Monkey Around

by Jadie Jang

  “Says the barista.”

  “Come on, Chucha. I think you must be aware by now that the cafe is the less interesting half of what I do for Ayo— ”

  “Yeah, taking shit jobs on the side, like talking to me.”

  “That’s not a shit job!” I cried, just arguing, but her eyes widened when I said it. “I got to meet you, which is excellent. I never get to meet anybody who’s like me, but you kind of are.”

  This was true. She looked down, half-smiling, half-grimacing.

  “And now your brother owes me a favor, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he is smoking hot.”

  She laughed “Ewwwwww! Whatever! But straight up, how much college education do you need to talk to an ‘estranged’ sister?” She said “estranged” with a bit of a faux French accent, mispronouncing it the way people do who get their vocabulary from reading, not hearing, it.

  “Well, I need street skills and supernat abilities, sure, but I’m actually doing a lot of investigation and research for Ayo as well.” My skin and heart warmed at the thought of “research” and I thought of the door in Ayo’s office that looked like it enclosed a closet before something slammed the door on that thought. “I’m part art historian, part folklorist, part curator, part travel agent, part administrator, part forensic accountant, part private eye, part hacker … and that doesn’t even cover all of it. I use something I learned in college pretty much every day, and it’s always something weird and random that I never would have thought was applicable.”

  I paused, waiting for pushback. I didn’t get it. She was looking intently at the ground, a slash of lawn golden with—and her face and arms spotted by—sunlight now coming down on us through the leaves of a tree.

  “You’re ‘the woman clothed in sun!’” I said, on an impulse, not knowing I was going to.

  “Huh?”

  “Oh… it’s from this poem by Barbara Jane Reyes. From Poeta en San Francisco… it’s about the Bay and… other things. There’s a, sort of… prophecy?… in this one part, and a woman clothed in sun, like you, right now, with the sunlight.”

  I pointed. She turned a hand and looked at the sun dapples on her skin.

  “How’s it go?” she asked.

  “Um, well, this piece starts:

  dear love, we make plans, and we rescind. stars fall as figs in the wind.”

  As if called up, a wind whirled up inside me, from the base of my gut to my ears. My words slowed, and drew weight, from the conversational to the declamatory. As if the wind were speaking through me.

  “call to the mountains, four winds held by angels. call to land and sea, so let it be. praise be to blood of lambs, tearless, opening silence in heaven. offer hands of fire to bitter rivers. eagles lament locusts with human faces, lions’ teeth, sulfur breastplates, scorpion tails.”

  The wind paused, and I watched Chucha. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was speeding up with the tumbling images. I remembered that her older brother was a poet. She must have grown up going to poetry readings. The wind spoke again:

  “dear love, abysmal angel, for sightless idols robed in cloud. even prophets’ words can sour. great city streets lined by the fallen for all to gaze upon before breath collapses, glorifies. the woman clothed in sun births a serpent’s feast. earth opens its mouth to swallow the serpent’s river. miracles and signs, boombox and bling bling.”

  My diaphragm seized a deep breath.

  “dear love, this calls for wisdom.”

  She had stopped breathing entirely. She held her silence for a moment after I ended. She opened her eyes on the sea of tents, and turned them to what I realized was my also sun-wreathed face. An utterly sweet and perfect smile dawned: the dream of a little sister you never had. I thought that maybe Tez was not only worried but also jealous; jealous of the San Antonios and their access to that smile.

  “Lemme guess,” she said, chuckling. “You learned that one in college.”

  I laughed with her, and we sat together at the camp’s edge for the rest of the afternoon.

  * * *

  The golden afternoon feeling carried me through most of the evening, which was a quiet one in the cafe. Tez swept in unexpectedly around nine, but I didn’t feel surprised; why wouldn’t I see everyone I wanted to see on such a perfect day?

  “Maya—” he said, looking tense.

  “Teeeezzzzz,” I drawled back, smiling and feeling beatific.

  “You’re in a good mood,” he said, smiling uncertainly.

  I pulled a bag of Critterganics out of my purse under the counter and offered it to him. “Have some! I ran into Chucha at PetGlobe. We agreed that beef and salmon are the best, but they were all out.” He helped himself to a handful and I grabbed a couple, too, before putting them away.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about missing our appointment. There was an emergency … this guy—anyway, I couldn’t come or call just then.”

  “It’s fine, Tez. That’s what we figured happened. Chucha wasn’t upset. She knows how these things go with people like you guys.”

  “People like us guys?” he asked incredulously.

  “You know,” I leaned in, “naguals.” He relaxed. What had he thought I meant? “You two are like mini-Ayos.”

  “She’s a mini-thug.”

  “Well, she’s not mini-you, that’s for sure. But you might have a little more respect for what she does. The San Antonios sure do.”

  “They should. She’s about fifty times as smart as any of them, not that you’d know it from how she’s behaving now—”

  “Hey, do you know what time it is?”

  “Uh …” he scrambled for his phone.

  I leaned in. “It’s time for you to lay off Chucha.”

  He stopped fumbling and dropped his chin to glare at me.

  “I’m serious. It doesn’t help, and it’s actually hurting. Stop it. You need to treat her like an adult, no matter how little girly she acts sometimes. She’s making adult decisions, so you really don’t have any choice in the matter.”

  He blew out some air. “Whatever,” he said, which sounded … vaguely ambivalent. Maybe he was listening. “Look, I never got your phone number so why don’t we trade, and then you can set up another appointment for us, okay? Here is fine. I’m open any day this week.”

  Well, I’d’ve preferred he ask for my phone number for more ambiguous reasons, but I’d take it. “Gimme yours,” I said, and typed it into my phone. I called him, then sneakily snapped a pic of him while he was distracted. He was hottest when he was frowning a little in concentration.

  “Hey,” he said, “let me see that.” I showed him. “Ugh, take another. At least give me a chance to smile.”

  I held up my camera for him to mug at. “Say ‘shit-eating grin’,” I said.

  “‘Unnecessary selfie’!” he said, with his teeth bared. I showed him the pic. He groaned and I held up my phone again.

  “Try actually smiling this time.” He gave me a baleful look and I snapped that.

  “Stop it!” he cried. “Wait, wait!” as I snapped again twice. He sighed in exaggerated distress. I snapped another. “Okay, okay … how’s this?”

  I ended up attaching a very cheesy grin to his contact profile. But seeing him grin like that whenever he called wasn’t a bad thing. Not at all. Nor were all the photos I had just taken of him: frowning, teeth bared, groaning, baleful, distressed … Too bad his shirt was on.

  “I’m giving you ‘Eye of the Tiger’ as your ringtone,” I said, searching for it.

  “Um … why do you even have an ‘Eye of the Tiger’ ringtone?”

  “ … You just don’t know. I’ve been waiting for years to meet someone whose ringtone was appropriately ‘Eye of the Tiger’.”

  He sighed heavily.

  “Just a man and his will to survive,” I agreed.

  “Now you,” he said. “I know better than to risk my ass taking a bad pic of a chick, so go ahead, arrange yourself.”

  “‘Arrange myself’? ‘
Chick’?”

  He chuckled as he snapped the picture.

  “Wait! I wasn’t ready!”

  “Payback’s a bitch, chula.” He showed me the pic. I had a horrible, snarly look on my face. He chuckled again. “Smokin’.”

  “You have to take another one!”

  “Nope. Nope. This is the one.” He hit ‘save’ and pocketed the phone.

  “Fine, if you want me glaring at you every time I call …” I wiped the perfectly clean counter.

  “As long as you call …”

  I looked at him, startled, and he winked.

  “Gotta bounce,” he said, and did.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tuesday, October 18, 2011

  San Antonios’ HQ, Oakland

  Chucha didn’t call that night—why would she? I’d just seen her that day—and I wanted to move things along while she was still liking me and vulnerable to my … er … persuasions, so I headed over to the San Antonios’ house after closing. I only saw one window lighted, but I thought Chucha might be taking a nighttime security shift. I’d chance it.

  Just as I was turning off the sidewalk towards the house, I saw a shadow appear to my right. It seemed to materialize in the vacant lot next to the house and to see me an instant after I saw it. It paused, facing me without a face, and then floated away, fast. I hesitated for a moment, caught by that now-familiar reluctance, then took off down the street after it, changing into dog form as I went.

  It seemed to notice me following, crossed the street double-time, and then faded through a cinder block fence. I switched quickly to monkey and went up over the fence and into a tree. The yard before me was paved except where four or five trees were planted. I stopped in the first tree, looking around. The shadows beneath me moved with the slow swaying of branches adjusting to my weight, but there was no other movement. I talked myself out of cowardice, then swung down and waded, hands and feet, through the yard, swinging out in every direction, hoping to hit something that shouldn’t’ve been there. But there was nothing.

  Finally, I gave up. If it was still here, it wasn’t going to move until I left. And it might be gone already.

  I dropped down to the street, changed, and crossed back over to the San Antonios’ HQ, which, in the past 20 minutes or so, had lighted up like a Christmas tree.

  There was no doorbell, but a cute little brass knocker in the shape of a Chihuahua. As I knocked, I heard a commotion behind the door. I had to knock several times, and finally, feeling strangely desperate, bang on the door with my fist.

  The dude named Beto yanked the door open. He gaped at me.

  “You!” he shouted.

  I was so shocked that when he grabbed me and yanked me inside, I didn’t resist.

  “Juice!” he cried. “Juice! I got her! It’s that crazy bitch who came for her the other night! I got her!”

  Inside was pandemonium. Four dudes were coming into the hallway shoving magazines into pistols and yelling “Fuck! Fuck!” and other such imprecations. Two other dudes were carrying an unconscious third from the hallway into the dining room, and one of the carriers was bawling like a baby. In another room I could hear Juice ripping a chunk off of one of his men, who, presumably, was the one yelling back “It was that shadow thing! I swear to god!” In the living room another guy I’d never seen before was yelling something about “Fuckin’ 70s bitches” into his phone.

  “Juice!” Beto screamed. “I got ‘er! Juice!” I had no idea what was going on, and was too confused to decide on any course of action. Beto hollered a few more times before his voice cut through the noise and Juice joined the circus in the hallway.

  “WHAT?” Juice screamed at him. The dude looked seriously awry. He had bedhead up one side and down the other, his t-shirt was on backwards with the tag sticking out, and his handsome, confident face was half-snarling, half-shocked.

  The hallway went quiet. Beto stared at Juice for a moment, and I realized that he was in shock, too. Beto lifted the handful of my t-shirt he had hold of, like he was lifting a bag of burgers. “I got ‘er, man. She was just outside.”

  Everyone looked at me. Suddenly, my confusion turned to dread.

  “What happened?” I asked. It came out in a whisper.

  Beto looked at me, bewildered.

  “They got Chucha,” Juice said. “She’s dead.”

  Then I understood the scene. The unconscious guy they’d been carrying hadn’t been unconscious, or a guy. I pulled away from Beto, pushed past the phone guy, and went into the dining room. One dude was leaning against the wall, his foot up, hands rubbing his face, like he was tired; the other was sitting in a chair head in hands, still sobbing. Juice came in behind me, and the rest gathered in the two doorways. I looked around at all of them in turn, trying to find a reason not to look at the body on the table, but they were all just looking back at me, like I could contribute something of value.

  She didn’t look like anything in particular. She looked like Chucha; she looked dead. There was none of the soft light of the sleeper in her face. It was all gone. She was all gone.

  “Oh God, I’m gonna have to tell Tez I got his baby sister killed,” I cried before I could stop myself.

  Juice took my upper arm, hard. “What do you mean?” he asked urgently. “How did you get her killed?”

  I looked at him and my face felt fevered. “I was supposed to get her out of here. I was supposed to get her to go home.”

  His face fell, and his hand loosened. The sobbing boy on the chair looked up. “I wish you did,” the boy said. “She shouldn’t’a been here.”

  “It shouldn’t’a gone down like this,” Juice said. “And we’re gonna make ‘em pay.”

  I saw an image of a funeral in my head. “We have to call the cops.”

  Juice stepped back. “No way. This is magic stuff.”

  “Chucha’s human … as far as they know. She has records. She went to school.”

  “No way. There’s no way we can explain this shit.”

  “She has a family. They’ll want to bury her. They can’t do that without a death certificate, and that means cops.”

  Juice just shook his head, but the sobbing boy stopped sobbing for a moment. “Juice, she deserves a decent burial,” he said, his face tracked over with tears. Juice stared at him. “Come on. We owe her that, man. She was our nagual.”

  Juice was silent. The sobbing boy looked around. There was a murmur and Beto spoke up. “He’s right, man. We gotta let ‘em bury her.”

  “They’ll blame us for her murder,” Juice said.

  I looked at her again. “How did she die? I don’t see any blood.”

  The no-longer-sobbing-boy spoke up: “There wasn’t any. No sign of trauma, either.” I did a double take at him. No sign of trauma? He watched too much CSI, apparently.

  “It’s just like with Bu Bu,” Beto said.

  Another dude spoke up. “It’s like I told you man. It was that shadow thing she saw. I saw it too.” Another murmur went up.

  “So did I,” I said. Everyone looked at me. “Just now. I saw it … float … out of the yard as I walked up. I followed it across the street, but it disappeared. I looked around for a while but …” I shrugged.

  “See?” the dude said, growing excited. “It’s just like I said. It was that shadow thing. It took her soul!” The boys started talking amongst themselves and the noise grew. Some were arguing, but it looked like the number of gangbangers in this household who believed was growing.

  “So maybe we should call Ayo,” Juice said.

  “No, not yet,” I said. “If you call her in on this now, it’ll delay us even more, and make it even harder to turn it over to the authorities.” Which was true, but really I just didn’t want Ayo taking over. Chucha wasn’t … hers. I didn’t need Ayo to examine her; I already knew what she would find. And I didn’t want her looking at Chucha like she did Bu Bu. Not now. Not yet. “You gotta decide: is this a human thing or a supernat thing? If you want to bury Chucha pr
operly, it has to be a human thing, and you gotta call the cops.”

  Juice seemed to really be considering this. Opinions were starting to really fly in the room as the guys argued with one another. And Juice seemed perfectly comfortable standing and thinking, at length, in front of everyone.

  “Okay,” Juice said, finally, and the noise diminished. He pointed at two guys. “Get her into the car and be careful with her. Beto, just take her to emergency. You guys were on a pizza run. That’s all.” They all nodded. Juice took a step toward the kitchen.

  “Wait. What about Tez?” I asked, before he could go. Tez needed to be informed, now, and he would want to be involved. He would never forgive me if I kept him from this. “He’ll want to see her, want to see what happened here. He can definitely help you guys figure out who did this. He’s as powerful as she … was. More.”

  “We know who did it,” Juice said, looking stubborn.

  “Who?” I asked.

  Juice set his jaw, but the voluble Sobbing Boy answered me “It was 70s Arroyo. They been after the Huexotl. They got it.” Juice took two steps and smacked him on the side of the head. “Shut your mouth,” he snarled. He looked around the room. “Nobody talks about the Huexotl. Got it?” General nods. He looked at me. “That means you too.”

  “You ain’t the boss of me—” his chin went up, “but I got no reason to advertise this around.” He frowned at me, but said nothing. “Now, you say the 70s killed Chucha and took the stick, but if it was them, they did it through this shadow thing. Maybe they have the stick, maybe they don’t, but you gotta find the shadow thing, and for that, you need a good nose. Literally. And the only one I can think of who would be willing to lend his nose to you for this purpose is Tez.” I looked at him slyly. “Unless you have another line on a werewolf after you got the first one killed.”

  “What about you?” he asked cooly.

  “What about me?” I said, lowering my head and my voice. He didn’t take the warning. And he was right about me. I could easily have taken another shape, one with a good nose, and gotten everything there was to get from the crime scene myself. But long experience told me to keep what I was from guys like this, and I wasn’t switching policy now.