by Dancer, Jack
"Sure is. And at some point this girl's gonna want to indulge too."
"Craving a fix?"
“The shakes are coming on as we speak."
At that moment, in mid-laugh, I looked up and notice the oddest, yet strangely familiar thing jutting from the second-story corner of a building across the Ramblas - a scaly serpentine body sprouting a wing the shape of a large Chinese fan and a hideous head. It's angry maw exposing a fierce set of fangs. It looks like a wyvern with only two legs or arms, as it were, clutching an extraordinarily large lantern as if it were lighting the way for lost travelers or maybe symbolizing some sort of enlightenment. The oddest thing though was the umbrella dangling from its body, pointing to the building's entrance below.
"Now there's something you don't see everyday," I say directing Monica's eyes to the monster.
"Holy shit," she says nearly jumping out of her chair. "That's the green dragon, Tucker!"
"What green dragon?"
"The green dragon tattoos we saw on the IndyCat boys."
I take closer look. “Holy shit. You're right. You think there’s a connection?”
"There must be. I mean, how many dragons have you seen that look exactly like that one?"
"I dunno. None, I guess. Never really paid much attention to dragons. So you think our boys and the shop are connected somehow?”
"Wait," she says and pulls out one of the Bagdad fliers from her purse "It's the same, Tucker, look."
“You're right, the same dragon. Wanna go check it out?”
“Yeah. Come on.”
"Wait. I need to get the check," and I wave the waiter over miming writing a check. He gets the message and comes over. "Say, what's that building over there? The one with the green dragon out front."
"An umbrella shop, Señor."
“That’s it? An umbrella shop?"
"Yes, it's been there for many years, and they have a very excellent selection of umbrellas," he says handing me the check. I give it the once-over and peel off a couple bills.
"Gracias Señor."
"What's with the green dragon though?" I ask before he gets away.
"The dragon is the symbol for Barcelona, Señor. It was also the name of Barcelona's football team before it disbanded. Dragons are everywhere in Barcelona. Just look around and you'll see them."
"But, does the dragon over there," pointing to the umbrella shop and laying down a five Euro note, "symbolize anything special? I mean, anything other than umbrellas and Barcelona?”
Now he looks a little nervous, "No Señor," he says and starts to turn away then decides against it and instead leans down as if he's telling us a great secret. "Actually Señor that particular dragon does have a special meaning. It is the symbol of a secret organization, the Drac Verd, the enforcement arm for Terra Lliure II, a very ruthless exèrcit guerriller for an independent Catalonia. Stay away from them Señor if you value your life. But, the umbrella shop is very nice," he picks up the five Euro and hurries away.
"Drac verd?" I say.
"Green dragon," Monica translates.
"Of course, dummkopf," hitting my forehead with the palm of my hand.
"And, exèrcit guerriller?"
"Guerrilla army," she says.
"Holy shit. So, you think the Indy Boys are part of this Drac Verd?"
"It would appear so.”
"Yeah. Guess it would. And if they are the enforcement wing of the Terra Lliure II . . ."
“Tucker, remember the paper with Paulo’s obit? It said he was a Captain in the French army, remember?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“You think maybe there could have been a connection with this Terra Lliure II. I mean, if the boys are a part of this Drac Verd and they’re the enforcers for the Terra Lliure II, could they have killed Paulo for some enforcing reason?” she asks.
“I dunno, maybe. There’s something else too. When Dick told me the IndyCat tag on the boys’ Suburban stood for Catalan Independence, that it was a movement and all, he asked me if I knew the significance of Perpignan. He said Perpignan is the capital city of French Catalonia whereas Barcelona is the capital city for Spanish Catalonia. He also said this Terra Lliure II was a terrorist organization and it was headed up by a woman called the Raven.”
“The Raven? Holy shit, Tucker. You think maybe the little doctor might be this Raven?”
“I don’t know. Dick says no one knows what the Raven looks like because there aren’t any photographs of her.”
“Holy Christ. Hey, what about the guy on the train who was taking photos? You think he might have been taking those photos to get one of her?” she says.
“And maybe he was tied in with this Paulo guy? It’s starting to make a little bit of sense.”
“Yeah. And we’ve got our noses right in the middle of it too. You heard what that waiter said.”
"Yeah I did. And what makes me really nervous now is what Dick’s done to these guys and what he’s still about to do. I wonder if he knows the significance of the tattoos," I say.
“He’s gotta know. The waiter did. It must be fairly common knowledge, wouldn’t you think?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“Oh, my God. Tucker, we might have unwittingly gotten ourselves into a world of trouble here. Maybe you'd better call Dick and tell him what we've learned.”
I pull out my cell phone and start to dial then stop. “Then again, maybe not. What if he lets ‘em go. Then they'll be coming after us with a vengeance."
"Forget it. Let 'em sit there. Call Dick and tell him to never let ‘em go."
"I will but I don't have to do that now. Remember, they're not going anywhere until they've given us the answers we need. Let's wait and see what he learns about the green dragon and if this Drusilla Libica is involved. Besides, they don't have any idea where we're staying now so we should be safe, at least for a while."
Plus, we've still got Dick's El Raval apartment as our backup place to go, I'm thinking.
“Hope so," she says taking my hand as we’re heading over to the umbrella shop. And it's now I notice too the building is draped with the colors of the Catalan flag of independence.
"You think we might find Terry and Ebba over here?" I ask as we're crossing the Ramblas.
"I doubt it. What would they have to do with the green dragon? I don't see where their disappearance and this Drusilla Libica, and her boys are in any way connected. No, I think Terry and Ebba are somewhere playing house and haven't given us the first thought."
“Hope that's the case."
A bell rings as we walk through the shop's door and a voice too, "Welcome to Casa Boqueria my friends, home to the largest selection of the finest umbrellas in all of Barcelona." From behind a display a smallish man sporting a large handlebar mustache and sideburns appears, from behind a large display, dressed in a kilt?
"How may I assist you Señor and the beautiful Señora. A practical but stylish canopy for the gentleman and a snappy parasol for the lovely, fair-skinned lady, perhaps?"
Do I detect a Scottish brogue?
"Actually my good man, we're here to inquire of the Drac Verd," I say, and the man visibly winces.
"Drac Verd? I'm afraid we're all out of green dragons today, Señor.”
"Out of green dragons?" I say turning to Monica. "How can that be? The IndyCat boys sent us. They assured us that you . . . that is, here, in this shop I mean, we'd find the green dragon, isn't that right dear?"
"Ah, Tiber and Drusus you say?"
"Yes, Tiber and Drusus."
"Well, why didn't you say so? Yes, you have come to the right place for the green dragon. We have the finest green dragon in all of Barcelona. Let me show you," he says and goes to lock the front door before leading us to a back room to a large Chinese cabinet decorated with inlays of semiprecious stone and emeralds forming various colorful dragons. He pulls out a drawer and from within, ceremoniously lifts a large, black box of polished enamel and places it on a nearby side table.
; "Señor and Señora you are about to witness the finest green dragon in all of Europe."
Monica and I look at each other as the little man pries open the lid of the box, releasing the most pungent aroma of marijuana you can imagine. We stand there staring, dumbfounded until Monica finally breaks the silence and says something to the man redirecting his attention. She’s got him laughing at something.
"Weed!" I exclaim. "This is the green dragon? Weed?"
You'd have thought I screamed "Narcs, you're busted" with the haste, the little man slams the lid shut and throws the box back into the cabinet drawer then says to me, "What did you come for if not the green dragon, Señor? Who are you? And who sent you, because it surely wasn't the IndyCat boys. Get out! Get out of my shop," he screams, and shuffles us to the front door and out, "and do not return!"
"Terra Lliure II," I say stopping the man dead in his tracks, his anger suddenly replaced with fear. "The Raven sent us."
"The Raven?" he gulps. "What does she want with me?"
"She says two women are missing, two American flight attendants going by the names, Ebba and Terry. A man by the name of Juan Salazar, a bartender at the Fira Palace hotel, has abducted these two women. She says you know this man, Juan Salazar."
He ponders then says, "I know of no one by that name, Señor."
"She says you do, and you are to locate this Juan Salazar and when you do you are to call me and tell me where he is so I can retrieve him and the two women."
"But how . . ."
I raise my hand palm out stopping him. "She does not care how you do it. You are to put out the word this man is wanted, immediately. This is very important Mister..." I grope for a name.
"McDonald sir. Pony MacDonald of the MacDonald clan, sworn enemy of the MacLeod’s," he says abruptly standing at attention and giving me a Roman-like salute across his chest.
Retrieving my Moleskine, I scribble my cell number and pass it to him. "You are to call me immediately when you have located this man."
He accepts the piece of paper reluctantly, peers at it, and says, "Sir. This is highly irregular. I have never been asked to perform such a task by the Raven before. May I ask what is the importance of these two women to the Raven?"
I look at Monica, and she pipes up and says, "They are her daughters."
"Her daughters," he says. "Yes, your lordship. Please pass along to the Raven I will do whatever I can to find these women and this scalawag, Juan Salazar."
"Thank you MacDonald. The Raven will be most appreciative, and you will, no doubt, be well rewarded," I say and take Monica by the arm and lead her through the door and into the Ramblas.
We walk tightlipped around the shop and down Carrer del Cardenal Casanas another block before we stop and break out laughing.
"Pony?" Monica says. "His name is Pony?"
"Pony MacDonald. Doesn't leave much to the imagination, does it?"
"Probably attracts a lot of curious women. God, Tucker, I cannot believe you told him all that."
"What I can't believe is he bought it, and what about you; the Raven's daughters? What was that all about?"
"I don't know. I was just trying to keep up with you."
"What if he finds them?"
"I don't know. I didn't think it through that far. If he calls, don't answer."
Ha, ha, ha. We’re laughing so hard we nearly sink into the sidewalk. Everyone passing looks at us like we'd fallen off an onion truck, but they can't help smiling at the joke too - whatever it might be. Still, they give us a wide berth.
"And, oh my God, Tucker. That was the green dragon? Marijuana? Does that mean the guerrilla army's a bunch of pot farmers?" she squeezes out between moments of catching her breath.
"I don't know. Can't imagine they'd be too alert."
"Or motivated."
"Do you realize we just ran across what's probably the best pot shop in Barcelona," I say.
"And you didn't even get any. What's wrong with you?" Monica laughs. "Honey, you have no idea how good I can be with a little buzz."
"Holy shit! I'm going back," I say and turn to start when she grabs my arm and stops me.
"What?" And her hand comes out of her pocket, palm out with three nice buds.
"How'd you do that?" I ask astonished.
"When Pony's eyeballs were laying on my breasts, my hand was in his box."
"I think I'm jealous."
***
The Rider.
The rider can't believe his eyes the Americans are now at the Green Dragon.
Are they there to buy umbrellas? If they don't come out with umbrellas, the answer is no. Are they connected with the Terra Lliure II? Libica? Or even Pello Azaura? This could be trouble.
These are not just Americans touring Barcelona. Who are they? I need to know. I need the man's wallet and the woman's purse.
***
Back on the Ramblas we come to a large break in the buildings on our left. In the setback is a large A-shaped rooftop with a sign in the shape of a medallion hanging from the top and the words Mercat St. Josep La Boqueria. It's La Boqueria, what Rick Stein calls the greatest market in all of Europe. And, the world I might add as the La Boqueria has won honors as the best market in the world. The place is jammed with people, all smiling faces. And who wouldn’t? Surrounded with the most beautiful foods of every type and variety you can imagine?
“Are you ready to dive into this?” I ask.
“Absolutely. If there was only one place, I could visit in all of Barcelona, this is it.”
“Let's go then.”
Where the market comes from is unknown but what is known is it was originally a traveling market established in the 13th century, eventually, settling in Barcelona on Las Ramblas in front of the gates of the old city walls as an open-air market where fruit and vegetable traders from towns and farms nearby would sell their products. During the 200 years from 1700, the market's popularity increased to such a point farmers from neighboring towns were stopped from trading here. The competition was fierce, and fights broke out between the old greengrocers and the new ones. The markets from the two nearest squares were merged into one: Las Rambla de Sant Josep. The Sant Josep part of its name derives from the nearby convent of Sant Josep, which was destroyed in 1835.
Today, nearly 1,000 vendor stalls make up La Boqueria offering a wide variety of foods - fresh fish and sea food; salty fish; tinned food; butchery and offal, including bull's testicles and penises; birds; game and eggs; fruits and vegetables; herbs; a delicatessen; breads and pastries; restaurants; artisan products; charcuterie; wine; and even a Greek and an Italian hand made pasta stall. The market even includes a cooking school.
We spent nearly two hours dazzled by the most beautiful and creative presentations of product at the various vendor stalls, and we only saw a fraction.
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
“Are you kidding? After all the samples we had, I'm stuffed. And I thought Costco was a great place to have lunch at the sampling carts. No comparison!”
“You eat lunch at Costco?” she asks.
“Sometimes. It's pretty cost effective when it's free, and the samples are usually very good, but if we had one of these, I think I'd rent a stall and live in it.”
"Does this mean we won't eat at the Els Quatre Gats now?" she asks.
"Let's see how we feel when we get there. It's still a ways to walk. We might work some of the La Boqueria off by then."
Back on the Ramblas we walk past a very small security door that's closed but has a sign overhead, ‘Museu De L'Erotica’.”
"Hey, check this out," I say stopping in front of the place. "Too bad it's closed."
"Probably a good thing for you ole boy. They might want to keep you as an artifact.”
"Very funny," I say. "Now here's something interesting. Only three doors away and there's the Farmàcia Clapés. Think there might be a message in a prescription bottle here?"
"Ha, ha. Could be."
We continue up th
e Ramblas to Carrer del Carme where Monica says, "Come this way Tucker, I want to show you something." We go left onto Carrer del Carme and maneuver through several more streets until we come to a small square, a courtyard really, with trees and public seating. She stops and looks around then says to me, "Do you see anything that strikes you as unusual?"
I look around turning 360 degrees several times. “Got me. No."
"See the building there with the number 17 over the door?"
"Yeah, I see."
"See the two holes in the wall?"
"The one small and the other larger? Yeah. So, what are they?"
"This place is the Casa de la Misericòrdia (The House of Mercy). There's nothing left but this pretty little courtyard and these wooden holes in the wall.”
“So what is it?”
“This place is where mothers who were unable to care for their infant children would abandon them. They would deposit the child through the large wooden hole and onto a platform inside which turned. The nuns inside would hear the babies’ cries then spin the turntable around and take the infant.”
“Oh, Lord, that's the saddest thing I've ever heard. And the smaller hole; what was it for?"
"That was where people could donate money to help care for the children."
"And just look at all the people walking by. I wonder how many even know what those holes represent? Not many I'd bet."
"I'm sure not many at all. Most people probably don't even notice them."
"There ought to be a sign or plaque describing the significance of the holes. I'm surprised there's not one," I say. "Maybe they'd rather not bring attention to a piece of history best forgotten than remembered."
“But, you know, Tucker; we may think it was a terrible thing, having to give up a baby through a hole in the wall like that, but, given the times; it must have been a blessing too. I mean, at least the baby had a chance to survive,” she says.
“True, and the mothers too.”
“Probably a blessing. God, Tucker, we just don't know how good we have it until we see things like this to remind us how tough life was back in the olden days.”