to bother you ..."

"No .. no ..."

"I just flew in from New York with a two-day layover. I left the airport and took the train and everything was fine until I got to Plaça Catalunya. Then, when I was leaving the train I was distracted by this Spanish guy. Maybe he was a gypsy or a Moroccan, I don't know! He kept pestering me for directions to the Sagrada Familia, and he was like really insistent, with this map that he kept shoving in my face. I kept telling him I didn't know and finally he left, but by that time the train had left and I was standing on the platform like a total idiot! My travel bag was stolen. Everything, my laptop and even my personal diary ..."

"Oh dear ..."

Her story got better. She was booked in this fashion boutique hotel nearby in the Raval. Fashion boutique being a modest hotel outfitted with expensive gear and a catchy looking logo. Some pricey dump called Hotel El Cool. The poor tourist asked her if she couldn't call the American Embassy, and she said it was too late. She would have to try first-thing tomorrow morning.

He said this situation was "absolutely disgraceful" and agreed to help her out with some scratch until tomorrow. At least, he insisted, she should have a good night's rest in her hotel after this "terrible ordeal". They pushed off their barstools and he left a couple euros on the bar. I dropped my cig and stamped it out. I threw three euros in shinies on the bar and set out after them.

They didn't have far to walk. Past the usual miscreants and the paki food joints there was this nondescript building with “Boutique Hotel El Cool” on the door buzzer list. They hit the buzzer and waited while I loafed around like a drunken louse at the street corner. Seconds later they pushed the door and went up. In five minutes I was accosted by a churriana and saw two JDLRs. They still hadn’t come out. I beat it.

That night in my room I couldn't get this multi-faced frail out of my thoughts. It needled me something bad that she was pulling fast ones on tourists in my jurisdiction. I couldn't even send her to the sneezer because legally she wasn't doing anything wrong.

I needed a slant on this case. I had glow on and my dome wasn't 100%, but slowly a pattern emerged. I had seen her as a French mademoiselle near the Liceu stop, a German fraulein near the Drassanes stop, and as an American flight attendant near the Parallel stop. Then I remembered the camarero complaining about all the tourists in town because of the big 3GSM convention. That meant fellows with moola and a free night on the town who had no clue whatsoever about the dangerous criminal underbelly.

I knew just where and how this dish was going to strike next. I couldn't wait to put the sock to her pretty yapper!

I spent the next two days deep cover. These were the last two days of the 3GSM mobile phone convention so I knew I had to make it sudden. I left my gabardine in the hotel and wore my short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt and some shorts. Mid-February and I felt like a world-class chump, my nads shrunk to the size of a cacahuete. The first day I beat it around the Poble Sec stop. Nothing at all except for some polychrome putas and some members of the Track Suit Mafia. The disguised dame somehow slipped through my fingers.

The next afternoon I hoofed it around Plaça Espanya. It was a nightmare. Tourists were everywhere and the gypmeisters were out in force. I was caught between the urge to blow my cover and send some of those flimflammers to the cooler, or put the screws on this kitten. Finally it was early evening and my dogs were barking. I hit a joint across the street from the 3GSM convention center. I needed a slug of Mascaró. Liquid heat.

The place was well-lit and filled with smoke. The patrons yapped like a pack of squirrels on methamphetamines. I sat in a booth near the streetside window and placed my order. I had burned through a Ducado and finished my booze when she walked in. She was sporting an ankle-length sable fur stroller and matching fur hat. Wearing her oversized shades. A mysterious Russian diva. This cagey kitten thought she was going to do some bigtime fleecing. She had another thing coming!

I whipped out my map and walked directly to the camarera behind the bar. I made sure my voice was loud enough to cut through the brouhaha and asked the camarera how to get to the Ramblas. Sure enough, the good-looking frail approached me and said in a phony Russian accent:

“Previet meesterrr I … I am sorrry. You speak a leeetle English, no?”

I blew out smoke and smashed my cig under my sneaker. I glanced at her wise-like and said:

“Tee vidyelish moyio vodkoo?” *

Her jaw went slack. “I … I …”

“You thought you had it all doped out, didn’t you. Thought you had all the angles on the suckers in this burg. You thought wrong!”

Then she changed tack and tried to wile me with her encantos. She subtly opened her coat and revealed a bod that practically changed the shape of my shorts. She took off her shades and for the first time I saw her eyes. Ice-blue, pinpoint pupils which belied the phoney smile she was spreading for me. Her eyes. Wild-looking. Unpredictable.

“So you have me, Mr. Kovaks. I didn’t recognize you in your clever disguise. Ha ha!”

“I don’t care how you know me. Now I know your angle and …”

“Mr. Kovaks. Don’t be ridiculous. Every peanut grifter in this barrio knows who you are. You have nothing on me. I have not broken the law.”

She was right, but I swear if she wasn’t a dame I’d have massaged that smug little chin. “You’re good sister. But not that good. I’ll be on your tail wherever you go.”

“But how did you …”

“It was easy. I knew you had to strike tonight because it was the last night of the mobile phone conference and the wideboys with big scratch were going home. I knew you would strike here because it was the next stop on the green line. You could’ve left a trail of bread crumbs sister, it couldn’t be easier. Liceu, Drassanes, Parallel ... next stops were Poble Sec and Plaça Espanya. You shook me the first day, I don't know how. That left one stop, kid. The only thing you fooled me on was your disguise. I had you figured next as an Italian bombshell.”

“I admit Mr. Kovaks, you're good, maybe the best I've ever seen. The Russian disguise was a last-minute decision. My Italian bombshell outfit is at the cleaners and I didn’t have time to get it. Well, how ‘bout some hooch?”

She laughed scandalously and several of the patrons stopped talking and looked at us. Mostly her. We pattered into the night. The neon buzzed, the voices got louder. Turns out this dame was a rich American heiress who scammed men for a kick. A soiled dove who made a wrong turn somewhere and ended up with her fingers in a wedge of gypmeister pie. What was I to do. She gave me her word the next time she hit this burg it would be to park with me, not to fleece some tourists. The next day she skipped town and headed south. I’ll toss a mental nickel and say she’s in the Costa del Sol. It’s bursting with tourists!

_

* Translation: “Have you seen my vodka?” A little something I learned when I was in the merchant marines.

THE CLOAKING CON

Some of the most nefarious flimflammers in our midst are the Cloaking Gypmeisters. Even the most jaded travelers have tumbled to their wiles. What they do is disguise themselves in order to dupe weary tourists. They win confidence. Then, before the sucker tourist can blink, they’re practically giving the scammer their dough. Sound incredible? Here’s a recent case of sharp-dressed gypmeisters fronting as cops.

No spoofing. These unscrupulous muckers ought to be ashamed. Posing as bulls, then fleecing their victims for all their hard-earned scratch. Last Christmas Day I ran into them near the Sagrada Familia. I was deep cover. Had my gabardine coat open, casual style, my stetson pulled low. I was on the lookout for JDLRs, or folks that Just Don't Look Right.

I was across the street from the cathedral, sitting at this patterned aluminum table, eating a hot dog. The food vendor nearby was listening to José Feliciano on a small transistor radio turned up to distorting levels. Brats and their parents milled around the zone. I had a copy of Sport and made like I was poring over it when a big tour bus pulled up. Tourists filed out and re-grouped in front of the bus where a tour guide gave them instructions. They had approximately one hour and a half to enjoy the delightful cathedral and get some grub. They splintered off in little packs.

An elderly Jap couple sporting urban safari gear stayed behind. The Jap gent had his camera out. His wife made cutesy poses for him while he strategically snapped pics of her with the cathedral in the background. It was routine. Rote for a tourist. A sweet opportunity for a slick gypmeister.

A fellow that looked like an American tourist approached them. He was sporting white sneakers, a fanny pack, Bermuda shorts and a college football tee tucked in over his paunch. He was as wide as he was tall, and his skin was the color of Lambrusco, and just as transparent. He handed them a camera. Through his gesticulations I could tell he wanted the Jap gent to snap a pic of him and the cathedral. Just then two sharp-dressed birds closed in on the flanks of the yank tourist. They wore matching dark denim and dark sports jackets. Greasy dark hair slicked over their domes.

Textbook JDLRs. But these dandified croppers sure had me fooled, as you’re about to see.

I folded my copy of Sport and casually approached the group. I came in at 45 degrees behind the sharp-dressed birds. I whistled an old sea chantey, had my mitts behind my back and stared up at nothing, tourist style – taking special care not to miss the transaction. The sharp-dressed birds flipped open their wallets. Cop badges. At first I wasn’t sure if these guys were gypmeisters or cops pulling a sting.

But bulls don't stop tourists like that. At random. So I knew something was up. I moved into hearing range. One of the sharp-dressers spit at the American:

“You. You look the suspect! Show me the ID!”

The American opened his fanny pack and took out his wallet. The sharp-dresser rifled through it and took out an ID. He shouted something that sounded neither Spanish nor English and his partner seized the yank and pushed him up against a tree. He frisked him while his pal gave the Jap couple the third degree:

“He is dangerous criminal! You must now to show the ID for make the talk!”

The Jap gent looked at his wife, she nodded. He pulled out his wallet and handed it over. The sharp-dressed bird rifled through and – in a blink – palmed a credit card and some euros. I tell you brother, I was ready to put a sock to these low life scammers. But I had a better plan.

I closed in. I whipped out my buzzer. Kovaks PI. It's a name that strikes terror into the hearts of any gypmeister within a 200 mile radius of this burg. The gypmeister next to me quaked with mortal fear. His pupils tightened, the white around them webbed over with tiny veins. His threads up close had that cheap bought-ten-minutes-ago-in-a-Chinese-shop look. I parlayed in Spanglish:

“¿Que pasa aquí? You boys with the squad?”

He blubbered his bunco lingo. I couldn't understand a word. They were getting ready to bounce. I knew I had to snap into action. I yelled at my yankee compatriot:

“Nab the heel! They’re trying to fleece you and the Japs!”

He was big, a bruiser. If only he really was a yank, my operation would have been smoother.

He got shifty as a rat on the muelles. Then he jawed some Eastern European gibberish with the sharp-dressed gypmeisters! He was a fake yank working as a shill for the fake cops! He was the bait to lure the tourists into their dirty scam! Pure savage instinct. I gritted my teeth and grabbed the gypmeister with the Jap's wallet by the lapels, taking some skin. His hands reached up, the wallet dropped. I could have crushed this dilly, but the fake yank body checked me. I rolled with it, and due to his momentum he wiped out in the dust. I still had my mitts on the sharp-dressed scum. His Sadie Hawkins date bolted. The fake yank pushed himself up and scrambled after him. The Jap tourist picked up his wallet. His wifey screamed and wailed in Japanese.

I had the punk face down in the dirt, in a wristlock, when the prowl cars pulled up. Four of them. Eight boys in blue came charging out. Six of them went after the fake yank and his sharp-dressed pal. The other two came pounding up the stretch of dirt path towards us. Tourists on the surrounding benches were snapping pics. Women and children were screaming. They must have thought this was “typically Spanish” drama. A wiry Mosso lad tackled me and his partner got the sharp-dressed gypmeister in a half nelson. I offered no resistance to the cop, even though I could have momicked him up like 1-2-3. The overeager young sprout! It was a matter of minutes before they managed to get the fake yank and the third cloaking perp.

They slammed us in the prowl cars and took us downtown for booking.

I got thrown in the cooler, but not with the three cloaking gypmeisters. They charged me separately. On counts of vigilantism and obstructing justice. It seems I got the drop on the cloaking gypmeisters when the bulls were serveilling them for something called Operación TIP OO. You see, they were just getting wise to the cloaking con. Operación TIP OO gave them powers to lock the muckers up for a good long stretch. It turns out the birds I helped them nab were old school scammers with records as long as my arm.

But the bulls don’t like being bested at their own game. They know all about me. Some of them resent me. Call me a nuisance, guiri de mierda. Others think I’m the best thing since pa amb tomàquet. Anyway, after 18 hours with the barred-room boys they let me out.

It was cold. Fat raindrops fell like drunken sailors in a Chinatown whorehouse. There were JDLRs and odd tricks around every corner. I kept walking.

VARIATIONS OF THE GYPMEISTER RAPTOR CON

The Raptor was a savage prehistoric beast that hunted in packs. Typically, the Raptor would send out a scout to distract the prey. The prey would wearily watch the scout Raptor. Meanwhile, his Raptor buddies would close in on the flanks. Then they pounced with deadly quickness.

This shameful technique is employed by gypmeisters throughout this burg. Atavistic impulse. Avarice. Downright deviousness. A gypmeister is a throwback to savage times. I've peeped them using the Raptor technique so many times I lost count. And before you whine, “LOL Larry! If you see it all the time why don't you just stop it!” I'll just say this: This burg is bursting with muckers and suckers and I just do my small part. If it happens my immediate vicinity is a safer one, then I consider my job done.

What I'm about to describe are variations of the Gypmeister Raptor Con. They went down right before my unbelieving eyes. How birds fall for this is beyond me. Let these true stories serve as warnings to all tourists.

ATTRACTION AS A DISTRACION

This is one of the most cunning Raptor methods I have ever seen. I have yet to stop it in action. For it is as rare as it is brilliant.

I was fumigating my brains with a Ducado one night in the lower Ramblas. Outside a French bar called Pastis. This area is notorious for the high density of so-called chicas con sorpresa. Trannies in modern American parlance. What I saw was shocking.

A large whale of a tranny had planted himself in front of the bar. He was even fatter than me, and I'm a big guy. But it looked like he had two watermelons stuffed in the top of his dress. The damn things were so big they had their own gravtiational field!

This young blonde kraut came tumbling out the bar, completely soused. When he regained his balance and looked ahead, he went slack-jawed. The tranny just in front of the bar was flashing his massive boobs and making lewd sucking noises with his mouth. The young kraut was momentarily stunned by the sight of this lard can with boobs. Taking advantage of the young kraut's distraction, the tranny's friends swarmed in from the sides and fleeced him but good. The trannies were off around the corner before the young kraut realized that they had ganked his wallet.

Back when I was sailing this mudball I saw a similar thing in Cartagena. Though not a Raptor Con, it is worth mentioning. Goodlooking dames would sashay along the avenues and approach fellows. They would bare their breasts to the fellows and allow them to lick them. The suckers, of course, were more than happy to lick their charms.

What they didn't know was the dames had dissolved powerful narcotic pills in water and rubbed their breasts with it. Licking their charms would cause the suckers to fall into a stupor. The suckers woke up with their wallets, their cars, sometimes even their pants missing.

Fellows. Just remember one sure way to avoid the Attraction as a Distraction. A goodlooking dame needs to be wined and dined before you can even think of fooling around with her charms.

THE RAND MCNALLY

This is a fairly common gypmeister technique. It is both sinister and simple, and it is effectively used throughout the centric neighborhood. The yeggs are wise to me now, so they never do it in my presence. But this is what I saw one time.

A charming Jap tourist couple were enjoying a coffee in front of café Zurich on Plaça Catalunya. Just enjoying their trip to the Catalonian capital. Enjoying what they bought with their hard-earned yens. They were cautious. Had their video camera bag looped around the foot of the chair. Little did they know their vacay plans were about to go blooey.

A member of the Track Suit Mafia brazenly approached them. He had some maps of Barcelona and he began fanning them. I was at the bar inside so I couldn't hear his patter – but no doubt he was trying to “sell” them a map.

The fanning motion of the maps and the irritating patter of the map vendor distracted the couple. They refused to by his map, just as expected. But with lightning speed two other members of the Track Suit Mafia came up and “grappled and slashed” their camera.

The map vendor walked away dejectedly. The tourist couple were glad to be rid of this pest. Then they noticed the strap to their video camera dangling. It had been razored. The map vendor had disappeared and he and his pals were one video camera richer.

Don't get Rand-McNallied. There is no such thing as wandering map vendors. When you see one, you can be sure his buddies are close by, waiting for their chance to “grapple & slash”.

THE TIRE PINCH

This dastardly gypmeister raptor technique involves tourists in cars. Tourists in cars are easy to spot. Erratic driving. Long pauses at street corners to read street signs. Maps unfurled in the passenger seat. Any number of signs will blow their cover. Especially stickers on the car that make it an obvious rental. This is what I saw happen to a guy in a “Pepe” rent-a-car – easily the most obvious rental car on the market because it says “Pepe” really big on the side of the car.

I was in this joint near Plaça Universitat. Wolfing down a plato combinado with some lousy wine. What they call around here corrupción gastronómica. From my vantage point at the bar I could see the intersection outside through the window.

The light just turned red and a “Pepe” rent-a-car pulled up to the crosswalk and waited. One lone fellow was in it. An obvious forastero.

This is the real yarn of what happened next, even if it sounds improbable. I was scarfing down a mouthful of horsemeat and fries when I saw a gypmeister pounding on the car's rear side window. His arms were a flurry of gesticulations. Pointing to the rear tire on the opposite side of the driver, which was flat.

The the light turned green and the driver pulled ahead slowly, rolling on the rims of his tire. He parked and joined the gypmeister who “kindly” told him about his flat tire.

What happened next was duck soup for a gypmeister. While the tourist was inspecting his tire with Gypmeister #1, Gypmeister #2 opened the driver's side door and ganked everything in sight. It was unbelievably fast. I barely had time to shoot down some vino sin pedigree. I ran out of the bar and yelled, “They're in your car!” Gypmeister #2 was off running. The tourist first looked at me, then at Gypmeister #2 scattering off, then at Gypmeister #1 who scattered off in the opposite direction.

I approached him and told him he had just fallen victim to the Tire Pinch, a variation of the Gypmeister Raptor Con. Gypmeister #1 had slashed his tire when he stopped the car. With the pretense of helping him out, he tricked the tourist into pulling over and getting out so his gypmeisting pal could rifle through his goods. The gypmeisters had stolen his overnight bag. His passport, credit cards, everything. I gave the poor tourist some scratch so he could buy some hooch to sooth his pain. That's all I could do.

These are just three variations of the Raptor Con. There are endless possibilities. These dirty rats always got something on the fire. Their craftiness knows no ethical bounds, and their brazenness is shocking. Just keep your eyes peeled and these plundering pikers won't have a chance.

THE UPSKIRT CON

What I saw this summer day made me sick. I’m not talking about gypmeisters or vagrants hunting for palomas. Not even those hen parties with stuffed penis hats. No, I’m talking about a dangerous phenomenon called upskirt videos.

This is how I single-handedly destroyed a network of upskirt perverts. Their modus operandi is simple. Hide a video camera in duffel bag or something similar. Point the lens so it peeks out a hole, angled up. Press Rec. Since the tendency of girls these days is to go sans panties, their work is easy. And lately it’s been all over this burg. Apparently this devious perv technique is an import from the Tokyo subway system. I read about on the internet. There they call the upskirt pervs panchiras. The only difference is that there they insist on giving the dames 200 dollar tips after upskirting them. It is a great affront and loss of face if the dame refuses the tip.

It was some sweltering day in August. I had just downed a sol y sombra in a joint near the Ramblas. I hit the pissed on flagstones outside, set fire to a Reig. I was looking for action. Preferably the tall and blonde kind. Draught. I grabbed the front brim of my Stetson and pulled it low.

I crossed to the median and was making my way down to bar La Plata off of carrer Ample. I had pretty much the whole stretch of the Ramblas to foot. My eyes peeled, I noticed a man in gray. Gray khakis, gray linen shirt, dark with sweat around the armpits. His shoes were gray, his hair was gray. His bespectacled face was about as remarkable as suction cup shoes on a cat burglar. Gray Man was pulling a little Spanish shopping trolley. Nothing strange about Gray Man.

And that’s the rub. The mucker was so damn nondescript I got that funny feeling in my shorts. I dragged the last of the Reig and mashed it out under my brogue. I shadowed him from twenty feet back. He walked with a casual air. Approached a group of tourists gawking at a living statue of Che Guevara. He positioned himself behind a tourist dame wearing a sleazy summer dress. A dead give away. Why would a native watch the living statues? No native in his right mind would watch those crooks. They’d sooner be playing bocce ball in drag! Then I peeped it.

He angled the shopping trolley in such a way that the lower edge was very close to the girl’s legs. Odd, considering all the possible places he could place his trolley. I closed in at forty-five degrees, about ten feet away. The girl moved and jawed with her male companion. The trolley moved behind her. The whole while the perv looking straight ahead at Che.

I jabbed my typer finger into his puny backside.

“Euhhhha! Qué te pasa?!”

“Pasa algo en tu trolley!”

“Eh? Qué?”

Not wanting to cause embarrassment to the charming tourist broad I grabbed his stick arm and walked him to the edge of the crowd. Near a kiosk covered in Ronaldinho and Messi paraphernalia I gave him the third degree. In Spanglish.

“Tu trolley! Dentro you have … camera!”

“Estás chiflado! Déjame en paz, guiri de mierda!”

“No hablo your talk.” I flipped open my buzzer. Glinting silver. Kovaks P.I.

Just then the charming tourist broad and her beau stepped up.

“See, I knew that creep was up to something! You never listen to me, Ron!”

“Aw, baby there’s no way I could have known! Besides who the hell is this guy. Dressed up like a detective.”

I knew the pervy palooka was getting ready to dust. I knew I had to act fast before the mucker got any funny ideas. I grabbed his shopping trolley and yanked it away from him. I flipped open the top flap of the vinyl bag and pulled out a browned head of lettuce. I bowled it down the center of the Ramblas. Below the head of lettuce there were some loose crumpled up pages of a magazine. Below that, a bunch of wires and knick knacks. I yanked them out. Then I saw it. A little video camera mounted in the chinsiest possible fashion to the bottom of his trolley. With duct tape and an empty can of lube. Gray Man went from stoic indignant to stammering fool in the wink of an eye. I simultaneously reached in and ripped the video camera out of his trolley and grabbed Gray Man by the arm. I held up the video camera for all to see.

“Filthy perverts are taking over the Ramblas. The subway systems. They rub on innocent tourist girls. They leer. They make rude and uninvited comments. They multiply like the lowest form of bacteria and attack the weakest among us! NOW THIS!”

The tourist girl gawked at me in what only can be described as awed admiration. “What! What! What is it!”

“This lousy mucker is part of the upskirt mafia. I’ve seen them on the nightly news. On youtube. THIS CAMERA has been recording UPSKIRT images of you! And thousands of other innocent dames in skirts!”

The girl’s boyfriend blurted out:

“Let me see that camera! The scumbag pervert!”

Then I announced, to the astonishment of all:

“The evidence of their depraved activity isn’t here! His partner in slime, the living statue, is standing on it!”

By this time there was a fairly thick crowd forming around us. Aw, the little bird brains. Innocent happy go lucky fools! I pointed at the fake Che Guevara.

“The video signal was cleverly relayed to a recording device. The recording device is planted right below the living statue’s feet!”

Now, you’re wondering, how did I dope this out? How did I know Gray Man was in cahoots with Fake Che?

Right before this I was in a joint near the Ramblas, shooting down some hooch. I was reading Interviú magazine. Great spread that day. Some saucy dame in her birthday suit on a beach, rolling around in the waves. Then I overheard these two birds chinning at the bar. Something about camera, upskirt and chicas. They were fiddling with a video camera and a remote control device. The remote control device is a common perv technique to throw off suspicion.

One of the pervs was Gray Man. The other was Fake Che. But their little ruse didn’t work on me. Che Guevera would never use a non-communistic remote control device!

I managed to manacle Gray Man and Fake Che together. The mossos came just in time. I turned the muckers over. I helped the upskirt victim negotiate with the bulls so she could get the video depicting her nobler parts back.

When they booked the upskirt pervs they found out they were both wanted as part of an international upskirt ring. Distributing their salacious wares over the world wide web. The hard drives on their computers were bursting with upskirt depravation!

You see, most uptown sharpies and oblivious tourists don’t tumble to the filth around them. The world flits by. Everybody is permanently happy. Like those animatronic dinguses they got in Disneyland. That’s why the upskirt pervs can follow them so easily. The upskirt pervs don’t follow me. Then again, I don’t wear skirts.

THE DANGER OF THE PERFECT BRUNETTE (part II)

The Danger of the Perfect Brunette (part I)

I footed it to the hotel and went straight to Stan’s room, 301. After three knocks the door squeaked open.

“Hey, Larry …”

Stan looked the worse for wear. Red-rimmed eyes, nappy head. Obviously I caught him trying to knock off of a bender.

“Stan! Good to see ya!”

He groaned. Left the door open and went back into his room. I pushed it open and stepped in. A filthy, disorderly spectacle if I ever saw one. Much worse than my digs. An Olivetti typewriter sat on a wobbly desk, between two glass ashtrays overflowing with butts. Crumpled paper. Empty bottles. Crumpled