“A double. I’m drinking for two today. My scars and me.” Carlos brings the bottle and a glass and pours me two healthy shots. I take out the apothecary bottle and look through the amber glass. “What’s that stuff?” “Medicine.” “You sick?” “Not for long.” I upend the bottle and pour the whole thing into the Aqua Regia. “L’Chaim,” says Carlos. “De nada.” I knock it back in one gulp. My mouth, throat, and stomach are very unhappy about that. I squeeze my lips together to make sure I keep it all down. “That good?” “Worse. It’s like a dog with cancer ate a rat with leprosy and shit it down my throat.” “I had one of those in El Paso once. You’re supposed to chase it with goat piss, but I’m fresh out.” “Next time.” “That old lady is back.” “Which old lady?” “The one with the missing kid.” “Aki.” “Yeah, that’s him. She’s over with Titus. I hope he’s not stealing all of that lady’s money.” “He always leaves them enough to cover his drinks.” “Seriously, I don’t like people messing with old ladies. Mi madre had cancer and gave all her Social Security money to a faith healer.” “What happened?” “He gave her a homeopathic cure and she felt better. Of course, the homeopathic cure was just sweet wine with ginger and some low-grade morphine. When she ran out of money, the cure stopped coming. She went back to the regular doctor, but by then the cancer was everywhere. Let me tell you, having cancer sucks, but being broke and having cancer is the shittiest fate that can land on a human being.” “I’m sorry, man. You want me to go over and have a word with Titus?” “Don’t sweat it. I’m just talking out loud. I’ve got my eye on him.” “Titus might string things out a little, but he’s good at what he does. If the ring is real and the kid’s here, he’ll find him.” “He better get his bloodhounds barking if he wants to keep drinking here.” Carlos goes off to serve other customers. I can see a few of them staring at me in the mirror behind the bar. It’s a good crowd tonight. No one tries to talk to me. I drain the dregs of the dog shit cocktail and set down the glass, feeling queasy. The things we do to stay ugly. I check my hands hoping that maybe I’ll be able to see the scars grow back in front of my eyes like Lon Chaney Jr.’s hair in The Wolf Man. Nothing. I can’t live without scars. I bet if I asked nicely,
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