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At half past ten the next day, in my hotel room, I spread my jacket out on the rumpled sheets and slipped the ammo magazine into the left inside pocket.

I sat down beside the little table that held the phone. I cleared my throat. I picked up the receiver, wedged it against my ear with my shoulder, and dialed the number.

On the third ring, it cut off. I heard the man breathing against the microphone.

“Richard Alcala,” I said.

“You know who you’re calling.”

“The photographer.”

“My reputation precedes me.”

“I was flipping through some old issues of Black Tux. The photos you shot. These women you framed… if you ran into them on the street, you’d notice moles, asymmetry, maybe slack flesh, but thanks to your touch, they’re competing to be the next Marilyn Monroe.”

“You need to update your references, pal. But I remember those shoots. I was born with the gift.”

“I work for a magazine, and we need your gift. You’d coax the beauty out of a dozen or so women.”

“You tempt me, but a personal project has me busy.”

“It’s a well-paid week of work in Los Angeles. I’m sure you could squeeze it in.”

The line crackled as he crunched on something brittle. I pictured him hunched over bloody dirt, naked, caked in grime, gnawing on a femur.

“Have you talked to other magazines in the field?” he asked, voice turning gravelly.

“Yes.”

“And you’re still calling me? Lately, nobody wants to hire me. I bet they rushed to tell you why.”

“You mean your trouble with the law.”

He pulled the receiver away from his face to clear his throat.

“My trouble with the law, yes.”

“Who cares? You’ll take the shots we need. Your previous sessions prove it.”

He fell silent for a few seconds.

“How much?”

“Money? One fifty up front, three hundred at the end of the week. Four or five sessions, depending on a few variables.”

“Your usual photographers turned it down?”

“They don’t shoot like you. Plus, the women will be dressed in outfits many would call pornographic. In this decade, there are still plenty of photographers with outdated scruples. Listen, we need these women to look like Greek goddesses, not like they’re waiting around a street corner at three in the morning.”

“I get you, pal. Bring the money, and we’ll work something out.”

“I’ll drop by around eleven-thirty.”

“Today? I’m busy all day. Starting tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid I leave for Dallas tonight. You sure you can’t spare a slot at eleven-thirty? You’ll pocket the hundred and fifty, and we’ll iron out a couple details.”

A silence swelled on the line, undone by the ringing in my ears—scar tissue from years of gunfire. I heard him close a drawer or a door. Cloth brushed against cloth.

“Eleven-thirty,” he said. “Bring the money. You know the address?”

“I wrote it down before calling.”

At eleven-ten, I spotted the parking spaces outside the two-story building where he lived. Each floor’s facade was lined with doors and windows. Next to the metal stairs going up to the second floor stood two crooked, half-stripped palm trees like birds with plucked necks. The first-floor windows, right at street level, had iron bars.

They’d left a space free next to the Ford Thunderbird. While maneuvering into the spot, I scanned the surroundings in case he was loitering outside. I parked beside the Thunderbird, trunks aligned.

I switched off the engine and got out. Circling to my trunk, I rummaged in one pocket for both sets of keys—mine and the copy that would open the Thunderbird. I sized up the pedestrians drifting down the street as well as the silhouettes moving behind the building’s windows. I slid my key into my trunk’s lock and opened it. An acrid smell of dirt greeted me. As I lifted the trunk lid all the way, I slipped behind the Thunderbird. I inserted the copy of the key and turned it. The trunk popped open a crack.

I bent over my own trunk, grabbed the gloves from the back corner, and pulled them on. I wedged my forearms under the canvas bundle, held down by two bungee cords. Once I lifted it, the weight yanked at my arms, its lumps digging into my forearms and palms. I crouched, like lowering a loaded barbell, set the bundle on the asphalt, and stood up again.

In the apartment next door to his, an old woman in a robe had drawn her curtain aside. She scratched her nose while surveying the foot traffic and passing cars. Once she moved away, the curtain veiled the interior again.

I lifted the Thunderbird’s trunk. It held ropes, two rolls of electrical tape, a shovel, and a can of gasoline. I took the can out, laid it on its side, and pushed it under my car with my foot, metal scraping on asphalt.

I hoisted the bundle in both hands and placed it in the center of the Thunderbird’s trunk. I unclipped the bungee cords. Covering my nose, I turned my head away, unwrapped the bundle, and let the trunk lid fall until it clicked shut.

A tingling spread across my nape. My ears felt tight. I fully expected a line of passersby who’d pelt me with questions, or a group of cops, or the man himself.

I pulled off my gloves, tossed them into my trunk, and shut it. Then I leaned against the back, pressing my shirt sleeve to the sun-baked metal. If he showed up, I wanted to seem casual as I glanced over the street and the building.

Sunlight warmed my hair. Beneath my jacket and shirt, sweat trickled down my spine, probably making my scalp gleam. I crouched by the car’s side and nudged the half-empty gas can farther in with my foot so no one would notice it. I scanned the Thunderbird’s bodywork to be sure I’d left nothing behind. I forced myself not to check the transponder stuck underneath.

“I hope you’re not looking to steal it,” said a voice to my right.

He was walking through the lot with a paper grocery bag in one hand, two inches of a cereal box sticking out the top. He squinted against the glare, grinning like he adored the neighborhood. He wore a tight shirt striped in brass and peanut tones. The oversized starched collar cast triangular shadows. He had it tucked into flared navy-blue pants cinched with a white belt.

I pretended to be admiring the Thunderbird.

“It’s a beauty,” I said.

He set his free hand on the raised center of the hood, stroking it like a dog’s head.

“Best buy I ever made. A V8 engine with three hundred sixty horsepower. Zero to sixty in nine seconds. Never once let me down.”

When he looked at my face, his features slipped out of his control.

“You’re the gloomy guy from yesterday, on the beach.”

“An hour ago, we spoke on the phone about a job I want to hire you for. Yesterday I approached you about it, but we got sidetracked.”

“So that job was for real, I guess.”

I pulled three fifty-dollar bills from my jacket’s other inside pocket. When the sunlight hit the bills, he snatched them, folded them, and slipped them into his shirt pocket. He smiled.

“Which magazine did you say you work for?”

“Maybe I forgot to mention.”

I pulled out a card and handed it to him. He glanced over it and nodded.

“I’ll show you my gear, and we’ll hash out the details. Let’s go in. I’m getting cooked out here.”

We climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing. He pulled out his keychain, letting it jingle. Dangling from the ring was a tiny latex penis. As he guided the key toward the lock, he seemed to pause in slow motion. He propped the grocery bag against the doorframe and leaned over the railing to study the parking lot.

“You drove here?” he asked.

He stared blankly at my rented car.

“I parked at the Dallas airport. Came by taxi.”

He watched the passersby and peered at the windows across the street, as if searching for a hidden sniper. He shook his head, turned around. Still smiling, he fit the key into the lock and opened the door.

---

Author’s note: this novella was originally self-published through my book Los reinos de brea, that I wrote about ten years ago. I figured that I might as well translate it and post it here, given that nobody buys my shit. Back in the day, I regularly set stories in places I had never visited, perhaps because I thought that it would make the story more interesting for others. These days, as I don’t expect other people to care, I try to make the places I know more interesting for myself by setting stories in them. Anyway, I hope you’re enjoying this tale to some extent. It’s going to get gnarly soon.