Larry Kovaks, P.I.

KOVAKSPI.COM

2008-09-23T08:00:00.000-07:00

I finally figured out how this convoluted internet thing works. I have this thing called a domain registered to my name, and I have Map o' Crimes where you can see where my stories actually took place.

There's also a forum where you can post about your own scam experiences.

This ain't no booze-brained delusion. This is this real deal. Larry Kovaks P.I. is now open for business.

THE CHARITY OF GYPMEISTERS

2008-06-10T06:08:00.000-07:00

Plaça Universitat. Three girls, arms a flurry of wild gesticulation. One of them sputtered raw choking sounds and shoved a clipboard with papers in my face. On the top sheet - next to a handicap symbol - it said:

Certificate of Regional Association
For Dumb Discapacitado Deaf Person
And for the Poor Children
We want to obtain to a national center the internet
Help please thank you very much?

Below that, fields for filling out your name, postal code and city of residence. The footer at the very bottom of the page had an email address: center-of-internet@hotmail.com

I should have told those janes to dangle the moment I read their poorly written plea for charity. But I was oiled to the gills and feeling good. Had I been sober their shady operation would have been obvious.

They each had a clipboard with the same gibberish printed on it. Each had long wavy brown black hair, tied back. The jane who handed me the clipboard wore camouflage cargo pants and a striped purple t-shirt. Her helpers wore jeans and blue and red t-shirts respectively. Their clothes looked two sizes too big. Rumpled, like they had slept in them.

Like a sap I reached into my pocket for some loose change. Nada. The problem was I’d blown all my jack on slugs of rye and a dancer in a go go club. I said, “Lo siento, señoritas,” and handed the clipboard back. “No dinero.” Her hard black eyes wrinkled into two Vs, and the corner of her lip trembled. I thought I heard her mumble cabrón, but I wasn’t sure. She shot over to an obvious tourist who was walking by - her helpers in tow.

I forgot about it until the next day when I saw three other kittens pulling the same stunt in Plaça Catalunya, near the double decker tour bus stop. They had the same sartorial style: baggy clothes, hair tied back, clipboards in hand. I was cold sober and broke, but it was so hot that day I had to get out of my cramped hotel room and walk around. I’d taken off my hat and had my gabardine draped over my arm. I was taking shade, leaning against a balustrade leading up to the center of the plaza, when I saw this go down.

While I burned through a Reig I watched the girls bounce from tourist to tourist like pinballs until they got one to stop. Easily half the tourists they stopped took a pen and wrote out personal details on the clipboard before forking out cash. I saw blue bills, pink bills and plenty of small change. In the 15 minutes I stood there these three girls pulled in at least 50 smackers. That comes to 200 euros an hour. Not bad for a day’s work.

Then the tour bus took off, and with it most of the tourists.

Something miraculous happened.

These Discapacitado Deaf Persons sat down on a cement embankment next to a fountain. Two of them started jawing and gaffawing. The third put on headphones. Some deaf & dumb charity. The Charity of Gypmeisters!

I shadowed these deaf dumb posers while they conned tourist after tourist around the plaza. Around 3 o’clock they headed for the subway on Passeig de Gràcia.

I followed them underground and hopped on the purple line subway after them, half a car down. They were laughing the whole ride. None of our fellow passengers could have guessed these lively kittens had the sharpest claws of all. A voracious appetite for conning tourists out of their hard-earned scratch!

They rode all the way to the end of the line at Pep Ventura and I followed them out. When they reached surface level they stopped at the mouth of the subway entrance. I walked past and took a plant in a bar facing them. 8 minutes later a mold-green Ford 131 with busted rims pulled up. They piled in and the car peeled out and shot down Marquès avenue.

That night I resolved to track the Charity Con Artists wherever they went. So far I’d seen them at Plaça Catalunya and Plaça Universitat, two tourist hotspots. I decided to hit the rest of the hotspots over the next few days.

I went to Parc Guell and the Sagrada Familia, took the stretch of Paseo de Gracia. I waded through a sea of beer-swilling tourists on the Ramblas. I cased the Gotic, made my way to the La Catedral and La Palau de Musica. There are more tourist hotspots, but I’d peeped enough.

My ticker almost went blooey.

This thing was much bigger than I thought. The Charity Con Artists had multiplied like a dangerous virus and were all over this burg! I couldn’t believe their cunning. And the tourists. Instincts of troglodytes! Those gypmeisters were roping them in like docile cows.

There were several groups of girls. All donning the same rumply threads, all using the same paraphernalia. I tracked them back to the end of the purple line every afternoon. Different cars, different groups of girls. They always got off at Pep Ventura at the end of their “workdays”.

I called my contact, Falcó. He’s a desk sergeant in the mossos who’s been around and respects my implacable drive to fight crime against tourists. He said las carpeteras, as they’re called in police terminology, are a growing problem. Since they are minors, and the amount they swindle is usually less than 300 euros, they can’t be thrown in the cooler. Falcó told me they have to release the kids to their folks the same day they’re nabbed. The next day the kids are back on the streets.

Their folks, says Falcó, are the criminal masterminds behind the Charity Con. Since they are nowhere around the girls when they’re scamming, they can claim innocence.

So it works like that. Tourists end up giving their money away to some dead beat padres. Boy it wound me up tighter than a ten euro watch from a topmanta, and I was going to bust!

Finally I got my chance. Just yesterday they accosted me over by Plaça Catalunya and Portal de l’Angel. It was about 11 in the morning, tourists were everywhere. I was dressed casual with my Hawaiian shirt and my straw hat.

Three janes with clipboards jumped in front of me. They made those raw choking sounds and stuck a clipboard out. I took it and squinted my eyes. I shook my head.

“No puedo leer. No can read! Illiterate!”

Another girl showed me a grimy coffee can filled with small change and bills. She pointed to the handicapped sign on the clipboard I was holding. I rubbed my chin like I still didn’t get it. I grabbed the clipboard and started furiously flipping through the sheets of paper. Signature after signature of duped tourists.

“Poor children! Ha! Dumb Discapacitados!”

I raised the clipboard high and brought it down on my knee. It shattered into pieces and sheets of paper fluttered off. The girls started wailing and shaking their fists. A young tourist woman with dreadlocks snatched up one of the papers and shot the girls a glance. Then she turned to me with righteous indignation.

“You fat racist pig! How dare you treat these poor helpless children this way! How dare you! How dare you!”

A crowd of tourists had formed around us. They looked at me and shook their heads.

Then something unbelievable happened.

They started consoling the gypmeisters and giving them money! Then they walked off in a group. An old lady hissed and shook her fist at me. One of the gypmeisters turned and stuck her tongue out. I kicked part of the broken clipboard and walked down Fontanella to the first bar I saw. I swear this burg is a one stop fraud shop. And they got the best customers of all. Clueless tourists.

THE CHOP CHOP SHOP

2008-05-05T09:19:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-01T11:37:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-14T03:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-02-18T04:42:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-18T04:26:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-20T03:17:00.000-08:00

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 LOWEST SORT OF MUCKER THERE IS

2007-04-02T20:45:00.000-07:00

A guiri kid sent me an email a while back. He was being harassed by other guiris, who, in trying to act on the up and up, proved themselves to be the lowest sort of mucker there is.

Shameless exploiters of fellow guiris.

For your edification, here’s our exchange of emails:

A friend of mine sent me an article you wrote about scams in Barcelona, and I would like to ask you for some advice about a situation I have inadvertently gotten myself into.

I will try to make the story as short as possible, hopefully it will make enough sense that you can offer me some advice. I went to a bar in Gracia about a month ago with a friend to eat some tapas, and three british guys sat next to us b/c there were no seats left in the rest of the restaurant. We talked for a while, they bought us some food for letting them sit there, and then we left. But before we left, my friend exchanged phone numbers with one of them, and as we were walking away , mentioned to me that they were a bit weird, and that she didn't intend to call them back that weekend.

That night when I got home, I remember one of the guys talking about a website domain he had bought for his neice, so I looked up the registration on a whois search, found the name, googled it, and a site came up near the top that described a british conman who was creating boiler rooms in taiwan, and this man, who was at the bar with us, worked for him, training brokers to sell stocks in fake companies , etc... I found it kind of funny, so I emailed the link to my friend, but I also tagged it on my delicious account, and I wrote in the description something about how I met a weird guy in gracia that night and his name came up on this website bla bla bla...

Two days ago I received an anonymous email with an attached image of my face from a photo that was never put on the internet from earlier this summer, with text below it that read:

my name...

xxxxxx student

lives near xxxxxx

1000 euro

sighting: emailadress*

I won't mention the email address so I don't get myself into any more trouble... Anyways the email was titled "looks like you upset someone".

I had no idea what it was about, I thought it was a joke, but I couldn't figure anything out. over the last two days I have been corresponding with this anonymous person, but accidentally included my address and cell number in the signature of one of my emails (i'm an idiot, i know). She told me (she told me she was a girl, but who knows), that I was in deep trouble and that I must have done something bad to someone, and so on... When I did a google search for the domain of the email address in the original attachment, I found a cached myspace web page with a small image tagged with the domain name, and the image looked just like the guy from the bar. This just made everything more confusing.

So last night I had my friend call the phone number she had written down that night, and she talked to the guy who was the friend of this supposed con man. He said that I apparently I wrote something terrible about his friend on the internet, it got put all over the place, and now he's trying to find me, and he's offering 1000 euro for the person who "sights" me. The anonymous emailer made it a point that it was a "sighting" and not a "touching" request, to imply that there are different levels of severity with these kinds of requests. She also mentioned that 1000 euro's is common, but that if it were 5000 then I should worry a lot more.

I still didn't know at this time what I had said about this guy on the internet, but 15 minutes later when I got home, I found out that a google search for this guy's name makes my personal webpage come up at the top (I had my delicious account set to automatically post daily my bookmarks to an old blog I used to maintain for my students in the States, and forgot to turn it off). So I immediately removed the site link , took down the blog, but the google result will remain there for who knows how long.

The anonymous emailer knows the whole story now and told me that I better hope these guys are not really mean or else something bad could happen to me.

That's about as short as I can make the story. Do you have any insight into a situation like this? I mean, as far as I'm concerned , I just have shitty luck, but I still have a reason to worry, and I still don't feel safe walking around the streets of Barcelona. It may sound silly , but looking at the whole chain of events, I feel really uncomfortable about the whole thing. I have no idea where this guy got my photo, and I have no idea where this magical "wanted" website is where these random people are looking at a photo of my face that says my full name on it and offering 1000 euro's to find me.

I hope I'm not bothering you too much by asking, but your article was so intriguing and my friend suggested that I should email you and see what you thought. Thanks so much for your time,

XXXXX

...

Hello XXXXX,

Thank you for contacting me regarding your troubles in Barcelona.

My first impression after reading your email is that the Brit you met in Gracia is merely trying to scare you. Why? Because anyone who is serious about finding you wouldn't tell anybody. Least of all you. There are many shady characters in Barcelona working fake stock scams and phone banks. Many Brits. This being the equivalent of Tijuana for English scammers on the down low. They don't want any publicity. They possibly operate here to avoid legal issues back home.

My specialty is small time crooks operating in the center. Short cons and rip artists that target tourists. That said, this operator doesn't fall within my usual line of work. But, based on the information you gave me: it's not exactly a scam he's pulling on you. He's not asking for money. He wants you to delete any incriminating information you may have posted about him.

The anonymous emailer is likely the scam artist posing as a woman who wishes to alert you to the "sighting" reward. Since it was sent from a domain that links to a page with a photo of the man in question, I would say the probability is high. I would go with this premise. Your unwanted anonymous friend isn't very clever either,considering how easy it would be to create an untraceable email address.

From your side, you have information as well. Domains, names, past activities, associates in Barcelona, and a phone number. What pops up with the phone number you have? Have you looked for it on any directories?

I can't deduce anything else from the info you gave me. I would just ignore the whole thing. You have incriminating evidence, you have records of emails. He's probably more scared of you.

Good luck with this rat bastard.

L. Kovaks

...

Thanks so much for answering me. The man called me last night at 5:30am, and I answered on the sixth or seventh call. He told me he wants to send a "caller" to meet me somewhere today to talk about the situation, He told me the girl who contacted me is his assistant, and he said he has paid lots of money to collect information about me. He told me it cost him 1000 euro to make that phone call.

I think you're right first of all. The man is an idiot. I have his photo, I have his name, a couple of phone numbers that don't come up on any websites that I can find. He told me on the phone that he and his friends have spent the last seven years erasing information from the internet. He also said that if I don't meet with this guy he's going to lose his temper and he knows where I live, etc... I believe he knows where I live, b/c it's not so hard to figure out, but I don't really know what he can do to me. Nothing he can do to me will help his situation, so I don't really know where to go from here. I suppose I will meet with this guy and have my roommates nearby to make sure nothing happens. I was thinking of meeting him in santa maria del mar, since there will be a lot of tourists there today. But then again, that seems too much like the plot of a murder mystery movie, so maybe I should just go to a cafe.

Anyways, thanks for your advice, and keep writing on your blog. Your writing style is brilliantly addictive. I read the whole thing straight through without stopping yesterday.

XXXX

...

A quick bit later I got this:

Well it turns out to be a lot more lame than I thought. They somehow threatened to break my fingers, then threatened to make me build a website for this guy's neice, and now they realize I took the content off the site a long time ago and they said that I'm lucky i'm a civilian or else something really bad would have happened. I'm not going to answer any more of the emails.

(the rest is a business matter so I've deleted it from this post)

XXXX

...

So you can see the scratchers were trying to stymie this unlucky guiri. They got smarted up by his wise guy comments. Tried to instill fear. But it was a mere ploy, one of the oldest around. Folks in these parts say, “perro ladrador, poco mordedor”. These guys act like they’re going to snap a cap in your ass. They’re acting.

Although their ilk fall outside my usual line of work, I might have to investigate further. This shameful behavior is making me want to massage some chins. And not in a nice way.

THE FAKE BABY CON

2007-02-14T11:28:00.000-08:00

Sitting at a busted zinc counter, waiting for my plato combinado. A steak and some French fried potatoes and a frosty seidel of Catalan beer. Corrupción gastronomica of a sort. But I ain’t going to get all wheezy about it. It’s económica.

I tap ash, pull on a Ducado. Try to ignore the unpleasant feeling in my teeth. Other than the grub I’m about to indulge in, the only other thing my teeth have been in today – besides my mouth - has been a head of hair. I don’t know how many strands got in my choppers when I tore that confounded head off.

I probe my teeth. Pull out a brown hair, about a finger long. Flick it on the cenicero.

A minor inconvenience considering I collared some crooked kittens who operated up by the cathedral. Sobbing stories about ayuda for the little niños they carry with them. “Darme argo, darme argo!”

To hell with them!

Distracting guilt-tripping tourists so they can fleece them. Hard-earned euros go blooey. Bye bye vacation.

Con Dios.

…

I’d gotten an email with subject heading: Scam alert at la Catedral. It went like this:

Dear Mr Kovaks,

We have been put in contact with you through a kind chap we met at our hotel. He had been researching the shell game scam on the Rambla when he came across your website and the case of the American Tourist Con. I wish we had known about this beforehand! Gary lost forty euros to the shell game scammers! However, this is not the reason we are writing to you.

We have been the victims of a terrible theft which occurred only half a day ago. It happened after we had been sight seeing in the Barri Gotic (lovely, if not for the wretched odour of urine) and arrived at the cathedral.

We walked up the steps towards the front entrance and walked past the crowds of tourists. Before we were able to enter the cathedral we were confronted by a woman with an infant wrapped in a blanket. She held a stiff piece cardboard, about two feet wide (the infant was strapped, in a manner, to her person, so her hands were free). She then shoved the cardboard, facing upwards, right under my bosom. I was shocked, to say the least, but hadn’t the time to react. I had a bit of trouble understanding her, but I gathered she wanted me to put money on the cardboard. This happened so fast that Gary was left utterly bewildered. Finally, he implored them to stop and was bumped from behind. At the same moment the woman with the baby and the cardboard disappeared. They were professionals!

A woman (I’m sure, now, she was in on it) then approached us with my purse and Gary’s wallet. She said they were on the ground. Sure enough, my handbag was dangling open and Gary’s pockets had been turned out.

We have lost several hundred euros, Mr Kovaks, but the money isn’t important. We want to put a stop to this disgraceful activity. One could say it’s righteous indignation. We shall not leave this city knowing these ‘people’ are swindling innocent tourists. Please get in touch at the Omm Hotel. We’ll be in the lobby tomorrow morning at 10. I’ll be dressed in white. My husband will be in black.

Kind regards,

Mary & Gary Blake

p.s. - We should mention that we're in Barcelona for only two days because our cruise ship leaves tomorrow afternoon. We hope you will excuse the urgent nature of our request. Mr Kovaks, we’re so poor on time! I think rushing about so much must have made us a bit mad!

…

The Omm, a five star establishment up on Rosselló. Designer facade. Looks like a post modern squirrel cage if you ask me. You can be sure it provides all the amenities. And that it will set you back two or three C notes for a night between its crisp linen. Stars.

Basically, this Mary and Gary. They had moolah and then some.

Nine in the morning is tough going for me. But, due to the urgency of the case, I decided to forgo my usual beauty sleep. After shaving and splashing on some Brumel I hit the alleys of the Gòtic. To Passeig de Gràcia, to Rosselló.

…

They weren’t hard to miss. Sitting on a lilac-colored settee, in the corner of the lobby. Where they had a nice sweeping view. We met eyes almost immediately. Mary waved me over.

Walking over I peeped a fellow sitting kitty corner to the Mary and Gary couple, on another settee, gray. He had a thin-trimmed, glistening mustache. Looked like it was drawn on. And a look on his face like rancid milk was spilled right next to him. I figured he was some kind of video artist.

I sat on a cushy cube dingus that passes for a seat, facing Mary and Gary, after the perfunctory handshake.

“Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Kovaks. I must say, you do look like a detective.”

I didn’t say anything to that. Just took off my fedora smiled amiably to both of them.

I expected something else. Prim. Stiff upper lip. But this couple. The affected class of parvenus. It’s possible they won their fortune in a boiler room scam.

Mary was a tall rawboned woman. Thick wrists and wide shoulders. A generally heavy mien. She wore matching loose white cotton pants and blouse. When she jawed her two front teeth showed prominently. And her yellow hair looked like it had been poured from a mold. If she fell on it, it would protect her English brains.

“Gary and I have had the most unfortunate sojourn in Barcelona.” She nodded at Gary who bobbed his head affirmative. He was her plump media naranja. Blonde hair cropped short, fashionably choppy. Black T shirt tucked into black jeans, held up by a brown belt. The black was offset by white running shoes. Gary was even fatter than me. His paunch, when he sat down, looked like it would burst. That’s really all I got on Gary. He didn’t talk much, but when he did he had the same overbite as Mary.

She went on:“We’re sure you are extremely occupied, Mr. Kovaks. We don’t want to trouble you more than is necessary.”

We re-hashed the incident she related in the email. What it came down to was this: she wanted to put a stop to the pickpockets at la Catedral. She was realistic. She knew I couldn’t stop all of them. The gypmeisting hordes. But she wanted this group stopped. Basically, revenge. I think she had called it righteous indignation.

I told her I would take care of it with a 100 euro retainer up front. I was to meet them this afternoon at 2 in the same place for the rest of the payment. They said they would take my word for it that the baby-scammers would cease operations in front of the cathedral. I told them I would bring proof. What that was, I still had no idea.

…

I walked from the Omm towards the cathedral. On the way I stopped for a carajillo de Mascaró at a bar on Fontana street. Parlayed with a Filipino bartender who kept saying “Joder macho, joder macho”.

The cathedral steps were starting to buzz with activity. Some tourists loafed around up front. I footed it around back. Buskers and landscape artists were setting up their spots. No signs of graft any where. Too early, I surmised. Gypmeisting isn’t exactly a 9-5 job. Just in case I went back around to the front and entered the cathedral. Paid my respects to the big man.

I put the x rays on. Just in case they were trying to twist guiris in the holy house. Nada.

Not enough easy pickins for my amigos. I left and went to Vermut, a bar nearby. Had a mediana and some chorizo. Had another mediana after that. Just enough to get me lubricated, but not enough to dull my senses. I needed them. My senses. I’ve seen these crooks operate all over this burg. Like wolf packs. Cunning and shifty.

It was just past twelve. Showdown.

…

It was the usual tussle sightseers. Posing for photos. Distracted and semi-oblivious. Easy quarry for Barcelona’s crookdom. But no women with babies fleecing the crowd. Damn. Was I in the right spot? I walked around and around the building. I wore myself out. Half past, said my watch. I sat on the steps and burned through a deck. Thinking my day was blown. I went to the estanco across the plaza and bought some Ducados. Then took the long route back around the plaza. Through listless tourists and spirited waiters with precariously stacked trays. Then I saw it.

By the turnoff on via Laietana, near the entrance to the underground car park. This gold-colored Baby Benz with chrome rims was stopped. Infernal techno pop blasting from blown subwoofers. Three women got out. Two wearing gray sweat pants and matching gray pullovers. Discreet. The third was also wearing sweats, but she put on a red headscarf. Then she pulled a long, frilly black dress over her sweat pants. Then draped a shawl, purple colored, over her shoulders. A hand, holding a piece of cardboard, thrust out of the Benz. The scarf lady took it. The hand thrust out, again, with a thing wrapped in a blanket. The lady took it and unwrapped it. A baby. I thought.

She tossed it at one of the girls wearing the sweatpants. The Scarf Lady adjusted her garments and tied the blanket in a way so it hung from her neck. Like a bib. The girl, holding the baby by its arm laughed and babbled something. Then placed the wretched thing in the blanket. Wrapped it some. The gold Benz sped off.

It was all wrong. Either gypmeisters’ babies are made of something other than human, or that thing wasn’t a baby. So. The bugaboos of guiridom are appealing to guiris’ compassionate, guilt-ridden psyches with phony babies. At the same time they’re fleecing them. The double whammy. The audacity.

I followed the three swindlers. They worked triad formation. The scarf woman with the baby at point. They walked past café tables. Accosted some couples on the way. They were ignored. They got to the steps leading up to the front of the cathedral. I shadowed them from far enough back to get a running start should anything go down.

They brazenly marched up to the vaulted cathedral entrance. But didn’t go inside. The scarf lady with the decoy infant planted herself right in front of the entrance. Her cohorts, a couple feet back. Trying to look casual. But to trained eyes it was obvious. Once the scarf lady fleeced her victim she would hand off the goods. The kittens in the gray sweats would rifle through them, extract the bills and cache the plunder in their baggy sweats. Two of them were on hand just in case it was a tourist couple. Two to “distract and extract” one of the tourists. The third to go in raptor-like and fleece the unsuspecting other.

I didn’t wait for the suckers. Maybe I had a glow on. I was bold. Recklessly bold. I tucked my money and buzzer in safe. Deep in my inner coat pocket. I then buttoned my coat all the way up to my neck So their greedy mitts couldn’t snag my scratch. I pulled out a well-worn tourist brochure map. Made like I was studying it while I was walking. Typical tourist maneuver. Walked up to the cathedral entrance. Sure enough. Scarf Lady approached me.

“Por favor senior, Dios le bendiga. DARME ARGO POR MI NIÑO!”

She stuck the cardboard out and I could feel her hand, underneath it, snake into my pocket. I reached in front of me and grabbed the lump in the blanket and yanked it out. She shrieked something horrible. Her two accomplices gleamed wide-eyed, slack-jawed. Scarf Lady tried to grab the phony baby, but I held it up, at arm’s length, easily out of her reach. It was a fairly good replica of a baby. Downy brown hair and all.

That just infuriated me more.

I bit into the baby’s head. A tourist lady started screaming. Scarf Lady and her buddies were spitting awful-sounding things. They didn’t sound like accolades. Flash of pure savagery. With the head still clamped in my jaw, I grabbed the rubbery body and ripped it apart from the head with mighty force. I shoved Scarf Lady back and drop kicked the decapitated doll corpse down the cathedral steps. Screaming. Cursing. General human confusion.

That’s right. Fa olor a llibertat!

I released the doll head from my choppers. The triad, still cursing, scattered down the cathedral steps, shaking their fists.

I walked slowly down the steps. The adrenaline still hammering. Some poor clueless tourist lady was still screaming.

General looks of awe followed in my wake. I needed some brown. Double malt.

…

I went back to Omm after downing some hooch. I got there at 2 on the nose. Gary and Mary were not in the lobby. I went back outside, through revolving glass doors. Planted myself so I could eyeball the insides of the hotel through the windows. Next to a shivering hound, tethered to a tree. Burned through two Ducados. I took the doll head out of my coat pocket. Still had it on me. I gave it to the hound and walked back through the revolving doors.

I asked the dame working reception if Mary and Gary Blake had checked out. They had. Sunken, but not surprised, I spun around to exit the hotel. The receptionist called out:

“Are you Mr. Larry Kovaks?”

I turned back.

“That’s me.”

“They have left a message for you. The Mary and Gary.” She held out an envelope.

…

And that’s the short of it.

It’s been a couple hours and half a bottle of Mascaró since then.

But if you need to know: in that envelope was a folded piece of hotel stationary.

On the stationary, in careful feminine scrawl:

Dear Mr Kovaks,

It is such a pity we missed you this afternoon. We were absolutely sure after meeting you that you would do a splendid job.

We must be honest, however, Mr Kovaks. Our meeting you was the result of a bet we wagered with a fellow hotel guest - the one who told us about you. It was his contention that you did not exist. We, being contrarians, decided to challenge him, for a blast, really. You may have noticed him in the lobby earlier. He sat opposite us on another sofa. Needless to say, Mr Kovaks, we won the bet.

We are on our way to Portovenere. Please, don’t take umbrage at our flight, or for our deceptive behaviour. We are thrilled you are not just another imaginary cyberspace character.

Kindest regards,

Mary & Gary Blake

Marujo, the bartender slides up my plato combinado. I mash out my cig and set the letter, folded, aside. I slice off a corner of steak and chew.

I admit. I didn’t tumble to the game the Brits and the mustachioed lodger were playing. At least not right away.

But I made a dent in crookdom today.

And that’s on the level, if you ask me.

COOKING WITH KOVAKS: CHICKEN À LA VERMOUTH

2007-01-31T14:32:00.000-08:00

I like to consider myself a pioneer of the palate. This is a little chicken recipe I learned over twenty years ago. When I was sailing. An Algerian taught it to me when I was on shore leave in Marseilles. The vermouth is my signature touch.

The best side dish is couscous. I will also explain the “Kovaks method” of cooking this excellent staple.

What you need:

(First you need a kitchen with a stove. I don't have one, so I have to apply my skills where I can. Usually some dame's place.)

Kovaks’ Chicken à la Vermouth

Chicken legs, say six
Two carrots (decent sized, diameter of a 1 euro coin)
One leek (decent sized, diameter of a 2 euro coin)
Half a red bell pepper (size of a fat fist)
Salt and pepper
Cumin
Martini Rosso (amount subjective)
Olive oil
Water (store bought is better)

"Kovaks method" couscous

Pre-steamed and dried couscous
Olive oil
Half a fat onion (white)
Salt
Butter
More water

Sprinkle the chicken legs with salt, pepper and cumin. I’m usually generous. I like powerful flavors.

Place legs in well-oiled frying pan. The pan must be deep enough to accommodate them. And it must have a cover. Cook on low to medium heat, covered, rotating once.

Take a breather. Fumigate your brains with a couple Ducados. Drink an aperitif of vermouth. This should be enough time.

Chop the carrots, slice the leek, dice the bell pepper. Add to the pan with the chicken once the wings are golden brown. They do not have to be cooked through at this time. Make sure the veg bits are evenly distributed. It doesn’t matter if some cover the chicken. Add a little bit of oil and stir the chicken to make sure it doesn’t stick. Cover. Cook on low heat for about the time it takes to drink two more aperitifs of vermouth.

I try not to smoke too much at this point because it kills the sense of taste. Relax and read through the paper.

Now that it’s all cooked you can add water. Store bought is better than tap. Whatever your means. Do not empty the pan. Leave the chicken, carrots, etc in it. Fill it about a finger high with water. Add about half a shots' worth of vermouth and a dash of salt. Tilt the pan gently to mix the fluids. Cover. Simmer on low for about the time it will take you to make the couscous:

Finely dice the onion. Add this to a decent sized sauce pan with about two spoonfuls of oil in it (make sure the pan is at least five or six fingers deep to accommodate the rising couscous). Cook on low to medium heat until the onion bits are translucent and soft.

This next part is important. The “Kovaks method”. As in sleuthing, timing is essential.

Measure out half a coffee mug of couscous while the onions are cooking on low. Add the couscous and a pinch of salt to the pan and stir. Try to get an even layer of oil and onions on all of it.

Now. Turn the heat all the way off. There is enough residual heat. This is very important. Add exactly half a coffee mug of water to the couscous. Stir slightly to make sure the grains settle evenly. Add a little slab of butter. Cover.

Read half a chapter of a book or something. Or run down to the paki market and buy a bottle of chilled Blanc Pescador.

Fluff the couscous. Cover. Set the table if you’re expecting company.

The best presentation is a mound of couscous with the sauce from the chicken and carrots and leeks and peppers on top. The chicken legs on the side. Spoon some sauce over them. Maybe a slice of leek or two.

You’re done. Bon appetite.

WOULD YOU LIKE SOME GYPMEISTING TO GO WITH THAT SHAKE?

2007-01-30T13:01:00.000-08:00

This was sent to me by Gary, who almost got trimmed by short conners in Madrid. I have yet to investigate the Spanish capital city.

Verbatim:

This is a Madrid con

Dressed as a guiri walking up Huertas

I spot 4 young girls very pretty studying a map

they cross the street towards me

they ask directions get close - too close - i brushed them off and walked on

too late

didnt feel the dip but twigged what had happened after three steps and turned round

one of the girls was running towads me with my wallett

she said I'd dropped it

I openerd it

I saw one tem mil note

I said

there were two 10 mils

she turned round, clam walked 5 paces backwards picked 10 mil up off the floor - or seemed to

gave it ma back

i had my wallett, my cash and my cards - dead lucky

a yank with a well stuffed billfold wouldnt have missed a 20 or a 50 would he

We relaxed with a buger and a beer at McDonalds neat Attocha and watched the same girls work the crowd for an hour then left to get our flight

True Story

Gary

...

Gary. You blew it. You'd have more luck juggling a barrel of nitro. The pretty dames were pros. They drew you in with their feminine wiles and pulled the snake. Almost made off with your pounds and shillings because you dropped your guard. Who knows what dope they got on you now. You also helped them refine their game.

May this be a warning to all guiris: gypmeisters might manifest themselves in the forms of beautiful women. Don't count on getting lucky.

SHAME, SHAME, SHAME (part VI)

2007-01-24T10:25:00.000-08:00

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.

SHAME, SHAME, SHAME (part V)

2007-01-11T21:45:00.000-08:00

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

Insinct. It’s a funny thing. Some say reason is king. I say, no matter how much reason you muster, you still can’t shake instinct.

A good sleuth understands this.

You have to be as close to instinct as possible. Close as a couple fingers.

…

So, in the space of a few seconds I worked this out:

Magic Hands. She was thick with the muckers in this crib. That’s for sure. But the mickey her partner in slime had slipped in my drink was almost totally worn off. And the liquid sex enhancer they stuck me with. Well, I was impervious. They didn’t count on coming up against someone like me. A chump who’s been around the world five times and seen it all. From mujerones in Rio to flower blossoms in Klang that fit in the palm of your hand. The stories I could tell you.

Despite the evil blue stuff pumping through my veins I was beginning to think straight. Something told me Katy was my out. According to Socrates she was the last one who saw el Tigre. And she knew about the other john who had his last joy ride in the Isla de los Melocotones. She was going through the motions when she saw me. The compadre at the bar and Globos Descomunales. That’s where my money was.

I’ll tell you why: because after my intuition with the footsteps, and seeing Katy come through that door, I knew it. It was on that mask she was forced to wear. That stony expression. I knew Compadre and Globos were putting the screws on her.

This corrupt world. This rotton mudball. A beautiful waste. In my line of work you take a lot in. You can't trust anyone. I know, it’s bleak. But there’s intuition. There’s faith.

Otherwise you’d sink in this morass. Wouldn’t be able to put your foot anywhere.

…

As I figured. It was Katy approaching. The door opened and she stepped in. She approached the TV. Ejected the infernal DVD and popped in a new one.

“Espera. Wait,” I said.

Katy looked at me. Her facial muscles were rigid. Rigid like they were about to fall apart the moment she got distracted.

“Socrates sent me.”

She blinked and twitched her pretty head. Eyeballed the open door. She rushed to it and shut it. Then I saw her face hovering over me.

“What you mean, viejo? You are working for him?”

“He said hombres were dying. People were asking questions. I’m here to find out why.”

She paused. Her eyes lingered on mine. I didn’t blink. I said:

“Sócrates y Yo. Hermanos de sangre.”

I could see the works spinning in her pretty little dome. Half a minute later she spilled the story. In what they call globe-ish. About two years ago a well-dressed gentleman came to the Isla de los Melocotones. He became a regular. Ran up astronomical bills. Soon he confided his story to every girl in the place. Estranged wife. Bad business deals. Apparently he was well connected.

Globos gets the clever idea to blackmail him after seeing his picture in the papers one day. The guy was better connected than they realized. In the picture he was right next to mayor Clos himself. Turns out he had a direct line to the Generalitat. Some guy called Jordi Jordi. They called him Jota Jota for short.

So Globos and her boytoy, Compadre, threatened to tell Jota Jota’s wife and the public at large about his dalliances. They had videotaped him in the act. Dressed up as a little school boy getting spanked. Among other, equally salacious things. They got it all through a two way mirror they rigged in another room. The Isla’s sala VIP. El Paraíso, they call it. They were going to release the tape.

That is, unless he shelled out 30,000 smackers.

The guy didn’t like that. He sent people to find out the source of the blackmail. The first was the alemán. The German guy. Or at least the guy who was pretending to be German. When they found out he was a fake guiri they gave him a sodium pentothal cocktail. And the sex torture treatment they used on me. Only he couldn’t take it. Died like a toro bravo. When rigor mortis set in he was a human tripod.

Then came El Tigre. The wheel of misfortune was equally unkind.

Both were found at the crack of dawn on Robadores street. By rameras getting off the late shift. Both needed special coffins to accommodate their third leg.

Katy said to me:

“I have no opción. They make me do it. Carmen y Francisco.”

Globos and Compadre, that is.

“I have no papers, viejo. If I not help they throw me in the street. Meester Kovaks I no want do this.”

“Magic Hands. I’ll help you. But first you have to undo these nippers.” I lifted my chin and pointed the back of my head at my cuffed hands. She snagged the keys off a coffee table in the corner. Freed me.

I was on my feet. A bit wobbly. In my choners.

Ready for battle, nonetheless.

(To be continued.)

RINGING IT IN

2006-12-29T14:41:00.000-08:00

Before I publish the next episode of Shame, Shame, Shame I'd like to wish you all a Happy New Year.

I'm still working. Despite the festivities. Gumshoeing.

I wrote a poem last night. I had some nips of Lepanto. Mighty fine Brandy de Jerez. Given to me by Socrates. I scribbled this in my notebook. Given to me by Katy. My warmest gratitude to both.

The palooka made a French exit
but I
didn't care
I was drunk
as a lord
and had a dame
with this tight silken affair
snug around her

that was before I
realized
the yegg who took to the air
was in cahoots
with my bonita
my soiled dove
she distracted me
with her feminine ways
knew I was oiled
to the gills

I cuffed her pretty little mugg
back handed
a love tap more like
threw some scratch at
Jose
the bartender
and hit the
calle
in search of I don't know

satiety maybe

SHAME, SHAME, SHAME (part IV)

2006-12-20T12:44:00.000-08:00

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

Brother, they slipped me a pretty dose.

I had these visions …

I was on the Ramblas … the Track Suit Mafia … Hu Yu and the T Street Gang … the con with the bouncing cartoons ... common gypmeisters … everywhere … thousands of them. Some wore shiny blue and crimson polyester ... greasy hair ... filthy mitts. All scrambling towards me.

I planted my feet. Braced myself for the onslaught.

They were within arm’s reach. I could tell they had a leader. Johnny-Half-A-Gram.

So the turncoat guiri was scotch with my foes. I should have known. That mandible-grinding fool. I thought I was historia.

Then everything faded into gray. Went to the background. Like theater. Or a bad dream. From above came a god-like thing. Hanging from a crane of sorts. Like a mechanical angel.

The angel was Katy. Magic Hands. Only this Katy wasn’t a double crossing ramera. She had the voice of a goddess. She was pure light. She said everything was going to be all right. The gypmeisters would end up in the squirrel cage. She and I would go to a pretty Polynesian island.

Happily ever, and all that hooey.

…

I came to. I tried to move. My hands were stuck.

It took monumental effort, but I opened my eyes. Things swam in front of me. As if through gasoline vapor. Like things at a distance on a hot summer day.

Then I heard those confounded bachatas. Latin sex music. My head pounded with each percussive noise. The door burst open.

Compadre. The mucker from the bar. I should have known.

I tried moving. On my hands, cold steel. Nippers were twisted on tight. Realized I was handcuffed to this battered bed. I tried to kick. I had no shoes on. My feet were also bound. Que mala leche.

There I was. Tied like a hog. Compadre sneering at me.

“Señor Kovaks. I see you awake.”

I tried to speak:

“Yo…. yo no hablo …. no hablo … talk.”

My thoughts were confused. The effects of sodium pentathol all right.

“Sumtink for you.”

Compadre held up a glass syringe. There was blue liquid in it. Balling up, rolling off the needle.

I wanted to buy some time, ask him what he was about to inject me with. Instead I blurted:

“You. Little monkey!”

Then he answered my question:

“Viagra Kovaks. Quinientos miligramos. Puro. No man can say no.”

I tried to scream, but only managed, “Una … una …. cerveza por favor …”

Compadre stabbed my thigh and mashed the plunger in. I felt heat.

He slinked out, like he slinked in. The rat bastard.

…

I don’t know how much time had passed. My whole noodle was burning up. I could feel blood pumping up to my face. My crotch was ripe. Swollen. It was not a pleasant feeling. The room, the light …. everything got bluish. There was a halo around the light fixture on the ceiling. I heard footsteps.

Compadre, again. The swelling went down, slightly. The blood rushed to my dome. The most inhumane migraine you could imagine.

Compadre scraped up a chair.

“Oye, gringo… Leesin to me. You playing with wrong peoples. Now you tell me who send you. You tell me what they want. Or we pump you with more Viagras. Your verga ...” He cupped his palms together, then moved them rapidly apart. “BOOM!”

“Sabes … where is …. mi …. suitcase?” I still couldn’t coordinate my thoughts and speech. The truth serum and the sex drug were too much. Even for me.

Compadre spat on the tiles. He got up and slid his chair back. He left the room and slammed the door. The dry cracking noise of the door was like a butcher knife coming down. On my head.

I could feel my strength flowing back. But Magic Hands – or whoever tied me to this bed - did an expert job. Must have been a sado-masochistic sex expert.

Time went by, as they say.

I think. I had no references. No ticking of a clock. No line of empty bottles in front of me.

I heard footsteps. Different from Compadre’s. A low, rolling rumble. The door opened again and it was Globos Descomunales. She was pushing a cart with a TV on it. She rolled it up to the foot of the bed. She plugged it in. Turned it on.

She left as she entered. Without a word. The door: click.

The TV screen lit up. The title: Les exxxcursionistes calentes.

…

No man should ever go through what I did.

Imagine, if your plebeian mind is able to:

1. You’re bound to a rickety four-poster bed, on a stained mattress, in a strange brothel, in the Chino.

2. Five hundred cc's of pure liquid Viagra pumping through your veins.

3. Still reeling from the side effects of sodium pentathol. The most powerful truth serum known to man. A man’s defenses could not possibly be lower.

4. Then imagine being subjected to hardcore Catalan pornography.

“Noooooooooooooooooo!”

My arms bulged. My fingers curled into tight, hard fists. The cold steel dug in. The goddamn nippers wouldn’t give.

I heard feet padding up to the door. Before it opened I knew it would be her.

(To be continued.)

SHAME, SHAME, SHAME (part III)

2006-12-07T10:47:00.000-08:00

Shame, shame shame (part I)
Shame, shame, shame (part II)

The rumpus died down for a brief moment, then came back to life. I noticed the eyeballs first. Behind a fog of Ducado smoke and no-good intentions.

Thing is, I cut a mean figure in the right kind of light. I’m what you call a seductor. Un soltero de oro.

Who would have thought. Behind the metal shutters, there’d be a place like this.

A room full of mirrors, pleather-lined booths, black-lit ambience. Guys throwing down smacks for booze and broads like they just got their paychecks. I passed a Chinese kid sitting with three thick-bosomed dames in a booth on the right. Horse grins and loud convulsions of laughter. Looked like Hu Yu from T street. So, I thought, this is where he spends the jack he gets from the tragaperras.

I took a seat at the bar. Next to a squat fellow. Had the mien of a telephone repair man on his big night out. Hair looked like it was greased back with olive oil. Sly looking eyes probed me, then wrinkled into two Vs pointing inward. Over a droning love ballad he growled:

“Oye, compadre, ese es mi asiento.”

“Come again?”

“It is my place,” he said, nodding to the stool I was occupying.

I couldn’t blow my cover over this heel. So I got up and let compadre take the stool. I figured he was some kind of fanuck the way he sat there alone, with no female company.

The barmaid stopped talking to the deadbeats and made for me. Naturally. An imposing figure like myself. I lit fire to a Ducado as she approached. Through a green nimbus I made out a red silk dress, unos globos descomunales, and a mouth smeared with lipstick asking what I will have. I ordered a Brugal.

The sound system. Some jerry-rigged thing consisting of two speakers sitting on a mirrored bar with blue neon rims and ten kinds of rum. There was this song about amor:

Por la mañana, hasiendo el amor,
y por la tarde, hasiendo el amor,
y por la noche, hasiendo el amor,
hasta en el coche, hasiendo el amor...

I dragged on my cig, fumigated my brains. I thought of the deeper meaning of the song. I leaned on the bar and peeped behind me.

Couples, trios. About a dozen heads in all. Made up of weekend warriors, wayward family men, working girls with the whole come-nail-me regalia. High-heeling around in their micro skirts. These are the kind of rameras and goldiggers I have to fend off daily.

They’re everywhere. This burg.

Globos descomunales slid up my rum. I tilted my head in to confide. She leaned forward conspiratorially.

“I’m looking for a girl.”

“Weech one?”

“Magic Hands.”

She paused, stepped back. “Oh you mean Katy? She very funny.”

“Katy. Yeah. I’m looking for Katy. The funny one.”

Globos turned around and picked up a telephone. After chirping something into the receiver she turned back around and said:

“Ahora viene. Now she come.”

Globos bounced off to a lonely john at the end of the bar. I watched my back through the panel of mirrors in front of me. You don’t want to let the alcohol die in you. Not in a joint like this. De mala muerte. Cold sober and the bar becomes a cheap comical affair. The dames begin to look like a thousand nagging regrets.

That compadre. He was watching me on the sly. Sneering at me. I was convinced he was some kind of fanuck. At this moment I felt heat. Corporal heat. I look down to my right. Between me and my sneering friend. And there she was.

Katy. AKA Magic Hands. Built like La Pedrera. Not one hard edge on her. Smallish chest and a karina so fat I couldn’t keep my jaw from dropping. A face like a celluloid dream queen. A face like ….. Lola. My Lola … ah, that’s another story.

“Soy Katy. Como me conosiste?”

“Perdon. Hables ingles?”

“Oh. I sorry. I am Katy.”

I bent down and gave her dos besos. Just enough time to think of an alias. “I’m Winfred Harrington. English professor”. I flipped open my wallet. Pulled out one of my fake business cards. Handed it to her.

We exchanged the usual formalities. She plied her trade like a true pro. In a quarter of an hour she got two thirty euro cocktails off me. Good thing I had that small retainer from Socrates. She just about took me to the cleaners with the drinks alone.

Finally she convinced me to see the back rooms with her. I followed her, past compadre’s evil eye. The same song about amor, stuck on loop:

por arriba, por abajo, delante, detrás,
por arriba, por abajo, delante, detrás

Past another portiere and we stepped into a smallish corridor. This one salmon colored. Pictures of tropical isles. You know the scene. She took my hand.

“Why you ask me that?”

“Ask you what, babe?”

“You ask me if I know el tigre.”

“Just a kid I heard about. Owes me money.”

“Here. We go here.” I followed her up a narrow staircase that twisted around in anything but a right angle. One floor up and she opened a door. I tried to follow her in. But those stairs. I never felt so exhausted. My unnatural girth makes climbing difficult. I admit that. But this was looking sketchy. Things were getting foggy. And it wasn’t an alcohol glow. I palmed Katy’s shoulders. Shoved her back against the open door with the strength I had left. A chore I never thought would be so laborious.

“Listen … babe … what the hell … is going on? Dime!”

“Why nahting Sr. Kovaks.”

“How. How do you know. My name?”

This dirty goldigging ramera. Maybe she did look like my Lola. Maybe she had the goods and then some. More than almost any dame I’d ever seen. But I had the sneaking feeling she double crossed me.

Through the narcotic haze I pieced it together. Magic Hands and Globos Descomunuales were in cahoots. They slipped me a mickey finn. Because I asked too many questions. But how did they know my name?

I couldn’t hightail it. I was up to my grizzled cheeks in big league trouble.

My legs wobbled like a flan cake. I hit the tiles like a sack of patatas.

That Katy. A good looker. About as good looking as a weapon of mass destruction.

(To be continued.)

SHAME, SHAME, SHAME (part II)

2006-11-30T01:29:00.000-08:00

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.)

A LITTLE R&R

2006-07-28T14:27:00.000-07:00

Most estimado sirs and señoritas,

Being Barcelona's premier guiri detective is tough work. Mr. Kovaks has found it necessary to take some time off. He will be back in a week.

SHAME, SHAME, SHAME (part I)

2006-07-23T05:28:00.000-07:00

The beauty parlor, Peluquería Mi Amor. I’m assaulted by hot air thick with hair spray, spicy Caribbean love ballads, and three brats screaming in chorus.

Behind me sweltering Barcelona heat. Bochorno.

This joint. Belongs to Sócrates Sánchez. He’s a pal of mine from many moons ago. We used to sail together. Merchant marines. Across this mudball. A thousand ports. A thousand venal dens. The language of Russian roulette. And I'm not talking about putting a rod to your dome in a Cambodian gambling parlor, though I've seen that too. I'm talking pure chaos and cesspools of vice.

Sócrates is like a brother. Went through some hard ass luck together. That's why when he left me a message at the hotel saying he had trouble, I came right over.

Gypmeisters, guiris in distress, they can wait. Only so much Kovaks can do.

Sócrates is doing pretty good for himself. After twenty some odd years he retired to this burg. Opened this hair styling joint for one of his ladies. Peluquería Mi Amor, near the Santa Caterina market. Now he’s got Peluquería Tu Amor, Peluquería Su Amor, and Peluquería de Usted. But Peluquería Mi Amor is his baby. It’s his hang out.

Those screaming kids. They're his. He's got twenty-eight in all. The ones he knows about. Sócrates. Always been a big hit with the dames.

Bachatas. Blasting so loud I can't hardly think. Warbling lyrics about amor. That’s all I know. The barbress is this broad with a nice big round karina. I nod to her, ask for Sócrates. She looks up from her work. A head full of half finished braids.

“Hooola, mi amol! Señor Kovaks, Sócrates eeen da back!”

I walk by three chairs occupied by three kids. No more than a year or so apart. They're playing those electronic dinguses kids are always playing with.

Past the cloud of hair spray and spicy love ballads. Groggy from the fumes, I swipe back a beaded curtain. Multicolor. Sócrates is sitting next to a fan on maximum. At a round formica table. Playing dominoes with a couple older guys. Seen them in the barrio.

Anyway, Sócrates. He's about as big as I am. About 200 pounds of brown Caribbean brawn. Thick guy with a gray afro and round gold spectacles. His aura lives up to his namesake. But his grandfatherly looks belie his other side.

He owns this beauty parlor. But he’s also a pimp since retiring from the mariners. Owns one of the busiest bordellos in this burg. Frequented by Catalan oligarchs and guiris and garrulos.

The two old guys get up and leave me with Sócrates. He says:

“Larry! Hermano. Qué hay viejo, you want some rum?”

I say why not. He reaches behind him and lifts the lid to an industrial freezer. He pulls out a bottle of Brugal. Cold steam rolls off it. He pours me a tumbler. I thank him.

“Yesterday I send you a mensaje, viejo, because me having problemas …”

I sit down in one of his flimsy folding chairs.

“… you see my house with the girls, Isla de los Melocotones. Los hombres, they be dying.”

I swish the Brugal around the old bocarino. Syrupy. Like nights in the DR. My nostrils flare. He goes on:

“It start for two weeks ...”

Two weeks ago, I think he meant.

“For two weeks this hombre, he come in. Un viejo. German old guy. Eighty or something.”

“Even seniors gotta get their kicks.”

“My girl Katy take him because the girls no like the old mans. Ella es professional. Chingadora. She make …” he makes an O with his right hand. Strokes an imaginary skin flute. “… she make even estrella del porno happy in ten segundos. I call her magic hands.”

Old Sócrates rolls with laughter. Ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha! So much he almost falls out of his folding chair. He wheezes. The bachata in the parlor switches to another track. Sounds exactly the same. Brats screaming in the background.

“So what gives? She couldn’t play Mozart's magic flute?”

Sócrates removes his spectacles. Dabs his forehead with a rag he took from his pocket.

“Ah Larry, viejo. This day, She about to chingar with her magic hands and the old guy he falls down …”

“Must have been her melocotones.”

“No Larry. He dead. But still parada like bull, with big smile.”

I nod. Lift my hat and swipe sweat from my forehead.

“Maybe the old bag of bones was happy to go out like that.”

“This not it, brodel. Another, he also die. La policía asks too many questions. Demasiadas.”

“Both old guys?”

“No. El otro un tigre..”

“A tiger?!”

“Un jovencito. A younger.”

I nod my head. Pull the last drops of Brugal, then say:

“And they both died like that? Big smile and …”

Sócrates thrusts the underside of his forearm at me and slaps it. “Like that!”

I slide my glass towards him. So guys are kicking it while doing the dirty. Once happens. But three in a row. That’s suspect. While he pours me another rum he says:

“I want you to check my house. Isla de los Melocotones. I must to stop this.”

I take my drink and tell him I’ll get the dope on this affair.

It’s a damn dirty shame.

“Sócrates, my brother. Kovaks is on it.”

I pull a pack of Ducados from my coat pocket. Slide one up and offer it to him. He refuses. I tip the filter to my choppers. Light fire to it.

Behind the curtains. Bachatas blaring. Screaming brats. Mucho amor.

SUSPECT BEHAVIOR

2006-07-16T08:29:00.000-07:00

Obscured in shot: a camera. Lascivious intentions.

Marbella beach. I was enjoying the classy piped-in bossanova, the smell of coconut oil, my Ron Barceló. Then I saw this fellow. Fully-clothed, camera gear, scoping the scene. 30-45 minutes. He started wandering. Towards the beach with all the moñas. I went back and finished my rum. It was good.

THE AMERICAN TOURIST CON

2006-07-14T15:50:00.000-07:00

I’d seen fighting cocks rip each other to shreds in Manila. Drank the blood of a cobra in Patpong. Fended off ferocious frauleins in St Pauli. I’d seen some of the best gypmeisting there ever was.

I really thought I was something.

But these crooks. Their variant of the shell game. They were pretty damn good. They looked like fellow compatriots. Folks from Romeville to be exact, across the big puddle. Americans.

It all happened on the Ramblas. In front of the Champions grocery store.

I couldn’t figure out what the hell the gypmeister was saying.

“Einzweidrei … weeeesvall?”

He was a swart individual with a greased back hairdoo. About my height, half my width. Silver lycra sport jersey clung to him like cellophane.

A square red mat, frayed at the edges. Three little white cups. The kind you get with your machine-made coffee. And a small foam ball.

The operator laid a cup over the foam ball and began shuffling. His two mitts a blur. Concentric circles. Figure eights. Retraced the figure eight. Switched.

I followed the cup with the ball easily. A lot of superfluous moves. To trained eyes the con is obvious. Don’t follow the fancy shapes.

So I saw some shmuck place a bet. He was the typical tourist. Or so I thought. Yellow T-shirt with I ♥ California printed on it. Blue jeans. Fanny pack. White Reeboks. He went:

“How much?”

Of course, another American. I looked around me and there were at least four more of them. American tourists, I mean. I thought, their tour bus must have dropped ‘em off for a nice stroll down scam central. The Ramblas, that is.

“Tventee,” said the shuffler.

The tourist unzipped his fannypack. From a money clip he peeled off twenty pavos. Handed the bill over and the shuffler placed it on the mat.

The shuffler did his magic on the cups. Swiping circles, switching cups, back again… I could easily follow this clown.

“Einzweidrei … weeesvall?”

I edged in. For a better look. The guiri pointed to the cup on the right. So obvious. A brat could do this. For that matter, a monkey! If this tenderfoot tourist could do it, so could I!

I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud.

The shuffler lifted the cup on the right. Sure enough, the ball was there. The shuffler handed over the tourist's twenty euros plus another twenty on top of that.

I stepped in.

“All right. How much?”

I figured I could use some extra scratch.

He said twenty. From my wallet I pulled out two tens. Like before, the shuffler placed the bills on the mat. The crowd was getting dense. Habia murmullo. He started shuffling.

I crouched down, closer to the mat. He slightly tipped one of the cups and I saw, in a flash, his middle finger dart under the cup. So, the gypmeister was trying to palm it. I didn’t realize it was a lose-lose kind of game. Heads he wins, tails I lose.

I grabbed his clammy wrist and wrenched it. The little foam ball bounced on the red mat.

The guy with the I ♥ California t-shirt bleated something. Only it wasn’t English. It was slavic sounding.

I realized then. The cup shuffler had some shills in on the con. Dressed American-tourist-style to reel in the genuine guiris.

I twisted the his wrist even more. His eyes got watery, bloodshot. I picked up his little foam ball.

“The breakfast of gypmeisters!”

He was about to say something and I flicked the ball past his gold-capped teeth.

“Eat it!”

His fake American buddies-cum-shills scattered like spilled marbles. I roared:

“I’ve seen faster fingers than yours on a Todo a Cien cashier!”

His eyeballs were practically popping out. He swallowed the foam ball. Dry.

“You can tell your fake American ringers to go back to charm school. Now get out of here before I start shuffling your brains!”

He scurried off, direction Plaça Catalunya. I swiped my bills and pocketed them.

I heard a smattering of applause. General jubilation. Then I noticed a crowd of guiris and kids around me. Camcorders poised. Flash flash flash went their digital cameras.

A little girl in a pink summer dress minced towards me. Shy like. One of the gypmeister’s plastic cups was near my left foot. The little girl turned it upright. Put five euros in it. Someone in the crowd cried, “Bravo! Bravo!” Another lady took a fistful of change from her purse. Placed that on top of the fiver …

It was nice. The adulation. The tips. I genuflected. Tipped my hat.

They must have appreciated my expertise. A world class sleuth.

In all, I made about thirty-eight euros. I celebrated with a box of puros. Farias, to be exact. And a couple bottles of Mascaró. Ammunition. Kovaks’ style.

THE CHINESE ANGLE

2006-07-07T10:44:00.000-07:00

He said it was top shelf liquor. But there was only one shelf.

After I paid my week’s rent Señor Antonio invited me to a shot of orujo, straight from the freezer of his mini-fridge. Went down and massaged my spine like icy little fingers.

He owns the pension I’m crashing at. He’s about up to my chest. His skin is thin and almost transparent, clinging to his sextagenerian bones, holding a beer gut worthy of a man twice his size.

Antonio’s taken a liking to me. He’s wise to my trade and for some reason the old mugg has opened up. The English he knows from working in the hotel is no better than my sailor’s Spanish. Still I’ve found out where his favorite whores are. And where to buy the best jamón de jabugo. But mostly he bitches. And has the kind of theories you’d expect from someone holed up for fifty some odd years. Listening to talk radio. And the international debt-set.

Today he’s going on about the Chinese:

“Dees tipos. Los chinos. They know the machines. They have mafia!”

“Machines?"

“Si. The machines. The ones you put the money in.”

I pumped him for more info on this Chinese mafia. Somehow I understood after five more shots of Antonio’s frozen orujo: the Chinese have a system with the slot machines. Tragaperras as he likes to call them. They always know when the silver is about to shoot out. They always know jackpot.

I say thanks to Antonio and put my sig on the register. Antonio rolls his foggy, red-rimmed eyes at me and nods. Turns the COPE radio station up. I take the stairs. Step into a piss-stained alley. Sunset. I head up to Trafalgar, where all the Chinese sell their knockoff duds.

From Sant Pere I shadow a suspicious character a couple blocks until he enters a sex shop. Next to the sex shop is just what I was looking for. Bar Mariona. Where the fat gitanas hang out after buying bulk clothing in the Chinese shops. Tragaperras inside.

I sit at the greasy zinc counter. Above me rusty trumpets and accordions hang from nicotine-stained walls. In front of me a sour looking dame with a peppery hair cropped in that butch style. She bores into me. Black say-nothing eyes. I order a plate of jamón and sliced French roll with tomato. A canya go with that.

To my left is a slot machine. Covered with months-old dust and splattered grease. And sure enough there’s this whisper-thin Chinese kid. Salmon-colored blazer over black t-shirt. I wolf down the jamón and order a shot of Mascaró. The Chinese kid, burning cig bouncing in his lips, orders a “Jota B” from Miss Sour Grapes.

Sipping my Mascaró I eyeball him over a lowered copy of El Mundo Deportivo. The kid, in about the time it takes me to finish my snifter, burns through two Nobels and barely touches his “Jota B”. He busts out a pink bill and raps on the counter. Sour Grapes punches a button on the register. Counts ten euros in small change and sets it in two piles. He swipes it off the counter. Goes back to the machine.

I’m about to order another conyac when the little lights start flashing. Little electronic beeps and farts. The monedas spill out, and by the sly look on this kid’s face I have a mind to put the slug to him. This gypmeister and his crafty kin somehow had the game rigged. Antonio was right. I haven’t seen nothing but Chinese winning on these slot machines. The goddamned Chinese mafia.

A cascade of coins. Clinkety-clink-clink-clink. The Chinese kid with his poker face. I push off the barstool and casually step to him. Lean against the fruit machine. Actually this one has some kind of wild west motif. I grit my teeth. Rasp through them:

“Tu. Niño. Sure know how to play.”

The kid avoids my eyes. Cagey mucker.

I grab the lapels of his knock-off suit and hoist him up. To the newspaper hooks. Got him hanging in between a copy of La Vanguardia and La Razon. He’s glaring at me now. His eyes two sideways Vs. His mouth a twisted into a nasty knot. He squawks:

“您瘋狂和可恥的傻瓜!!!!!”

“Qué?”

“Joder macho! De que vas?!” he replies in what I think is perfect Spanish.

“What?”

“Fat man! Take me off wall!”

I unhook him and drop him to the cig-burned linoleum. I square up to him and growl:

“I’m wise to you kid. I know you guys are tapped into the slot machines. You guys know. When they cough up the goods.”

“What you say crazy man?”

“Tragaperras. Slot machines. Tu truco. You make trick.” Little louse got me talking bad.

He twitches and reaches into the coin tray. I grab his wiry neck. He whelps and twists out, pushes on my solar plexus and I stumble back. Some kind of martial art technique. He screams:

“You bad! Loco!”

The butch behind the bar has her face contorted into a grin. It’s the only time I’ve seen her grin. It’s all wrong. I grab him again. Twist his shirt two-sizes tighter.

“All right. Be on the level with me. La verdad. How do you know you’re going to win?” I release him before he can pull another one of his kung fu techniques.

The kid tugs on his blazer. Straightens the wrinkles where my mitts grappled it.

“Tag-along fool! It easy. You listen. When monedas no make noise. Mean full. Mucho dinero.”

He reaches into the coin tray and scoops out his winnings. The kid’s right. It’s easy as that. When the coins are at bursting point they just sound different when you drop them in.

I consider a future in slot machines. Beats sleuthing.

He lights fire to another Nobel. Blows out blue death. He says:

“I Hu Yu.”

“Who you?”

“I have job for you. Come by father’s store. 1000 Secret Moda.”

He kind of floats out. Like that. Pockets lumpy with loose change. Cloud of cig smoke trailing.

I turn to the bar. Look at the butch.

“Que?” she spits.

I order another shot to cut the phlegm. Kid got me worked up.

So. Hu Yu and the old man. Work.

You gotta take it where you get it.

NEW SCOOTER RECON TACTIC

2006-07-07T03:45:00.000-07:00

Possible member of the Track Suit Mafia.

This mugg thinks he's one cool cat. Cruising around the center, relaying information to his nefarious band of thieves. Via cell phone. He's lucky I was scarfing down my lunch. Otherwise I would've roped him in. Next time he won't be so lucky.

(UN)FRIENDLY HELPERS

2006-07-05T06:53:00.000-07:00

I’m filthy as a tomcat on the muelle. Smeared with mustard and dirt. Sitting in a cramped dive at the foot of Park Güell. Puffing on a near-dead Ducado. I knock back my third shot of Mascaró, reach for my wallet. It’s gone.

Just like I thought.

The gypmeister got the fake one.

...

Thing is, earlier today I got the dope on some lousy crooks in Park Güell. Taking advantage of people getting crapped on by pigeons. What they do is offer to wipe the crap off, then somehow swipe the victim’s dough.

So I was up in the park, walking by a fancy-schmancy gingerbread house. Guiris without a clue everywhere. Photos here. Photos there. If I was a gypmeister, I thought, I’d start here. I followed flagstones through a pretty fairytale garden. Windchimes went tinkly tinkly.

There was a foliaged arc. Bunches of palomas. But I stopped eyeballing the flying shit machines when I saw suspicious activity … right past the arc was a man with tissue poised. He was about to wipe bird goo off a poor old lady. He was dressed in green cargo shorts. Wore a fisherman’s cap. A camera hung from his neck. I thought he was trying to fool me. Into thinking he’s a guiri, that is.

I tackled him. He whelped like a sickly puppy. We were in the dust. My hat flew off. Then screaming. Hysterical screaming. “TONY!!!!” I rolled the perp over and he was blinking, stunned. The lady screamed, “MY HUSBAND!!!”

I got up, my face dripping egg. I gallantly helped Tony up, then bent down to pick up my dusty hat. Little Tony was in a daze. I’m a big guy. Relleno as they say here. My locomotive force must’ve knocked his wind out.

“My apologies, mam.” I did my best to genuflect, despite my buddha paunch.

I handed her a business card. Larry Kovaks, P.I.

“You need anything. Call me.”

People were staring. The lady kept screaming. I got the hell out.

Walking away, down a dirt path, I heard funny-sounding English.

“Mister. Have sumting on coat.”

I turned and saw this levantine midget in a dimestore suit. He had tissue poised.

I whipped off my coat. Sure enough there was a piss-yellow stain streaking it. Looked like mustard. The guy stepped in with the tissue. But he made it worse, smearing the mustard substance with the dirt. I told him to bug off. He leered, spit out:

“I just try to help. Bug off to you!”

My cover was blown. I walked away, down to the city.

...

So now I’m in this dive. Scratch in hand, despite the attempt at crookery.

See, I knew I was going to get fleeced again. The creep in the dimestore suit must have squirted mustard on me. That’s his m.o. He squirts crap, then offers to clean it so he can lift your wallet.

But this time he got a fake wallet, with a love letter I left inside:

“Lousy gypmeisters. Kovaks is on your ass.”

Sometimes I amaze myself. I knock back my fourth shot of Mascaró and order another … beer back.

STREET SIGNS THAT MAKE SENSE

2006-07-01T02:24:00.000-07:00

Cuidado: gypmeisters!

I'm glad the gov got wise. People must be warned of the ever-present menace of bag snatchers.

GUIRI GONE BAD

2006-06-30T05:49:00.000-07:00

Getting thrown in the slammer. Booked on lewd behavior. I can’t believe it happened to me.

I’m under constant risk of being gypped, seduced or physically assaulted. It’s rough. Enough to make my balls sweat. That’s why every third day or so I need a little R‘n’R.

On this hard luck day the chiringuitos in Barceloneta were calling me. More specifically, a frosty jug of sangría.

Enjoying my first few drops, soaking in my first rays of Mediterranean sunshine, I noticed him. This tourist who didn’t look quite right. Like Bill Gates in a Cash Converters, he didn’t belong.

It’s on account of this turncoat guiri that I’m in bad with the bulls. In the squirrel cage with gypmeisters and punks of the common variety.

...

I sported my casual threads. A flower print shirt I got on shore leave in Manila. That was many years and pounds ago. So it stretches a bit around the love handles. Don’t matter. It’s classy.

I was lounging in one of those aluminum things that passes for a seat. In a chiringuito. Despite my girth, the narrow and uncomfortable dingus, I was enjoying the early summer drone. The chicas on the boardwalk, in the sand. That poppy music they listen to. Invigorating. Youthful. I pulled on my Ducado, ordered my third pitcher of sangría. The smoke was green. The chicas were topless. The virulent underbelly of crime in a haze of spiked vino tinto.

The sun. The heat. It brings out the worst in people.

I spotted a guiri about 30 feet in front of me. I mean, he was obvious. Red baseball cap looking like he bought it ten minutes earlier. Pilot’s shades. Sport jacket over white T. Lime-green shorts over spindly varicose legs. Of course, requisite camera. Some kind of tourist, I thought. Sheesh. I felt the urge to warn him about the dangerous criminal activity. The oblivious fool.

So I was thinking this tenderfoot might as well be wearing a sign that says TOURIST, MUCHO DINERO when I saw it. He was real nervous. Kept looking around. Like a little bird. A bird on acid more like.

He made these little mincing steps through the sand mounds and greased up bodies. Then he held his camera at arm’s length. Angled the camera so it would take a picture of whatever was to his side. And lower down.

Shimmying up in my seat I saw him standing above three topless chicas. Too involved in their pretty selves to notice. Ah, my little bonitas. And the salacious behavior of this shameful louse. He did his sly mincing walk, about ten paces, paused, did the sideways thing with his camera. Snap. Snap. Snap. And those chicas. Not a clue.

If the gypmeisters weren’t enough. Perverted guiris snapping pictures of topless chicas. Endangering the glory of Spanish beaches. Snap. Snap.

I got up, clasped the waitress’ hand with scratch for the sangría and then some. Walked casually towards the perv. Shadowing him was easy. He was hypnotized. Lusty. Shamefully snapping away. I got within ten paces of him for a running start. That’s the way you do it. Wild and unpredictable. The pervs and gypsters never know what hit ‘em.

I charged him. Planted my size eleven hard, real hard, on his saggy derriere. He sputtered forth something approximating “Oh my!”, while his camera wheeled through the air. He lunged forward and did a face plant on a chica’s culo.

The chica screamed. The guiri rolled off. I grabbed his camera and stood over him, my foot on his little bird chest. I made a megaphone with my hands so everybody could hear:

“One thing I can’t stand. Tourists gone bad. Ruining topless tradition with perverted antics!”

The chica kept screaming. From the shock. Understandable. On the boardwalk a Mosso squad car screeched to a halt. Two cops got out, ran towards us. Billy clubs drawn.

“Al suelo, vostoros dos!”

On the ground? Both of us? I couldn’t believe it. My foot off him for one instant and the guiri took to running. I ran after him. His camera still in hand. The coppers were not more than four strides behind us.

I wiped out on some brat’s sand castle. Both bulls tackled me. Twisted the nippers on. Tight. They took me to the squad car. Slammed me in like a filthy hophead.

...

So. I’m behind bars, booked on lewd behavior and resisting arrest. For trying to save topless sunbathing.

This lady copper with a beady eyes walks up to the cell. Calls out my name:

“Señor Kovaks?”

Her voice is about as pleasant as a cold shower.

“Si?” I respond.

“Libertad.”

I hit the streets of lower Barceloneta cold sober, straight as ace-deuse-trey-four-five. I head up to my barrio for a nerve-soothing drink.

You can’t trust anyone in this goddammed burg.

THE NIT BUS SPECIAL

2006-06-24T13:26:00.000-07:00

It’s been said: once a sleuth, always a sleuth.

This week has been rough. Got fleeced by the Track Suit Mafia on the Ramblas. Lost my hat and had to buy a new one on Fontanella street. Now I’m so low on calés I’ve been eating the lemon rinds at the bottom of my cubatas. Sucking on olive pits. But being a detective is a way of life. Common folk, they’d end up in the booby hatch after two and a half days of this.

No new cases. My leads in the old town, strangely reticent. In need of sleuthing activity I get to thinking. The Nit Bus. They converge on Plaça Catalunya where so many of the gypmeisters operate. Under the cover of night, these rat bastards scurry home. No doubt via the Nit Bus.

12:27 PM. RED LINE. UNIVERSITAT TO PL. CATALUNYA

I’ve been thinking of it all day. The amount of delinquent behavior at night, in such a concentrated area is enough to make the old pump give up. After downing a shot of Mascaró in the Gallego bar on Ronda San Antoni I walk to the metro station. On the way a ramera with cavernous eyes and a pink halter top follows me. She keeps tsk-tsking me. Not tonight, nena. She spits and wheels around. Yeh. It’s tough when dames are all over you. Especially when you got a mission.

The platform at Universitat. Drunken chicas, tourists, and possible members of the Track Suit Mafia. One individual puffing a smoke at the end. Just under the security camera. The metro comes and I squeeze in. It’s thick with smoke. Smells sour, like rum and sweat. Sauced-up Argentineans jumping up and down, banging the ceiling. No shirts. Waving flags.

Kids can’t handle their liquor these days. Plus sangre latina and not enough bulls to patrol this burg. Means trouble.

They bounce and grunt like they’re soft in the head. Everybody files off at Plaça Catalunya.

12:53 AM. SCOPING THE SCENE

I do a little reconnaissance first. After beating it around the plaza I end up on the median in front of El Corte Inglés. This place. A prime gypmeister spot. Guiris getting off the airport shuttle get gypped here often. Most likely a member of the Track Suit Mafia swipes their carry-on when they’re distracted. Looking at a map. Asking directions. But I don’t see any suspects at the airport Nit Bus stop. Must be sleeping off a hard day of crime. Careless behavior abounds, though.

Typical careless behavior. A gypmeister could easily get his lousy mitts on this.

I spot a possible suspect. Track Suit Mafia. He’s dragging a cancer stick, swigging from a beer can. He suspiciously weaves through the guiris. Walks past me to the N15 stop, right as a bus pulls up. A little alarm goes off. Tells me to follow this creep.

1:21 AM. N15 TO HOSPITALET

I follow this chulo de poca monta, push my way to the back so I can shadow him. He sits on top of the wheel hub and sips beer with impunity. He kind of leers left and right. Lights his cig and puffs. Mashes it out on the molded plastic.

Sartorial style is important. These sneakers mean one thing: quickness for the gyp.

More people file on. Mostly people getting off late shifts. Restaurant workers. Women of the night. One broad with an ass this big. Like the isle. She turns in her fashion, blocks my view of the suspect. All I see is her big fat karina. Across it is printed “Bad Girl”. Three stops later there’s a puff of smoke and the suspect gets off. I see him through the etched window. Striding into orange lit side streets. “Bad Girl” gets off four stops later and we’re near the end of the line. Nothing. Floor is suffused with wrappers, spilled beer. Bus swings around for the center.

2:47 AM. N6 TO C-TOWN

Behind the N15 stop. The Nit Bus going to Santa Caloma originates and ends here. Sullen faces. A potential squirrel cage candidate drums on graffiti covered glass. He puffs maniacally on a cigarette burned to the butt. We board the bus six point five minutes later.

Another example of careless behavior. This lady is nodding off. A gypmeister would be in seventh heaven.

One dame winks at me through caked on mascara. Huffs and sits beside me, across the isle.

Could be an off-duty puta. Or a dangerous goldigger out to swindle.

I’m beginning to think the Nit Bus isn’t such a good idea. Criminal activity needs a focus of wealth. Guiris are in the center. At the airport. Not on the bus to the outskirts, with doormen, camareras, tired and on the way home. A gypmeister typically would take a taxi with his freshly stolen euros. Crispy. Fast cash, fast spent. The Nit Bus is full of drunks and people too tired to care.

These thoughts. The sway and lurch of the bus. The plastic Bocatta cup rolling in semi circles in the isle. Make me drowsy. I close my eyes and open them again in a near-empty bus. We’re heading back to the center. Outside the window stray cats scamper off, dart under parked cars. Two skinny kids carry a sofa down a mostly deserted street. To the left, the sparkling lights of the Forum. Past the intersection a bus stop with a group of kids. Punkis. And two nengs.

The nengs walk towards the back and grapple the post. One wears a fluorescent green Larsson shirt. Tight. The other a blue and white Kappa shirt. Smell of cologne and gasoline. Hair greased up to a crest. A scooter with a modded tailpipe wheelies past. They yell and pound on the window. They keeping bobbing their heads, but I hear no music. Easy to confuse these guys with the Track Suit Mafia. My guess is they’re in cahoots. One turns to the other:

“Chacho, dame un poco de esta.”

Larsson Shirt looks around, I pretend to be looking at the hat in my lap. He pulls out a bit of cellophane from cig pack and dips a key in it. Go powder. Yeo. His delinquent friend snorts off the key and goes:

“Joder tío, esta mierda de autobús. Se mueve mogollon!”

Next stop a group of five pakistanis get on. Laughing like loonies about something. High pitched squeals. Chacho and Larsson shirt are sweet talking a girl to our left, rubbing their nut sacks. “Eh Guapa. Estas para comerte. Eh guapa.” Her eyes are fixed on something beyond the window.

Past the Monumento de Colón, we swerve up Parallel. The nengs make for the door. I follow. Hit the asphalt with both feet and shadow them from 20 paces back.

5:04 AM. END OF THE ROAD. NEON PUTICLUBS

They walk, accost every female that passes without success and enter an apartment just past the Open Cor 24 hour market. Nada. Another dead end.

My dogs are barking. Hard. I’ve been footing it all day. Past the Bagdad Sex Club there’s gaudy neon stretching up to Plaça Epanya. I light a Ducado. The cherry glows brighter than all the puticlubs dotting the street. Just for a second. There’s a black Seat Ibiza at the intersection blasting some of that teeny dance music. Brother, I need a drink.

THE SOCCER TRICK CON

2006-06-24T13:18:00.000-07:00

The Track Suit Mafia. One of Barcelona’s most nefarious elements. You can tell them by their sports trainers, bright Nikes and bad haircuts – buzzed to the skull with a tuft of hair in the front. They got this burg in their mangy mitts. The abuelas fear them. And the guiris get wise only after getting fleeced.

These guys. Let me tell you a little about them. How because of them and their pal “Ronaldinho light” I’m short one hat and in possession of a greasy toupee.

I had just paid Sr. Antonio a week’s rent and had some scratch left over. I figured, let’s get a drink at Bar Kentucky. Years ago, when I toiled as a merchant marine I was lead there by this Spanish kid. Met this bonita señorita. The beer was warm. So was she. I wonder what happened to her. Anyway. I decided to revisit the Kentucky.

So - not even 15 minutes ago - I was crossing the Ramblas. Guiris. Gypmeisters. I swear thousands. Just thinking of all the criminal activity made me nauseous. It’s positively thick with it. The Track Suit Mafia rolls deepest. Dirty rat bastards.

I spotted a possible miscreant . A guy in washed out denim, tight bootleg Ronaldinho jersey. Long mane of curly black hair. Obviously some kind of hair piece. He was dribbling a soccer ball. Weaving in and out of the marching guiris. This gypmeister thought he could fool me. Uh uh, he ain’t no Ronaldinho. That ain’t no timbale beat, no tamborim snap. This lousy mugg. And he was out to relieve guiris of their cash, in between his soccer tricks.

This was no Ronaldinho, this was “Ronaldinho light”. He dribbled up to a young tourist couple eyeballing a map. He pulled the “elástico” move and snaked his hand into the guy’s pocket. He dribbled out, circled around. The tourist had his wallet dangling from a chain. Gawking at the would-be thief. He was lucky he had a chain rig. Damn lucky.

“Ronaldinho light” dribbled into the crowd again. Beguiling bobs, mesmerizing weaves. Preliminaries to his brazen pocket-picking. He dribbled towards me and tried the “sombrero” move. He flipped the ball up and it nicked the top of my hat. He did this jerky twist. I snagged his greasy hair helmet. “Ronaldinho light” cried out. Suddenly I was surrounded by three members of the Track Suit Mafia.

“Ronaldinho light” circled back around. No, he didn’t want to samba with me. He and his buddies started taunting me. Called me ladrón. Then “Ronaldinho light” did his “elástico” move, and - like that - I felt the summer breeze on my exposed dome. His Track Suit Mafia accomplices ran off, direction Raval. I spun around and “Ronaldinho light” melted into the crowd, with my hat on his filthy head. I tried to follow him. But it was useless. Louse was long gone.

So that’s how I ended up here, in Bar Kentucky, minus my hat. All I got is a greasy hair piece. Lying in front of me, on the busted zinc counter. There’s a midget dame in the corner. And a house cat on the bar. It slinks over, sniffs the wig. Paws it. Then bites into it and carries it off.

THE BOUNCING CARTOON CON

2006-06-13T11:54:00.000-07:00

It’s a tough life. Scummy, dilapidated pension hotels; hard drinking; golddigging dames; aggressive abuelas in the mercado; and, above all, gypmeisters.

That is, meisters of the gyp.

I got swindled yet again. 15 euros for those cute bouncing cartoon cutouts. Simpsons. The kind that dance when you play music. I bought them from a crook in Plaça Catalunya.

Back in my pension I turn my radio on. Homer and bart don't dance.

Not like they did on the street. I roll the dial to some of that chumba chumba music the kids listen to. Homer and Bart lay there with little spaghetti legs. Not even a pirouette. Nada. Chumba chumba

Imagine. This creep deluxe taking advantage of our innocent and playful side. Selling cute little bouncing cartoon cutouts. Cute little Simpsons characters that don’t dance. Defective. And the gypster knows it.

I pull on my near empty bottle of Mascaró. Swish the yac around the old bocarino. I put on my coat, then my hat. I cram defective Homer and Bart in my pocket and make for Plaça Catalunya.

Wild-eyed guiris on las Ramblas part before me. Yeh. I’m little hefty and large compared to my Mediterranean brethren. A little overweight even. But when I have The Rage I blow up bigger than la puta vida itself. Even the living statue crooks that line the median turn in awe. I cut my enraged swath through the clueless masses.

Just past the Hard Rock - and crowds of sauced-up chicas - is the perp. The gypmeister with his cartoon characters. There’s a little brat tugging on his dad’s sleeve. Pointing at the cute little bouncing cartoons.

The gypmeister wears knock-off raybans and ill-fitting jeans. He taps once-white sneakers.

The little boombox goes Baila morena, Baila morena … doo dooo …

His Homer and Bart, the good ones, do their little dance.

The brat keeps going, “Papa! Papa! Cómprame UNO!!!!!!” The gypmeister smirks.

Well, that’s the last time he suckers anyone in this town.

I toss defective Homer and Bart to the ground. They just lay there with their sad little spaghetti legs.

“Hombre. Has vendido un mal Homer!” I point with my thick index finger at the inert toys. “DEFECTIVE!”

I flash my buzzer. Larry Kovaks, P.I.

“See this? Ladrón?”

I stomp on dancing Homer. So hard the sidewalk rumbles. The brat sputters, then breaks into a pathetic wail. The gypmeister is rock steady.

Baila morena, Baila morena … doo dooo …

I scream over the music:

“Making children cry! Selling defective toys! You oughta be ashamed!”

I reach down and grab the boombox. The gypmeister steps in, tries to block me. With uncommon strength I shove him back. Little Homer and Bart dangle from fishing wire. And that’s not all … in the back of the boom box is a motor going round and round. He had it rigged so the motor spun an invinsible cord that made Homer and Bart dance. The audacity!

I spin with olympian force, like a discus thrower. Three, four times then hurl the boombox towards the street.

Baila morena, Baila morena…and crack … it hits the top of a newsstand and bounces off. It shatters on the terrace of Farggi’s ice cream parlor. Guiris scream. The brat boo-hoos. The gypmeister is running like his ass is spittin out fireballs.

That’s right. Corre!

This is Kovaks' town. And don’t you forget it.