SHAME, SHAME, SHAME (part VI)

Shame, shame, shame (part I)
Shame, shame, shame (part II)
Shame, shame, shame (part III)
Shame, shame, shame (part IV)
Shame, shame, shame (part V)

Katy bent down, took a bundle of clothes from under the nightstand. My duster, fedora, shoes et al. She tossed it all on the bed.

My wallet. It was on top of the nightstand. I looked at it and her eyes followed mine. She took the wallet and threw it on the pile of rumpled clothes.

“I take when we in the bar.”

So that’s how they knew my name and trade. This kitten was good.

The overhead lights flickered, and the bachatas on the soundsystem went silent.

“Rápido, viejo. Put your thing on rápido.”

Frantic rapping at the door. I thought it was that weak sister, Compadre. But when Katy asked who it was, a woman’s voice answered. And it wasn’t Globos. Katy swiped the door open. Not surprisingly, a scantily clad dame. One I saw earlier yucking it up with Hu Yu. She and Katy chirped. Nervous conversation like an exchange of machine gun fire.

She left the door open and the girl she was talking to ran off. I could hear people scrambling. Furniture tumbling. Girls were running past the door. Half dressed johns. Flesh and candy colors whirring by.

“Vamos! Que la policía está entrando!”

The last thing I needed was a run in with the bulls. They got the angle all wrong. And with my ragged nerves I’d have a hell of a time.

No wise I made the best decision. I didn’t have time to get fully dressed. I slipped on my shoes and my duster. I put my bashed up fedora on. Stuck my wallet in my coat pocket.

“Let’s go.”

I didn’t care if I looked like a streaker. An exhibicionista.

Along with all the rumpus, someone had turned the music back up. Reggaetones. Possibly to stir things up even further. Confusión total. She insisted on going first. On me following her lead.

Papi papi, papi chulo, papi papi papi ven a mí…

Gruff voices coming from downstairs. Probably the mossos. Katy took to the stairs going up. I followed. We entered another hallway. This one with an Egyptian theme. Phony hieroglyphics scrawled on the walls. I followed her down the hall and we entered an inconspicuous door. Looked like a janitor’s closet. In it were lockers and another, smaller door at the far end …

And my friends Compadre and Globos. Getting ready to crush out.

Papi papi, papi chulo…

Compadre reached for something wedged in the back of his jeans. I lunged forward, clamped his gullet hard. My other hand came up under the arm he was reaching back with. A nickel-plated .38 fell to the ground. Globos dove for it, but Katy got to it first. She trained the muzzle on Globos. I growled at Compadre:

“You dirty rotten bogey. You’re going down. On account of avarícia!”

Katy threw me a length of cord. Probably part of the same batch they tied me up with. I hog-tied the mucker. When that was done Katy did the honors on Globos. I pocketed the rod. Katy blew them a kiss.

Next she spun the dial on the nearest locker. She pulled out sweats and sneakers. Her civilian clothes. Holding the bundle she turned to me: “Vamos!”

She went directly for the small door. I bent down and followed her in and shut it behind me. I could hear her bumping around in the darkness. She hit a light switch and a stairwell lit up in front of me. I could tell it was another building. She kicked off her heels and pulled on her sweats. She pulled a lumpy gray sweater over her head. Then slipped on her sneakers.

I followed her as she took the steps down, three, four strides at a time. The stairs twisted around in tight crooked angles. We hit the Planta Baja running. Cracks of dim light forming a rectangle indicated the exit.

We were in another alley. Not Carrer de la Guàrdia, where I entered. It was dawn. The narrow gap above, between the buildings, revealed some sky. The color of an oil slick. We kept moving. Close to running but not quite.

“Where are we?”

“Other side.”

Up ahead I could see l'Arc del Teatre. I told her:

“Let’s head up to Ample. You can lay low in my place.”

We cut up Arc, past various trannies running with small suitcases, barefoot, with their heels in hand. The Ramblas was more deserted than usual. The rameras, everybody, must have been frightened. The mossos’ bust was big. Neighborhood wide it looked like.

I relieved the .38 of its bullets and wiped it clean of prints. I chucked the rod in a dumpster and kicked the bullets down a rain gutter.

We got buzzed into my pension by a groggy looking Sr. Antonio. From the look on my face he knew not to ask questions. Or apply the no-company-in-the-room policy.

We got into my room. My nerves were shot. My mugg was a terrible thing to behold. I don’t know how long I was drugged up. Or how long it had been since I’d had a decent meal. Katy collapsed on the bed.

“Viejo. Thank you.”

“No problem kid.”

I noticed a pile of girly mags I had left out. An earlier scene with the magazine. I kicked them under the bed before she could see them.

…

I woke up about 28 hours later. Katy was already up. Pacing the room. From the looks of it, she had put some order to the dump. We got dressed, hit the corner bar and filled our stomachs with tortilla and pa amb tomàquet, and headed for Peluquería mi Amor.

Socrates’ face lit up when he saw us.

“Viejo. Mujer! Donde estuvisteis, coño??”

I gave him the dope on what went down at La Isla. Katy chimed in every once in a while. Turns out they busted all the bordellos in the Chino that morning. The city said they cracked down in the name of la ordenanza. But really it was because of one man’s shame. Jota Jota's shame.

Luckily some of the regulars at La Isla were mossos. So Socrates had an out. Globos and Compadre were up for a good long stretch.

“Socrates. Hermano. That business. La casa con las chicas. It’s too risky.”

“I know hermano. I know.”

“There’s another way you can make money. A lot easier.”

“Cómo?”

“Internet, hermano. Sex, internet. You can't go wrong. That’s where the money is.”

I could see the gears spinning in his head. Who knows. Maybe he’ll be a millionaire one day.

…

That night I took Katy to this classy joint I know of. The Aloha Polinesian Bar. Actually Polinesian “Bap”, on account of the broken “R”. It’s got a nice pond with turtles in the front window display. Little green canaries and myna birds.

We were sipping Mai Tais. Snuggled close in a booth in the back. Tiki masks glowered over us. I took one of Katy’s magic hands and put it on my thigh. She pulled it back and said:

“Ten euro.”

“Why?”

“That’s my work.”

“You mean you always charge?”

“No. Not the girls. Me gustan las chicas.”

She smiled at me. Real wise like. I guess that’s the way the waves tumble. It’s a damn shame. With a bod like that. I would’ve done her laundry any time.