Black Hearts

He rolls his eyes back to me, unimpressed. Though brilliantly smart, Ben has ADHD, which he keeps under control with medication. That said I think most men are distracted when it comes to women. “I am focused,” he says. “It’s just a lot to make sense of.”

  “Yeah, well. It makes me wonder what else they’re hiding.”

  He’s silent for a moment, mulling it over while I take a sip of my drink, the delicate aroma of the lychee having a calming effect. Well, the alcohol too.

  “I think we should say something,” he finally says.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because they’re Mom and Dad, Violet. I want to see what kind of excuse they could possibly have for this. They might just give us the truth. And maybe it’s not the truth that we want, and maybe they were protecting us from our real grandfather for a reason, I don’t fucking know. But I do know I want to hear it from them.” He pauses. “After I finish snooping around. When I find the real truth before their truth.”

  I exhale slowly, glad for that. I don’t know, I hate having to hide something from them. I’m a good liar even though it takes a lot out of me. But I also don’t want to have to confront them either. I just hope we can figure this out on our own.

  We stay at the bar for another drink before we head back to the house, but our conversation is stunted. We’re all furrowed brows and gnawing lips and there isn’t much else to talk about. I know he’s thinking the same as me.

  What does this all mean?

  And what’s going to change?

  Chapter Four

  Vicente

  America is somehow better than I imagined it would be.

  Growing up in Mexico, hearing the tense and turbulent history between the two countries, I imagined a hostile place full of greed and corruption. Ironically, a place a lot like Mexico. I was all ready for it, ready for a fight.

  But for what it’s worth, at least in the state of California, it’s an open, friendly place. Not without a good dose of fear of course, but certainly not what I expected, and I’ve been to many countries. In some ways, California is no different than Germany or Italy, except the women here are more…friendly.

  And fucking gorgeous. Can’t forget that. It must be the sand and sunshine, because as I landed in Los Angeles and spent a few days looking around and soaking up the atmosphere and making plans, I nearly lost my mind with all the choices.

  The women are forward, mixed with a self-conscious coyness that hits straight to my dick. Luckily I didn’t have to go further than the bar of my hotel on Sunset Strip before I was bringing them back to my room.

  Even more lucky that Tio and Nacho decided to retire early. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to survive having them shadow me everywhere. I’m used to it—I’ve always had bodyguards, even though I knew well enough how to take care of myself—but this is a whole new country and if I’m going to do what I want to do, what I need to do, I can’t have them shadowing my every move.

  They may be armed, glorified babysitters, but like most babysitters, they’re also snitches. They’re already reporting back to my father on my daily activities. Well, I took a dip at Laguna Beach, then fucked two tanned bitches with grating accents and fake lips, followed by a plate of tuna sashimi. Happy your son is living life to the fullest?

  The next day I bought a car. Paid cash. My dream car. A Mustang, my coveted American muscle car from the 1960s. Sleek red, like the glossy lips around my dick the night before.

  There was no point in trying to lose Tio and Nacho on the interstate heading up to San Francisco. I tried. Couldn’t quite get to that speed, not with so many police drones in the area.

  Despite that though, the drive felt quick. For a while there it was just me and the car and the empty brown plains stretching out on either side, whirls of dust stirring up what was once farmland. For the first time in my life I felt free.

  I’m holding on to that feeling even now, despite Nacho and Tio trailing me as I walk up San Francisco’s infamous Haight street, searching for the tattoo shop.

  I take a drag of my cigarette and look down at my phone, the GPS signal blinking closer. It should be right here. I’ve seen tourist shops, bars, restaurants, marijuana stores, and the wrong tattoo shops. None of them have what I’m looking for.

  Then it’s right in front of me, next to a shop with clouds of patchouli wafting out so thick that it nearly obscures the sign.

  Sins & Needles.

  This is the place.

  A retro, blinking sign with burnished bulbs, shining through the haze of smoke and the darkening sky.

  I don’t bother looking over my shoulder at Nacho and Tio. I know they’re there, twenty feet back, pretending to be tourists. When we checked into the W Hotel I told them I wanted to check out the famed and historical Haight Street. They didn’t object. That’s not their job.

  I flick my cigarette by the wheels of a parked car and step into the shop.

  The chime rings above my head, drawing the attention of a tall, gaunt guy behind the counter, leaning across it like his head is too heavy for his neck. Definitely not Camden McQueen.

  “Hey, man,” the guy says while my eyes quickly take in the room. The lights are bright and the place is clean. There are framed vintage rock posters on the walls as if to give it elegance. Nirvana. Jane’s Addiction. Danzig. The shop tries to skirt the lines between young and brash and mature and respectable.

  I’m the only customer in here. I have to wonder how much money this place takes in. I’m guessing not enough to pay this fucker’s salary.

  I look at the fucker and flash him my most winning smile.

  “Hi. Heard this was a great place to get a tattoo.”

  The guy nods, brushing his hair behind his ears, and shoots me a goofy grin.

  “You’ve got the right place then, my man.”

  What a fucking dork.

  My smile is tighter now. I nod, pretending to inspect the shop. “Any openings for next week?”

  “How about right now?” he asks, gesturing to the empty room.

  “Are you the owner?”

  He lets out an obnoxious laugh. “No. I wish. Been working here a long time though. My name’s Lloyd. Camden’s the owner, but he takes weekends off. You know, being the owner and all.”

  “I’ll wait for him, then,” I tell him, wondering if I should add to that. It’s a risk. “I go to school with his daughter, Violet. She recommended him.”

  “And not me?” Lloyd looks like I kicked him in the gut. I’m guessing he’s either oversensitive or he has a fucking hard-on for her. He manages to recover. “Well, any friend of Vi’s is a friend of mine.”

  But as he says that, something in his gaze shifts. Not quite the suspicion I would expect. He’s sizing me up. A flicker of jealousy. Wondering who I am exactly to Violet McQueen.

  Seems like the guy has a hard-on for her after all. For all I know, they could be together, but from the impression I got from her photography on her Instagram account, I’m guessing he’s not her type. Her work is too thoughtful, stark, poetic. This guy seems too simple for her taste.

  It doesn’t matter. Violet isn’t any of my business. It’s her mother that I’m curious about.

  “So, how about it?” I ask, tapping my fingers along the glass counter, binders beneath it full of tattoos, both designs and pictures of inked skin. “Does next Friday work?”

  Lloyd stares at me for a bit too long and I’m seconds from mad-dogging him but I manage to refrain myself and force that polite full-of-shit smile again.

  Finally he looks at his computer and scrolls down the screen.

  “Five p.m. okay? You know what you want?”

  I nod, since I’m going to just cancel the appointment anyway. “I do. And that’s fine.” I pause. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Tio and Nacho loitering outside. “Have you seen Violet today?”

  “No,” Lloyd says, his voice on edge. “She doesn’t come by often and only when the bus drops her off after class on weekdays. It’s S
aturday.” No shit it’s Saturday. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “I didn’t. It’s Vicente.” I give him my phone number.

  “That’s an LA area code,” Lloyd says, squinting at me. “I thought you said you went to school with Violet.”

  “I’m from LA. Going back after the semester is over. I haven’t changed it yet.” Which reminds me, I’m going to need another phone with a SF number really soon. The moment I purchased this one in LA, Tio and Nacho scammed the number off me and no doubt passed it on to my father.

  Lloyd seems to buy that, though I have no doubt he’ll probably tell Violet about me when he sees her next, probably in some sniveling way. The truth is, I probably won’t be around come Friday anyway, and I’m certainly not getting a fucking tattoo. Everything I plan to accomplish will be done before that.

  When I leave the shop I look to my right at the two stooges who are pretending to stare through a shop window. I don’t even know why they bother.

  “Hey,” I tell them. “You guys want a tattoo? I could make you an appointment. Get a couple of naked ladies on your arms, closest to a woman you’re ever going to get.”

  They stare at me blankly, completely void of personality. It’s their job to watch me and pretend they don’t know me.

  I roll my eyes and head out into the street, dodging the headlights of passing cars. It’s completely dark now but the night is buffered by fog, painting everything charcoal, onyx, and grey.

  They’re right behind me, wondering where I’m going and if I’m trying to lose them.

  I’m not. I need them to follow me.

  I don’t know what is hidden in my father’s past. He’s been pretty open about every last gruesome detail of his life, even the less than charming circumstances of how he met my mother. But I know I’m close to figuring something out here. I just don’t know what it is.

  I also know that Tio and Nacho are reporting every last detail about what I’m doing and will be doing. Either to my father over the phone and through email, maybe even to my mother. Either way, he’ll hear I randomly went to a tattoo shop.

  He’ll hear the name Sins & Needles.

  And I’m sure it will ring a bell.

  As will the name Camden McQueen.

  My father doesn’t believe in coincidences.

  If he is informed tonight, I guarantee I’ll wake up tomorrow evening in Mexico with a mouth full of cotton balls and sedatives in my veins. If not tonight, the next day.

  The point is, everything I want to find out would go straight down the drain. Everything.

  Though I don’t know San Francisco well, I know the maps I’ve been studying and the travel guide audio book I listened to on the drive up here. I head down the street, Tio and Nacho hot on my trail, then cut into Buena Vista Park.

  The oldest park in the city, I remember that much. It’s mostly steep hill, disappearing into the fog, shrouded by darkness. During the day it’s a magnet for dog walkers. At night it’s a mountain of drug addicts, dealers, vagrants, the homeless, and a whole other range of less than desirables. No sane man would come here after dark.

  And though I’m not sane, I am smart.

  Maybe smart isn’t the right word.

  Fastidious.

  Thorough.

  And maybe, just a bit ruthless.

  I’m yelled at in incoherent ramblings by a few shadows as I pass them by but I pay them no mind. I ignore the darkened steps of a path curving up the hill and go straight up over the grass and brush and into the trees. I briefly turn around before disappearing into the forest. Tio and Nacho have attracted the attention of the bums who are shouting ethnic slurs at them, and I wait, breath held in my mouth, for either of them to overreact.

  That would be seriously bad luck. For all of us here. Me, them, the bums. But they keep going, keep coming after me, straight up the hill, feet slipping on the fog-damp grass.

  The bums won’t remember us tomorrow.

  I head into the trees. The light from Haight Street below is dispersed into the mist, leaving a world of shadows with just enough to see by. I duck behind a thick eucalyptus, its scaly bark appearing like loose skin in the night, and take my .45 out of my waistband, quickly slipping on the silencer from my pocket.

  Tio and Nacho aren’t silent as they enter the forest. They’re huffing and puffing from the climb, swearing under their breath. Nacho says something to Tio about Javier hearing all about this when they’re done. That’s a relief. It means he probably knows nothing yet.

  They charge past me, two thick shapes in the ghostly trees.

  I have to be quick.

  I aim the barrel at Tio, who is closest, a straight shot to the back of the head.

  The gun fires hot in my hand, as if the silencer is glowing red with having to silence a scream.

  There is still a distinct, muffled sound that brings Nacho’s attention around to me, his gun drawn and ready, all before Tio even begins to fall.

  The second bullet gets Nacho right between the eyes. He doesn’t even look shocked. It’s like he knew I’d cause his death, sooner or later.

  He falls too, like a tree, leaves scattering as he hits the damp earth right beside Tio.

  If I’m supposed to feel something other than relief, I don’t.

  Or I try not to.

  I take in a deep breath, pushing it all down as I unscrew the silencer and put everything back in its place. Then I slip on a pair of micro-thin gloves and hunch down, searching the bodies. Any fingerprints would mean nothing to the cops but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

  I leave their guns. They’re untraceable. Everything about these two men is untraceable. It’s always been that way.

  So I take their wallets, phones, and the fifty one-thousand-dollar bills they both have spread between them. Emergency money that my father thought I knew nothing about. I feel almost honored that he would part with those bills, a rare currency he’s held on to for years, but I’m sure the money is better off in my hands than theirs. With any luck, I’ll have a few left when this is all over.

  And when will that be? I think.

  Then I head out of the forest and back down the hill the way I came. It’s better if I keep to the same witnesses. Any other route might put a new set of eyes upon me.

  Not that I’m worried.

  The bums aren’t even there when I reach the bottom. It’s like they knew the whole thing was bad news. Even in their drunkenness, they scattered like rats, smelling the poison.

  I head out onto Haight, just a man out for a walk, and hail a cab that takes me all the way back to my hotel.

  Peace at last.

  The next day, after I call Sins & Needles and talk to Lloyd, cancelling the appointment, I take a chance on Ellie’s studio, hoping it will be open on a Sunday. When I find out it’s closed, I’m not surprised. She’s probably with her family. In a way I’m relieved that I don’t have to face her yet. I’m not sure what I’d say—for all my planning I haven’t thought that far ahead. It’s much easier for me to observe what I can from afar.

  I switched hotels, moving to a tiny boutique one just outside Chinatown, with vivid art all over the walls and an old-fashioned elevator that only fits one person at a time. I know my father has probably contacted the W, wondering why the hell Tio and Nacho haven’t sent their daily report to him. When he finds out I’ve checked out, he’s probably going to contact every swanky hotel in the city trying to find a Vicente Rodriguez. My father couldn’t imagine me staying anywhere but the very best. He’ll never think to find me here.

  Not under the name Vicente Cortez.

  One of the girls I fucked in LA put me in touch with another girl who made fake IDs. I put in my order and paid her five grand in cash. She later came to my room, her equipment in her purse. Tio and Nacho never thought anything of it. She took my picture, printed out the IDs. She didn’t quite succumb to my advances, nervously citing a boyfriend, but I got what I needed anyway.

  I can imagine
the carnage back at home. I feel bad—briefly—for my mother, who must be locking herself in her room to avoid my father’s rage. I’m not sure if he’ll be worried that something happened to me or livid that something happened to my bodyguards.

  But I can’t dwell on it. I made my choice a while ago and knew it wouldn’t be easy. I spend the day getting my supplies.

  When Monday rolls around, I’m restless. The bad kind, where your mind and limbs have their own agenda. It leads to impulsive decisions, running with anything but logic.

  I want to see Violet. I know Ellie is number one on my list, but Violet seems safer somehow, and my curiosity over her is killing me, especially over the way Lloyd was acting.

  But the first stop is the bank. I open up a savings account under Vicente Cortez, and deposit nine grand in cash, the safe and legal limit.

  Afterward, I head back to the hotel to gather my photography bag, then head up the hills to find the daughter, cigarettes a constant fixture in my hand.

  The Academy of Art University is spread out among several blocks at the top of Sutter, and through some digging, I manage to find the photography building.

  This is where my restlessness will get me in trouble. If I had put any thought into it, I would have checked this place out before I got here. I would have scoped out the classes to see how easy it is to slip in. I would have figured out how to transfer in as a late student.

  Now it’s too late. The building is small and there’s no place for me to blend in. When I make my way inside, down corridors of studios draped in sheets and surrounded by lights, I see a classroom with only about forty people, all staring at their computers as their teacher stands at the front, demonstrating something. My eyes take in the backs of their heads but there’s no time to figure out which one is Violet.

  So much for that. I’ll have to think of something new.

  I quickly leave the building and grab a seat outside at a café across the street. I sit and watch. I wait. I sneak a cigarette until the couple next to me looks ready to tell the management.

  Forty minutes later, fog has rolled in like a silver snake and students are starting to leave the building. I observe each one carefully, searching for the elusive Violet.