Blue Diablo cs-1

by Ann Aguirre

  When I handed him the page, Chuch studied it for a minute and then shrugged. “Looks like a summoning circle.” Which I’d already guessed. “I’ll send it to a homie who’s into the hermetic stuff. Maybe he can hook us up.”

  I studied him for a moment, unable to figure him out. “Why are you helping us? You know it’s dangerous.”

  Chuch flashed a slightly gap-toothed grin. “My old lady took off and I don’t have anything better to do.” I held his look, and eventually he sighed, looking sheepish. “Plus I owe him money.” He jerked his head toward Chance. “I expanded my garage but business has been slow. Lot of people leaving Laredo. It’s a scary place to be lately.”

  That made as much sense as anything. Muttering something about scanning my drawing, Chuch headed toward his home office. I didn’t like how quiet Chance was. He hadn’t said a single word since I came back into the room, not even when I took his plate to the sink for him.

  If the silence held, I was going to say something stupid like Are you okay? when I knew he wasn’t. Finally I settled on “What’s on your mind?” Like I didn’t know.

  “I keep turning it over,” he said, staring at his hands. “I wanted to think they must have some hold over her. But I keep coming back to the fact that she knew the spell, and there’s a lot I don’t know about her. You ever have that feeling? Like you’ve known someone your whole life but you don’t know them at all.”

  I reached for his hand. No matter the ugly history between us, I was still his friend. I didn’t think I had it in me for it to be otherwise. Our fingers intertwined, his long and elegant, mine short and scarred. That was one good thing about the gift, I supposed. My fingerprints never seemed to come out right.

  “No,” I said finally. “I never have that feeling. Because I don’t have anyone I’ve known my whole life.” The words came out starker than I intended, maybe because his sorrow cut through me like a knife.

  If he’d been thinking, he would have remembered. Chance knew my history, at least the bare bones of it. He knew I’d spent my adolescence in foster homes. They deteriorated as the years went on because nobody wanted to take me. The first time it happened, I was handling a jeweled hair clip. It singed my fingers and I said without thinking, “This belonged to your great-aunt Cecilia. She was wearing it when she died.”

  The gentle Methodist lady almost had a heart attack. She’d gazed at me, face pinched and gray, before snatching the hair clip away and fussing over burns she couldn’t figure out how I’d gotten. A retired school-teacher, Miss Minnie was actually the nicest about my weirdness, but she didn’t want me around after that.

  That night, she called the social workers and said she wasn’t equipped to deal with “a child like me.” It got worse. I’ll just say, I can’t play at bondage during sex or watch the Exorcist, though it isn’t demons that drive my powers. There’s no enjoying such things when you’ve been tied to a bed for real.

  I’ll leave it at that.

  At first, the state of Georgia accused the host families of burning my hands to punish me. Ruined some lives, I guess. It didn’t matter what I said about it, although by the end, they had psychiatrists asking me why I felt the need to hurt myself. At eighteen, they cut me loose and I was glad to go. I sure left my mark, even then; left enemies behind me.

  Shit, now I felt almost as low as Chance. I didn’t usually let it get to me. Done was done, and unless it was a slight you could avenge right then, it did no good to dwell on it.

  All my aches came back tenfold, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to lose myself for a few hours. We couldn’t do anything until daylight anyway.

  “Well,” Chuch said from the doorway. “I sent an e-mail to Booke, but it’s four in the morning there.” He peered at us. “You guys look like shit.”

  I wondered how he’d look if he’d been in Mexico City just two days ago, innocently examining Dutch miniatures. By some miracle I held my tongue, as he was helping us.

  “It’s been a long day,” Chance said quietly.

  If there were a candle I could burn to make me forget how it felt to touch him, I think I would have lit it. Right then, I felt empty and broken, missing the way we used to be. His hand in mine wasn’t enough, but then I’d always needed more than he could give. Chance reacted on me like a drug, and I jonesed for him in ways that weren’t safe or sane. Quietly I withdrew my hand.

  Chuch nodded. “How ’bout I get you bedded down? You still sleepin’ together?”

  I answered, “No,” as Chance said, “Yes.” We exchanged a look, and then I added firmly, “He should have his own bed. I’m afraid I’ll hurt his back.”

  Our host shrugged and set me up on the couch with plenty of pillows and a sheet to pull over me, as it was a warm night. “Sorry,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “I turned the third bedroom into a home office.”

  “It’s fine, thanks.”

  I hoped I wouldn’t dream tonight.

  Wicked Game

  I dreamed of fire.

  As on the worst occasions, I woke with the sheets sodden from terror sweat. The sky glimmered with pearly, predawn light, dispelling some of the gloom. I lay there, clammy, my heart thudding like I’d been running. For a moment I couldn’t get my breath and the shaking wouldn’t stop. Chance used to get up and make me hot chocolate whenever this happened, his eyes half-lidded with sleep. He wouldn’t speak, just deliver the drink in a ritual that let me know I wasn’t alone. I have no idea why, but cupping the mug between my hands always made me feel better.

  You’d think it’d go away for good after so many years, but the nightmare always comes back in times of trouble, like a reminder. Things always get worse when the dream returns; it’s a reliable foretelling device in its own way. If I could be sure it was my mother, trying to reach me somehow, I wouldn’t mind as much. I don’t have much faith there’s anything left of her, though, and I’ve tried several speakers for the dead. They always claim there’s interference, a bad connection between this world and the next. I don’t try to reach her anymore. Like I said, I have the feeling she gave everything she was to me, and then just floated away in wisps of smoke, not even a ghost.

  Still unsteady, I crawled out of my sweaty nest and headed for the kitchen. I’d make my own cocoa, dammit. If I could find it. Rummaging around in Chuch’s kitchen, I unearthed a box of instant. That’ll work.

  As I filled a cup from the tap, a click made me spin around, sloshing water on my thighs. A tall, dark-haired woman stood glaring at me from the doorway that led in from the garage. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Corine,” I said, wondering whether lukewarm tap water and a heavy mug would offer any real defense. She looked ready to claw my eyes out.

  But her wrath went another way. “I’ll kill him,” she bit out. “No, I’ll cut his thing off. I’m gone four days and here you are in your underwear. Pendejo!” She stormed down the hall toward Chuch’s room.

  “It’s not underwear,” I said, glancing down at my shorts. She wasn’t listening. With a shrug, I popped my mug into the microwave.

  Within thirty seconds—and the microwave timed it—I heard, “Eva, corazon, I—ow!” Chuch emerged in a pair of pajama pants, heading for the kitchen at a dead run. Eva followed, steely-eyed and ready to castrate. “Corine, tell her it isn’t how it looks.”

  “What isn’t?” Yeah, I played dumb as I mixed the chocolate powder into the hot water. Stirred, watching his agitation increase.

  “You slept on my couch!”

  He’d thank me for this later. “You said she left you. What business is it of hers?”

  “Dios, I only went to my mama’s house to think about things. We’re still married, Jesus Maria Ortiz Obregón! You’re going to hell!”

  Oops. Maybe I wasn’t helping. “You never mentioned you were married.”

  Chuch eyed me with dislike as I brought the spoon to my mouth, tasting the cocoa. “It wasn’t important! You—”

  That was the wrong thing to say. “
Wasn’t important! Five years and it wasn’t important. Just like I don’t matter to you as much as your precious cars.”

  She seemed like she was building up a head of steam so I interjected, “I did sleep on the couch and it isn’t how it looks. Chuch is helping us out for a day or two.”

  “Us?” Eva looked oddly crestfallen. Maybe she enjoyed yelling at him, and if what she’d thought was true, she would’ve had a lifetime supply of ammunition.

  “Yeah, us.” Sleep rumpled, a red T-shirt hiding the worst of the damage, Chance rubbed his eyes as he came into the kitchen. He looked for me, found me, and offered a half smile. It was an I’m glad you didn’t leave me in the night sort of look. I didn’t blame Eva for checking him out, even with her estranged husband standing right there. My ex just has that effect on women.

  “Is there coffee?” Chance asked.

  “I’ll make some,” Eva said, sounding subdued.

  I had a residual headache from the dream but at least the shakes were gone. If Eva hadn’t turned up, I would have offered to cook breakfast. My scrambled eggs are great. They’re also the extent of my kitchen skills, unless you count quesadillas, salsa, or microwaving stuff other people have made.

  Over huevos rancheros, we filled her in. On my own, I don’t know whether I would have trusted her, but Chuch did, of course, and when you’re staying in a woman’s home, you owe her some respect. Turned out she came from a long and distinguished line of curanderas, but she didn’t have the don. That’s Spanish for gift. We heard all about it, and by the time the meal was over, I felt sorry for Chuch. The woman was a talker.

  While they spoke, I washed the dishes. It’s polite to clean up when someone else cooks for you. I remember that from my mother’s upbringing.

  “So are you home for good, mi corazon? I missed you.” The mood turned a little squishy for my taste and I braced for some canoodling. While I’m all for sex, preferably lots of it, I don’t enjoy watching other people have it.

  “If you promise to pay some attention to me. No more spending all your time under those cars, okay?”

  I could see he wanted to protest that was how he made their living but evidently decided that discussion would keep. Silently I commended his common sense when he simply nodded and changed the subject.

  “I’m gonna go see if Booke’s gotten back to me. Thanks for breakfast.” Chuch kissed his wife on the cheek.

  That left the three of us in the kitchen, but I didn’t want to hear any more stories about how Eva’s abuela could cast out evil spirits by rubbing an egg all over someone’s naked body. It might well be true but I needed a shower just thinking about it. As I headed for the bathroom, I heard her say, “You’re hurt, pobrecito. Let me look at your bandages.”

  My jaw clenched, and my step stuttered. I made myself continue. It didn’t matter who changed the dressings as long as someone did. Eva wasn’t encroaching on my territory. I didn’t have territory.

  Twenty minutes later, I presented myself in Chuch’s office. A designer would call the walls eggshell, but it looked dingy white to me. It was decorated in early garage sale, but damn if he didn’t boast the biggest, baddest metal desk I’d ever seen. I was pretty sure all four of us could take shelter under it in case of a tornado. More plaid on a rundown recliner Eva had likely banished from the living room. Among protective knots and clusters of beads, license plates hung on the walls, probably from the first cars he’d restored.

  I purely coveted his lamp, though. It would go perfectly in my living room, a naked woman cast in wrought iron for the base and a gloriously overbedizened shade. Black velvet, gold fringe and beads—need I say more? I wanted it, but it wouldn’t do to make an offer right away. If I ever got tired of it, I could sell it. Hey, I’m a professional, after all.

  He sat clicking away for a minute before acknowledging me. “You got a mean streak, you know that?”

  “So I’ve heard.” Most recently, when I wore the frangipani perfume to bed with Chance. “Did your boy get back to you?”

  “Sure did. He wants to talk to you two so I’m setting up a VoIP.”

  I pondered while he worked and eventually put it together, as I’m not what you’d call tech savvy. At this point, I don’t have a desktop system, a laptop, or even a BlackBerry. My cell phone suffices for my messaging needs, and I check my e-mail only once every two weeks at the Internet café near my house. Those are all over the place in Mexico since a lot of people see a computer as something you just need to use occasionally rather than a must-have amenity for the home.

  “Huh,” I murmured, thoughtful. “I draw a picture and this morning, a guy in another time zone is ready to help. I’d never have guessed you could get information about this kind of thing so fast from online contacts.”

  To be honest, I’d be afraid to broach the subject. I had a hard enough time dealing with people face-to-face who could see my scars as proof and still thought I was mental. I dropped down in the Barcalounger with a sigh.

  Chuch flashed me a smile. “Hey, that’s why they invented the Internet, hermanita. To talk about weird shit and download porn.”

  As the software ran its diagnostic, Chance strolled into the office. There weren’t enough chairs so he propped himself on the edge of the monster desk. He looked better today, his wounds bandaged and artfully concealed by a great Boss shirt. Few men could pull off shimmering black and silver stripes with such aplomb. In that same shirt, Chuch would look like a pimp.

  Chance arched a brow. “All set?”

  A male voice answered in an Oxford accent, albeit a bit tinny from the speakers. “I can hear you. Can you hear me?”

  “I can. My name’s Chance, and I appreciate your time.” As he shifted his weight, I tried not to think about the edge of the desk biting into his butt. That used to be my job, and trust me when I say the man has a truly remarkable ass.

  God, I needed to focus.

  “Loud and clear,” I said. “I’m Corine.” I didn’t know whether that was correct etiquette but I enjoyed pretending I had some manners, at least in the beginning.

  Chuch didn’t. “What you got for us?”

  There was some urgency, I admit.

  “I’m Ian Booke. Let us remember the niceties,” the Englishman chided. “As well as the rules of engagement. Beat me in a game of virtual chess and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Well Played

  To his credit, Chuch tried to get around it. “This is important. I’ll play you later.”

  But Booke held firm: no contest, no info.

  Chance pushed to his feet and rested his hand on the back of Chuch’s chair. “Up. I’ll give him a game.”

  Sighing, the other man got to his feet and moved to the recliner. Well, I didn’t intend to sit and watch a virtual chess match, and clearly, Chuch did so I gave him my seat. There were limits to what an ex should expect. Instead I made my way back to the kitchen, where Eva sat in a pool of sunlight, reading the paper. Studying her, I decided she and Chuch were a bit of an odd couple, him short and stocky, her tall and model slim.

  She’d been biting on a red pen, so she had a smudge of ink on her upper lip. As I joined her, I saw she’d been circling want ads.

  “Job hunting?” Stupid thing to say, but then I never claimed to possess good social skills. Living as I do sort of discourages that.

  Eva nodded. “Chuch makes enough money, but I get bored, you know? I want to do something interesting this time, though.”

  I searched for a suitable reply. “You’ve held boring jobs?”

  In fact, I could relate. Since I can sell just about anything—you might even call it a preternatural gift—I’ve worked in retail my whole life. It doesn’t get much worse.

  “Yeah. Who knew being a private eye involved so much sitting around in cars? Really dull.”

  “You used to be a PI?” Despite myself, I registered some awe. I always had a weakness for Mickey Spillane and Dashiell Hammett. I loved diving into a noir detective novel with guys in
fedoras and trench coats and with smart-mouthed dames wearing too much lipstick and killer shoes.

  “Well.” Her expression turned mulish. “I didn’t actually get the license, but what’s the big deal? It’s just a piece of paper and I can print one that looks just as good. I helped my clients just the same and probably charged them less.”

  Biting my inner lip against a grin, I processed the information. So Eva specialized in forgery. That was good to know. Just like you never know when you’ll need your ride tricked out, you never know when you’ll need a passport cooked. In fact, I could use one.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Chuch says I’m going to end up in jail the first time a disgruntled client reports me to the license board.”

  “So make sure they’re all gruntled.”

  Eva grinned at me. “That’s what I said. But it really is boring, so I’m looking for a new gig.”

  “I run a pawnshop in Mexico City.”

  Don’t ask me why I volunteered the information when I’d done my best to make sure nobody could find me, but Eva seemed harmless. Chuch would tell her anyway, I rationalized, if she asked. But truthfully, I was simply hungry for female company. When I fled in the middle of the night, I severed all links to my old life, including my best friend, Sara. If I ever worked up the nerve, I’d call her. I didn’t know whether she’d be glad to hear from me or want my head on a pike.

  “That sounds...” She hesitated.

  “Boring?”

  “Well. Yeah.”

  We both laughed, and I decided I liked her. “It has its compensations. There’s nothing like finding a lost treasure or making a great deal on something.”

  “So what’s your part in all this?” she asked, getting up to pour us some coffee. “I know Chance wouldn’t have chased all that way after you unless you can do something for him nobody else can. He’s not the sentimental type.”

  Christ, how right that was, and it stung to hear such a home truth spoken by a relative stranger. If only I’d seen him that clearly at the start of our relationship, I wouldn’t be emotionally starved and half-heartbroken over him, even now. To cover how much it still hurt, I sipped my coffee, trying to decide what to tell her.