SHAME, SHAME, SHAME (part II)

After my R&R I got on the case for Socrates. Got a little more than I bargained for. But I came out with my noodle in one piece. Got me a moll to die for. Well, kind of. The dome is still a little frosty as I write this. It’s normal after being slipped a mickey. And getting injected with sodium pentothal and sex enhancing drugs. I know it sounds like I’m pulling your leg. But this burg brings out the worst in people.

Anyway. This is what happened.

(If you haven't read it here's the link to part I of Shame, Shame, Shame.)

...

Besides the rundown from Socrates, I had nothing else to go on.

First things first. Where exactly was the Isla de los Melacotones? Certainly was in no telephone directory. I hadn’t asked Socrates. Of course, I knew about it. Socrates could have gotten me freebies even. But being a gumshoe is a full time racket. Pay-as-you-enter broads don’t fit in.

I hit the smooth, pissed-on alley outside my hotel. Walked down to Plaza George Orwell. Across it, past some hippie burnouts, I saw one of my moles. One of those guiri-gone-native cases called Johnny-Half-A-Gram. His head was twitching this way and that. Like a sparrow’s head on his short, rawboned body. His mandibles moved like rubber. Probably ripped out of his gourd on pow-wow powder. Laxative-laced coca. And bottom shelf vino.

That’s what happens to these fellows. They come here when the dollar is king. The dames and the easy life tempt them. Soon they’re trapped. Years down the line they’re living and earning like a local. Only with the big league designs of a rich yank. Sad. I won’t shed any tears.

I copped the sneak on this rat.

“Hey Half-a-Gram. It’s your pusher coming to collect!”

I came in at an 85 degree angle so he didn’t anticipate me. I grabbed the front of his shirt and balled it in my fist. Jammed my typer finger into his scrawny flanks. His face was a gray, taught thing. His foggy red-rimmed eyes popped out of two greenish sockets. I dropped him and he jumped back. Swiped his nose then began laughing. Baring a set of teeth covered with yellow film.

“Kovaks! Jesus man! You’re gonna give me a heart attack!”

This guy. A real piece of work.

His vino tinto stained tongue lashed out. I noticed his gums were too high. And how his jaws still moved even when he wasn’t talking. Kind of disconcerting. Like a badly dubbed kung fu flick.

“Half-A-Gram. Want a treat?”

“Depends on what you got.”

“I’m trying to find a place called Isla de los Melocotones. Supposed to be in the Chino.”

He grabbed his maw with his grimy mitt. Stopped the confounded thing from moving. The extra juice not going to his jaw went to his ticker. From his ticker to his little bird brain. Something way in the back lit up and he managed a smile. For normal people that smile would be considered a grimace.

“Oh yeah brah! Fo’ shizzle! I know that place! I been there once or twice. You want a little acción eh?” He crooked his elbows and thrusted his pelvis forward.

“Half-A-Gram. I hope I can trust you this time. Not like the time I asked for directions to the Basque tapas bar. You sent me to that stripper joint. Damn near cleaned me out.”

“Ah brah! It’s all good! I thought you said best topless bar!”

…

I followed Half-A-Gram’s wispy form up Escudellers past the levantine gypmeisters. Past distraught guiris. Past the rotiserry chicken. We cut through the Ramblas and entered the Chino. Dime whores were coming out of the walls. The sun was all the way down. Smelled like curry. Indian pop music came from a window two stories up. We kept going.

Half-A-Gram tried to bamboozle me with a fly’s pattern. Zigzagging, double tracking. Down one alley, back down another, back again. Typical small-timer technique. Finally we got to l’Arc del Teatre. Where the chicas con sorpresa ply their trade. We headed down that, made a left on carrer de la Guàrdia. Half-A-Gram stopped in front of a local with rolled down metal shutters. There was no sign on this place. Just a faded plywood dingus saying Casa Manolito. No Melocotones in sight.

“This is it.”

I looked from the metal shutters to Johnny. “You’re kidding me, right? Casa Manolito?”

“Kovaks. Who do you think you’re dealing with? This is Half-A-Gram bwoy!”

He pressed a button I hadn’t seen before. On a column between the local and the adjacent building. Through a crack between the metal shutters and a little inset door, I saw a reddish light dim. It got brighter when Johnny depressed the button. About 30 seconds later I heard some scraping. The little door opened up. A fat, jovial looking lady with rouged lips and raccoon eyes peered out. “Entren!” she said, and twitched her head back. “Dense prisa!”

Half-A-Gram grimaced in his peculiar way. “I tell you I delivah!”

For some reason he always tries to talk like a jive brother. One of his coke-addled delusions. “Allright Half. This better be the place. Here’s some chump change.” I dropped a fiver in his upturned mitt. “Go buy yourself some gummy bears.”

He cursed something in American and scurried off while I ducked into the local. I barely fit through that little door. Once all the way in I rose up to my full height.

“Perdoname Señora. Estoy en la Isla de los Melocotones?”

She clicked the mini door shut. Nodded and pushed me forward.

A little lobby with red velvet carpets. Plastic bird of paradise flowers. A greek-corniced pedestal with a Venus sculpture on top.

Then a blood-red crepe curtain. Should’ve taken it as an omen.

(To be continued.)