Randy White - Night Vision

“Why the different colors?” she asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen sloppier tats in my life. You want some good work, I’ve got a man in Key West who’s an artist.”

Frankie touched Victorino’s arm, her black stiletto fingernails with glitter on them denting his skin. “These tattoos, they look like your guy used a sewing needle and Easter-egg dye.”

The V-man jerked his arm away, saying, “That’s ’cause I did ’em myself! The blue is for six dudes I wasted, two in Chicago. Both of them Crips-but here I am.”

He tapped at the red teardrops. “These the ones you need to pay attention to. One of my girls doesn’t obey me, I give her one warning only.” And he took out the box cutter.

Yeah. Frankie was impressed now, her chest moving faster, her blue eyes bright. She came closer, her arm lifting toward him, and then- Whap! The slap caused Victorino to drop the razor, he was so surprised, and the next thing he knew the woman was on him, trying to claw his eyes out with her fingernails. Yelling at him, too, saying, “You think you’re man enough to get my panties off? Do you? Huh? Do you, you skinny little shit? It took three of my cousins my first time-and they were Vermont studs, not wetbacks.”

She kept repeating it as she flailed at him, her voice low and hoarse, breathing fast, as Victorino got behind her, then spun her down on the bed.

And for a while, that was all Victorino remembered.

An hour later, 6:30 p.m., the V-man was in his pickup truck, following the woman’s Cadillac convertible to Harris Squires’s hunting camp, where she’d promised they would find the redneck, the money and the pretty little girl who’d been pretending to be a boy.

Before leaving, Frankie had unpacked a bottle of Crown Royal and a baggie of grass that one of Victorino’s soldiers had sold her. In their vehicles, they each had a plastic cup and a joint-sweet-smelling bananos, fine weed laced with coke. By now, they were both feeling good.

Victorino certainly was. The woman was a goddamn animal in bed. He’d never experienced anything like it in his life. No other woman had come close to doing what Frankie had done to him. And, man, Victorino had, by God, gotten off on it, feeling crazy wild afterward.

Already, the V-man was ready for more. He had heard old women were best in the sack ’cause they were so damn appreciative, but it was more than that with Frankie. The woman had a monster in her. Something black and glossy with claws that lived inside her head, looking out through those blue eyes of hers.

“I want to watch when you use that razor blade on Harris,” Frankie had said to him, her voice still flushed.

“Sure,” Victorino had replied, meaning it. It would be a chance for him to show off a little and also prove to his pandilleros he was still a hardass. He had decided to invite some of his brothers along and maybe video the whole thing.

Not sure all this was going to take place, though, he then had to ask Frankie, “But what you got planned to do with your boyfriend’s body once we done? That can be a problem. That big lizard of yours, she’s dead now.”

The woman noticed Victorino looking at the row of propane tanks in the kitchen as she replied, “You just stick to your business and let me do the thinking.” Then added, being even more serious, “But the little girl-you can’t touch that girl. I want you to promise me that.”

Giving a Latin King captain orders again, but it was okay. It was pretty clear to Victorino what Frankie wanted. She wanted that little girl-boy virgin for herself.

But that was okay, too. The gringa woman, being the way she was, she’d probably get off a couple of times on her own and then invite the V-man to join the party.

Emily Marston and I were taking a break, curled up naked, spooning on my narrow bed, when I heard Tomlinson trotting up the boardwalk, the distinctive slap of his feet telling me he had something important going on. Why else would he be in such a hurry?

As Emily stretched and yawned, I turned my wrist to see the glowing numerals of my Chronofighter watch. It was still early, only 9:30 p.m.

“The house is shaking again,” she joked. “My imagination?”

I leaned to kiss the woman’s cheek, then behind her ear, feeling a welling sensation within my chest that was not unknown to me but so rare and long ago that I was startled. I was also dubious, instantly on alert.

That same thoracic response is probably why sappy poets associate the heart with love. I had just met this woman, knew very little about her. To feel what I was feeling, after only a few hours together, was irrational. Not that love is ever rational.

“It’s Tomlinson,” I said. “Something must be wrong.”

There was.

“Tula sent me a text,” Tomlinson told me as I pushed aside the bedroom curtain, shirtless, buckling my belt.

I noticed that his hand was shaking as he combed fingers through his John Lennon hair. “He’s got her, Doc. Harris Squires, I was right. And the goddamn cops told me they’re already doing everything they could. Those assholes!”

Adjusting my glasses, I took his cell phone, saying, “Maybe if you lived in a country where there were no cops, you might have a little more respect.”

Tomlinson began to pace, his ribs showing, now shirtless, wearing red surfer baggies. “If you called downtown, it might be different,” he said. “You know a lot of guys on the force. We’ve got to do something, Doc!”

The text was in English. I sat next to my shortwave radio, turned on the lamp and read, “Safe, in his truck. In God’s hands. 22 miles from Im.”

I said, “I don’t doubt it’s from her, but are you sure? Where did a Guatemalan kid learn how to use a cell phone?”

“It’s the first thing they learn when they get here,” Tomlinson replied, sounding impatient. “That, plus the best food is always at Taco Bell.”

I said, “She didn’t finish the message, so okay… yeah, of course it’s from Tula. I remember you saying she had your number in case of emergencies.”

“She sent it from Squires’s phone,” he said, chewing at a strand of hair. “I called and recognized his voice. I didn’t say anything. Do you think I should have? He wouldn’t have let her send me a text, and I was afraid I’d set him off, make him suspicious. So I just hung up. You know, like a wrong number.”

“Did he call back?”

“No… Jesus! If he sees that text she sent, I’d hate to even think what a guy like that would do to Tula.”

On a pad of paper, I copied Squires’s number, then spun the swivel chair to face Tomlinson, who was now leaning into the refrigerator, moving stuff, then saying, “Jesus Christ, Doc, don’t you ever go to the store? We’re out of beer again. What a night to be out of beer!”

I said, “Tula was in the middle of writing ‘Immokalee.’ I-M-what else could it be? Twenty-two miles from Immokalee, but she was interrupted.”

Tomlinson used his hip to bang the refrigerator door closed as I added, “Which means she saw a road sign-the distance is precise. Unless Squires told her, which seems unlikely. Why would he tell the girl where she is? She’s only been in Florida for a week, so she couldn’t have guessed the distance from landmarks. But why would he take her to Immokalee?”

Tomlinson replied, “Everyone in Guatemala has a relative living in Immokalee. Or Indiantown. Or maybe the guy has a place down there, who knows? Rednecks have hunting camps sometimes.”

I was trying to project a reason why Squires would drive Tula Choimha to a Guatemalan stronghold. I said, “He could be taking her there to look for her mother, but that makes no sense. I don’t associate acts of family kindness with Harris Squires.”