by Jason Murphy
“It’s about fucking time, Vandermeer,” a voice said.
A lump expanded in Clark’s throat. He forced a smile onto his face and spun on his heel. Rubi Cabrera stood snarling, a trembling servant pouring wine from a bota into her glass.
“Ah, madame!” Clark said with a bow. “Just making a few last-minute preparations for this most sacred gift I will bestow upon our blessed matriarch.”
The help filled Rubi’s glass halfway and started to excuse herself. Rubi grabbed the woman by the ponytail and dragged her back. “Are you kidding me with this shit? It’s a party. Keep it going.”
The server started to sweat, using both hands to steady the bota as she filled the glass to the rim. Wine splashed over the lip of the glass and onto Rubi’s manicured fingers. Rubi turned to the servant and bared her teeth. The waitress’s face sank.
Rubi snatched the bota from the woman’s hands and shoved her purse into Clark’s chest. Rubi kicked her head back and drank straight from the leather testicle of wine, vivisecting the servant with her eyes.
The purse she handed Clark was handmade, with all the gauche and glitter of the nouveaux riche. It was open. And full of cocaine.
No makeup. No cell phone. No spare tampons or hair ties. Just cocaine. A lot of it. It wasn’t a polite amount, and while Clark didn’t exactly know just how much cocaine a cocaine-person needed, he had seen Scarface once or twice. And this was a lot of cocaine.
When Rubi finished her heroic slug of red wine and wiped her lips on the back of her hand, Clark snapped the purse shut and pretended he hadn’t seen a thing. She leveled her gaze at the paralyzed waitress instead.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
Clark stepped forward. “Mrs. Cabrera, look at me.”
“What?”
“Your eyes, madame. Your eyes. When you’re angered…” Clark leaned in close, almost nose to nose with Rubi. He waved away the help.
Run, lady. Just run.
“What?” Rubi said, her lips purple as a fresh corpse.
“When you’re angered, I see hints of Cleopatra. Hmmm. Interesting. Perhaps a sliver of that great beauty’s soul rests within yours,” Clark said, and gave her a knowing smile. “That would explain a lot now, wouldn’t it?”
She blushed. “No! You think I might be a descendant? Or … reincarnated?”
She put a hand on his shoulder and wobbled on her icepick heels.
“Madame, I’m saying that if you were the reincarnation of one of history’s most legendary beauties and cunning rulers, it would make complete sense.”
She smiled and wagged a finger at him after another slug of wine. “You’re a slick one, Vandermeer. I’m glad we hired you. Let’s fucking party.”
She turned down the hallway, where the emu squawked and plucked canapés from passing silver trays. The helpers were battle-hardened. Not a one of them screamed.
But inside, Clark was a tangle of livewires. That waitress could thank him later. He just dodged having to watch her get eaten by a stupid killer dinosaur bird. And now he had a felony-sized clutch of cocaine.
***
Clark stepped into the galleria, the main hall of the compound, and it stole his breath. They’d held birthday parties and quinceneras in here now and then, but nothing like this. The high white walls of the chamber were festooned with an explosion of streamers and flowers. A mariachi band, dressed the color of bone, played on the main stage, while a kaleidoscope of traditional folk dancers in Muertos makeup swirled around the floor. It was a technicolor acid trip of flowers, skulls, and a baritone that resonated in Clark’s chest. Or maybe that was the paint thinner. He couldn’t be sure.
At the center of it all, among the partygoers and the peacocks that strutted freely across the tiled floor, was Abuela Ernesta. Sunglasses, a dress that hung across her spindly frame, and skin so withered it was as though her entire body was scowling. The massive, hand-carved chair she sat in was the center of gravity. To her left was Alejandro, standing at attention. He kept her pint glass of tequila filled and trimmed. Resting not far from her right hand was a silver pair of pliers on a velvet-lined tray. The pliers were monogrammed.
Standing behind the old crone, as part of her royal court, was Marissa. Clark locked eyes with the girl, and they exchanged fuck-you smiles. She was dressed to the nines in a beaded and sparkly thing that probably cost more than all of Clark’s worldly possessions combined. The dress was paired perfectly with her black, goatskin gloves. With red piping.
Her smile broadened. “Nice purse,” she mouthed.
Clark bit his lip as his cheeks flushed hot. Beaten by a fifteen-year-old nerd. Some con man he was turning out to be. Once this place was in his rearview, he was going to take out so many credit cards in her name and buy all the weird porn he could.
A massive hand fell on his shoulder, and Clark felt his spite snuff out. Marco Cabrera, the broad-chested king of the clan, smiled at him. His hand, heavy with rings as gaudy as his wife’s purse, was thick-fingered. It almost broke Clark’s smile, as if the grinning, slick-haired man had caught him plotting against Marissa. In the man’s other arm was a niece or grandchild Clark didn’t recognize, clinging to Marco as if he were her favorite teddy bear.
“Are you giving my mom my wife’s purse for her birthday?” the man asked, nodding to the bag full of cocaine.
“Ah. No. No, Mr. Cabrera,” Clark said, and raised the Habbanatu Serratum. “No, today I have acquired something special for the good lady, something possessed with an uncanny degree of—”
“I don’t care,” Marco said as he bounced the girl in his arms. “I just hope she likes it.”
“As do I, Mr. Cabrera.”
He leaned in to Clark. “I’ll bet you do. Know what I’m saying, Vandermeer?”
“Oh, it’s quite clear, sir.”
Marco patted Clark on the back and nodded to a passing waiter holding a tray of shot glasses. “Have some tequila,” he said, and threaded his way through the party.
Clark dropped the purse on an end table and plucked a shot from the tray. He threw it back, replaced the empty, and slammed one more for luck. It burned through his veins, a nice accompaniment to his wood-stain high.
The emu was there.
Clark jumped, nearly dropping the magic box. The damned thing was right over his shoulder, its neck craned up so it could almost look Clark in the eye. Clark took a step back and stared it down. Its eyes were the color of a housefire. They bored into his soul. No one was minding the emu. Its leash hung loose, scraping across the floor. Just a goddamn killer dinosaur bird, walking around the party.
“Fuck you,” Clark said under his breath and tried to cut through the crowd to get away.
He didn’t get far.
Marco Cabrera stood near his mother. With a look, Marco silenced the mariachi and stilled the dancers.
“Everyone!” Marco said with, such force the emu shuddered.
The little girl slid down his leg and ran off into the captive crowd.
“Mi familia! Thank you for coming. Today, we are here because of her,” he said, and gestured to Abuela. “Not only to honor her, but to recognize her as the queen!” The crowd cheered through their rictus grins, all teeth and nerves. Not Vandermeer the Mystic. He was above this. Separate. He looked down his nose and clapped politely. Then he noticed the stains on his hands. Marissa was watching, smiling.
Marco’s voice boomed. “Everyone have a fantastic time and pay tribute to the reason we’re all here. Vamanos de parranda!”
More commands in Spanish. Everyone jumped to attention, hanging onto Marco’s every word. Clark knew a few phrases – well, he knew how to say kiss my ass – but that’s where his two years of high school Spanish ended.
Marco clapped once and the crowd shifted. They jockeyed for position, surging to Clark’s side of the room. Clark held up his hands and stepped back.
“What’s happening? Are we dancing? Is there a fight?”
Were they onto him? Was he o
uted? Was this all a ruse? Just so this batshit crazy clan could hold him down and take turns with the pliers?
The eager family clutched at their gifts, lining up along the wall where Clark stood. He held the humidor close to his chest, afraid he would drop it. A malignant fantasy took root in his mind, of all of them looking at him like Marissa did, knowing, staring into his lying little heart. The Habbanatu Serratum would drop and crack open on the floor. He’d try to run, but wouldn’t get far, probably wouldn’t even make it out of the galleria.
An elbow to his ribs prodded him out of his nightmare. In line in front of him was Jared, Marco’s idiot son-in-law. Jared paraded the wealth of the family he married into – a tailored, 3-piece suit, some fancy, European watch, and a Dallas Cowboys tie with the Tasmanian Devil scoring a touchdown. The tie was his own. It was his good tie.
“Bro,” Jared said. “V, check it out.”
Jared brandished a paper gift bag.
“Jared,” Clark asked, “is that stuffed poop?”
Jared grinned. “Yeah, bro. Like the emoji. And if you squeeze it, it farts. I know I can make Abuela laugh. I just know it.”
Jared was going to die today. The dipshit tried to get a look at the humidor.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Clark snarled. “All will be revealed.”
One by one, the guests in the line presented their gifts to Abuela Ernesta. An antique brooch. A painting of Ernesta when she was young. A vase worth more than Clark’s student loans.
Abuela nodded each time, never cracking a smile. She handed each gift over her shoulder to Alejandro, who passed it to a member of the staff and gestured for the next guest to come forward. They filed through. They kissed her cheeks and showered her with compliments. If Abuela ever spoke, it was to Alejandro. He bent, lowering his ear to her lips.
“The good lady thanks you,” he said, and motioned for the next one.
She was pleased. The guests were worthy. Some wiped away tears. They took quavering breaths.
Clark squeezed the box tighter. Couldn’t have anyone see his hands shaking. Vandermeer the Mystic was unflappable. His fingers traced the fresh-cut ideograms he’d carved into the box the night before. The sigils were swirling and intricate, alien. It was good work. Not his best. He was a little rushed, but as long as no one here recognized the dialect of the Elves of the Shimmering Valley, he could pull this off.
From behind him came a hiss. Clark choked back a screech. The emu strutted around, its neck stretched long and waving like a cobra.
Fuck birds. Dogs were great. Cats were fine, too. But birds? Birds could fuck right off. Birds had scissors on their faces.
Behind the emu, a cousin or niece pursed her lips and craned to look past, watching as each guest tried to appease the mummified woman in the chair. It was just blocking their view as they watched each guest try to appease the mummified woman in the chair.
If the thing decided to peck Clark, he didn’t know how he would handle it. He wasn’t sure he could take it in a fight and was too scared to turn to see if it had talons. Were emus carnivorous?
And then it was on the move. Pecking. Strutting. Weaving through the crowd. They danced around it, making way like the damn thing was part of the family.
Did no one care about the giant fucking bird?
Jared stepped in front of Abuela. He kissed his fingers and threw a peace sign at the crowd He knelt. No one else knelt, but Jared knelt. When he pulled the stuffed pile of shit from the bag, no one made a sound, no one but the emoji. It farted and said sorry! before laughing. It squirmed when it laughed, tiny motors twisting inside its soft, fecal innards.
“It’s the emoji,” Jared said. “Like on your phone. You have a phone, right, ma’am?”
She said nothing but shot Alejandro a quizzical look. The officious little prick scrunched up his nose like he could actually smell the stuffed shit.
Abuela’s scowl deepened. She tapped one shriveled finger on the silver pliers next to her. Icy sludge filled Clark’s stomach and crept up to the back of his throat. A shiver passed through the room. It was permanently sixty-five degrees in the cavernous galleria, but every person in there, everyone but Abuela, glistened with a sheen of sweat.
Jared was still giggling at the toy when two men emerged from the shadows to take him away.
“I put a gift receipt in the bag if you guys don’t like it,” he said.
Alejandro handed the men the pliers, tucked the poop back into its paper bag, and put it out of sight. The crowd murmured. Behind his Abuela, Marco smiled, so proud of her. Clark couldn’t look at Jared as they dragged him away. Didn’t have to. He knew what Jared’s dumb, pleading face looked like as the idiot realized what was happening.
Just past Abuela was Marissa. She didn’t watch Jared get dragged away. She watched Clark with a smirk that said that’s going to be you.
Another hiss from the emu. Clark started to turn to shush the thing, but it wasn’t looming over him anymore.
The emu had found the cocaine.
“Emu! No! Bad emu!” Clark said with a whisper.
It didn’t listen. Its head was buried in Rubi’s purse.
“Dammit! Emu!” Clark swatted at it.
It jerked its head from the bag and blinked at him. Cocaine on every feather. Cocaine in every fold and crack of its beak. Its pupils dilated as it looked down at Clark. It understood Clark at that moment. It knew it fucked up.
“Vandermeer the Mystic,” Alejandro said, his voice sharp.
Clark turned and smiled. “Umm. Yes,” he said, and approached Abuela.
Do not think about cocaine dinosaur bird. It’s someone else’s problem.
It hissed again and ruffled its feathers loud enough to cause a stir in the crowd. Did no one else see the problem here?
Focus, Clark. Focus on keeping your teeth.
Vandermeer. He was Vandermeer the Mystic, master of the occult.
“Good lady,” he intoned with his best storytelling voice, “What I have for you, I shall speak very little of. To invoke the horrors surrounding this piece are to give them life, to summon them to us, and I do not wish to invite spirits of ill omen to this gathering.”
Marissa snorted. Marco shushed her. Clark swallowed and kept going.
“I know quite well of your predilection for arcane artifacts, Abuela Ernesta, and might I say that this could well be the new cornerstone of the family collection.”
Clark bent at the waist and presented the box to her, all too aware of the shuffling, jittering bird behind him. Every time he raised his voice, it clucked. Every time he gestured, it hissed. Even as Abuela reached to take the Habanero Subaru from him, it grew more agitated.
Abuela turned the humidor in her hands. Her eyes were hidden behind her dark sunglasses, but her lips pursed. Her brow furrowed. She looked back at Alejandro.
He smiled at Clark. “Yes, m’lady. It does seem to be a cigar box.”
She turned to look back at Clark. Everyone did. Alejandro, smug and satisfied. Marco, his broad smile fading into a prison stare. And Marissa, standing just behind the wooden throne. She had to be there. She had to see Clark fail.
But Clark could beat her. He could sell this. He’d conned smarter people than these sadistic rubes. He cleared his throat and was about to launch into a story when he saw it.
On the bottom of the box was the price tag. A yellow sticker.
CLEARANCE RE-MART $7.99
Abuela kept turning it over in her hands, trying to understand. In a moment, she’d see the sticker.
Clark threw his hands in the air. “What you have is the Habbanatu Serratum, good lady!”
The emu hissed. Its claws skittered on the tile, but Clark couldn’t turn to look. They had to look at him. And everyone did. The room gasped at his theatrics.
Marissa narrowed her eyes. He ignored that, too.
“Habbanatu Serratum, roughly translated from the tongues of old, means the vessel of eternal smoke!”
&nb
sp; He waved his arms again. In the reflection of Abuela’s sunglasses, Clark watched the emu’s neck shiver and twist like an inflatable tube man at a mattress store.
Come on, you feathered bastard. Do something.
Marissa drifted to the front of the crowd, within arm’s reach of her Abuela. Her smile grew.
“Abuela, if I may…” Clark said and moved to take back the box.
She jerked it out of reach and kept running her fingers over the sigils.
“Madame!” he said, his voice unnecessarily loud. “Open the box. Breathe your life into it.”
She arched an eyebrow and looked back at Alejandro. He shrugged.
The emu gave off an energy. It vibrated, right behind Clark, a bomb about to explode.
“Breathe, good lady!” Clark said. “Breathe!”
She opened its lid and exhaled into it. The crowd fidgeted. They exchanged nervous looks and covered their mouths, trying not to laugh at the agitated bird.
Marissa tugged at Alejandro’s sleeve to get his attention. She stared at Clark to make sure he saw, so Clark spoke louder, shouting now, to draw the man’s attention away from her.
“Again!” he said. “Let it be a vessel for your soul. Keep your essence within, for all eternity. With your spirit bound by its magic, you, good lady, shall know immortality!”
“Alejandro,” Marissa whispered.
High over his head, Clark clapped his hands together. He stomped on the tile.
“Essuru dahku! Essuru dahku!” Clark screamed. A little Sumerian never hurt.
Silence. His voice echoed up to the vaulted ceiling.
Abuela Ernesta looked up at him. Her lip curled into a snarl.
Shit. I took it too far.
The emu shrieked. It ran into the center of the room, bouncing and hissing, wings flailing. It jerked its neck and pecked at the air. It raked its claws across the floor, trying to find purchase.
One shrill scream from Marissa ignited the bottled energy of the crowd. It exploded. The people ran, knocking into pillars and climbing over each other. The emu went for them all, eyes blazing in a cocaine-fueled frenzy. Tables overturned. Shot glasses shattered. A mariachi wielded his guitar like a sword, trying to fend it off.
