“Why money?” Izzy asked. “Or college, for that matter?”
“Money because they rolled up in a fucking Land Rover. College because one had on a UT shirt, another had a Longhorn bracelet. Football groupies, maybe. But probably students.”
“Party types? Like scene kids? Raves and that?”
Angus shrugged.
“I don’t know. Maybe straighter than that. Pretty somber, I remember. Usually they giggle, get a little drunk or a little high first. Make a big show out of it. They were all first-timers for sure, and impressed with the rig and all that. But quiet, you know? Real serious.”
The counter man got interested, listening closely.
He said, “And they all got the same thing?”
“Right here,” Angus said, tapping his wrist. “Just like the man said.”
“They say why?” Izzy said. “What it was all about? Anything about living forever, anything like that?”
“Nah,” said Angus. He looked back at the guy in his chair, who was fast asleep. The guy snored softly and had drool at the corner of his mouth. “One of ‘em was sorta teary-eyed, though. Not out and out crying or nothing, but just kind of wet and red, like maybe she was gonna.”
Izzy said, “Huh.”
“All I got, man. Paid cash, went on their way.”
“Any photos of the tattoos?”
“I snap all my tats,” Angus said. “But it ain’t nothing but the wrist, close up.”
“Would you mind showing those to me?”
Angus looked to the counter man, who chewed on it a second before shrugging.
“Sure,” he said.
Angus went back to his station and grabbed a smaller binder, the sort used for family photos and bounded with spiraling wire. He set it on the counter and spun it around to face Izzy as he opened it up. Each stiff page held two glossy four by six photos under a sheet of plastic. Old school. He flipped through them until he came close to the end, where he stopped at a page with a tribal back tattoo on top and a black lemniscate on a thin, pale wrist on the bottom.
The hairs on Izzy’s neck stiffened at the sight of it. The ink was simple, identical at first blush to the one Deacon had, as well as the hippy at Judgment Daze. Izzy turned the page, where the other two were situated. They could have almost been the same tattoo, the same girl, apart from skin tone and the odd freckle. He went back to the first again, looking more closely, and then to the others. The second one, on top of the following page, had minor inconsistences in the curves of the lemniscate. While the others were quite smooth, this one seemed more rushed, the thin black line a little jagged in places. Izzy started to peel the plastic back and said, “May I?”
Angus nodded.
Izzy pulled the plastic all the way back and carefully removed the photograph from the tacky backing of the page. Holding it up to the light, close to his face, he saw why the work was not as smooth and flawless as the other two. Angus had a rough, uneven canvas.
The wrist was marked with narrow, raised scars—four across and two down. They were hard to make out in the photo. The lighting wasn’t good and the colors bled too much. The photographer had only cared to capture the tattoo itself, and the scars did not show well. But they were there. Izzy had seen far too many of them not to notice and recognize them exactly for what they were.
“Yeah,” Angus said, a little awkwardly. “I know.”
Izzy patted the photo back down in place and covered it up with the plastic.
“What do you make of that?” he said.
“Seems obvious. When she was at the place where she cut her wrists, she wanted to end it. Now she sees a future, an infinity. The symbol covers the scars, changes the meaning for her. Ink always has meaning to the person who wears it. Even dumb shit, it’s personal. Sometimes I do work with this breast cancer charity, volunteer stuff—we ink mastectomy scars, turn them into something beautiful and unique. This is really basic, what that girl got, but same principle.”
“I think you’re almost right,” Izzy said, closing the album. “But not quite.”
“Calls ‘em like I sees ‘em,” Angus said, taking the album back. “Hope it helped.”
The counter man said, “All right?”
“All right,” Izzy said. “Thanks.”
Outside, he brought his phone out to call Noah back, his mind going a million miles an hour, processing what seemed like crucial information but didn’t quite fall right into place like he wanted it to. He thought about the scars on that girl’s wrists and he thought about Forbes’ comment about helium as an underground right-to-die thing. Did Cynthia intentionally kill herself? Had she planned to get the same tattoo? Maybe, Izzy thought, scrolling to Noah’s number, she had to wait due to her fresh injuries from self-harm. The girl in the photo had a long time to heal—those scars weren’t recent. But unlike Cynthia’s, they weren’t meant to feel, either. Those cuts were meant to cut deep.
He tapped the number and raised the phone to his ear when the squeal of hinges broke his focus and he glanced up at the tumbledown split-level house across the street from Comet Tattoos. Mags was on the porch, bent and the waist and struggling with a large duffel bag, trying to drag it down the sagging steps. In front of the house an Eighties model Chevrolet idled. No one was in it.
Noah said, “Izzy?”
Izzy said, “I’ll call you back.” He pocketed the phone without bothering to end the call and fell into a sprint for the Lost 40 house’s front porch. His ankle screamed at him and buckled. Izzy groaned at the pain, put his weight on the other foot, and set to a stroppy, limping jog.
Mags dropped the duffle’s straps and shot up straight. Izzy paused by the running car, putting himself between it and her. For a half a second, Mags froze, too.
“Don’t run,” Izzy said.
Mags ran.
Thirty-Two
She ducked back into the house, slamming the door shut behind her. Izzy limped to the side of the Chevy, took the keys from the ignition, and hobbled as fast as he could up the steps and to the door. He shouldered it open, the keys jangling in his hand. The man in the side room ignored him. Straight ahead, past the staircase in the kitchen, the glass door stood wide open. Izzy went to it, moving around a wide table and staggering over clutter on the floor. In the back yard, Mags had kicked up a brown dirt cloud in her haste to reach the decrepit fence. He went after her, expecting to gain some time while she climbed over it. Instead, she delivered a sound kick with the sole of her shoe that caved five or six slats, opening a wide area through which she immediately bolted into the yard beyond.
Izzy pocketed the keys and set off after her. She wore no bandana today; her hair flowed crazily out in all directions as she ran, wild red tentacles. In her blue tank top and baggy camo shorts, she extended her arms out as she fled as though hoping to take flight.
The next yard over had no fence, and she crossed it easily into yet another one before vanishing behind a small, one floor house with white siding and a flat, shingled roof. A gray head appeared at a back window in the house, aroused by the passing of a stranger in the yard. Someone hollered in Spanish when Izzy arrived, pounding hard on his good foot, soon to match the bad one. He saw her again when he cleared the house, feinting right to the street. She crossed it, went diagonally over someone’s front yard, trampling a patch of pink and white pansies, and turned right again on Pennsylvania Avenue heading east.
With a raspy groan, Izzy kept after her. He could swear the bones in his ankle weren’t moving right, that they were crunching together in a suspiciously bad way, and his ribcage felt like it was burning deep to the core of him. He wished he’d taken something for the pain that morning. He wished he’d found a coffee joint for a little boost. He wished Mags would just quit running away from him. If wishes were horses, he thought, beggars would ride. She flailed her arms and continued apace. Izzy continued his stubborn, agonizing pursuit.
Ahead he saw a cluster of telephone poles towering over a low metal fence. On the o
ther side stood a baseball diamond with a couple of wooden benches around it. In front of the fence, on the other side of the cross-street, ran a concrete ditch that veered off to the left. Mags leapt down into it and followed it to a little bridge, where the fence ended and a well-manicured park opened up. She climbed up again, darting past the baseball diamond between stunted mesquites. Izzy kept to the street until he reached the bridge, crossed it, and stumbled into the soft grass. The air wasn’t coming easy to him, and he wasn’t confident he could run and yell for her to stop at the same time. He elected to keep running, despite the protestations of his ankle, lungs, sides, and nearly everywhere else on his overtaxed body.
Mags jetted behind a brick restroom facility in the middle of the park and once again disappeared from Izzy’s view. He couldn’t tell if he’d gained or lost ground on her. With some difficulty, he aimed himself at the restroom building, keeping a close eye out for when he caught sight of her again on the other side. His back curved into a hunch, his shoulders rolled like wobbly bicycle wheels. He began losing hope he could keep this up much longer. When he turned the corner of the brick facility, he didn’t see her. He was looking too far afield—she rushed him from the entryway to the women’s side, a fist-sized rock clutched in her hand and raised for attack.
Izzy shot his arm up and out, caught her by the wrist. The rock dropped from her grasp, the edge of it clunking the side of his head and abrading him on its way south. Mags slammed her other hand into Izzy’s stomach. She wasn’t terribly strong and weakened by her flight, but it was enough to loosen his hold on her and double him over.
“Leave me alone,” she said, and drove her knee against his side.
Izzy moaned and toppled over on his other side, curling up. Blinded by the sweat in his eyes, he reached out and grabbed her shoe as she turned to go. Mags yelped and fell forward, landing hard on her hip. She screamed and scrabbled away. Wiping his eyes with the back of one hand, Izzy propped himself up with the other and then launched himself at her. She spun and dropped flat on her back as he collapsed across her legs. Her damp hair clung to her face and neck. She pounded her fists against Izzy’s shoulders and back.
“Get off,” she wailed. “Leave me alone—I got a kid.”
“Not trying to hurt you,” Izzy wheezed.
“Then why you after me, huh?”
She hit him some more. He twisted away from the blows and threw up his forearms to block her.
“Stop it,” he said. “Goddamnit, I want to help you.”
“Fuck your help,” Mags spat, and she pulled herself out from beneath him. Izzy didn’t fight it. He didn’t have any fight left in him. “I don’t want any part of this shit, man. I told you, I got a kid. Just leave me out of it.”
Mags crawled away and got to her feet. She brushed herself off, careful to avoid the red patch where she skinned her knee. The patch was beading with blood.
“Cynthia Ramos was somebody’s kid,” Izzy said, sitting up against the wall of the restroom. His breath came a little easier now, but his ribs felt bruised and breathing hurt. “So was Deacon.”
“What d’you mean, so was Deacon? What’s he got to do with it?”
She walked backwards, creating distance but keeping her eyes on him.
“He’s dead, Mags. Just like Cynthia. Two people from your squat, both apparent heroin ODs in a different abandoned house a couple miles away. What do you make of that?”
“Jesus,” Mags said. “Fuck.”
“You did know her, didn’t you?”
“I got a kid,” she said again. “He’s three years old. I don’t need this.”
Slowly, Izzy pushed himself up the wall until he was standing on one foot, letting his sprained ankle dangle.
“What happened to them, Mags?”
“Would you stop calling me that?” she snapped.
“I’m sorry,” Izzy said. “It’s what Mike called you.”
“And fuck him, too,” she said. “I didn’t ever let him touch me, you know. I want you to know that. He thinks he’s such a big deal, all spiritual and all that bullshit. Well, he didn’t fuck me. I’m not like that.”
“Is it him? Is Mike behind all of this?”
“Mike?” She erupted into a hoarse laugh. “The only thing that asshole’s behind is whatever piece of ass he can con into bending over for him. He’s a homeless loser who gets more pussy more than anyone I ever knew. That’s all he cares about, the shit. And his fucking drug money.”
Izzy breathed a sigh.
“He was into drugs, then.”
“Selling them,” she said. “Piece of shit.”
“What about tattoos?
“Huh?”
“He doesn’t encourage people to get tattoos, little infinity symbols?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. Her chest inflated slowly, deflated twice as slow.
“No,” she said.
“You don’t sound surprised by that.”
“It’s not Mike.”
“Then who?”
“I gotta go,” she said. “My kid…”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, okay? I’m not a part of it, man. I’m just trying to get through the fucking day, not live forever or some shit.”
Izzy stiffened, gaping at her. She started to walk away, back toward the road.
He turned the corner and called out to her, “I have your keys.”
They jangled from his hand, glinting in the sunlight.
“Give ‘em back,” she demanded, stomping back.
They went back into his pocket.
Izzy said, “Who?”
She held out her hand and scowled.
“Who?” Izzy said.
“My keys,” she said. “And I’ll tell you.”
He hesitated, studying her face. She threw out a hip and shook her open palm. Izzy dropped the keys into it.
Her fingers curled around the keys and she said, “I don’t know his name. I think Cynthia was seeing him, or at least balling him. Deacon was jealous as hell about it, said he was a scumbag, and he totally was. Dropped her off a couple times, drove a white Mustang. Thin hair, high on the head, like Jack Nicholson or somebody. But young. Thirties. Weird as fuck. Creepy.”
“Creepy how?”
“I can’t describe it. Some people just give you the creeps. His face was…not like a face at all. Like a Halloween mask. I think he walked with a cane.”
“A cane?”
“I thought it was supposed to be some dumb pimp shit, but he looked like he actually needed it. I only saw that the one time. Like he had trouble getting around maybe.”
“An accident, maybe? Something like that?”
She shrugged.
“Okay,” Izzy said. “Anything else? Anything at all?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, man. Dude was real skinny, but he had on a loose track suit sort of thing so you couldn’t really tell. But in the face. You know. That’s it, dude. I’m out.”
“You got a place to stay?”
“See ya,” she said.
She tossed the keys up, caught them in the air, and turned back for the road. Izzy watched her go, walking briskly over the plush, green grass toward the baseball diamond, when she stopped suddenly and shouted, “He had a Longhorns sticker on the Mustang.”
Then she was gone.
Izzy snapped his fingers and grinned. He stepped forward, and his ankle buckled again. The grin vanished, and he spun his arms to keep from falling over. Stable again, he dialed Noah and balanced on the one foot like a flamingo.
“Are you going to hang up on me again?” Noah asked.
“I need a ride,” Izzy said. I’m a ways from my car and I don’t think I can walk back.”
“Was it worth it?”
The girl he knew only as Mags dipped down into the concrete drainage ditch and back up again before crossing the street and fading behind a stand of thick-trunked palms in somebody’s yard.
Izzy said, “I’m close, Noah. Nearly
there.”
“You can tell me all about it when I get there. Which is where, by the way?”
“Rosewood Park. Chestnut and Pennsylvania, east of 35.”
“Having a picnic? Should I bring cheese or something?”
“I’ll be here,” Izzy said. He ran his fingers through his hair and found the raw spot where the rock grazed him. It was sticky to the touch and stung like hell. “Maybe bring some alcohol or iodine, too.”
Noah said, “Next time you’ll lose an eye.”
“See you soon,” Izzy said. “And thank you.”
“Kisses,” Noah said, and hung up.
Carefully, Izzy lowered himself to the grass and sat, legs out in front of him, ankle throbbing painfully. A middle aged couple walked a Pomeranian on a leash on Chestnut. A couple of teenage boys tossed a ball around on the diamond. Looking northwest, Izzy could barely make out the Austin skyline downtown, across the interstate. And, to the right of it, the very top of the University of Texas Tower.
“Hook ‘em, Horns,” he said.
Thirty-Three
“Who’s the bench guy?”
Izzy stretched, cat-like, and turned his head on the pillow to face Noah. They were both naked and damp, having gone from the bath to the bedroom without the benefit of any towels to dry them first. Initially it had only been Izzy in the bath, soaking his ankle and having Noah dab more iodine on the scratch on his scalp. But one of the things that sold him on the apartment was the sheer size of the tub, and for the first time since he’d signed the lease it was put to the test when Noah climbed in with him. It hadn’t taken them long to relocate to the adjacent bedroom, where they made love fast and desperately, finishing before the water was done swirling down the drain.
Now they laid in a tangle of arms and legs, the comforter damp and pillows absolutely sodden. Izzy couldn’t have cared less, and felt remarkably light.
He said, “What?”
“When we at that rave, after you chased the girl the first time. You sat on a bus stop bench and got your panties in a twist about the lawyer on it. Lose a case? Were you guilty? What did you do?”
The Irish Goodbye (Izzy Bishop Book 1) Page 17
