The biker shrugged.
“Put him in the chair and hold him down.”
Bob and Norberto dragged Larga to a chair in back and plopped him down. Larga flopped over like a dead geranium.
Amado had met them there and nodded to Bob like, Job well done. A little sheepish, Bob nodded back, then turned and took in his surroundings. He couldn’t believe all the different designs displayed on the wall. There were hundreds of them. Cool-looking Celtic bands, panthers, Mayan suns, Maori tribal face tattoos. There were pictures of Japanese dudes whose entire bodies were covered with the most incredible and colorful tattoos. Bob was excited, he desperately wanted a tattoo. He thought it would perfectly symbolize his newfound freedom. But what image? Then Bob was struck by another thought. He turned to the bearded tattoo artist.
“Does it hurt?”
The tattoo artist smiled at him.
“What do you think?”
Martin stood near the back and watched as the tattoo artist, who looked like the poster boy for a Harley-Davidson ad, held Amado’s severed arm under a light. The old biker looked at Amado.
“What was her name?”
Amado grunted.
“Felicia.”
The tattoo artist looked back at the arm.
“I can’t make it look exactly the same. It’s gonna look new. No way I can fix that.”
Esteban had an expression on his face that Martin had seen before. It was the look of a man who had reached his limit, who was ready to explode into a rage and kill everyone in the room. But Martin knew that Esteban had a masochistic streak. He would hold the rage in as long as he could. He would push it down into his belly and hold it there. He would be needing some Maalox soon.
“The police haven’t seen it yet, they just have some photos. It’ll be fine.”
Norberto chimed in.
“It doesn’t have to be exact, cabrón. Just make it close enough.”
Martin watched as Bob went over to Esteban.
“Can I get one?”
Martin held his breath. He was certain Esteban was just going to punch Bob in the stomach. Martin had seen it countless times. He knew that getting hit in the stomach hurt, it knocked the wind out of you, but no matter how excruciating the pain, you had to stay on your feet. If you fell to the floor, Esteban would kick you until you were unconscious.
But, to Martin’s surprise, Esteban laughed.
“Sure.”
A stream of drool suddenly spilled out of the fat guy’s mouth. The tattoo artist looked concerned.
“Is he dead?”
“He’s just sleepy.”
“He looks dead.”
Norberto patted the fat guy on the head.
“No, man, I just slipped him some Rohypnol.”
“What’s that?”
“You know, man, it’s the date-rape drug.”
“What is it?”
“Guys slip it to las mujeres and it knocks them out. Entonces tú puedes meterla hasta los puños. When they wake up they can’t remember anything.”
Esteban leaned in for a better view.
“No te acuerdas de nada?”
Norberto nodded and pointed to Larga’s unconscious body.
“Yeah, man, you can fuck him if you want. He’ll never know.”
The men looked at each other for an excruciating minute. Esteban broke the silence.
“Jesús Cristo, pendejo. No somos bujarrones.”
Norberto shrugged.
“He wouldn’t know, that’s all I’m saying.”
Martin looked at his hands. They were wrapped around the back of a chair, white-knuckled, digging into the wood until they hurt. Martin released his grip, clenched and unclenched his fists. He couldn’t believe how tense he was. At this rate I’ll be dead of a heart attack before I’m thirty, he thought. He needed to talk to Esteban about letting him get an office. He needed some kind of sanctuary from this madness. Running around, riding in cars, kidnapping people, it was all getting to be a little much. Martin realized he really needed a smoke. He nodded to Esteban.
“I need some air.”
Esteban didn’t seem to care, and for that matter nobody else seemed to care either, so Martin walked through the tattoo shop, past the ratty back room with its old TV set and battered refrigerator. He opened the back door and stepped out into the sunlight. The alley behind the tattoo parlor was nice. Sunny and clean and quiet. The light hitting the warm red bricks and spilling down to the pocked asphalt. Martin looked around, and didn’t see anyone. He pulled a nice smooth jumbo out of his pocket and fired it up. As he exhaled a deep plume of gray into the air he realized that if he had an office, he could smoke all day. Plop his butt on a couch, put his feet up, pop open a cold can of soda and zone out. He’d still get his work done. He was responsible. But he wouldn’t have to ride around in the car endlessly. He’d demand that Esteban make appointments. He took a heavy pull on the joint and held it in his lungs. He liked this idea.
Norberto came out and silently took the joint from Martin’s fingers. He took a hit.
“Nice day.”
Amado watched as the tattoo artist worked diligently to counterfeit his severed arm. His arm was lying right next to Larga’s as the artist went back and forth, measuring, calculating the scale and line, trying to make it as close to perfection as he could.
It was like some kind of strange dream. A sueño con locotes calling the shots. The big boss, El Pez Gordo, Esteban stood over the tattoo artist like a nervous schoolteacher, making sure he didn’t fuck it up. Amado remembered when Esteban was tough, really tough. In the old days he dealt with problems quickly, showing no mercy. He never lost his cool, he had ice in his veins.
Nowadays he just acted tough. Amado could tell by the look in his eyes. He knew Esteban was afraid. He had gone gringo, agringarse. In the old days, Esteban would’ve just shrugged, and said, “Chingado.” And that would have been that. If las placas bust us, they bust us. That’s la vida. Now all Esteban seemed to care about was staying in El Norte and making big money, trying to be legit, respectable. As if being a fucking gangster wasn’t respectable enough. Of course Amado realized that there was an upside to Esteban’s change of heart, because in the old days he would be dead by now.
Bob made up his mind. He turned to the tattoo artist.
“Could I get, like, a coffee cup right here on my arm, you know, and spell Felicia’s name in the steam?”
“How big?”
“Not too big. A little one.”
Bob held his finger and thumb about two inches apart.
“Sit down.”
Esteban stepped forward.
“Do we have time for this?”
The tattoo artist looked at him.
“The outline ink needs to set before I do the shading. It won’t take long.”
Bob winced as the machine, kind of like an engraver — a skin engraver — started buzzing. It hurt, but not as bad as he thought it would.
Bob looked up at Amado.
“When do I get to meet her?”
“Felicia?”
“That’s the deal.”
Amado and Esteban exchanged glances.
“You want to meet her tonight?”
“That’d be awesome.”
Esteban nodded.
“We need to get you an alibi. Someplace where you spent the night.”
Bob turned to the tattoo artist.
“I’m really upset because I broke up with my girlfriend.”
The tattoo artist nodded and stroked his beard philosophically.
“Fuckin’ chicks, man.”
Then he went back to tattooing.
Bob looked over at the guy in the matching track suit. Kidnapped, knocked out, tattooed. Wow. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bob felt sorry for him. Of course, Bob realized, none of this was his fault. They had originally planned to kill him and destroy the arm, then the smart white guy had come up with this other plan. That saved his life. His life for a stranger’s arm. It wasn’t great, but it was better than the alternative.