Los Amigos

Yoville’s soundtrack got dramatic as I cruised dark streets. I pulled up at a bar I knew, a shoe shine doubling as a valet ran up. “35 cents mister.” “A man’s following me; he’ll wanna know where I am. Tell him Spade’s inside.” I gave him a $1 Yocash. “Keep the change.”

Flickering neon proclaimed the pungent dive the ‘Los Amigos’, serving ‘Big Dog’ on tap. You can’t find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. An irritatingly cheerful ragtime played. It was dark, as dark as its nefarious owner pulling underworld strings from an oversized desk in an undersized office upstairs: Badd Bart.

“Evenin’ Cindy. Got bourbon?” Trouble turned. Eyes that could melt a bank vault & a dress that made my teeth sweat, just 2 of the items in her arsenal. “Oh Sam, so good to see you,” Cindy Loo Who purred. She wiggled over. This story has too many blondes I thought.

Cindy Loo Who leaned further than needed, poured generously. “Haven’t seen you lately.” “Don’t tell me you can’t read.” “Just being delicate, Sweety.” I put 5 on the bar. “Buy yourself a drink,” “Not many tips like this.” “Well, here’s another: plant your corn early this year.”

“Always the cute one,” she purred.

“You’re a swell dame, Sweetheart, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“When women go wrong, men go after them.”

“Not tonight, Doll.” I nodded at the $5. “I want to surprise Bart. Forget how to use that phone when I go upstairs.” “Sure, Sam.” “I might buy us another round on the way out.” “Thanks for the dough, but Bart’s expecting you.” Cindy Loo dimpled, batted her eyes, & poured herself a drink.

I went upstairs, and found Badd Bart looking like a cross between Orson Wells and Jabba the Hutt.  He was 20% legit, he worked for Zynga.  He gave Y Town its pungency.

He heaved his face up, red eyes rolling around little fat hammocks.  “Spade. I heard you were in town.  Did I ever tell you that the sight of you makes me sick?”

“Well, just use your own sink... the one you launder your dough in.”

“If you’re here to tell me to sell the joint to Big Viking, don’t bother.  I kind of like seeing things die.”

“I’ve seen a lot of hard boiled eggs in my day,” I muttered, but you’re a 20 minuter.  If you smelled any worse you’d make a skunk cry.”