The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [111]
Attached was also a list of tattoo artists who had identified this god as one of their more popular designs. The first name on the list was a Sammy Ramírez from Guadalajara, Mexico, complete with address and telephone number, who used the exact design that Armas had had tattooed onto his arm.
Lindell reached for the phone in order to dial the number, when it occurred to her that there must be a significant time difference between Mexico and Sweden. What time could it be in Guadalajara? She did not know and decided to take a chance.
“Sammy,” a man answered in a groggy voice, followed by something in Spanish that Lindell did not understand.
Lindell introduced herself and apologized for the fact that she was probably calling at an inappropriate hour. Sammy groaned but did not hang up, something that encouraged Lindell to continue in her labored English.
The tattoo artist listened attentively to her story, that she was calling in regards to a serious crime and that they were looking for a white man who may have once have been Sammy’s client. She described Armas as best she could. While Lindell was zealously talking it struck her that this was like looking for a needle in a haystack, and she concluded her monologue with this metaphor.
“And I am the needle,” Sammy Ramírez said, and Lindell heard a low, delighted chuckle. Sammy then told her that he could very well recall the tall man from Sweden. They had come into contact about two or three years ago. Armas had come to his studio and leafed through the folders with the different designs until he fell for the Quetzalcóatl. Why it had been this design Sammy could not remember, perhaps because he himself was drawn to mythological symbols and had spoken very warmly in favor of the Aztec god.
“Did he say anything about why he was in Mexico?”
“Not as far as I can remember. One reason I remember him so well is that he did not say very much.”
“Was anyone with him?”
“Yes, a fat man who stank of sweat. He came several times and watched but mostly seemed irritated.”
“Where is Guadalajara?”
“Western Mexico. About the same longitude as Mexico City but more west, toward the Pacific Ocean.”
“What do people do there?”
Sammy Ramírez laughed.
“What do you do in Sweden?”
“What I mean is, why was he there?”
“I think he was traveling through, came from the north, perhaps from the States, on his way south. I don’t know. As I said, he did not say very much.”
“Was he sensitive to the pain? I imagine it must hurt.”
“No, it does not hurt very much, and from what I can remember he did not complain.”
“Did he say that he was Swedish?”
“I assume so, you are calling from Sweden.”
“Do you have a fax machine? Could you look at a picture and tell me if it is the same man.”
Ramírez gave her a fax number and they ended the call.
Ann Lindell was having heart palpitations. The last hour had brought some breakthroughs. First the video, and now this. Then the question would be how far this could take them, but she felt as if the mystery of Armas was starting to crumble, the cracks were becoming wider and more visible.
She called Fryklund and praised his thesis on the Mexican gods.
“But it was fun,” he said, audibly surprised at Lindell’s overwhelming praise, and she wished in silence that more of them could say the same about their work.
Then she faxed a photograph of Armas to Guadalajara. Three minutes later she received an answer from Sammy Ramírez: the man in the picture was the same person he had tattooed.
Just as Ann Lindell had started to think about food