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• • 84 • • changes hands. Allegiances form and disintegrate. Appointments are missed and chaos ensues. This is what’s certain. If the man following you associates with the cartels, keep your distance.” “He wore a ring with a black bull,” Danni said. “Sid told me about a belt buckle too. With a bull on it.” “So you mentioned,” the man said. He squirmed, crossed his legs, and laid a hand on his knee. “That’s a problem. A bull means one thing. Los Toros.” “I thought Los Toros wasn’t around here,” I said. “Let me make it clear to you. If this man is involved with for-hire, exmilitary mercenaries, you do not want to be near him or know him.” He paused before adding, “Exclamation point.” “He wants a percentage,” I said. “A tax.” “What figure?” “Never said.” “Look, he may not come back,” the man said. “You’ve spoken with him. Threatening someone on American soil is a crime. It doesn’t play well in court. He approached you. You declined. He thought he could frighten you. He may be a petty thief, a man looking for an easy meal. Lay low. Hope he goes away.” “Tell me what we’re really talking about here,” I said. “Brass tacks.” “Brass tacks?” he said with a snicker. “Now you’re talking brass tacks?” He threw a yellow-toothed smile at Danni. “This guy says to me ‘brass tacks.’ Brass fucking tacks. I haven’t heard those words in years. Danni, I don’t know where you dig up these characters.” He locked his eyes on me. “Okay, for argument’s sake, let’s say this guy associates with Los Toros. To be safe?” he said. “Do you have access to a firearm?” Late-afternoon light flickered through the kitchen window, playing across my friend’s hairless body. The freckles on his shoulders looked enhanced and touched by sun. Warsaw was leaning on the cool stovetop burners, palms down, shirtless, sockless, wearing boxer shorts decorated with different cat breeds. I set my bag on the counter. “So you broke in again,” I said. “I took your key, made a duplicate, slid it back on your key ring,” Warsaw said. “That’s called stealth.” 11 • • 85 • • “That’s called stealing. I come home and find you in my kitchen. What are you even doing here?” Warsaw pointed at a garment bag hanging on the door. “Your grandma’s party. I needed a shower. Mine’s broken. And as your oldest friend,” he said, pressing his palms together, “I’m asking you to do something about the smell in here. It’s not funny anymore.” My friend was right. The smell of active decomposition now blanketed the kitchen. “It’s on my list,” I said. “Shove it to the top,” Warsaw said and lifted a razor blade from the counter. He slid open the patio door and stepped outside onto the brick. “Come on, I need you to shave my back.” I looked at him. The mound on his forehead had retreated. In its place was a yellow, haloed bruise. “Come on, please. I can’t reach,” he said. I ignored him. I counted the white paper bags, double-checking pill counts, matching initials with names, making sure everything was as it should be. I heard my friend scooting patio chairs around, which irritated me. Finally Warsaw’s insistence won out. I applied shaving cream to my friend’s shoulders, down his back, and spread the meringue around evenly. “That girl down in Nogales did a bang-up job the first time,” Warsaw said. “Just need a touch-up.” I reluctantly took the razor blade from him and carved a straight line down his back. My neighbor’s porch door unexpectedly opened, and Alejandro stepped out. He shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other and attempted to retreat back inside, but we had already seen each other. He had seen me shaving my friend. “Alejandro, hi,” I called to him. I wagged the razor. “I heard you again last night. Working a lot out there. Are you building the O.K. Corral or something?” Alejandro didn’t respond. I watched him lower his welder’s mask and step down off the porch. His helmet hovered toward his shed. “I’m thinking of retiring,” Warsaw said. “Dedicating my time to George Greg’s vision.” “Don’t be ridiculous. Retire from what? You don’t even have a job. Besides, I fired...

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