ahead of me—time to pass on my own—and all of a sudden there he was, this man. Short, bowlegged man. He was wearing a derby hat, and that hat caught my eye. He took it off and fanned his face as he squinted into the last of the sun. He wasn’t from here. Least, that was my guess. His skin was too fair, and he looked too fresh. He hadn’t been here long enough to get beat down by the sun, to let it leather his face, dry out his lips. No, this man looked like he came from a land of water and lush green. A land of brooks and streams and shady woods. There was something about him that made me want to put my arms around him. Maybe it was the way he looked out of place, the way I’d felt nearly all my life, a Mexican girl who knew she wasn’t pretty like the gringas .
I was short and thick-legged, and I kept my black hair cropped close to my head and spiked with gel so it wouldn’t get in my way when I was drilling ink. I wasn’t the girlie sort who could turn a man’s head, but that never stopped me from trying. I imagined I could put my face up close to this man’s, and he’d smell like pine trees, hyacinths, lilacs. Just listen to me go on.
Then he looked at me as if he’d sensed I was watching. He put his hat back on. He gave me a shy smile, took a step in my direction, andstopped. He had a little space between his front teeth, and something about the way that made him look—like a little boy, lost—caught me by the heartstrings.
Next thing I knew, I was there beside him, and I couldn’t help myself. I said, “Hey, good-lookin’.”
That’s me. Too forward sometimes. But you have to know what happened to me just minutes before I closed my shop, stepped out onto Fry, and saw him on the corner. You have to know that the phone rang, and it was Pablo’s ex, Carolyn, and she said to me, “You hootchie bitch.” Said, “You cow.” Said, “From the heart, Baby. From the heart.”
What was her gripe? Only that she blamed me for the trouble Pablo was in. Back in the spring, I’d introduced him to Virgil Dent, a ranch hand who went by the nickname “Slam.” He slammed shots of tequila, slammed his way through the world, slam-bammed-thanked-me-ma’am. From time to time, he came into the shop for some fresh ink. He favored eagles and wolves and cattle skulls, and whenever I drilled him, I could feel his eyes, deep-set and chestnut brown, taking me in. He wasn’t a beautiful man—he needed more flesh, and his face was pitted with acne scars—but he was a man who knew what he wanted, a wiry man all muscle and bone, and for a while he wanted me.
Then he offered Pablo a cash-making proposition rustling cattle and selling them to auction barns in Kansas. No brand laws there, he pointed out. They’d be in and out like a fiddler’s elbow. He winked at Pablo, and they both laughed. We were in Dallas one night late in April, sitting around a table at Club Dada in Deep Ellum, and under that table, Slam ran his hand up my leg and let the knuckle of his thumb press into the crotch of my jeans. He winked at me. “In and out,” he said, looking right into my eyes. “Just like that.”
Up to twelve hundred dollars a head for cows stolen from pastures and loaded into tractor trailers in the dead of the night. Easy money.
Then Pablo made the worst move of his life. It was sometime in the middle of June when he sold a load of cattle and instead of splittingthe $36,000 with Slam, he skipped town with it, and now he was on the run. No one knew where he was—not me, who worried over him, not Slam, who was determined to find him and get his money, and not Carolyn, who was convinced that if it hadn’t been for this trouble, she and Pablo would have worked things out, got married again, and lived happily ever after. “We were that close,” she told me, holding up her thumb and forefinger. “Then you got him hooked up with your trashy boyfriend and look what happened.”
He wasn’t my boyfriend anymore, and
I was short and thick-legged, and I kept my black hair cropped close to my head and spiked with gel so it wouldn’t get in my way when I was drilling ink. I wasn’t the girlie sort who could turn a man’s head, but that never stopped me from trying. I imagined I could put my face up close to this man’s, and he’d smell like pine trees, hyacinths, lilacs. Just listen to me go on.
Then he looked at me as if he’d sensed I was watching. He put his hat back on. He gave me a shy smile, took a step in my direction, andstopped. He had a little space between his front teeth, and something about the way that made him look—like a little boy, lost—caught me by the heartstrings.
Next thing I knew, I was there beside him, and I couldn’t help myself. I said, “Hey, good-lookin’.”
That’s me. Too forward sometimes. But you have to know what happened to me just minutes before I closed my shop, stepped out onto Fry, and saw him on the corner. You have to know that the phone rang, and it was Pablo’s ex, Carolyn, and she said to me, “You hootchie bitch.” Said, “You cow.” Said, “From the heart, Baby. From the heart.”
What was her gripe? Only that she blamed me for the trouble Pablo was in. Back in the spring, I’d introduced him to Virgil Dent, a ranch hand who went by the nickname “Slam.” He slammed shots of tequila, slammed his way through the world, slam-bammed-thanked-me-ma’am. From time to time, he came into the shop for some fresh ink. He favored eagles and wolves and cattle skulls, and whenever I drilled him, I could feel his eyes, deep-set and chestnut brown, taking me in. He wasn’t a beautiful man—he needed more flesh, and his face was pitted with acne scars—but he was a man who knew what he wanted, a wiry man all muscle and bone, and for a while he wanted me.
Then he offered Pablo a cash-making proposition rustling cattle and selling them to auction barns in Kansas. No brand laws there, he pointed out. They’d be in and out like a fiddler’s elbow. He winked at Pablo, and they both laughed. We were in Dallas one night late in April, sitting around a table at Club Dada in Deep Ellum, and under that table, Slam ran his hand up my leg and let the knuckle of his thumb press into the crotch of my jeans. He winked at me. “In and out,” he said, looking right into my eyes. “Just like that.”
Up to twelve hundred dollars a head for cows stolen from pastures and loaded into tractor trailers in the dead of the night. Easy money.
Then Pablo made the worst move of his life. It was sometime in the middle of June when he sold a load of cattle and instead of splittingthe $36,000 with Slam, he skipped town with it, and now he was on the run. No one knew where he was—not me, who worried over him, not Slam, who was determined to find him and get his money, and not Carolyn, who was convinced that if it hadn’t been for this trouble, she and Pablo would have worked things out, got married again, and lived happily ever after. “We were that close,” she told me, holding up her thumb and forefinger. “Then you got him hooked up with your trashy boyfriend and look what happened.”
He wasn’t my boyfriend anymore, and
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