Free Slipping Into Darkness by Maxine Thompson Page B

at the Academy Awards that night.
    â€œInspector Saldano.” I decided to pretend to be an inspector and I spoke with authority. “Who’s the owner?”
    The shop only had a half dozen patrons in it. Five men and one woman sat in chairs lined up against the wall, waiting patiently, as if they were waiting for a barber. Everyone was speaking Spanish, but I knew the language, which was an advantage. My father taught me Spanish before he died and Chica had taught me a lot of the language when we were growing up together.
    Some tattoos were frivolous, but many told a story. I’d read of a case where one man was arrested because he had the murder scene tattooed on his chest, and this scene got him life.
    â€œI am.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œPedro Garcia.” A short Hispanic who sat in a stool working on a client looked up and held his drill in midair.
    â€œWe had a complaint from the health department.”
    â€œOh, no, senora.” I could see the fear in his eyes. I wondered if he even had a business license or whatever was required to have a tattoo parlor. I looked around on the wall and didn’t see one on display.
    He was working on another Latino man, who had more tattoos on his face than Lil Wayne. “I’d like to see the tools you’re using.”
    He showed me his tattoo gun.
    â€œDo you clean it after each person?”
    â€œ Sí. ”
    â€œWe had a complaint from people who had a tattoo that like looks like a snake on a pole. Could you show me a picture of this tattoo?”
    He pointed to his wall which had different customers poising with their tattoos. I took a picture of the tattoo with my cell phone.
    â€œI haven’t done that one but once. They’re common though.”
    â€œDo you know who belongs to?”
    â€œIt belongs to Bonzo.”
    I spoke in Spanish. “Do you have an address or phone number for him?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOkay, I’m going to give you a chance to clean this place up. Get your business license, too.”
    I decided not to press the issue and left. I wrote the name Bonzo down in my cell phone and left. I e-mailed the picture of the tattoo to Chica, who was getting pretty good as a bounty hunter in tracking people down.
    Chica called right back. “Where are you, mija? ” She sounded worried sick. “Are you all right?”
    â€œI decided to try to help my brother.”
    Chica let out a sigh. “I’m glad you’re going to do it, but be careful.”
    â€œDid you get the e-mail?”
    â€œ Sí. What do you want?”
    â€œDo you know which gang sign this tattoo this belongs to?”
    â€œI’m not sure, but I can find out.”
    â€œSee if you can find a gang member with a street name Bonzo in your database. He would be part of a Mexican gang.”
    Chica had gotten really good at setting up our own private databases, which I had found to really come in handy as we built our businesses.
    â€œWhen are you going to go home? Romero even called looking for you. That was a first.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œHe sounded a little jealous, too. I’d never heard that in his voice before.”
    â€œHe had to leave last night on business. I understood. He should understand now that the shoe’s on the other foot. Besides, he knows this is the kind of job we both have.”
    â€œSo you’re working?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI guess he was just worried because he hadn’t heard from you. Keep me posted if you need me.”
    Chica dropped the subject. She was so happy to be working and standing on her own two feet for the first time in her adult life, she often deferred to my decision. “I appreciate you mentoring me, mija. You’re really showing me how to work the streets. ” She laughed, I guessed recalling her days of prostitution. “I mean, working the streets in a good way. I feel good about