CHAPTER EIGHT
Michael Barron squints his eyes and raises his brows to get the Botox circulating.
“Don’t they airbrush pictures any more?”
Barron shakes his head. “Today it’s called Photoshopping, Doc. But they can’t do that live. In high def every little line and flaw shows.”
“Thankfully. That’s what keeps me in business these days.”
Barron has been visiting the Del Rio Clinic in Mexico City since he was Miguel Ibarra, the boy with an ugly scar on the left side of his face, the boy whose dream of being a movie star was interrupted by a stupid, pointless bar fight and a broken beer bottle.
His face was a mess when Dr. Ruiz came to the house that night and Miguel thought he was scarred for life. The doctor cleaned the wound, skillfully picked out tiny shards of glass from the swolle
