Kevin vaulted out of his chair and increased his pace as he neared the bar. He located the nearest stool and kept the bartender in his sights until the man came over to take his order. “A scotch, please, no ice.”
The bartender nodded and turned around to get the bottle. “No…wait,” Kevin blurted. “Make it a double.”
A grinning Jim Carrey look-alike wearing a green Starbucks apron and Saints cap approached the bar and leaned forward over the counter. “Hey, Seth,” he said, his mocking tone followed by the waving of money. “I got Brees and the boys covering the spread, you hear what I’m saying? No way can your wimpy Texans stop us. No freaking way!”
“Sorry to see you lose your hard-earned money, my friend,” he replied, laughing, as he brought Kevin his drink. “They’ll shut him down like a red neck sheriff at a whorehouse.”
“Seth?” Kevin asked. “Is that really your name?”
“All my life, buddy. Why?”
“I’m reminded of someone with the same name,” Kevin said. “And it couldn’t have come at a better time.” He stared at his glass for a long, contemplative moment. A smile formed on his lips as he rose from his stool and reached into his pocket for his wallet, pulling out a couple of bills. “Keep the change.”
“You leaving already?” the bartender asked, looking surprised. “You didn’t touch your drink.”
“On the contrary, Seth,” he said. “That was the best scotch I ever had.”
* * *
Kevin closed the Edgar Allan Poe book and looked out at the predawn darkness as the plane ascended. He scrutinized the combination of blackness and bright lights and envisioned the entire panorama as a giant circuit board. He contrasted this observation with the short-circuiting currents running through his own mind and concluded that his jumbled thoughts seemed a long way from the neatly integrated units he visualized below.
Madame Sibilia appeared to possess knowledge of death that no human being should be able to discern, but he still questioned what to make of her. He witnessed her physical transformation with his own eyes, but had she performed some sort of trickery? He wasn’t sure what to think when he located her number on his cell phone’s recent call list and pressed redial, only to be told by a phone company recording to “please check the number and dial again.” When he dialed a second time, slowly and by hand, he received the same result.
He had walked along the brick entranceway lined with potted plants, touched the gas powered lamppost in the courtyard, viewed the multi-colored stones from the light of the flame, grasped the ornate railing leading to the white wooden deck where he stood, and thought about Warren while standing at her door. He had walked inside and sat at a table, Tarot cards in sight, talking about Warren’s visit and what had happened afterwards. He experienced all of these things, witnessed so much, so how could Sam say the house no longer existed? If he was right, and he seemed to be quite sure, then whose place was that? The more Kevin thought about it, the more he resigned himself to the unavoidable answer. He didn’t enter Madame Sibilia’s house that exists now. He sat inside the one that existed then.
Warren could have gone to any of the easy-to-find psychics, yet he wound up with Madame Sibilia. Was it preordained? She told Kevin that she was there to help those on the verge of danger. Was he somehow brought there, transported into another time and place, to learn of the future by entering the past? His reporter’s intuition made him sense in Madame Sibilia a genuine sincerity, but the whole episode with her was one of those “you had to be there” experiences. He decided he’d disclose some of what she said, but he’d omit the part about Warren’s possible “mutation.” Seth, especially, didn’t need to hear that. Nor would he divulge her theory about Seth’s ability to communicate with Warren. What was the point of telling them that ridiculous scenario? And the final minute on the patio? How do you explain something like that without coming across as a lunatic?
“Admit it, Kevin,” he told himself, “there was no trickery. What you saw, and touched, and heard was real. The one and only Madame Sibilia exists, no matter what Sam says.”
If he therefore believed in what he saw, and heard, then Warren’s continued existence wasn’t just a possibility—it was quite probable. Through the simmering upheaval of his thoughts, the one idea he continued to revisit pertained to Madame Sibilia’s answers about his brother’s fate. She told him Warren’s tenth card meant peace and a new beginning, but how could that be an option when he continued to move closer toward becoming, as she said, “another spiritual force for wickedness in the world?” In the unending hourglass of pain and sorrow that measured how long humanity was meant to suffer, Warren would soon be an added grain of sand.
Madame Sibilia pinpointed Seth as the one link remaining to Warren’s spirit, the one person who could allow his soul to rest in peace. Even if the truce ended, how could Seth ever communicate with his father when the killings occurred at unknown locations far away from his presence? And what kind of sign from Heaven and Earth was Madame Sibilia talking about? Would the clouds suddenly part like a billowy white curtain, sending a hand down to tap him on the shoulder? Would Warren’s face illuminate like a million neon lights somewhere among the constellations? To the battering ram of questions demanding access to answers, Kevin had none to offer. How could he expect otherwise, knowing the world he lived in, and identified with, was just a stepping stone to something far beyond his understanding?
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
I couldn’t lie to him, Veronica,” Kevin said, reaching for the knife to chop some green chilies. “I assumed that Madame Sibilia was a big phony, but as I explained to Seth, she was able to connect the dots and reveal so much that I left there thinking she’s the real deal.”
“I’m surprised,” Veronica replied, still trying to decide if she believed this herself. “I wasn’t expecting this kind of reaction from you.”
“This is just between us, okay? I’m not about to discuss Madame Sibilia’s ideas with anyone else.” Kevin chuckled. “Can you imagine if I was to go to the police with this information?”
Veronica finished preparing the meat and placed the bowl in her refrigerator. “I’m still amazed that she knew half the deaths were by heart attack,” she said. “And this is because Warren supposedly needs a killing to occur first before he goes and kills? Like a back and forth sort of thing?”
Kevin nodded. “Warren’s way of giving these guys a chance to shape up, I guess. But once they cross that line…”
“What was Seth’s reaction when you told him?”
“I didn’t go into complete detail,” he said, taking an onion from the plastic bag on the counter. “She told me some disturbing things. But he was convinced of Warren’s involvement before I went to New Orleans, so this only verified his belief. I urged him to keep this to himself for obvious reasons. He promised me he would.”
Veronica walked over to Kevin and watched as he started to peel the skin from an onion.
“Thanks for helping me with the pozole,” she said, stroking the back of his neck. “You’re picking Seth up at his friend’s house, right?”
“At six o’clock. When I told him you were cooking dinner for us tonight he got excited. Apparently Alex told him you’re an awesome cook.”
Veronica smiled. “He’ll like it,” she said. “And so will you.”
Kevin gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “I’m sure I will,” he replied, placing the onion on the cutting board.
Veronica stood behind him, staring in silence. The time had come. “Would you kiss me again?” she asked.
Kevin looked back at her with an expression that transformed itself from one of surprise to one of recognition and longing. Placing his hands on the sides of her face, he leaned forward, brushing her lips with his in tentative fleshy strokes, back and forth, between the corners of her mouth. Veronica wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him harder, moving her body close to his until they locked in a full embrace. Pulling back to search Kevin’s
eyes, she whispered, “I hope I’m ready, Kevin.”
Kevin leaned his forehead against hers. “I haven’t changed the way I feel,” he said softly. You’re the driver of this car, okay? We’ll go as far as you want to go.”
She took a deep, silent breath. “I want you so much.”
Veronica reached for his hand and led him into her room. They fell onto the bed in a frenzy of fervent kissing. She felt his warm breath rushing in airy waves behind the delicate sliding of his tongue, traveling from cheekbone to earlobe as she pressed her breasts against his. Grasping the bottom of his shirt, she pulled it up and over his head, tossing it aside. As she stroked the soft hair along his chest, gliding her fingers around his nipples, she leaned forward. “Take off my shirt, Kevin.”
Placing his hands on her cheeks, Kevin gave Veronica a long, soft kiss before undoing the top button. As each one came undone, he stopped and kissed the newly exposed flesh, stroking her skin in soothing circular motions, occupying each additional territory with an apparent wonder and delight that turned into added time spent furthering her own pleasures. Veronica watched him through the semi-darkness, trusting the moment as she offered herself to the one man she wanted.
Unfastening the final button, Kevin removed her shirt and gazed, his eyes taking a slow stroll across the unveiled contour of her light brown skin.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.
As every nerve ending seemed to collaborate toward an imminent sexual crescendo, she pulled him close and whispered the only thing that mattered at that precious point in time. “Kevin, please…I want you. Make love with me.”
With fire and flesh merging into one reality, Veronica finally accepted the restrained yearning of Kevin’s masculine nakedness, freeing herself to become a complete woman, to welcome a man as her lover, and to recover the depth of her soul.
Later, in the reflective afterglow of semen and sweat, sweetness and solace, Veronica nestled inside the warmth of Kevin’s embrace and reveled in the feeling of renewal and second chances; those lurking images of her past haunting her no more.
But peace of mind is a fleeting event when the wolf comes howling at your door.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
King growled into his cell phone, disgusted at Ram’s casual disregard for such an important moment.
“Chinga, motherfucker! Where the hell are you, man?” He sat alone at the wheel of his van inside the 7-11 parking lot, leaving a second message for his camarada. “I’m packin’ a pinchi forty-five, God damn it! Don’t want no motherfuckin’ policía askin’ questions. Hurry, cabrón!” Tossing the phone on the passenger seat, King stared into the black November sky. Tonight finally arrived as a second chance at payback, and this time he wouldn’t fuck up.
He didn’t get a clear shot at Torres last time, and the lucky Diablo piece-of-shit drove away and escaped. He had no choice but to make Javier his lookout again, but the little punk didn’t see nothin’ until Monday when Torres’ car showed up in the driveway again. Still, he needed a plan that would work this time. On Wednesday he got the news he needed to hear. Torres’ old lady saw Javier’s old lady at the market and told her that Alejandro and Veronica would both be there for Thanksgiving, and to “come for dessert so that Alejandro can apologize to your son.”
Javier’s old lady didn’t want nothin’ to do with Alejandro. Not after Torres…Alejandro, busted her kid’s nose. King, however, had every intention of crashing the party. Alejandro would be the first to get killed, to be taken out of the box. Then the mother. And Veronica? Well…another night with her was something he wanted real bad.
King got yanked from his fantasies by a loud knocking on the passenger side window. Startled, he spun his head to the right. “Shit, Ram,” he said, his heart still pounding, “where the fuck you been?” King reached over to open the door. “It’s gettin’ late, man. Hurry up!”
Ram entered and sat, leaving the door partially open. “Don’t start the car,” he said, reaching out to grip King’s arm. “I ain’t goin’ tonight. I came to tell ya.”
“What the fuck?” he howled. “Don’t fuck with me, Ram! No me chinges! I ain’t never put in work like this alone, man!”
“The time ain’t right for puttin’ in work, King. I ain’t ready to start killin’ again. It’s been a bad motherfuckin’ year for the Lobos, man.” Ram started counting names from his fingers. “Ghoul, Flex, Hazard, Juice, Nasty, Joker…and Spice…Teazer…Steel…and all the goddamn others, too. What the fuck did it mean? They didn’t die for no Lobo pride. Their fuckin’ hearts went dead. And for what, man? ‘Cause some motherfuckin’ asshole don’t want us around!”
“I don’t believe I’m hearin’ this shit from you,” King snarled. “Ain’t no one gonna change me, you understand? Ride or die, man.” King pulled up his shirtsleeve, pointing to a tattoo. Two faces, one smiling, the other crying, looked out from the message-inked flesh of his forearm. “This is the way it is, man. Laugh now, cry later. You gotta live while you’re still around. Who the fuck knows when you ain’t gonna be?” King pounded his heart with a closed fist. “Estar firme,” he said. “Stand strong. For the Lobos.”
“Word’s out, King. An agreement’s been reached. The Lobos and Diablos gonna shut it down for now. Ain’t nobody jumpin’ back but you.”
King slammed his fist against the back of the seat, missing Ram by several inches. “Get the fuck outta here!”
Ram stared at King for several moments before sliding from the seat to stand outside. “I understood shit when it was just the Diablos,” he said. “War was a beautiful thing. But this heart attack shit…damn!” Ram shook his head. “I ain’t gonna die without no good reason, King.”
King gnashed his teeth as Ram slammed the door and disappeared into the night. When he turned the key to the ignition, his eyes fell upon three dots tattooed on the back of his hand, signifying Mi Vida Loca, My Crazy Life. “Ain’t nobody gonna fuckin’ change King!” he shouted. He looked at his watch and pulled into the street. Seven o’clock and time to rock.
Many years had passed since he lived next door, but he still remembered one particular area that allowed him to sneak into their back yard. He used to play “Hide and Seek” with Alejandro and Veronica, and a wooden fence separated the two houses. In the corner of the Torres’ backyard they had an old tree with roots so big that part of the fence had lifted and split apart. He used to slide between the broken boards and hide on the other side. If that tree was still there, maybe the roots kept the fence from ever getting fixed. He’d sneak along the perimeter of his old house until he reached the spot. From there, he’d slip through into their yard and wait for someone to step outside or leave the door open. He smiled at the thought of playing his own version of “Hide and Seek.”
King parked his van near a small park less than two blocks from the house. He wanted to remain within walking distance, but far enough away to make sure none of the neighbors spotted him. Checking the back of his van, he readjusted the magnetic covering to make sure the face of the lobo remained hidden. The moment he’d been waiting for had almost arrived. King pulled the hood of his black sweatshirt over his head and secured the gun inside his jeans. “Estar firme, Viper,” he whispered, gazing into the starless sky. “Payback’s gonna be a bitch.”
King maneuvered among the shadows of the neighborhood, giving an occasional disinterested glance at the fuzzy figures of people outlined against the iron bars and closed curtains. When he got within eyesight of the Torres’ house, he saw Alejandro’s Firebird still in the driveway and Veronica’s Honda on the street. To his delight, he saw that his old house next door had an empty driveway and no lights on. “Perfecto,” he whispered. His throat tingled from the need for beer, but revenge was the alcohol of choice for the moment.
Clinging to the patchy darkness of the street, King crossed into his old driveway, gaining an open view of the large tree still looming in the corner shadows. He walked toward the back, knowing the height of the fence kept
him from being detected. As he approached the spot, the dim light shining from the Torres’ backyard filtered through the split in the dark brown boards. The same space appeared a couple of feet above the tree root, but with a problem he hadn’t anticipated. He was a lot bigger now and no longer able to slip through.
As he stared at the unexpected obstacle, he resisted the urge to loosen a couple of planks with some swift, hard kicks. He studied the opening, viewing the space from different angles, trying to find a way to get in. Crouching as low as he could, King peered into the backyard and looked toward the house. He saw a closed door that he remembered led into the kitchen. Further down on the right he recognized a bathroom window, not too high up, that was open a bit with just a screen for protection. If he encountered a locked door, he felt sure he could climb in through the window.
“I gotta get in that fuckin’ yard,” he told himself. He placed his hand between two slats to pull himself up, but the lower board loosened and moved down on contact. He stared in excitement at a sudden opening he now believed he could wiggle through. King observed the house again, picturing everything he intended to do. “I’m gonna kill your ass, Alejandro,” he whispered. “Your mother too.” He chuckled. “But don’t worry ‘bout Veronica, motherfucker. King’s got other plans for her ass.”
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