By: Corey Myers
The Tattooed Man
They sat across from each other in a small dining room in a dreary little house in the back hills of nowhere. Leading the conversation, or rather talking enough for both parties, was a crudely painted man absentmindedly shuffling an ancient deck of cards. Across from him sat a young man, the district attorney’s son, playing with a thousand-yard stare. Though they had been playing poker for the better part of the day together, the two were not friends. The son was paying for the virtuous sins of his father who had convicted a score of the cartel’s associates, earning the ire of the bosses.They had tried to mitigate his passion with indirect persuasion–haunting his steps with frivolous lawsuits , his wife leaving him after suddenly coming to believe he had been unfaithful, and debts appearing as if out of thin air. None of this had strayed him from his path.
Which is why the tattooed man now sat across from the DA’s son. A crew of cartel sicarios had abducted him from a hazy night of drunken merriment and three days ago he had awoken in this desolate hovel with its grimy floors and windows barred from the inside. It was his job to watch the son until the ransom was settled, one way or another. Noticing the son looking to the clock yet again the tattooed man tried to fill the air.
“That’s the thing they never tell you. The part about all the waiting. Everyone loves to talk about car chases, the big fights, those times you just wouldn’t believe. They don’t talk about how often you just sit and sit…” Cards distributed, he flips the next into the burn pile, then overturns the communal cards in the center revealing two sevens as the highest number. “Puta madre.”
With a King in his hand the tattooed man was disappointed with the draw. Well, as disappointed as one could be in a gambling game using fake money played only to pass the time. Really, the game wasn’t the point, he was just trying to distract the son. The bosses had asked for a ridiculous sum of money for his safe return- 5 million dollars. A district attorney made good money, but not near enough to cover such an exorbitant fee, particularly in the time frame the boss demanded, without alerting the police. The tattooed man suspected he was never supposed to be able to afford it. As it stood he had heard rumors that the DA had been frantically trying to amass the cash, selling his cars, his jewelry, and the other day his house went up for sale, but there was no way it would sell by midnight.
As the son placed his bet, the tattooed man said, “Eh, if that’s the best you got who am I to stop you from living dangerously. Call.”
The son had no interest in the game, as was clear to both when he raised on the terrible cards showing on the table. He looked like a condemned man walking the short path to the electric chair. None were more aware of his father’s financial trouble than the son, a recent home renovation had left them saddled with debts exacerbated by the recent divorce and litigious claims. There was no hope in his eyes as he checked the approaching deadline.
The tattooed man was by his own admission a bad man, he’d served the cartel since he was a young teenager and had done many things he now regrets. But he was not a cruel man, not like some of his fellow sicarios, like the boss’ right hand “El Cuchillo,” the knife. He had learned first hand of that man’s sadism. Though he lamented the duty given to him, here he was glad that the son wouldn’t have to endure the casual brutality of his associates.
For a moment, the Tattooed Man thought he had the game, he drew a King to complete the pair, but cursed as the son played a Full House and took the pot. His lucky day he thought, before realizing how ridiculous of a statement that was.
Right before the tattooed man started to shuffle the deck again he felt a light rumble in his pocket. He looked to the clock and saw the midnight hour had arrived. Slyly checking his phone as the son started to study his tattoos yet again he saw a simple but damning statement written on his screen.
No money.
With a silent sigh he realized what he would have to do. He let the conversation continue. For a little longer.
The Father
David stared into the screen of his computer. He did not see what was there, which was a mess of documents and ads, but rather what it meant. He did not have enough. Not even close. Five million dollars was an impossible sum, at least in the time allowed. The first day he had received the fateful phone call he’d consolidated all his bank accounts, emptied his safe, and called in every personal debt he could think of. The second day he started selling. His car, an overpriced Lexus, his golf clubs, anything. Everything. By the third day he’d put his home on the market, a palatial estate he’d built with his now ex-wife that still had liens on it from a half-dozen contractors.
Still it would not be enough even if by some miracle some buyer was willing to put the entire asking price by midnight.
So he sat and practiced what he would say again within his mind. The cartel was brutal and merciless, but ultimately, they were businessmen, in their own way. They had to negotiate. He had no idea who had told them he could afford such a large sum, in under a week no less, but they must have known it could not be done. He was a lawyer, not an oil baron, and he would give anything to see his son returned safe. However, it had to be his to give. Or not, he reflected. Maybe that was their plan, to force him to discredit himself by turning to crime.
The phone on his desk rang. He had never realized how shrill the tone was. When he answered, he was met with silence.“Hello?”
“Mr. Gavril you are to leave your home immediately with the agreed sum. Take a left onto Skyline until you reach the truck stop at the bottom of the hill. You will receive further instructions from the public phone there at 12:45.”
“Okay… but about the amount.”
“We trust you have the payment ready.”
“…I’ve gathered all I can. I’ve put my home on the market, I’ll give you all I have but I need time to gather it all. Please, just…” The line clicks, “…give me back my son.” The dial tone is deafening.
David sits at his desk, staring at a phone he hopes will ring with the cartel’s counteroffer.
It never does.
The Son
He sat with eyes intent on the playing cards, shuffling without haste. There was little point in hurrying, neither he nor I knew how long they’d be here. Knowing my thoughts as I looked to the clock for the fifth time in as many minutes the heavily tattooed man said as he dealt us in “That’s the thing they never tell you. The part about all the waiting. Everyone loves to talk about car chases, the big fights, those times you just wouldn’t believe. They don’t talk about how often you just sit and sit…” Cards distributed he flips the next into the burn pile, then overturns the communal cards in the center revealing two sevens as the highest number. “Puta madre.”
I look to my own hand. A two and a seven. Garbage. But with the pair it was the best garbage showing. Not that it mattered, the money being played here was arbitrary. So I raised on the big blind.
He looked from the cards in his crudely painted hand to the ones in play and back more times than a confident player would. “Eh, if that’s the best you got who am I to stop you from living dangerously. Call.”
After the burn he draws the next card, a King of Spades. I glance to the matching suit written on his neck and wonder at the meaning there, if there was one. I did not think he was actually much one for poker, his grin at the turn was an obvious tell.“Check.” I said.
“Not getting off that easy. Raise.”
I was ready to be through with the game, so I said, “Call.” He grinned and pulled the next card, a two of Diamonds. He smirked.
“Your move friend.”
“All in.”
“Don’t make it so easy, we have time to burn yet. I’ll call. Read them. Two pair, Kings and Sevens.”
I look at my hand and realize I have won(please see alternate suggestion under comments). “Full House. Twoss and sevens.” He muttered something that sounded like a curse as I collected the pot. After examining his much-diminished piles of chips he set about shuffling the deck again. Slower than before. He started telling a story about one of his late night escapades, but the words don’t register in my mind.
As we waited my eyes drifted to the numerous tattoos melded into his torso and beyond onto his hands and face. They were of varying quality, some look as though a child had drawn them. Others had faded, or formed over scar tissue, while others would be art if they’d been supplanted to paper. One caught my eye, a saintly woman with a skull face, arms spread below her waist. It was hard to get a good look at, as it was on his inner wrist. From the brief glimpses I did manage to execute, I could see it was extraordinarily detailed. Clearly he noticed my inquisitive gaze.“Our fair Lady Muerte. The only patron saint for a man like me.” Extending his arm.
“It’s very well done.”
“Unlike the others” he laughed, “It’s fine, it’s fine I know. Got most of these in the pen back when I was a kid. Out of boredom mostly. Got this one while going in for a long stretch.”
“Did it take a long time?”
“My sentence or the tattoo?”
“Uh. Both?”
“I was in juvie from fifteen till I turned twenty-one.”
“So they don’t mean anything?”
“What doesn’t?”
“Your tattoos. Like the King of Spades there.”
“Yeah that one means something. It means I swim with the big fish now.”
“Yet you still get put on babysitting duty.”
“There’s still that.”
I paused, but I needed to know, “and the Lady?”
“Yeah… That one means something.”
“What?”
He thought about it for a while, long enough for me to consider changing the subject. Instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one up and started telling me.
“I didn’t like my father. He was strict for one, or tried to be, but mostly I thought he didn’t get it. He didn’t know how things worked, at least not anymore. He wanted me to get a job young, and I did. I got the job that was available, I started on deliveries. When word got back to my pops that I was working with the narcos he beat the crap out of me, so then I got sneakier about it. I hadn’t had the tattoo then, he probably wouldn’t had dared if I had. I was 14 then and he couldn’t kick me out yet. At that time I started dealing. He found out about that too, but this time he called the cops. Did a few months that time. He didn’t visit. Then when I got out the big Boss himself came to pick me up. He told me about all the strings they’d pulled. How valuable I was to them. He told me he wanted to have me in his cartel. He told me about how my father had betrayed me, had betrayed the cartel. He told me what I needed to do earn my way in.”
He took a long drag to finish off his cigarette. I said nothing. He took out another smoke and lit it up as he continued. “It was quite a demand, or rather I know now an ultimatum. He didn’t make me answer right away, he was smarter than that. He took me to his mansion, gave me everything I wanted. Drugs, money, women. I lived like a king. He said to forget about my disloyal father, he would be my new father, and look how generous he was. Then finally he gave me the gun, then he had his right hand El Cuchillo drive me to my home. He told me other things. Like where to cut a man so he doesn’t bleed out before he talks. He told me these things and I realized a few things. First was the price of refusal, but more. To them my father was just a snitch, a vile thing to be tormented and discarded. But I had a chance to save him from men like the one next to me. I could show him mercy.”
The cigarette had turned half to ash as it rested, unsmoked in his hand.
“When it was done I just froze. El Cuchillo had told me to run after the shot and they’d come up with an alibi, but I just stood there until the cops arrived so they left. It turned out that was good enough. I got my Santa Muerte when I was locked up and the cartel got me out when I maxed out my juvie time.”
He looked like he meant to say more but there was a knock at the door. He stood to answer it. “Your pops ain’t like mine, he’ll pay.”
“He’ll try.” I almost whispered, knowing of his liens and debts.
I could hear him at the door as he said “Cuchillo” in surprise before their voices hushed in a short but frantic exchange. Knowing the subject I thought of the windows, but it would be no use. They were barred.
The tattooed man returned. His frown another tell confirming my suspicions even more than the hand hovering behind his back out of sight. “Hey man that was from the boss…your pops. Your pops can’t afford the ransom.” His hand returned to the front, a pistol hanging loosely in his grip.
“Please.”
“It’s not up to me.” He said, aiming where it would be instantaneous.
“You can’t.”
“I must.”
The barrel flashed. And then there was darkness.
