Burn Cards Read online

  Antonio left his apartment unlocked. I let myself in, tiptoeing across the kitchen, concealing my surprise. He sat outside on his porch, a full ashtray and half a bottle of Jameson on the table before him. He stared at me for a long moment, devoid of sweetness. I remember the sharpness of the canines in his smile, the way the smoke swirled in the breeze when he stubbed out his last cigarette in the mountain of ash.

  My trembling lips brushed against his cheek. I wrapped my arms over his shoulders, around his neck in a dance. He hooked fingers through my belt loops, pulled me close, thumbs rolling over my bony hips above my jeans.

  A car horn blared below on the street, breaking the spell. A cabby shook a fist at a pair of jaywalking bums, one of which kicked a rock at the car before shambling off into the night. Antonio’s eyes twitched back and forth from the street, to the neighboring complex, and up into the night sky. Then, as if almost resigned, he let out a deep breath in a low whistle and tossed me over his shoulder, carrying me through the dark apartment and into his bedroom, away from prying eyes. He slammed me on to the thin mattress like a wrestler on television, the hero turned heel in a flash. The sheet felt rough like burlap and held a sour smell. Antonio tore off my clothes, his liquored lips seducing the last of my will. I soaked up the attention, a sponge that might never see water again. When he finally rolled off, I was left with sweat-soaked heaven. It burned but for the first time in a long while, I’d gotten what I wanted. I left him snoring and headed home with a high I’ll never forget. While Doug slept I stood in the shower and let the water scald the bittersweet love from my skin.

  Doug found out. I don’t know how. He just did.

  The next week he interrupted the rotation and hosted poker night. Five of his friends showed up early, all handshakes and hugs. They sat and drank in silence until a sixth pair of headlights strafed the house followed by the squeal of needy brakes. Two of the men adjusted handguns they’d tucked into their waistbands, draping their shirts down over the butts after displaying them nonchalantly to the group. The threat of violence hummed in the room. Doug twisted his hands around an old wooden bat and led them outside. I escaped to my room, buried in my biology textbook, listening. Moments later, Antonio’s car screeched off into the night. The men filed back into the house, visibly disappointed by the short confrontation, scratching their heads around future embellishments. A story would be told to support the bravado, whether true or not. Except Doug, whose eyes skewered me throughout the night, communicating what I already knew. Antonio wouldn’t be coming back.

  And here Antonio stood, all burnt toast and squeaky shoes, invading my only safe haven and doing a poor job of pretending to be surprised.

  “Well, aren’t you going to ask me where I’ve been?” He took his jacket off and hung it on a hook beside the wall mirror.

  “How have you—” I hesitated.

  “Amazing!” He said, blowing through the high points. He’d struck it rich while in Vegas. Grown a chance slot jackpot fivefold when he finally figured out how to play cards.

  “Remember how I always used to lose?” The asshole had nerve, but my morbid curiosity wanted to know every detail—where he’d been, what he’d become.

  He rubbed his hands together. “I bought the Jez’.”

  So that was it. Antonio had purchased the defunct strip club, The Jezebel, occupying a seedy lot less than half a mile from the salon. On the same street even, a walking distance away.

  “Come on, it’s going to be hot. I’ve got girls coming in from Vegas in a week and I’ve stolen the best DJ in town.”

  “I’m calling it The Love Shack.” He spread his hands out wide, more used car salesman than the gray wolf of yesteryear. I slapped the cape against the chair, clearing the last of Rita’s curls and motioned for him to sit. He wasn’t going to leave and I wasn’t in the mood for a sales pitch.

  “Tell me what you want and I’ll make it quick.”

  “I’m looking shaggy.” He played with his scalp. “Gotta look good for my debut back in town.”

  I pulled the cape around his neck and his eyes drifted to my upper arm.

  “My, my. I have been away too long. What do we have here?” The salesman vanished. He didn’t turn, he just stared at me through the mirror, his curiosity sensing opportunity.

  I tilted my arm to show him. It wasn’t worth hiding from Antonio. He’d only enjoy the challenge and turn it into a game.

  “Ah ha, a tattoo” he said.

  Exposing the ink felt like a confession. I was slow to roll up my sleeve to unveil the unfinished work, not yet used to its permanence. A small sense of the father figure still lurked beneath the surface and I fought down the need to please him. The tattoo was an ornate pair of black and blue scissors wrapped in bandages that were partially torn. The torn bandages ended at a red star to the left of the scissors. He fawned over it.

  “The shy hairdresser is finally coming out of her shell. This could get interesting.”

  “I’m not stripping so don’t even go there.”

  “I know. Though my customers would pay a lot of money to see that pair of shears fully unwrap on stage.”

  He donned his sales mask again. The muscles on the left side of his face twitched; too much Adderall with his afternoon coffee. I felt like stabbing the shears into his neck. Why was I subjecting myself to this? Jazmín’s voice spoke up in my head, we serve all kinds, Mirna. I flashed a hard glare meant for Jazmín but she was busy playing with Rita. She should have kept him out.

  “Don’t be so angry. A lot of ladies will find success in my joint.”

  I took a deep breath and went back to work, tugging on his hair, cutting noticeably faster.

  “Mirna, if it’s about when I left—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  His gaze fell to the floor, dejected. A bit of life drained from his face, like discussing the past had been his goal all along and I’d cut him off, forever sealing the door. The depression was short-lived.

  “Anyway, Mirna, that tattoo is hot and I’d feature you.” His attention moved from my breasts to my face in the mirror. The man had no shame. “After a bit of training of course. And don’t get too many. Can’t put a freak on stage.” He winked. I couldn’t tell if it was a joke. Probably was. Reno was home to every kind of lust. Tattooed ladies and pierced dominatrices have their place, as much as the gypsy stripper with implants.

  Jazmín swung by, her arms full of shampoo and conditioner, headed for the supply room. I told her we were almost done.

  “Phew, just made it then, did I?”

  I nodded and grabbed the trimmers for his neck.

  “I guess it is closing time, late on a Friday.” He pulled out his left arm from underneath the sheet and checked his watch. It looked expensive.

  I pushed his head down and hovered over his right ear. My hand shook. It was cool in the salon but I could feel my neck beginning to flush. The buzz from the trimmers drowned out Antonio’s voice. He kept talking, oblivious to the emotional impact of his return. Then he turned his head into my hand and I quickly withdrew the trimmers and regained some of my composure.

  “You know, it’s amazing to me sometimes how fast people can blow through their unemployment checks,” he said. Antonio craned his neck to look out the front window. I grabbed his head and turned it back to finish.

  “It’s always the truly desperate. The kind of people who are already standing in the gutter, maybe even laying in it. They just don’t know it or won’t admit it yet.”

  He chuckled to himself. “Pride and stupidity are quite the combo for a man. You sure you don’t want to work for me?”

  I cut the trimmers and cuffed him in the head.

  “All done.”

  “High and tight, just how I like it.”

  He stood and I let him brush himself off. That’s when I saw the shape resting against the front door. Antonio took out a crisp $100 bill and placed it in my hand.

  “Appreciate your customers, Mirna.
You’re not the only one with a bad father.”

  Antonio walked to the front, unlocked the door and eased his way out. He and Doug exchanged words. Antonio said something that made them both laugh. A moment later I heard the squealing of tires on pavement. Déjà vu. Doug swallowed his laughter when he saw me at the door, a poorly disguised mix of cough and throat clearing. Then he composed himself and put on the droopy face, his favorite mask. It’s dumbfounding how quickly he can pull it off, like a three-year-old’s go-to move when he wants his parents to buy him another toy. It looked like he'd had a stroke and lost all of the feeling in his face, drooping low like a bloodhound. Even his lips formed a slouched pucker, like he was sipping bullshit from a straw. All he was missing was the cardboard sign.

  Once he showed up at the salon so drunk he passed out with his face pressed against the window glass. Like a cartoon he slowly slumped to the ground, complete with streaking sounds and all. I bribed him away with a cup of coffee and a twenty before Jazmín returned from lunch, pausing the timer on the inevitable conflict.

  “What?” I asked as if I didn’t already know the answer. The wind picked up, breeze blowing hair across my face. Doug played with his fingers like he held an invisible poker chip, his last, and he was trying to figure out where to place his final longshot bet.

  “It’s been a bit of a bad run, Mirn.”

  “Really, I thought you were on your way up?” I had nothing left but sarcasm. I’d lost the ability to feel for the man who gave me nothing in life.

  “Yeah…”

  He stared at his feet, unable to look me in the eye. His fingers stopped and he gripped his hands together as if trying to focus on a coherent thought. Maybe the booze or drugs were wearing off. I’ll never know if he wanted one hundred dollars or to confess his sins to me. Either way, he picked a bad time, because the boss emerged from the back.

  Jazmín spilled an arm full of product into a chair and charged for the door.

  “Ay Dios mío. Shut the fucking door and get in here, Mirna.” She grabbed my arm, gripping it tight. I threw up my hands in a futile attempt to calm her down.

  “It’s alright, Jazmín, he’s just leaving.”

  “It’s not fucking alright.” She turned to Doug, finger threatening to pierce his chest. “I told you to stay the hell away from my shop, Doug.” Jazmín spat between his worn shoes. “Look at you, you look like shit. Go home and take a bath, puta.”

  Jazmín blocked me out as I tried to step between them.

  “Back up, chica. You’re enabling him.” She grabbed my chin, made sure I’d listen. “No more. You’re almost free.”

  “I need—”

  Jazmín’s palm blurred across Doug’s cheek. The sudden blitz nearly taking him off his feet.

  Doug’s face turned red and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The man had no shame when it came to money but he rarely faced such anger. My anger was lost along with any hope for the situation long ago, but I couldn’t help wince at the blow, instinctively wanting to ease his pain.

  “Come inside. Doug’s gonna go home and sleep off whatever shit he’s got.”

  Doug stood speechless. His eyes wobbled back and forth between me and Jazmín. And when he saw no pity he turned to leave with his hands in his pockets, the sun burning down on his scalp, for the bus stop to take him home. I didn’t think anything of the car that pulled out and followed him a minute later.

  Back inside the salon I plopped down on the couch in the waiting area. Skeletal models sporting hair I could only dream of reproducing flirted with me from the open magazines on the coffee table. Rita had gone, leaving behind a pile of torn candy wrappers. Her mother must have snuck her out while I cut Antonio’s hair. Jazmín stood guard until Doug disappeared, then closed and locked the door. I picked at the stitching in the armchair, waiting for her speech.

  I never felt bad as a kid when Doug would get angry and threaten his belt. I’d take the half-assed spank and sass him some more. But Jazmín was different. The woman cared for me like a daughter and disappointing her left a fifty pound weight on my chest, crushing me into the couch. Jazmín let the silence eat at me while she finished her closing rituals. She wanted me to talk first, and in the end, I did.

  “I wasn’t going to give him money, I swear. I was just going to tell him off.”

  “Tell him off, huh? With the bill that nice man gave you folded up in your hand?” She busied herself behind the front desk, reorganizing items she’d already cleaned. “Sending him back to the casinos to lose more of your money?”

  “He wasn’t going to lose my money.”

  “I don’t believe there are any guarantees in gambling. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here, would we? You’re on the right path, chica. Stick it out until you see the other side.”

  “I’m taking care of myself.”

  “With tattoos and cigarettes? You call that money well spent?”

  The dig on the tattoo bit deep. She knew what it meant to me and how proud I was to show her.

  “Look, that man is not your father. You said it yourself when you first walked in here. You can’t feed a man like that bits of candy. He knows how to use you, Mirna. He’s spent a lifetime using you. And for what? Nothing. He’s taken everything. Don’t be naïve.”

  I didn’t know what to say so I lashed out. I was sick of the truth and tired of being reminded.

  “Fuck you, Jazmín. Do you even know what it feels like to lose? To come home and find all of your belongings piled like trash outside? I don’t need this shit right now. I’m trying and I’m almost there, okay? I just don’t need to be reminded of how fucked up my life is.”

  I pushed past her, stomping to my chair to gather my things. I grabbed my sweatshirt and dragged my purse off the counter. Jazmín called out as I left but I couldn’t hear her through the angry haze. I sloughed her off as she grabbed for my shoulder, and pushed through the door. I didn’t look back until I reached a post office box two blocks away. I threw my purse down on top of it and pulled out my silver lighter and pack of Marlboro Lights. There were only three cigarettes left in the pack and I chose the center one, the least crumpled. It took a long drag and a few deep breaths before I picked up the purse, tossed the sweatshirt over my shoulder and carried on. I was going to need more smokes.

  4

  The soles of my feet were calloused from my daily commute in shoes well past their expiration date. Doug pawned the beat up convertible two years ago for quick cash he proceeded to lose before the night was out. I could well enough afford a junker from one of the local dealers that would lighten the load, but every dollar spent meant one less toward my ticket out of town. Anyway, I had more time on my hands than I knew what to do with, so walking suited me just fine.

  The sun dipped below the horizon when I neared the diner, my head cooling off along with the air. The bulb behind the W was out, making the sign read AFFLE HOUSE. If someone tried to send me a message, it fell on deaf ears. The parking lot was full of cars with Nevada plates. Two semi-trucks parked along the side. A few businesses always benefited in a down economy and the diner was one of them. The exterior of the building had been beaten by the sun, yellow turned pale, almost white. Cigarettes, a blanket and other homeless litter were spread around outside warning off any suburban folk who might be too good for the greasy spoon. I stopped and put on my maroon hooded sweatshirt before going inside. The manager blasted the air conditioning in the summer to attract truckers who spent their days riding in humid cabs. It took a large dose of coffee to keep my blood circulating but I love a good diner, and the “Affle House” was one of the best.

  A rush of cold air from a vent above the door signaled my entrance. Stereotypical diners are beaten down, full of grease-covered ceiling tiles, scuffed tables and torn seats. The Waffle House on Tremont was like opening a door to the 1960’s. Bright recessed lights on the ceiling highlighted brown benches with red cushions and wooden tables. In contrast to the exterior, the inside was spotless for a joint tha
t kept its doors open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Loud and full of activity, most of the tables were full as well as the counter. Waiters moved from group to group refilling coffee and taking orders. I waved to Denise who worked the front. An elderly Hispanic woman with frizzy black hair and a long black cardigan, Denise had carried around plastic menus and a smile since I was a kid. I picked up one of the papers left behind on a chair in the waiting area, checked to make sure the crossword was intact and took my favorite seat on the far left side of the counter. Though I never finish the puzzles, I can’t start a crossword that’s been marked up. Maybe that’s what keeps me coming back for more, those five words the editor knew would screw the reader. Gotta finish something in life.

  Joe took my order with a nod and a crack of three eggs. He hummed a beat, a little jazz to get the meal cooking. Eggs and toast with a side of hash. Always the same on a Friday night. Like Denise, the short black man had been working there since I was a little girl. He was part of the character of the diner, whooping and hollering with the townies, meeting the passerby and talking the hot spots with the tourists. He was as much a joy or attraction as the food. Joe whistled to the waitress on the other end of the counter and thumbed back in my direction.

  “Coffee and cream for the lady.”

  A young black woman with three hearts in a vertical row tattooed on her left forearm, her hair tied up and stuffed under a yellow ball cap, hurried over with the fix. Gabby. I hadn’t seen her before and guessed she was new by the temporary look of her stick-on name tag. Her face contorted when the regular in me didn’t smile back. I pulled the coffee close and reached into my purse for a shot of whiskey. I uncapped it, took it in my palm and poured it in. Then I recapped it, put it back in my purse and repeated the process. I never do two, but that night felt like a two kind of night. Sure, you could smell the strong stuff but I didn’t get one look from the other customers. Most truckers were boozing or high and half of the crowd was just a pitstop away from a forty in a paper bag. A dash of cream finished it off, bringing the liquid dangerously close to the rim of the mug. I took a sip and grimaced. It was stiff. Another gulp and I melted into the chair. I clutched the mug and sucked in the warmth with my eyes closed.