The Leaves 03 (Nico) (6 page)

When we began the design as she described it, I started to think about all the women I had “helped” and still seemed to be gaining. Unfortunately, I had gained another 89/510

new client, and my focus on my mom and her design drifted as I thought about her.

Yolanda was a beautiful Hispanic woman with brown eyes, long brown hair, and money. Some people, you just knew by sight, they had wealth behind them. Whatever she was wearing
—
I couldn’t begin to guess about designers
—
I was sure her entire outfit cost more than my truck. Actually, my Chevy Apache was fully restored and probably around the thirty-grand mark, so maybe not, but still, she was rich.

She was also very professional when she came in and asked if she could speak to me privately, so I led her to the back and offered her a seat.

“So, Mr. Grant, I understand you ‘help’

women who have had some sort of history of abuse?” She scrolled down the screen of her smartphone while she spoke.

“Yeah,” I responded. No need to tell her it didn’t end there.

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“And the women, they tell you their story and you transform that into a tattoo, a sort of commemoration of an event or events?” She had a slight accent, but it wasn’t the Spanish of the local Mexicans I was used to hearing.

“Yes, but I don’t need to hear their stories.

It’s enough that they want my help, but they know they can say anything and it will never leave this room.” I sat down on the bench behind me and waited for her to finish whatever she was doing on her phone.

She turned the screen and showed me what I knew was a Dia de Muertos skull.

“Day of the Dead.” I told her. “Listen, I don’t know if you would consider it, but my partner out there, Zack, that’s more his style.

I can do it, but I’m more faces, photo realism

—
”

“Mr. Grant, I know what your style is. You gave my niece, Flora, that horrible screaming rose.”

Jesus.

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Flora came in and told me a story about things her great-grandfather had done to her. Fucking sick shit, and he always called her his rose. She said she could never understand why no one responded to her screams.

She described to me a rose, blood dripping from its petals, and the gruesome face of a monster clawing its way out. She was dressed like a punk, and the tattoo, even though it represented something horrible, had been photographed and featured on an album cover for her friend’s band.

“This is what I would like, Mr. Grant.” Yolanda had another photo of a sketch on her phone. The background was a sacred heart. Against that was a large pillow with a traditional Day of the Dead skull laying on top. Then she flipped to a picture of an old man with dark, beady eyes. They were the kind of eyes that looked right through you, devoid of humanity, and she didn’t have to 92/510

tell me they were the eyes of the same monster that had abused her niece.

“The tattoo must have these eyes. No other feature except the eyes, and I know you will do an excellent job. I will pay you twenty-thousand dollars.”

She should have just punched me in the face. “Excuse me?” I asked, just to make sure I heard her right. “If you know my work and what I do for women like your niece, you also know I don’t
—
I won’t
—
accept money
—
”

“Mr. Grant…” She walked very slowly to me and spoke less than inch away from my ear. “My Grandfather had many victims, and the women in my family were not the only ones. But it seems that justice was not something the men in our family, who knew of his proclivities, were willing to punish. So, six months ago, in the Durango Hills Nurs-ing Home, I asked my grandfather, a man of means from birth who bought the silence of everyone, including his family… I asked him 93/510

to confess what he had done. His mind was still sharp, even for a man of ninety-one. I demanded he ask my forgiveness, or I would see him on his day of judgment. He smiled at me, Mr. Grant, and told me I was his favorite among his victims. He did not ask my forgiveness and thus had made his choice.

“I spat in his face and said I hoped his eternity would be one of horror and misery, the same as my childhood… then I killed him. The twenty-thousand is not payment for the tattoo. It is payment for the peace you brought my niece, who could not find any before you, payment for your silence. I hope you will be able to use it to help others like her and like me, because you have a gift. I will come in next Friday. It is the only time I am free at two in the afternoon. Then I will leave California forever.” Something told me I shouldn’t have said yes to her. I mean, I never verbalized my agreement, but she really didn’t give me a 94/510

choice. I was a victim of her confession; it wasn’t the first time it had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last. I also did not want her money. I got it. I mean, I couldn’t imagine what she had been through, what any of my women had been through, but it was getting to a point where I could feel something building in me, and I knew I needed to do something about it.

***

I pulled up alongside his newest project, a 1978 Ford F150. It was actually one of the first trucks he owned and said he should never have given up his old one. When my parents first left the desert and moved out here, Pop had driven an eighteen-wheeler for a 95/510

while. I was still in high school, so Mom stayed behind. But when I was seventeen, she said I was old enough and responsible enough to be on my own and not to do anything stupid. She wanted to be with Pop.

Every few weeks, they came home, made sure I hadn’t burnt the place to the ground or gotten some girl pregnant, then went back on the road. I was lucky I had a hefty allowance and looked older, because a seventeen-year-old guy with a box of condoms, his own car, and a house with no parents meant a freedom no one else my age had. There was a B-average rule though; if I dropped below that, Mom would have to come back home, and when they wanted to lay on the guilt, my parents were fuckin’ professionals.

“Hey son, what brings you out here?” Pop was wearing khaki Dickies overalls. A pile of red rags were at his side, his hands covered in grease.

“I need to talk.”

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He stood up.

I wasn’t a huge talker. It probably would have helped if I had been. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just started talking. Pop leaned against the truck, trying to wipe his hands, and listened as I began.

“I know you have a pretty good idea of what my job entails for the women I help.

But the thing is, some of the shit they tell me

—
”

“Don’t

tell

me

anything

else,”

he

interrupted.

“I am going to fucking explode, Pop.” I ran my fingers through my hair which needed a cut.

“I know you are. You need a woman,” he stated.

“Pussy isn’t helping anymore.” I smirked and shook my head.

“I ain’t talking about pussy, son,” he added, his voice serious. “I’m gonna tell you something I have only told one other person, 97/510

Nicolas. I should never have laid that shit on your mom, but she could tell it was eating me up.” He shook his head back and forth a couple times before he began. “A woman came to me. Her husband had lost his job and she had a kid. Anyway, she wanted to know if there was any kind of program or aid she could sign up for. Well, I took the papers to her house when she didn’t show up. She answered the door, black and blue. Her husband came to the door, yelling about how they didn’t need charity from the man his wife was screwing. And from the look of their house, they didn’t need it either. The whole scene between me and him, it was ugly. No other word for it. I wasn’t sure what to do without calling the police and making it worse. After that day, I asked myself if calling them would have made anything better.

In her case, yeah, it would have.” He had been wringing the red cloth meant to clean his hands as he spoke, staring at the 98/510

ground. “He killed her. Beat her so bad, he killed her. She wanted to know what aid was available because she was trying to leave him. He was a drunk, but he had enough money for a great lawyer, and I knew his sentence wouldn’t be a long one. Their kid was gonna be sent into foster care ‘cause they didn’t have any other family, but I made sure she went to friends of ours. Now, I’m telling you this, Nicolas, to say, I’ve been living with that for over twenty-five years. You know, whatever you tell me stays with me, so if you want to talk, I’m happy to carry the burden with you. But you have more than one story, I know that. All these years I had your mom.” He looked toward the house. I guessed he was just used to Mom being there. But he looked back at me and continued talking.

“Someone owed me a favor who happened to be staying at the same state-run facility as that woman’s husband. So I called in that 99/510

favor, and two weeks into his stay, he had an accident.”

Fuck.

It took me a minute to find the right words. “Pop, I appreciate you sharing, but I just can’t.”

He walked up to me, almost in my face, and spoke quietly. Not with anger, not with aggression, but with what sounded like remorse, “The only other person that knows about that is your mom. I know you can handle that, and I wish I had been strong enough not to say anything at all to your mom, but she just knew. That’s what you need. You need someone who is gonna help you carry the burden. That’s the same reason I kicked you out when your mom was going through chemo. I’ve got her back and she’s got mine. Besides us, who has your back, Nicolas?”

I thought I’d gone there to talk, but I didn’t tell my pop anything. As usual, he knew what 100/510

to say. What I did do was decide I would an-onymously donate the twenty thousand to the women’s shelter where my mom used to work. I felt like my pop’s story was a sign.

***

Zack said we’d had a busy day and invited me to have a drink with him and Teensy at her place. I dropped the truck at home and walked the six blocks up a steep-as-shit hill that led to her million-dollar home. I heard Zack yell out what sounded like, “Rock that sweet ass in my fuckin’ face, you slut!” I took a step back and thought maybe I’d turn around and just go back home tonight.

These days were killing me. Days, weeks, months, fuck… I needed to go to sleep and wake up, never.

“Nico!” Teensy opened the door hurriedly.

“Won’t you come in?”

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“How did you know I was here? I didn’t knock.” I took in the panel on the wall just inside her front door. It was a Starship-Enterprise-worthy security system complete with video feed from different parts of her house and property.

“I have really good security,” she said, putting in a code. “I have to. I get a lot of psychos. Actually, I really need an assistant to help me get all my restraining orders sorted out,” she said, adding that to her mental to-do list.

Teensy did have a huge motherfucking dog, a Great Dane named “B.A.B.” which stood for “Bad Ass Bitch.” Thankfully, B.A.B.

had a weekend play-date with her brother and two sisters out in Norco. She was Teensy’s protection when she did private parties. There were hand signals for all sorts of great tricks, and Teensy had perfected getting them into her routine. She had, unfortunately, had to use B.A.B.’s tricks more than 102/510

once when the men got out of hand, but a dog that big, growling and drooling right in front of your crotch? That makes any man back the fuck off.

“Hey! Snatch-master 3000! Come over here and untie me!”

I followed Teensy through a hallway to see Zack tied up and hanging above a pool table.

Everything about her place gave you the feeling of indulgence, from the huge vases of flowers arrangements to the red and black pool table. It wasn’t oppressive like some über-rich homes. Teensy had put her touch on it to make everyone feel like they were walking into an accommodating upscale hotel.

Teensy opened the cupboard that housed the pool cues. “Wanna game, Nico?” she asked, giving me a sly smile.

“Sure.” I smiled back, thinking this was going to be a much needed break from reality, my best friend bound and tethered, 103/510

hanging—actually almost swinging—from the ceiling like a chandelier.

I chalked up the cue while Teensy racked.

“So… Zack?” I paused for greater effect, holding back my amusement at his expense.

“How’s it hanging?”

Teensy and I both busted out in laughter.

“Here, Nico.” Teensy handed me a bottle of Bud. “I know you don’t like a glass.” She broke, determining she would be solids.

“
Fuck
and
you
, man,” he said firmly as I laughed my ass off. “Teensy? Baby-doll? This has been fun, but either we fuck or you let me down.” Zack was on the edge of getting pissed.

“Can you please excuse us a moment, Nico?” Teensy asked, leaning her cue against the table.

“Of course.” I leaned back, watching their banter and drank my beer.

Teensy walked over to the cabinet with the pool cues, took out what looked to be a table 104/510

tennis paddle, walked over to Zack, and smacked the back of his jeans-clad thigh.

“Argh! Fuck!” Zack yelled out.

In a sweet, cooing tone, Teensy spoke to Zack as she pulled him toward her by the chin. “Now, now, Zacky…” she said as she dragged a long, blood red fingernail down his neck, “you know that when you don’t address me properly, you have to be punished.”

“Fuck! Off! You said you were trying out the new pulley. You tried it out. Get me down so I can play pool with Nico. Now! Fuck!” His body jerked around, swinging him back and forth. He was totally helpless, sus-pended above our forgotten game, and I was pretty sure, even if he wanted to, there was no way he could have gotten himself down.

Then Zack started to say something again.

As soon as he inhaled to speak, Teensy slapped the side of the pool table with a huge flogger. I jumped, startled by the sound, but Zack let out a shaking exhale, and I felt the 105/510