“Fuck,” he said, half laughing. “You’d fuck anything that walks, and you still chose to dip your dick in‘his’hot sauce.”
I dug deeper. “I like it when it burns.”
“Obviously,” he said, glancing at me. “We have to think of what’s next. Rio brought us together and into this mess.”
“I have a plan,” I said.
We drove the shovels into the dirt again. The next hit thudded against wood. Enzo crouched, brushed away the loose soil, and slid his knife to the edge of the casket.
He slammed his fist against the handle, snapping the lid open.
We were both silent for a minute.
It was empty.
“Cazzo,”he muttered. “He’s alive.”
“Well,” I said, “I think we should drink.”
He closed his eyes, exhaling hard.
“Hell with it,” he said, tossing his shovel onto the ground.
I picked mine up and swung it onto my shoulder before lighting another cigarette. “You’re not bringing yours?”
“Nah,” he said. “I stole it.”
“I’m keeping mine. Bought it on sale near the graveyard.” I raised it in the air, cigarette between my lips. “Brand new.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s a shovel.”
“Yeah.Myshovel.“ I chuckled, then paused. “Hey, I have an idea.”
“Oscar,” he said, squinting at me. “Are you fucking drunk already?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Had a few glasses of whiskey before I came here.”
He tilted his head, studying me. “You have a problem.”
“So the idea is,” I said, laughing as I exhaled smoke, “what if we get matching tattoos?” I nudged his shoulder. “Eeeh? Huh?” I grinned. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re nuts,” Enzo said, walking ahead of me. Then he stopped and turned around. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. We could get a dick tattoo, or...” I stopped, laughing hard. “What if I get my dick tattooed?”
He blinked, face twisting in disgust. “What if, instead of a tattoo appointment, I get you one at Santa Maria Asylum?”
“You’re no fun,” I said, looking down at him.
“If,” he said, holding up a finger, “and that’s a bigif,“ he sighed, “you get your dick tattooed, you’ll have to heal. That means no sex.” He started laughing. “You think you would last a few days?”
“I’ll survive,” I said, placing a hand on my chest like I was swearing an oath.
We reached the edge of the park and stepped onto the path. I flicked my cigarette to the ground and crushed it under my shoe.
“If you really want to do it,” he said, “I know a guy. Down the road on the west side. His name is Vitto. Works twenty-fourseven. Runs a bar, too. He did this masterpiece.” Enzo pushed up his sleeve.
On his arm, near the elbow, was a small lock and key.
