Tarnished and Torn

by Juliet Blackwell

  On the way over to Marisela’s house that afternoon, I asked Maya to be sure to ask Carmen about the legend of the fire opals that she had alluded to on her trip to Aunt Cora’s Closet.

  “Sure . . . are you looking for any information in particular?”

  “Just anything she might know,” I said. “I think those guys who were following me were looking for a fire opal ring they thought I might have gotten at the gem show.”

  “I don’t remember seeing a ring like that.”

  “No, I don’t have it, at least nowhere I know about. But that’s why I was hoping you could talk to Carmen and see . . . Maybe she could shed a little light on the subject.”

  “With an old legend?”

  “Hate to break it to you, my friend, but old made-up legends often have a grain or two of truth. It’s worth a shot.”

  Marisela lived in a house in the Sunset, a part of San Francisco that looks out over the Pacific Ocean and, ironically, rarely saw the sun setting because it was so often beset by thick banks of fog off the sea. The area was developed later than much of the city, in the 1940s, and featured long rows of stucco homes built for working-class families.

  Maya and I were buzzed through an iron gate, then entered into a little courtyard to the right of the garage, then up a full staircase to the living area, which was located on the second floor.

  Marisela and Metzli, Rosa, and Carmen were joined by another half dozen young women and one adolescent boy. They were all sitting around the living room, on couches and chairs and the floor, making party favors out of little squares of pink tulle wrapped around chocolates and key chains marked with the date, and tied off with wire twists decorated with tiny silk flowers. Two fans hummed while they kept the air circulating, a radio played Motown oldies in the background, and the sounds of children playing outside drifted in through the open window.

  “Sorry about all this,” Rosa said as she stood to greet us. “I thought we’d be done by now, but . . . it’s getting a little down to the wire.”

  “No problem,” said Maya. “I really appreciate your mother’s willingness to talk to me, and Marisela’s offer to translate.”

  “My daughter speaks better Spanish than I do—she studied it in school. Terrible, isn’t it? I mostly know how to talk about food.”

  “I feel like that with a lot of languages,” I said with a smile. Food brought people together and linked the generations; cuisine-based traditions were almost always among the most persistent. “I’d be happy to help with making favors while Maya conducts the interview.”

  “Really? I won’t say no—we could use all the help we can get.”

  I plopped myself down on the floor next to the boy—overcoming the family’s protests that I should be given a chair—and he patiently explained to me how to make the little purses, including tucking in Hershey’s Kisses. They reminded me of witch’s charm bags, and in a way they were: small tokens made with love, meant to imbue their new owners with memories and connection to the energy of the event.

  Maya, meanwhile, set up her tiny recorder, took out her notebook, and sat near Carmen, with Marisela in between. She started off with lots of factual information about where and when the older woman was born and raised, when she came to the United States and why. How long she’d lived in San Francisco—almost sixty years now. And, very delicately, Maya asked Carmen why she’d never learned to speak English.

  Rosa broke in to say that though Abuelita first came to this country decades ago, she often returned to Mexico and stayed for years at a time. She was from a small village in the state of Jalisco, where she enjoyed her little home as well as the admiration of her neighbors. She was the source, apparently, of all sorts of local history and lore. When she was in the United States, she rarely ventured outside of her home for fear of violence in the streets.

  “She doesn’t live here with us,” said Rosa. “She insists on staying in her own place in the Bayview, and it’s not a great neighborhood.”

  Just then a knock sounded at the door. The boy jumped up and buzzed the person in; a few moments later Shawnelle appeared at the top of the stairs. We all said our hellos like it was old-home week.

  “Wow. They’ve got you making favors? How’s that working out for you?” Shawnelle asked me.

  I smiled. “Joel and I are racing to see who can make them fastest.” I nudged the boy, who had returned to sit next to me, with my elbow. “Care to join the competition?”

  “I don’t suppose I have much choice,” she said, taking a seat and picking up scissors and a length of cloth.

  At a significant glance from me, Maya asked if Carmen could expound on the subject of the fire opal, or Ojo del Fuego, that she had mentioned the other day at Aunt Cora’s Closet. Carmen smiled and started speaking. I understood most of it, but was glad for Marisela’s translation, just in case I missed anything.

  Marisela began, “This character Xolotl, like I was saying before, was the god of disease and bad luck . . .”

  “And fire,” said Shawnelle with a smile. “Mustn’t forget the fire.”

  “Right. Disease, bad luck, and fire. Anyway, Xolotl was twin brother of Quetzalcoatl. You must’ve heard of him.”

  Shawnelle shook her head.

  “Quetzalcoatl was the feathered serpent,” I answered. “Most revered god of the Aztecs.”

  “Right,” said Marisela. “He was the head honcho, the one they made human sacrifices for. In fact, when Cortés arrived, a blond on horseback—they had never seen horses before, much less light hair—the Aztecs thought maybe he was the embodiment of Quetzalcoatl, so they didn’t realize what a danger he was. Oops, sorry. That was me talking, not Abuelita.”

  The grandmother, meanwhile, had paused in her story and was waiting patiently, accustomed to the translation drill. At a nod from Marisela she started telling her story once again.

  “But, anyway, long before that, Xolotl and Quetzalcoatl were twin brothers who stole fire from the underworld and brought it to the human world. So, Abuelita says the Ojo del Fuego stone was unearthed from the very heart of the Earth, and right away the priests knew it was special, so they made a special silver setting to hold it. At dawn and midnight, the opal shows its color best. Any curandero who wore it could use it for miraculous healing, even regenerating limbs—like the salamander I was telling you about, the axolotl.”

  In European folklore, the fire elemental was associated with salamanders as well. I remembered how my grandmother laughed and said maybe they got it wrong, that in the old days when people threw logs on the fire they often saw salamanders emerge, shiny and wet, almost glowing, appearing as though sparks were coming off their skin. This led to the belief they were impervious to the fire, a living creature containing the energy of an elemental being.

  “But then Xolotl arose, bringing disease and bad luck with him. The people tried to placate him with fire dances and sacrifices, but nothing worked. Then a powerful curandera wore the ring; when she performed the proper ceremony and twisted the ring so the stone faced her palm, it emitted lights and a kind of magical fire, and she was able to send him back to the underworld.”

  “So the Ojo del Fuego was the only thing that worked against Xolotl?” asked Shawnelle, apparently interested in spite of herself.

  Marisela asked Carmen the question in Spanish, then translated her answer with a nod.

  “Yes, ever since then not just Xolotl per se, but any of his minions that are occasionally unleashed, the ones that arise from the elements, from the earth and air and fire itself.”

  “Way cool,” said Shawnelle. Then she held up her small pile of favors. “And look. I’m totally beating you guys.”

  The conversation moved on. Maya clarified a few points with Carmen and Marisela, and Rosa discussed a cousin’s new baby with a couple of the other women in the circle. The murmur of voices, the circle of women and one boy made m
e think of sewing circles, quilting circles, scrapbooking circles . . . all those moments throughout history when women and children come together to share tasks, making of them opportunities for socializing and community building.

  Joel sneezed. “Salud,” sounded a chorus of voices.

  “Gesundheit,” I said, using the German word without thinking. Then something dawned on me.

  “Shawnelle, I don’t suppose you have any way of getting in touch with Johannes, that guy from the Gem Faire?”

  “The cute German guy?”

  I nodded.

  Shawnelle and Marisela locked eyes and giggled.

  “Yeah, we had sort of, like, a date the other night.”

  “When was this?”

  “Tuesday, I guess. He was kind of sick, though. But he was still cute.”

  “What did you do on your date?”

  “We went and did touristy things. He’s never been here before, so he was totally into it. It was actually kind of awesome. I’ve lived here my whole life, but the only time we do stuff like the cable cars is when people are visiting from out of town. Ya know? So it was kind of cool. Why? What’s up?”

  “I’ve been looking for him, that’s all. I think he might have . . .” the sacred ring called Ojo del Fuego, meant to combat a fierce elemental demon. “I’d just like to talk with him. Any idea where he’s staying?”

  She shook her head. “He was at a youth hostel for a night or two, but I guess he found another place. He doesn’t, like, have much money, I guess. Besides, he says he doesn’t like to stay put.”

  That was interesting. Trying to keep one step ahead of the police or a demon or . . . ?

  “Does he have a cell phone? Do you have any way of getting ahold of him?”

  “No, he doesn’t have an international phone. But he’ll probably be in touch. . . . He’s supposed to be my escort to the quinceañera next Saturday. Are you coming?”

  I hated these awkward moments. I hadn’t been invited, and it seemed a little much to presume, since the extent of our interactions so far were me selling them clothes and listening to a legend about a fire opal.

  Besides, I was a creature of my childhood—I remembered too well the crushing feeling of not being invited to the party that all the other kids in town were going to. Drinking tea with Graciela in her hut on the outskirts of town, acting like nothing was wrong.

  But this wasn’t Jarod, Texas. And I wasn’t a kid. And if Johannes was going to show up, I’d love to have a little chat with him.

  “Oh, yes! You should both come!” said Marisela. “Right, Mom?”

  “Of course! The more the merrier. And you’re altering those dresses in such a hurry for us, we really appreciate it.”

  “I can’t take any credit for the alterations on the dresses—that’s all on Maya’s mom, Lucille. But . . . if you really don’t mind, I would love to come. I wouldn’t ruin your seating for the dinner, but I’d love to drop by and see the decorations and the dresses, and, of course, the full court.” Metzli beamed. “Maya, shall we go?”

  “I’d love to,” she said, gathering up her recording equipment and loading her backpack. “I’ve only been to one a long time ago. A friend from high school.”

  “That’s settled, then,” said Rosa. “Wonderful. Joel, stop eating all the kisses.”

  • • •

  As Maya and I drove home I pondered what I’d learned.

  If Johannes was involved in the murder and/or the hiding of the ring, why would he agree to show up to a quinceañera? For that matter, why was he hanging around Shawnelle at all? She couldn’t be more than seventeen, eighteen at the most, and he looked like he was in his twenties. Alone in a strange country, his boss killed . . . wouldn’t he have more pressing concerns?

  And that story of the Ojo del Fuego was still ringing in my ears. What was I thinking—that Griselda had arrived in town with a ring with which to face down a demon? And, if so, why hadn’t the demon shown itself? What was the connection to the legendary Xolotl in San Francisco? Gene was hanging around at the Gem Faire and then at the dancing in the park . . . when fires broke out on both occasions. Could he be Xolotl’s human underling?

  Carmen had also mentioned performing fire dances to placate the demon. So maybe Gene was doing what he could to appease Xolotl. And Clem and Zeke, presumably, were searching for the ring so they could destroy the magical stone so no one would be able to control Xolotl. And if I was correct when I felt their vibrations connected to those of my father’s, that would mean he was doing the same.

  And, quite frankly, I thought San Francisco already had its fair share of disease and bad luck. I couldn’t imagine what it would mean if Xolotl were allowed to act freely.

  If the ring really had been passed down through the ages, it held not only its own power but a little of each practitioner that had worn it.

  It was unique; irreplaceable.

  It was up to me to find it. I refused to give over my adopted city to a fire demon and his sharp-dressed underling.

  • • •

  I dropped Maya off at her house, then returned to Aunt Cora’s Closet to find Bronwyn’s granddaughter, Imogen, was visiting with Beowulf the cat. In the beginning Oscar hated Beowulf, so the black cat would follow him around. Once Oscar decided he liked the feline, though, she disdained him and would walk away, tail held high and twitching. At the moment in his piggy guise, Oscar was trotting after her like a lovesick, well . . . piglet.

  I said hello to the pure black, silky cat by petting her, then sneezed. I’m allergic. Which, I supposed, was part of the reason I got stuck with a miniature potbellied pig in the first place.

  Imogen was putting together a project for the science fair, with Bronwyn’s help, about herbal medicines. She was working on a big poster board to set behind the actual samples of herbs and plants. After telling me all about it and asking me a few detailed questions, she got back to work. Lying on her stomach in a quiet corner of the store, markers scattered around her, she drew while Beowulf and Oscar vied for her attention.

  Bronwyn went to check on Imogen’s progress, and I helped a young woman looking for a dress for a swing-dancing competition. As I was ringing her up, I looked up to see a well-groomed, nice-looking man in his twenties walk into the store. He was carrying a briefcase and wore a gray suit and red tie. Alarm bells went off.

  A suit and tie in this part of the city? Could he be working with Gene?

  I kept an eye on him while I wrapped the full-skirted dress in tissue paper and put it in a recycled paper bag with AUNT CORA’S CLOSET written on the side along with our slogan: IT’S NOT OLD; IT’S VINTAGE!

  As the customer turned to leave, the man approached the counter.

  “Hi. I’m Spade.” He handed me his card. “Sam Spade.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I received a note saying you wanted to speak with me? I’m a private detective, er, investigator. I’m a private investigator.”

  “You guys . . .” I smiled and glanced over at Bronwyn and Imogen. Bronwyn was now lying on the floor next to her granddaughter, kicking her feet in the air. She was the best grandma ever. “Very funny. You called Sam Spade to consult with me about a case?”

  They looked puzzled, and it dawned on me: Oscar never transformed in front of Bronwyn and Maya. They couldn’t have spoken about it and worked out the gag.

  “You mean this isn’t a joke?”

  Bronwyn shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  Oscar. How had he managed to track down a man named Sam Spade? I was going to kill me one gobgoyle pig.

  The man looked pained. “It’s that movie, right? The Maltese whatever?”

  “The Maltese Falcon, based on the novel by Dashiell Hammett. Featuring Sam Spade.”

  “Hardly anybody remembers that film anymore.”

  I couldn’t hav
e been more than five years this guy’s senior. But, then, I’d always been out of step when it came to popular culture. Or any culture, for that matter.

  “Anyway, my father named me Sam. Not even Samuel or Samson . . . just Sam.”

  “So you grew up as Sam Spade, and then you decided to become a private investigator?”

  “Actually . . .” A pretty blush came over his face, staining his cheeks and making him look like he was still in high school. “I’m a stockbroker. I got laid off. I figured, how hard could it be?”

  He reached into his suit breast pocket and brought out his wallet, then flipped it open to show me his private-investigation license.

  “I didn’t even realize you needed certification.”

  “Oh, sure. You have to pass a test. There’s even a handbook. And if you want to carry a gun, that’s a whole other process. Anyway, I’m good with computers, and I figure there’s always the advanced-search button on Google.”

  I was embarrassed to admit it, but he was probably right; even with such rudimentary investigative skills, he could probably find out more than I did without ever leaving his office. After all, all I accomplished by running around, trying to talk to people, was to stumble into dangerous situations without preparation.

  “I received a message that you’re looking for help,” Sam said.

  “I . . .” This poor man was here under false pretenses. Unless . . . “How much would it cost me to have you track someone down?”

  “It’s . . . just one second.” He put his briefcase on the counter, opened it, pulled out a book, flipped through a few pages, ran his finger along one entry, then finally nodded and snapped the book closed.

  “Two hundred a day, plus expenses.”

  “Two hundred? Gee . . . that sounds like a lot. Especially since I’m your first case and all.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Wild guess. Anyway, seems a little high to me.”

  “Does it?” He seemed to be calculating something in his head. “How about one-fifty?”

  What could it hurt?

  Besides, I thought as Oscar started trotting in circles around my legs . . . I promised my pet pig.