breathing. Another door closed, wooden this time. He was shoved into a seat. The tape was ripped off his eyes. Fuck! Whatever became of him, there’d be no need for the undertaker to tweeze his eyebrows.
The light in the room was low. There were four men in plain sight: Paco, his two car mates and a short, barrel-chested man with skin like the moon and cold, black eyes. When full focus returned, Joe noticed that Moon- face and Paco’s two friends had tears painted under their eyes. No, not painted, tattooed. Moon-face must have been particularly sensitive as he had the most tear tattoos. Some of his tats were black, some red. Paco’s buddies featured two red tears below their left eyes. Although Joe could see only these four men, he sensed at least one other lurking in the shadows or standing somewhere behind him.
“Whachu wanna know about Reyes for?” Moon-face asked, his mouth barely moving.
There were a few ways Joe could go with this. He could try being cute and get himself tortured before being killed. He could play it halfway, still get tortured, and get killed. The fact was, he could tell the gospel truth and get tortured and killed.
“Did you guys kill my friend?”
Paco didn’t look happy. He shook his head at Joe and mouthed, “Bad idea.”
Moon-face grabbed Joe by the throat and lifted him out of his chair.
“Put him down, Nardo.” A disembodied voice came out of the shadows. Joe had guessed right. There was someone else in the room.
Nardo let go. Joe didn’t have far to fall and he enjoyed breathing again.
“Hey, cop,” the voice from the shadows continued, “just answer the question.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Used to be a cop,” Paco corrected. “Same thing. You were a very bad boy, jefe, no?” Paco pantomimed snorting coke. “We know all about you, your partner, and your disgrace.”
“The MexSal Saints have a research department?” Joe said.
Nardo took exception to Joe’s tone and laid an Asp across his thighs.
“Fuck!” Joe doubled over and fell out of the chair.
“America’s a great country, Mr. Serpe!” said the man in the shadows. “They sell computers and internet service here to anyone, even scum from south of the border. You should visit our website: www.wetback.com.”
Paco laughed. The red tears boys lifted the corners of their mouths. Nardo just got uglier.
“Pick him up.”
Joe was put back in the chair.
“You know what the tears mean, Mr. Serpe?” Shadow-voice asked.
One whack across the thighs with a metal pipe was enough for Joe, so he answered as best he could.
“They’re either badges of honor for stretches inside or like notches on a gun.”
Nardo’s black eyes seemed to light up.
“Very good, Mr. Serpe, like notches on a gun. I like that, that’s good.” The unseen man was pleased.
“What’s the difference between black tears and red?” Joe was curious.
“Both mark death,” Paco explained. “If I killed you, boss, there’d be a black tear under my left eye. Now, if I were to kill-”
“Nardo!” came a shout from the dark.
Without any wasted movement, Moon-face slammed the Asp across Paco’s ribs. The wind went out of the boy in an explosion of air and saliva. Some of the spray caught Serpe in the face. Paco rolled around on the floor, gasping for breath and holding his ribs.
“Paco is young and talks a little too much for his own good,” Shadow-voice said.
“He’ll learn,” Joe said.
A laugh that had no relationship to warmth came out of the dark. “Yes, he will learn. He will have to. Now, I ask you again, why do you want to know about Reyes?”
Joe told him about Cain, about the spray paint, about the cops and their theories. Serpe could hear that the man in the shadows was pacing, taking in what he had said.
“I am sorry your friend was killed. It is one thing to die for a cause, but to die for nothing is bad. You say he was retarded.”
“He was.”
“We don’t kill the weak.”
“He was slow, not weak. If he caught someone trying to graffiti the trucks, he would have been hard to deal with. Would Reyes have panicked? Would he have-”
“Reyes!” Even Nardo was incredulous.
“Reyes was a clown, a…” Shadow-voice hesitated. “How do you say it?”
“A wannabe,” Paco answered, now on his knees. “Still, he brought dishonor on you. Did you kill Reyes?”
“We are serious men here. We do not kill retards and clowns. He could not have dishonored what he was not a part of.”
“But the cops-”
“Fuck the cops, man. They all bullshit.” Shadow-voice said. “On my honor, we did not kill these men.”
“Why bring me here? Even if I believe you, what does it matter? I’m nobody.”
“You carry the message for us.”
“Me? The cops wouldn’t believe me if I told them the sky was blue.”
Nardo laid the Asp on Joe’s right kneecap. Once again, Serpe got up close and personal with the floor. “What the fuck was that for?”
“It wasn’t a request, jefe,” Paco said. “You carry the message!”
“Okay, I’ll carry the message, but it would be a lot more convincing if I could give the cops something to back it up. Give me a name, some proof, something.” Joe put himself back into the chair. “Give me a Lobo. You think they did it anyway, right?”
“The Lat Lobos are putas, but they have no need to kill the clown either. You think maybe the America for Americans people are crying for Reyes or your friend? Could these two murders serve them any better?”
Joe was silent. There was logic in what the man in the shadows had said. It was a perfect scenario to whip up anti-immigration sentiment and, while Joe Serpe was anything but a conspiracy nut, he had been involved with people who had done much worse for much less.
“I’ll do more than carry your message,” Joe said. “I’ll look into it. And if I need your help…”
“What help? This is all the help you gonna get.”
Joe stood and walked toward the silhouette. “Okay, but if I find out you’re lying to me-”
Joe could still not make out the man’s face. A hand and forearm emerged from the shadows. Nearly all of its skin was covered in tattoos. Some were expertly done, like the black dagger surrounded by a blood-dripping halo. Others were less skillful prison tats.
“On my honor, I am not lying.”
Honor. Honor. Honor. What a load of crap. The powerful preached it to protect their own asses. Joe had heard this line of shit his whole life. It was the same with the mobbed-up guys in his old neighborhood or with the Colombians or Jamaicans. There was no honor, only fear. When the leaders are facing a long stretch in prison, honor goes right out the fucking window.
Joe shook his hand.
“Take Mr. Serpe where he wants to go.” Shadow-voice released Joe’s hand and retreated into the darkness.
“Sit down, boss, we got to blindfold you again,” Paco said, holding his hand against his bruised ribs.
“Nice way to treat the help,” Joe said.
“Nice!” Paco smiled in spite of the pain. “Nice has nothing to do with it.”
Joe passed out on an old recliner, makeshift ice bags on his knee and thigh. Marla was asleep when he came back in, still asleep when he woke up. Never a late sleeper to begin with, working for Frank had trained Joe’s eyelids to snap open between 5:00 and 5:30. Minus a hangover, like on the Monday they found Cain, he was up before the sun. Not even the mix of intense sex, kidnapping, and mild torture could keep his eyes shut. The ice had gone to water and the gallon Glad Bags had flopped to the floor. Joe didn’t have to see the wounds to know they’d swollen up pretty bad and turned an ugly shade of purple.
