He patted Riff down quickly, then said, “Let’s go.”

  The Moose and a second thug Riff had never seen before were waiting for them in the study, both of them standing over Harikian, who was sitting on a black leather couch wearing the forlorn expression of a prison snitch who’d just been cornered in the exercise yard. Riff had an idea the gun the other thug had pointed in the general direction of Harikian’s face had something to do with his unease.

  Guns, guns, everywhere guns, Riff thought.

  “You don’t look so good,” Mooshagian said.

  “I’ve got a slight hangover,” Riff lied, bringing a hand to his temple. “I’ll be fine.”

  Harikian glared at him, no doubt hoping his head would explode right off his shoulders.

  “So tell me,” the Moose said.

  “She’s alive and well. Right here in Los Angeles.”

  “Here?”

  “He’s a liar!” Harikian cried, leaping to his feet. “She’s dead! I killed her myself!”

  “Sit down!” the Moose ordered, then turned to the thug training the gun on Harikian and said, “Ricky, if he speaks again, shoot him.”

  The man named Ricky nodded, betraying no emotion, and Harikian sat back down.

  To Riff, the Moose said, “I assume you can prove this? That my Heidi is alive?”

  “She said the last time she saw you, you ordered a Denver omelet with cottage cheese instead of the potatoes on the side. Garo had his usual oatmeal. You once gave her a fifty dollar tip after she’d spilled orange juice in your lap. I can go on if you want.”

  The Moose considered the offer, then peered down on the shivering, white-faced mouse that was Harikian, appearing more annoyed than angry. “Let me see if I can guess what she had to do to make you let her go. She fucked you, yes?”

  “No! No, I swear—”

  Without a word from Mooshagian, Ricky shot him twice in the chest, killing him instantly. His body fell sideways across the cushions of the black couch, seeping blood all over the leather, and eventually grew still.

  Riff’s head was pounding. He kneaded the eye sockets at the bridge of his nose as the Moose said, “My brother-in-law. A very stupid man. The things we sometimes do to keep our mothers happy, no?”

  Riff didn’t say anything, just watched in silence as the man who had opened the door for him moved to join Ricky alongside their employer, the armed pair forming a two-man firing squad now.

  “Where is my Heidi?” the Moose asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Riff said.

  “No? And why not?”

  “Because she doesn’t want to see you anymore and, frankly, neither do I. This is goodbye, Mr. Mooshagian.”

  The Moose smiled. “Fine, whatever. If she is here in Los Angeles as you say, I can find her without you.”

  “To apologize?”

  “Apologize?” Mooshagian laughed heartily. “No, I don’t think so. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit down? You really do look terrible.”

  Riff took him up on the offer, wincing with pain, and lowered himself down onto the couch next to Harikian’s corpse.

  “Your Dr. Kern told me it would be like this,” Mooshagian said. “These things you can do, this magic you use to find people, it gives you terrible headaches, he said. So bad sometimes, you cannot move, yes?”

  “Yes and no,” Riff said, silently praying Kern hadn’t told him everything. “It depends.”

  “You know what I think? I think you are having such headaches now. That is how you found my Heidi. By using these powers that almost kill you.” He moved in closer to Riff and grinned. “So I will do you a favor, huh? I will have my friends here kill you more quickly. Would you like that?”

  He laughed again, then turned to give the two armed men beside him a go-ahead nod.

  Each man took aim at Riff’s head and fired two rounds in rapid succession. Somewhere in the course of their journey toward the skip tracer’s skull, invisible to the naked eye, the four slugs turned in mid-air and sought out different targets. The two gunmen caught one apiece on the forehead between the eyes, and the Moose took the other two in the chest, just as Harikian had moments earlier. Only after the last of his charges lay dead near his feet did Mooshagian crumple to the floor himself, his clouding view of the ceiling soon obstructed by the face of Riff Davis.

  “Don’t blame Kern. He gave it to you straight,” he said. “My powers can come close to killing me.” He bent down to whisper in the big man’s ear. “Just not the ones I used to find ‘your Heidi.’”

  And then Riff stumbled off, out of the Moose’s field of vision, the sound of his footsteps bringing to mind a man teetering on the brink of death himself. Mooshagian heard his front door open and close, and then nothing. He was alone.

  Just before the world went completely dark, he remembered something Riff had told him back at Mountain View Park, and the memory almost brought a smile to the giant Armenian’s face, so perfectly did it explain his fate:

  I can move small things short distances.

  It took Bobbie Sears—never to answer to the name “Heidi Byrd” again—almost two weeks to nurse Riff back to health. He had landed on her doorstep after leaving the Moose’s Glendale home resembling an A-bomb survivor, and the only thing that saved his life was all the preparations he had made with her beforehand. Though his trick with the bullets was by far the most demanding—and life-threatening-thing he’d ever attempted, he had recuperated from similar stunts before, alone, so he knew what would be required: lots of water, vegetable broth, powdered ginger and ibuprofen, and a soft bed in a pitch-black room sealed off from all light and sound.

  She had it all ready and waiting for him, and she wouldn’t leave his side until three days had gone by and he’d grown strong enough to order her out of the room. Bobbi was obligated to him, to be sure, and maybe obligation was all she’d ever feel toward him. But she had her doubts. The big man was unnaturally resourceful in ways she had yet to understand—the news reports of the mysterious deaths of Armen “the Moose” Mooshagian and his brother-in-law Garo Harikian seemed proof enough of that—and he had that wounded animal thing going for him, as well. In the first few days of his recovery, he had dropped the name “Kira” several times in his sleep, and the heartache Heidi heard in his voice each time was almost enough to make her weep.

  In short, Riff Davis was special. That was all Bobbie knew for sure.

  For a while, at least, that would be enough.

  TAT MASTER

  by NAOMI HIRAHARA

  “What’s your real name?” GEISHA GIRL asked, picking up my business card after I was finished with him.

  I named all my customers by the tattoos they ordered. I had at least five GEISHA GIRLs this week, ten SAMURAI WARRIORs, five BUTTERFLYs, five BARBED WIRES, one AMERICAN FLAG, and assorted lettering, both standard and custom. This GEISHA GIRL was fat, blond and hairy. I had to shave his back at least two times to get to a smooth canvas.

  My motto was to talk to the customer as little as possible, so I pointed to the wall near my tattoo chair. There I had taped a drawing of an almond-shaped eye and in cursive English writing, Eye.

  “Your real name is Eye?”

  “You pay at the counter,” I told GEISHA GIRL. “If you write a check, you should make it out to Sawtelle Tattoos.”

  I went back to cleaning my tools, disposing of my needles in a covered plastic trash can. My routine didn’t change much since I tattooed in Osaka. Only it seemed that the Japanese, at least two years ago, were more concerned with AIDS than Americans were.

  GEISHA GIRL seemed unhappy that I wasn’t answering his question. He obviously prided himself on being an expert on Japan. He had spent our whole session telling me about the best sushi bars in Los Angeles and Tokyo. Thankfully, the buzz of my tattoo gun kept me from understanding much of what he said. “Little tattooist’s got an attitude,” I heard him mutter as he paid his bill.

  Roberto was at the counter, laughing as usual. He thought everything was funny. First I thought it was a language issue, maybe I didn’t understand American humor. But the other tattoo artists explained to me that it was more about our young boss’s personality than anything cultural.

  “Wait a minute. I get it. Eye. It’s really Ai, right? Love.” GEISHA GIRL wouldn’t quit.

  I dumped the used color ink tubes in the trash can and stripped my hands of the latex gloves.

  “Domo, ne. Bye, Ai-chan.”

  I whipped my face back to GEISHA GIRL, but he was gone.

  “Whew, girl, that’s one evil eye. I made a pun, right? Evil Eye?” Roberto then laughed again.

  No one calls me Ai-chan. Except loved ones like my mother and older sisters. No bakatare American.

  Roberto lifted up a crumpled dollar with his long fingernails. “Eye gets all the big spenders.”

  Robert was right. I got middle-aged mothers who were going through identity crises, the rich teenagers who walked in with five-hundred-dollar shoes and designer purses, and high school and UCLA college basketball players. With a few exceptions, none of them were good tippers.

  They brought kanji that weren’t written correctly or meant the exact opposite of what they intended. But I never argued. My job was just to make the customer happy, not to question his or her desires. Nobuo was the one who had taught me that.

  “Oh, lookee, our new neighbors downstairs are moving in.” Roberto gestured below to the first floor.

  I walked over to the balcony and looked down. It looked like another manga shop. Manga sold well in our neighborhood, so I figured the last one closed down because of mismanagement. Manga seemed harmless enough, but you never knew. I had to check it out.

  “I am taking my break,” I announced to Roberto.

  I brought my cigarettes with me and took a few smokes in front of the storefront window. The new owner had moved in rows of stark white bookcases that were just starting to fill up. The glass door was open, so I walked in slowly, hoping to avoid being spotted.

  I saw the latest issue of the Real manga series and began leafing through Inoue Takehiko’s drawings of Japanese basketball players.

  “Hey, you don’t look like a baller to me.”

  I turned and almost choked. The man speaking to me was about Nobuo’s size with a flash of black hair. Same delicate lips and stone-black eyes. But then I saw that this man was more solid and meatier. And his voice was an American’s.

  “Are you okay?”

  I coughed.

  “Here.” He held out a small bottle of water.

  I just looked at him.

  “It’s not poison. Look, it’s even sealed.”

  I shook my head.

  “I own this place; you work upstairs, right?”

  I barely nodded and headed towards the door.

  “You have a suspicious mind,” the manga shop owner said, smiling, as if it was a good thing.

  I went next door to get a boba tea, my latest addiction. As far as I heard, boba hadn’t caught on in Japan, and I knew why. Drinking boba was a slightly unpleasant experience. First the drink itself was little gritty and then came the rush of a giant tapioca ball traveling up a fat straw onto your tongue. The first time I tried it I thought the gelatinous balls were going to get lodged in my throat. I paid almost four dollars to kill myself, I said.

  But I went for a second and a third. Now I had one practically every day. I chewed on one of the tapioca balls the size of a small marble while I stared at the manga owner through his window. He was Sansei or Yonsei, either third- or fourth-generation Japanese American. I could tell from his accent, of course, but also his movements and how the meat of his body rested on his arms.

  He was right—I was suspicious, but if I wasn’t I would have been dead years ago. Would this man be someone Nobuo would send to find me? I watched as he stacked the manga on his bookshelves. His lower arms were tattooless, which didn’t necessarily mean anything, but I took his bare smooth skin as a good sign, anyhow.

  I was finishing up with a FAIRY, when the manga owner came through the door.

  “You have a visitor,” Roberto said in a sing-song voice.

  I finished taping up FAIRY’s arm, and sent the high school girl on her way with her mother to her cheerleading practice.

  “Someone just gave me two tickets to the Clippers game,” he said. “I just moved into town and I don’t know many people.”

  I looked at him blankly.

  “Should be a good game. Thought you might want to go.”

  I removed the needles from my gun.

  “I’ll just leave the ticket here.” He left an envelope on the counter. “You can meet me if you want.”

  The manga owner stopped at the door and I felt that everyone in the tattoo shop was staring at me. My face felt hot and I ducked my head down to throw my used needles away.

  After I heard the door close, I casually got up and went over to the front counter.

  “You’re not going? Are you crazy, girl? I’ll take it if you don’t.” Before Roberto could snatch the ticket envelope away, I grabbed it and slipped it into my back jeans pocket.

  I drove myself to the basketball arena and parked about three blocks away in a lot that charged half the price of the adjacent ones. This wasn’t a date. I didn’t go on dates. I hadn’t been with a man for two years, and I was just starting not to feel numb anymore.

  I didn’t know who the manga owner’s friend was, but he or she must have been rich. The seats were in the third row behind the basketball hoop. The Clippers were already doing some warmup shooting. Fans were decked out in red, white and blue jerseys and T-shirts. I felt underdressed and too somber in my black turtleneck and worn suede jacket.

  The manga store owner was already in his seat. He wore a white knit cap and looked a little less like Nobuo. When he saw me, he straightened up and smiled.

  “Glad you came,” he said as I sat down next to him.

  I clutched my purse on my lap, ready to make my escape at any second. The music was loud and colorful neon lights circled around the arena, pulsating with each beat.

  “I got you a program.” He rested the thick program on the seat arm that we shared. It was expensive—probably ten dollars. I was going to reject his gift, but then thought twice about it. It was just a program, just stapled paper. Not worth insulting him.

  I casually leafed through some of the glossy pages when the crowd began to both cheer and boo. The opponents jogged onto the floor. The team’s star player, Allen Iverson, his elbow and arm in a protective nylon sleeve, was dwarfed by his teammates.

  “You like him,” the manga owner stated, watching me.

  When I didn’t respond, he added, “All Japanese are into him. Because he’s small and scrappy.”

  That was true. I could relate to him. He got battered and pummeled, but that didn’t stop him. He just taped himself up and got back into the game.

  We watched the players shoot for a while, and then the manga store owner gently lifted my hand. “What’s with your tats?”

  I had three dark circles tattooed on the back of each hand.

  “Okinawan women had these kinds of tattoos to scare off pirates.”

  “So who are you trying to scare?”

  I drew my hand back. One of the tattoo artists at the Sawtelle shop had done them for me. The skin there was thin, so the tattooing was painful. The skin even on my left-hand side puffed up a little like a keloid scar. But I thought of them as my new identity. Like I had sloughed my old name, Ai, to become Eye, I was a new person now. Or at least pretended to be.

  “You got a boyfriend?” Americans always spoke so straight, it frightened me.

  I shook my head.

  “What was your last boyfriend like?”

  What could I say about Nobuo? That his favorite color was red, he was terribly allergic to bee stings, and loved the American band, the Doors. That he was fifteen years younger than his next oldest sibling, had been terribly ignored and mistreated, which probably left him to get into trouble in high school. That he had risen up the ranks of a gangster’s life and now headed up at least fifteen pachinko parlors. And that he had extensive tattoos on his shoulders, back and legs—most done by me, the group’s resident tattoo artist. Last of all, he had a temper which more than once resulted in my jaw being broken.

  I couldn’t say all of these things. So I settled on just one. “Thin,” I said, “like you.”

  The manga store owner laughed and I could see the nub of whiskers shadow his cheek and chin.

  How about you? I wanted to ask, but it still felt too forward. No matter how long I had lived in the U.S., I couldn’t adopt Americans’ casual, prying nature.

  He pointed out all the celebrities who sat around us. I didn’t know who most of them were, but I pretended that I did. “Want something to eat? You must be hungry,” he said. Noisy vendors yelled out names of drinks and various snacks. I finally nodded to the small pizza in individualized boxes.

  The two opposing centers lined up for the starting jump ball and we both watched the game silently as we ate our pizzas.

  “Tell me what you think of their tattoos,” the manga store owner said while chewing a pepperoni slice.

  “Very poor work.” I then blushed. How egotistical did I sound? Nobuo, actually, had said that I was a tattoo master. It was a ridiculous comment to make, considering my age, but I was flattered nonetheless. There were more female tattoo artists in Japan recently, but still we were the minority. “The shading here in America is not good,” I explained. “Not complete. The training here, too. I started off studying irezumi with a horishi, a tattoo sensei.”

  “Irezumi?”

  “Traditional Japanese tattooing. It’s done by hand, not electric guns. I haven’t done irezumi in years, although I still have my tools here. Tattoo guns, much easier.”