The mud clings to Mallory’s boots like an unwanted memory, making a wet, sucking sound whenever she takes a step. Brown water quickly drowning any footprints she leaves behind as she makes her way towards the car abandoned on the side of the road. Inside it she finds a man sitting on the driver seat, stained hands pressing against his stomach in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

“Joe.”

His head rolls toward her. His eyes, once sharp blue pools are now shallow and fading, more puddles than pools.  She’s seen this look before. She’s been the cause of it more times than she can count.

“Figures he’d send you,” he says, blood trickling from between his fingers.

“Not many left after the stunt you pulled. Where you get the dynamite from anyways?”

Thin lips curve into a smile and for an instant Joe’s eyes become summer pools again. “Didn’t expect that right? Getting the sticks was easy. But sneaking them into the restaurant, that was the hard part. Did I get him?”

Mallory shakes her head. “He’s pissed, and he might have some scars, but no, you didn’t get him.”

With a sigh, Joe rests his head back. “Scars are good. Guy always cared too much what he looked like, with his pressed suits and  little froo-froo handkerchief peeking out from his pocket.” He takes a breath and winces, “It’s why you’ll never move up, you know. He likes his ladies demurred and in dresses. Not six feet tall, built like a linebacker and always wearing men’s clothes.”

“They’re not men’s clothes.” It seems silly to be correcting him at this point, but Mallory somehow feels she should. “I just have them made specifically for me.”

“Point still holds. He keeps you around because you’re good at the job, but he’s never going to give you more than you have now.  Dunno why you stay.”

Others have wondered the same. It’s not like the pay’s any good. And Mallory’s seen the confusion on her boss’s face whenever he’s talking to her. Like he’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his best guy is not a guy at all.

“You’re a loyal bitch, I’ll give you that.” Joe says.

“Where is she, Joe?”
He turns to look at her again and gives her a smile, the puddles in his eyes starting to dry out. “Fuck you, Mad Dog.”

It hurts. It shouldn’t, because at the end of the day, it’s not like they were anything but coworkers to each other. But still, Joe calling her by that name, the one normally said behind her back or at the bar after the boys have had one too many, hurts. So maybe Mallory can be forgiven for taking out her glock and squeezing the trigger. The flash of the muzzle fills the car as Joe’s body dances to the rhythm of the bullets that plug into his flesh. In a moment, the pools are empty.

Mallory stares at the wrecked inside of the car. “Fuck,” she says. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She’s done it again, let her temper get the best of her. No way she can go back to the boss, not empty handed. He was counting on Mallory to return his kidnapped wife to him, the woman that Joe killed eight people for.

Frantically she walks back and forth across the road, trying to find another set of tracks. She’s about to start canvassing the field when she hears something coming from the back of the car. Something that sounds a lot like nails scraping against upholstery.

Getting the trunk open, Mallory sees a curvy blond with a towel stuffed into her mouth and her hands and legs tied. Her eyes are wide, stuck in a look of fear while streams of light pepper the entire body from the bullet holes Mallory’s gun must made. Blood sill stains her nightgown.

Carefully picking up the body, Mallory carries it to her car, and then starts heading back towards the city, where she’ll take the body to her boss and tell him exactly what happened.

She might be a mad dog, but like Joe said, she’s also a loyal one.

Superman had Batman bent over while Spider-Man watched.

“Damn it Billy, stop fucking around and help me look,” Ray said.

Billy looked up from positioning the toys on the desk and flipped him off. “You aint the boss of me.”

Ray walked over to Billy and slapped the action figures out of his hands. “Like hell I’m not. Now go look in the bedroom. Or do you just want to go fess up to Mr. Graham?”

At the mention of their boss, Billy set the toys down and said, “Just messin’ around cuz.”

Ray watched his cousin disappear into the trailer’s bedroom. Lord  he could be a handful.  Billy’s momma coddled him too long, on account of having no man to call her own, and that had caused Billy to grow crooked as a tree branch. It’s why Mr. Graham hadn’t been so hot on bringing him in. Took Ray’s promise that hewould be responsible for his cousin to finally get the old man to agree.

Ray looked around the home. Stacks of comic books lined the walls of the trailer, some of the stacks reaching up to Ray’s waist. Yellowed, torn pages peppered the floor, a sea of colors and capes that crumpled under his steps. Toys lined the few shelves of the house, still trapped in their cellophane wrappings.

“Aint nothing in there but some nudie mags, toys, and more comic books,”  Billy said, coming out of the bedroom and flipping through a magazine. Unfolding the pictorial, he opened his mouth to say something else when they both heard the door  unlock.

“Shit,” Ray said.

A man dressed in cargo shorts and a ratty old Metallica shirt walked into the trailer, carrying a brown parcel under his arm. He ran a hand through his poorly cut, neon green mohawk and whistled a tune, never noticing the two men pressed on either side of the doorway until Billy grabbed him by the back of his neck and pushed him forward.

“Fuck fuck fuck” the man said.

“Damn right ‘fuck fuck fuck,’” Billy said, shoving him into the stained lazy boy in the corner.

“Nice to see you again Eddie” Ray said, and then motioned to his cousin, “that there’s my cousin Billy. He’s my,” Ray paused, trying to think of the word. He remembered hearing it once, when he went to the Applebees next town over and the snot nose waiter used it to describe the big boobed girl following him around. Oh yeah, now he remembered, “trainee.”

Eddie hugged the package and looked from Ray to Billy. He stammered, “I didn’t take no money.”

“Take note,” Ray said to Billy, stepping closer to Eddie. “The dumb ones will always fuck up.” Back to Eddie, “I didn’t say nothing about no money.”

“It’s all over town,” Eddie said, “someone went and robbed one of Mr. Graham’s men. Took a couple of grand.”

“No one robbed me,” Billy said, pushing Ray out of the way and slapping Eddie in the face. “They sucker punched me from behind and took off.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Eddie said. He pulled his legs up and tried to sink into the cushions. “What am I gonna do with that money? Haven’t touched Mr. Graham’s stuff in three months, God’s honest truth.”
“That’s what people say,” Ray admitted. “Another thing to remember Billy, once an addict always an addict. They just move from one thing to another, way a dog goes from licking his pecker to licking his balls.”He crouched down next Eddie and looked him in his pock marked face. “Bob over by the gas station says he saw you gunning it just moments after Billy here got robbed.”

“Bob’s half blind,” Eddie said.

“I’d wager he could be full blind and still be able to see that ‘do,” Ray motioned to Eddie’s hair. “Come on Eddie, we know you did it. Give up the money and maybe Mr. Graham will go easy on you.”

Eddie sniffed and looked down. “I don’t got the money no more.”

“You asshole,” Billy shouted. He reached into his waist band and pulled out a gun. Before Ray could stop him, he unloaded six bullets into Eddie.

Blood, sofa stuffing, and paper rained down on Ray as Eddie convulsed on the lazy boy and died. The motion tipped over a nearby stack. All those comic books spilling to the floor sounded to Ray like hundreds of birds escaping their roost all at once.

Ray jumped up and shoved Billy. “You dumbass,” he said.

“Fuck!” Ray said, kicking the box Eddie carried in. It flipped opened.

Bending down, Ray reached inside the box and took out a comic book with a bullet hole t dead center on the cover. Ray wiggled a finger all the way through the book before looking at the paper that came with it. It looked like an invoice of some sort and read: Incredible Hulk 181:First appearance of Wolverine. Mint condition. Next to the title of the comic book, there was an amount- four thousand dollars.

Ray looked up to Billy. “Start packing up all the comic books.”

“Why?”
“Cause your better fuckin’ hope that one of them is worth as much as this comic book,” he said, throwing him the copy of Incredible Hulk 181, “It’s either that or Mr. Graham will make sure we both end up looking like it.”

The baby sized skulls adorned the foot of the grave, packed so tightly that they almost hid the name of the buried from view.  They all faced the front of the cemetery, their broad grins etched in black, blue, and red icing. Sprinkled among the skulls laid other offerings- a plate of tamales and red rice tightly wrapped in saran wrap, a small basket filled with pastries, and black and white photographs scattered among the weathered stone.

Jose looked at the photos and shook his head. “Shit Torito, couldn’t you find a couple of him smiling?”

“I told you not to call me that,” the man standing next to him said.

Picking the plate of food off the ground, Jose tore the wrapping and scooped a handful of rice into his mouth. “You too good for your name or something hermanito?”

“Cochino” the man muttered, making a grab for the plate.

Jose ducked and danced around his brother’s fat, clumsy movements. He took a bite of the tamale, the masa crumbling and filling his mouth with cheese and spiced meat. “Looks like the little bull has grown some horns,” Jose said between mouthfuls. “Guess taking over for papi will do that huh?”

As if suddenly realizing how foolish they both must look, Torito stopped and glared at Jose. “This is what it’s all about?” he asked him. “Todavia estas enojado?”

“What? That el viejo left the business to you, instead of me? Why would that piss me off? Just cause I was running things while you were book learning with your gringo friends?”

“Now’s not the time,” Torito said.

“Ala madre con tu ‘now it’s not the time’” Jose mimicked, dropping the plate and taking a step towards Torito. “It’s been a year since he” he pointed to the gravestone “died.  Un ano que te di sin decir nada”. Jose jabbed his finger into Torito’s chest. “A year I let you run things, and you’re still no closer to finding who killed him are you?”

“I have people…”
“That’s your problem” Jose interrupted, jabbing him again. “You never done anything yourself. ‘Member how you came running to me whenever someone threatened to kick your ass?”

“I have raised profits, expanded our stuff out of El Paso and Las Cruces.” Torito said.

“You found out who killed dad?”

“No but,”

“Then no has echo nada.” Turning away from his brother, Jose looked at the grave and thought about picking up one of the sugar skulls. He used to love them as a kid, back when El Dia de los Muertos meant nothing more than a half day of school and a chance to see the yearly parade. Unlike his friends, he never had to visit the graves and leave offerings. Not until a year ago.

“Torito” he said to himself. “I should have known you were his favorite when he gave you that nickname. I had to go out and make my own you know.”

“I heard. El Columbiano  huh?”

Jose grinned. “Got the picture El Diaro de Juarez ran to thank for it. They showed the guy’s throat and everything.”

Both men stared at the grave, and it was Torito who broke the silence “Why slit their throat like that? Why not just shoot them?” his brother asked.

“Porque aveces tienes que ensuciar tus manos.”

“You need to stop, Jose.”

“Why?”
“Cause you’re fucking things up.”

“Go to hell, Torito” Jose said, reaching for a sugar skull. He never noticed his brother taking out a knife, and barely felt it as it slid into his side like a man slips in between his lover’s open legs.

“You think you’re the only one good with a knife?” Torito whispered, bringing his brother closer and twisting the blade. “And I told you to stop calling me that.”

Jose felt the knife now, felt it inside of him burning as if it been dipped in flames first. Blood poured from the wound and glued the brothers’ shirts together. “Why?” he managed to ask.

“You were right,” Torito said. “I need to start getting my hands dirty. And because the cartels are demanding an ofrenda for the bloodshed you caused.”

Torito held him tighter as the knife plunged into him again and again. “Dad…”

“Would have understood,” he heard his brother say.

Jose’s vision blurred and he felt himself being lowered to the ground. Craning his neck up, he saw two men walk up to Torito and stand by his side.

“You want us to take him away from here, boss?” one of them asked.

“No,” his brother said. “Leave him here.”

“Yes, Toro,” they replied in unison.

I ran away from the cancer about a year ago, when the word chemo first started to be used by the doctors.

I’m surprised it took Lola as long as it did to find me, after all, it’s not like I ever went into hiding.  Do you know what the survival rate for stage-four lung cancer is?

“You look good Lo” I say.

If there’s a woman that can pull of the bald look, it’s her.  As she remains straddled on top of me, her head almost seems to glow as the fluorescent hospital lights race along her scalp. She’s wearing a pair of faded cutoff jeans and a tight wife beater that seems to have been chosen specifically to highlight her thin frame. Combine that with the lack of hair and pierced eyebrows and she could pass for the lead singer of a punk band.

“Liar.”

“Really. It makes you look bad ass.”

“Sure it ain’t the gun, Charlie?” She taps my chin with the barrel and I wince. Can’t tell the make or model, but it’s not like it makes a world of difference this close up.

“It helps,” I agree, trying my best to ignore the gun as it lazily traces the lines of my face, the caresses of a lover I’d rather not have.

“You ran.”

“I got scared.”  I could try to push her off me, but the truth is, I can’t. I don’t have the energy, and her body does feel good pressed against mine.  Her ass shifts slightly as she speaks, rubbing against my groin and making me hard.

I’m relieved that not everything about my body has failed me.

“No shit.” She reaches into her pocket and takes out a pack of Marlboros. I admire her as long graceful fingers work on tearing open the celluloid wrapper. It doesn’t take long to get a cigarette in her mouth, all while the gun continues to be pressed to my face.

“You suck, you know that?” The words come out of the side of her mouth out as she lights her cigarette. “You knew the score from the beginning.”

How could I not? Our time tables were the first thing we announced back in the support group her doctor recommended. “I probably got half a year left” she said, “so you better not get too attached to any of this.” Back then, she’d motioned to a fuller body, plumper breasts, and long black hair. Back then, I taken it all in and assured myself that it would be easy to let go.

“You were supposed to die” I say.

The gun stops being a caress and gets jammed into the fleshy pool of my cheek. I must look like I’m giving it the world’s worst blowjob.  “Fuck you” she says, “fuck you if you think I’m going to apologize for not giving up.”

Like you.   The omission of those two words bothers me more than the gun ever could.

She takes a deep breath and I watch as the anger slowly washes out of her. “You suck,” she mutters again. And with a carefulness that I don’t expect, she shifts her body down and gently lies on top of me. After a few minutes, my right hand skims along her ribs and moves to her chest, exploring the new emptiness. Lola shudders when my fingertips touch the scars right above her armpit.

“Mastectomy” she explains, offering me a cigarette. It’s been so long since I had a smoke that I cough uncontrollably with the first drag. At least there’s no blood. Lola watches me from her position at the crook of my neck and then takes the cigarette away.

“Bad idea”

“Where were you twenty years ago? Maybe then it would have made a difference.”  It’s supposed to be a joke, but neither of us laughs.

“You want me to do it?” Lola asks, the sound of her gun being cocked mixing with the beeping of the machines they got me hooked into.

I shake my head. It would be unfair of me to rob Lola of the second life she got out of the surgery.

Plus, I find that I’m not so scared anymore.