Read Online Zoot-Suit Murders by Thomas Sanchez - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas Sanchez
Ads: Link
slamming to a stop behind the jeep, six policemen with shotguns piling out, one handcuffing the screaming Zoot while the others prodded the second Zoot from his sanctuary in the Packard. Even after the Zoots were handcuffed and locked in the backseat of the police car and it sped up the street, Younger heard the shouts of the Zoots, their wild eyes glaring from behind the caged-in thick glass of the police car at the fist-shaking crowd. “
No nos vencerán.
”
12
T ONY T OMALE’S T ATTOO P ARLOR
T ONY T OMALE’S T ATTOO P ARLOR
T ONY T OMALE’S T ATTOO P ARLOR
The red-white-and-blue neon words blinked above the doorway of a small two-story shop. Younger pushed the door open. A little bell tinkled over his head, breaking an atmosphere of intimacy in the hazy smoke-filled room. A young shirtless sailor sat cross-legged in a straight-backed chair, a dark fat man bent before him, delicately darting a needle into the pale skin of the sailor’s chest. The fat man’s arms came out of his white T-shirt like enormous blood sausages, the tight skin covered with a tattooed menagerie of lions, tigers, parrots, and dragons fencedin at each wrist by a tattooed identity bracelet declaring MAZATLAN 1922. Each of the man’s fingers was ringed elaborately with a woman’s name: LINDA, DOLORES, TONIA . Younger could read the names clearly as the steady fingers pricked the needle into the sailor’s pasty white chest, embroidering into soft flesh the picture of a muscular arm with a snake ferociously wrapped around it. The hand of the newly tattooed arm was choking the snake, which astonishingly had the human face of a Japanese, fierce razor-sharp fangs jutting from his mouth. In bold letters, like a newspaper headline, beneath the bizarre struggle being enacted on the sailor’s shaved chest was the inscription NIPS AND YANKS—A FIGHT TO THE FINISH . The sailor’s eyes were inky and luminescent, drifting around the room. A sloppily rolled brown cigarette dangled carelessly from his slack mouth, its ashes falling unnoticed into the black hair of the fat man bent to the task before him. Younger smelled the wet, grassy odor of marijuana in the thick haze of the room.
“Are you Tony Tomale?”
“Does Jell-O roll off a tit?”
“Tony, I’d like to see the Virgin Mary.”
The needle in Tony Tomale’s fat fingers moved steadily as he answered Younger without looking up. “You got a nickel, price of a phone call, you call up the Virgin.”
“Isn’t this where the Virgin lives?”
“Is a Chinaman’s asshole slanted?”
“Look.” Younger reached into his pants pocket, taking out five bills. “I don’t have a nickel but I do have five bucks. What do you say? Will it get me in to see the Virgin?”
Tony Tomale laid down his needle and fished another one up from a bowl of alcohol. “The Virgin is a class act, buddy, not some Flores Street dude cruiser.”
“Well, then.” Younger reached deep into his pocket again. “How about ten smacks? Cash on the barrelhead.”
“Say, dog balls, why don’t you go over to the church with your ten spot and light a candle? Tell your troubles to
that
Virgin.”
“I want to bet on a Horse.”
Tony Tomale dropped the needle into the bowl of alcohol, his head swinging around on his bull neck. He stared straight at Younger. “You really want to bet on a Horse?”
“Sure, a real Horse. I’ve got the dough.”
“You really think this is that kind of place?”
“Sure, sure, I’ve got the dime, you’ve got the time, brother.”
“You’ve got the
dime
, I’ve got the
time.
” Tony Tomale shook his head disgustedly, pushing himself up slowly from the creaking chair. “Okay, sports fan, I’ll go talk to the Virgin.”
Younger watched Tony Tomale disappear through a doorway dripping with rattling strings of bright plastic beads. He heard him laboriously climbing stairs, each heavy step thudding down a long hallway. The sailor’s head slumped forward, his chin resting on
No nos vencerán.
”
12
T ONY T OMALE’S T ATTOO P ARLOR
T ONY T OMALE’S T ATTOO P ARLOR
T ONY T OMALE’S T ATTOO P ARLOR
The red-white-and-blue neon words blinked above the doorway of a small two-story shop. Younger pushed the door open. A little bell tinkled over his head, breaking an atmosphere of intimacy in the hazy smoke-filled room. A young shirtless sailor sat cross-legged in a straight-backed chair, a dark fat man bent before him, delicately darting a needle into the pale skin of the sailor’s chest. The fat man’s arms came out of his white T-shirt like enormous blood sausages, the tight skin covered with a tattooed menagerie of lions, tigers, parrots, and dragons fencedin at each wrist by a tattooed identity bracelet declaring MAZATLAN 1922. Each of the man’s fingers was ringed elaborately with a woman’s name: LINDA, DOLORES, TONIA . Younger could read the names clearly as the steady fingers pricked the needle into the sailor’s pasty white chest, embroidering into soft flesh the picture of a muscular arm with a snake ferociously wrapped around it. The hand of the newly tattooed arm was choking the snake, which astonishingly had the human face of a Japanese, fierce razor-sharp fangs jutting from his mouth. In bold letters, like a newspaper headline, beneath the bizarre struggle being enacted on the sailor’s shaved chest was the inscription NIPS AND YANKS—A FIGHT TO THE FINISH . The sailor’s eyes were inky and luminescent, drifting around the room. A sloppily rolled brown cigarette dangled carelessly from his slack mouth, its ashes falling unnoticed into the black hair of the fat man bent to the task before him. Younger smelled the wet, grassy odor of marijuana in the thick haze of the room.
“Are you Tony Tomale?”
“Does Jell-O roll off a tit?”
“Tony, I’d like to see the Virgin Mary.”
The needle in Tony Tomale’s fat fingers moved steadily as he answered Younger without looking up. “You got a nickel, price of a phone call, you call up the Virgin.”
“Isn’t this where the Virgin lives?”
“Is a Chinaman’s asshole slanted?”
“Look.” Younger reached into his pants pocket, taking out five bills. “I don’t have a nickel but I do have five bucks. What do you say? Will it get me in to see the Virgin?”
Tony Tomale laid down his needle and fished another one up from a bowl of alcohol. “The Virgin is a class act, buddy, not some Flores Street dude cruiser.”
“Well, then.” Younger reached deep into his pocket again. “How about ten smacks? Cash on the barrelhead.”
“Say, dog balls, why don’t you go over to the church with your ten spot and light a candle? Tell your troubles to
that
Virgin.”
“I want to bet on a Horse.”
Tony Tomale dropped the needle into the bowl of alcohol, his head swinging around on his bull neck. He stared straight at Younger. “You really want to bet on a Horse?”
“Sure, a real Horse. I’ve got the dough.”
“You really think this is that kind of place?”
“Sure, sure, I’ve got the dime, you’ve got the time, brother.”
“You’ve got the
dime
, I’ve got the
time.
” Tony Tomale shook his head disgustedly, pushing himself up slowly from the creaking chair. “Okay, sports fan, I’ll go talk to the Virgin.”
Younger watched Tony Tomale disappear through a doorway dripping with rattling strings of bright plastic beads. He heard him laboriously climbing stairs, each heavy step thudding down a long hallway. The sailor’s head slumped forward, his chin resting on
Similar Books
