“I do,” I said as if bestowing a great present. “Rodriguez.”
“Lupita Rodriguez,” Carlos repeated as he jotted it down in his notebook. “Okay: Lupita is a nickname for Guadalupe, so we’re probably looking for a Guadalupe Rodriguez.”
“Well, that’s something, isn’t it?” I said encouragingly.
“Not really. Rodriguez is a common name, like Smith or Jones. It won’t be easy to hunt her down.”
“If anybody can do it, you can. You’re the Man.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m the Man.”
“Hey, Carlos. Can I ask you something?”
“Fire away.”
“If Nicky Utley’s death was a homicide instead of a suicide, you’d be looking at the husband first, wouldn’t you?”
“I would. And I did. Gary has an alibi for when Nicky died. Also, there were witnesses to the jump. One poor guy tried to save her, with no luck. He was pretty shaken up, as you can imagine. But none of the witnesses reported seeing anyone resembling Gary in the vicinity. He’s in the clear.”
“You went through something similar with your cousin and Max, didn’t you? I am sorry for being so personal but I couldn’t help but notice the parallels.”
He nodded. “I think you know I’m more open to the paranormal than most of my colleagues,” said Carlos. “But it’s precisely because of that understanding and respect that I get so angry about people who make a mockery of this sort of thing, who aren’t careful.”
I felt a wave of pleasure that, at the very least, he apparently believed I was in the “good” camp.
“So,” Carlos said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “Is it time for poker?”
“It’s not like we’re playing for money, or anything.”
“You have to play for a little money, just to make it interesting.”
I smiled. “Oh, hey, speaking of money: Ursula can’t afford a lawyer but she says the ‘free’ lawyers aren’t free, somehow. Is that true?”
“She’s not paying for his services. It’s a court fee.”
“What’s the difference between a court fee and a payment?”
“I don’t make the rules, Lily.”
“So her legal representation isn’t free.”
“It’s not much of a fee, certainly nothing compared to the cost of hiring a private defense attorney.”
“Okay, but still . . .”
He shrugged again.
I blew out an exasperated breath. “How do I pay the fee for her?”
“Ask the court clerk.” He smiled. “You know, around here there’s a word for someone like you.”
“Humanitarian?”
“Sucker,” he said with a wink. “Which just happens to be my favorite kind of person with whom to play poker.”
Chapter 11
A piece of popcorn sailed across the table and hit me square on the nose.
“Lily Ivory, as I live and breathe,” said Bronwyn in a terrible rendition of my Texas twang, “I do declare: You’re cheating.”
“I’m not cheating, I’m winning. That’s two different buckets of possums.”
Sailor studied the back of his cards with a frown, as though trying to figure out if I could see through them. “And here I thought I was the psychic.”
I threw the popcorn back at him. He grinned, caught it, and tossed it to Oscar, who was attending tonight in his piggy form. Even though we were among good friends, Oscar only showed his natural self to a very select group of magical folk.
Despite having eaten half a dozen slices of pizza, Oscar was on constant popcorn-patrol under the card table. In his search he kept bumping up against legs, of the human and furniture variety, and occasionally lifted the entire table, sending us lunging after toppling beer bottles. It was a little like playing cards aboard a storm-tossed ship.
“How come every time I win,” I demanded, raking in a pile of matchsticks to add to my already substantial mound, “everyone thinks I’m cheating?”
“’Cause you’re a witch,” mumbled Maya. She perused the cards splayed on the table, her lips moving silently.
“Yes, but you’re counting cards.” I looked to Carlos, the sole representative of law and order at the table. “Isn’t that illegal in Vegas?”
“Want me to arrest her?” he asked. “I’m off duty but I could roust her tomorrow.”
“And this isn’t Vegas,” said Bronwyn. “We’re playing Bronwyn’s house rules: Counting cards is a learned skill, involving math, so I allow it. Witchcraft, on the other hand . . .”
“For one thing, witchcraft is a learned skill, too. You think it comes easy?” I demanded. “And for another: I am not casting spells over these cards! Land sakes!”
The group dissolved into laughter. Conrad started to gather the cards to deal a new hand, and Duke got up to replenish our drinks.
“So, Carlos, you simply have to tell me what’s going on over at Señora Moreno’s shop,” said Bronwyn. “Lily here seems to think it’s confidential.”
Carlos stuck out his chin, thoughtful. “It’s not so much confidential, as we have no idea what’s happening. At this point, I’m thinking maybe it’s a poltergeist.”
“Like the movie? I saw that as a kid,” said Maya. “My mom wouldn’t let me stay in the same room as the television after that.”
“Dude,” said Conrad with a sympathetic nod.
“That’s not out of the question, actually,” I said. “I mean, poltergeists are often associated with adolescent girls. Ursula’s granddaughter, Selena, is fourteen.”
“So sad you still haven’t found her,” said Bronwyn as she filled a bowl with potato chips, then “accidentally” dropped the half-full bag on the floor and with her foot nudged it under the card table. “Dear me! I’m so clumsy.”
“I saw that,” I said. “And even if I had somehow missed your subtle maneuver, Oscar is noisier than a corn-husk mattress with that chip bag.”
Oscar appeared from under the table, the chip bag firmly planted over his snout. We all laughed, and Maya snapped a photo with her phone. Several vigorous head shakes send the empty bag flying, and revealed a muzzle encrusted with potato chips. He snorted, then glared at us with his pink piggy eyes as he attempted to capture the crumbs with his inadequate tongue.
“Aw, poor piggy. I think he’s embarrassed,” said Maya.
“C’mere, pig,” said Sailor, and brushed the crumbs off Oscar’s porcine schnoz. “Give the poor guy a little dignity.”
Conrad shuffled the cards and did some sort of fancy thing so they splayed like an accordion in the air before coming back together. He dealt the cards rapidly and with such panache I wondered whether he had ever been a pro, but when I asked he simply replied, “Dude. Ante up! Five matchsticks a piece.”
As we picked up our cards and assessed our hands, Carlos said, “So, seriously. Could you folks who are knowledgeable about this sort of thing explain poltergeists to me? They’re not normal spirits, are they?”
I glanced at Sailor. Eyes still glued to his cards, he said, “Poltergeists aren’t ‘normal’ in the sense that they’re not ghosts, or departed human souls. They’re believed to be low-level spirits, such as elementals, or even psychokinetic energy let loose upon the world. I’ll bet two matchsticks.”
“And why are they associated with adolescent girls?” Carlos asked. “I’ll see your two matchsticks, and raise you one.”
“The adolescent part is easy,” said Bronwyn, tossing a trio of matchsticks into the pot. “After all, adolescence is a time of great energy, but also great strife. Under certain conditions and circumstances, negative energy can be thrust outward. Oh, sorry, Sailor! Didn’t mean to butt in.”
I heard a loud snort from beneath the table as Oscar reacted to Bronwyn saying “butt.”
“No, by all means, go on,” said Sailor. “You’re absolutely right, and though I’ve gone up against a couple of poltergeists, I’m certainly no expert.”
“Okay,” Carlos said. “I gu
ess the adolescent part makes sense. But is it limited to girls?”
“The evidence, such as it is, points to a feminine energy,” said Sailor. “It is considered more receptive, less active.”
“Is this a theory espoused by men, by any chance?” Maya put in, upping the ante by another two matchsticks.
“I know it sounds sexist, but . . . males and females do tend to emit energy with different wavelengths,” Sailor explained. “Not sure what to say about that, much less whether it’s a nature- or nurture-type situation. I avoid that theoretical debate, by and large.”
“I’ll just bet you do,” I said, gazing at him across the table.
“I’m more of an action guy,” he said softly. His mouth was open slightly, and his tongue wandered to the inside of his cheek. We shared a secret smile.
Bronwyn started humming the k-i-s-s-i-n-g song again, and I broke the eye contact with a blush. “Um, sorry. I lost track. How much are we up to, now?”
“It’s five to you, dudette,” said Conrad.
Having polished off the potato chips, Oscar was now snoring under the table. I kicked off my shoes and rested my feet on his warm backside.
“Anyway, most folks agree that poltergeist activity is a psychokinetic phenomena—the girls’ own innate powers organize and focus ambient energies, resulting in . . .”
“Chaos.”
“Exactly. Then again, there’s a theory that poltergeists are low-level minions who escape when a demon is called without success. And Maya, I would like to point out that such demons are typically called by middle-aged men.”
“So, which do you believe?” Carlos asked. “Minions, or psychokinetic energy?”
“All of the above,” replied Sailor. “Poltergeist literally means ‘noisy ghost.’ I think lots of events get lumped into the same category, even when they’re caused by different things. As is the case with most unexplained phenomena, people are looking for a single, easily understood cause rather than dealing with the complexity of the situation.”
“You’re saying poltergeists are easily understood?”
“Within the context of elemental spirits and out-of-control psychic energy,” Sailor said with a shrug.
Carlos nodded, thoughtful, and turned his attention back to the game. I was pleased to see Carlos and Sailor engaged in a civilized discussion. Their paths had crossed long before I had met either of them, when a psychic associate of Sailor’s gave Carlos’s cousin—Max’s wife— some misguided advice with devastating consequences. Sailor had not been directly involved, but had been tarred with the same brush. Since then, both men made an effort to be civil around each other, at least in front of me, but were hardly best buddies.
The game proceeded, and when I asked for two cards, I received two queens to add to the three tens I already had. I tried to stifle my glee: a full house, queens high.
For a moment I considered folding, lest I be accused of witchcraft again. But then I reconsidered. After all, my friends were unlikely to burn me at the stake over a game of cards, and durnitall, I had a full house. So I held my head high.
“I’ll see your five and raise you . . . ten.”
“Oooooo,” Bronwyn and Maya said together.
“Them’s fightin’ words,” Duke said, and Carlos nodded.
“You sure you know what you’re doing there, missy?” Sailor asked, squinting at me.
“Oooooo,” Bronwyn and Maya repeated.
“Dude,” Conrad said, sounding shocked.
“You go, Sailor,” said Carlos and took a swig from his beer bottle. “I like a man who’s not afraid to get his ass kicked.”
“Too rich for my blood,” said Maya and folded her cards. “Bronwyn?”
“Nope. I’m out. How about you, Duke?”
“Well, I’m mighty tempted to see this through to the end, but you know what they say about poker: ‘Fold and live to fold again.’” He tossed his cards down on the table.
I looked at Carlos.
“Not me, kid. I didn’t become a homicide inspector by underestimating my opponent.”
“So it’s down to two,” Bronwyn said. “Lily and Sailor.”
“Two tough, battle-hardened veterans. Each sizing up the opponent in a duel to the death,” Carlos said, displaying a whimsical side I had only suspected was there.
“Dude and dudette,” Conrad whispered. “May the force be with you.”
“Which one?” asked Maya.
“Dude.”
Sailor studied me for a long moment. He took a pull on the ice-cold beer Duke set in front of him.
“You got this, Sailor,” Duke said with the attentiveness of a boxing coach tending to his fighter.
“Yeah, take her down, my man,” said Maya.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “How about a little support from the distaff side?”
“Last I heard, you were trying to get me expelled from this particular casino for counting cards.”
I laughed, conceding her point.
“Not that it did me any good,” said Maya, getting up to clear a few of our empty glasses. “I can count all night long, but if all I’m dealt are crappy cards, that’s all she wrote.”
“But you know what they say,” chirped Bronwyn, waggling her eyebrows, “unlucky at cards, lucky at love.”
“Yes, because I have been so demonstrably lucky at love,” said Maya in a sardonic tone. “I blame Conrad for my deplorable showing.”
“Dude, in my own defense, I’ll just say that while I rock as a dealer, I have the smallest pile of matchsticks of anyone here at this table. Maybe Oscar should take my place; he’d probably do better.”
Upon hearing his name, Oscar snorted awake and got up to look for more food, lifting the table and causing the soda and beer bottles to rock precipitously. We grabbed onto our drinks.
“Let’s finish this game, quick,” said Sailor, pushing a small mound of matchsticks into the kitty. “I call.”
“Full house. Queens high,” I said proudly, laying my cards on the table.
“Wow. Thought she was bluffing,” muttered Duke.
“It’s witchcraft, I’m telling you,” said Maya.
“Nice try there, Sailor,” said Carlos.
Sailor lifted one eyebrow and laid down his cards, faceup, with a dramatic flourish.
“Royal flush.”
“You cheated!” I cried. “You saw my cards!”
Sailor smirked, and I picked up a handful of matchsticks and tossed them in the air so they rained down upon the gang.
“Never play cards with a psychic,” Bronwyn said, shaking her head.
Oscar jumped around in excitement, once again bumping the table but this time sending everything flying. Maya lunged for the pitcher of sangria while the rest of us scrambled to contain the damage. Conrad scooped up soggy potato chips and pizza crusts while Oscar vacuumed the floor of errant peanuts and beer.
Bronwyn just let loose her hearty, warm laugh, waving off our concern for her table and carpet.
“And always,” Bronwyn added, “bring a pig to a poker game.”
* * *
“I’m sorry I can’t come up,” Sailor said after he saw me to my door and gave me a kiss that took my breath away.
“You’d rather go hang out with Precious than come upstairs with little ol’ me?”
He smiled. “Her name is Patience, not Precious, as you very well know. And I think we both know what I’d rather be doing. But we’ve got something set up for midnight. It’s a timing thing.”
“Well, I hope all this training is worth it.”
“Me, too.”
“And I’m glad you got a reprieve for earlier in the evening at least, so you could come to the party. I had a really good time.”
“Me, too. I’m proud of you, Lily, you diploma-holder, you. I guess you showed algebra who’s boss.”
“At long last. Solving for the ‘x’ nearly did me in.”
We shared another delicious kiss, and then I watched him climb onto his mo
torcycle and roar away.
I carried the remnants of the red velvet cake Bronwyn and Maya had baked for me—decorated with a pointy witch’s hat made of frosting—through the shop and upstairs into my apartment. Oscar trotted along behind, morphing into his natural, garrulous self as soon as we were hidden from view of any curious passersby.
“That was some party, I tell ya,” he said, his eyes never leaving the cake.
“It was, wasn’t it?”
“Hey, I know! You should take that test again, get another party. Take it quick, before you forget everything.”
I laughed. “I don’t think it works that way. This was a onetime deal.”
“Next time you and me play cards, no more gin rummy. We should play poker, for money.”
“No way. You cheat!”
“Nah. Besides, they all said you cheated tonight.”
“I did no such thing. I was lucky, is all.”
“Lucky at cards, unlucky in love,” Oscar reversed Bronwyn’s adage from earlier in the evening.
As silly as it was, my stomach clenched a little.
“Hey, did you hear when Bronwyn said ‘butt’? Heh! And then that one time, when Carlos had two pair and Duke had absolutely nothing, but he was bluffing? And then Maya . . .”
I put away the cake and brushed my teeth while Oscar followed me around recounting virtually every hand we had played tonight. He was quite the multitasker: even while continuing his eternal quest for food, he had been checking out everyone’s cards.
I was about to change into my nightgown when I spied my crystal ball sitting, dusty and neglected, on a side table in the living room.
Before Aidan and I had our falling-out, he had been trying to help me develop my scrying skills, or the ability to see visions in the crystal ball. But in this area, at least, I was one sorry excuse for a witch. I hated to admit that I hadn’t gotten any better, but the truth was that I hadn’t. And it was my own fault. I’d been skating along on my other abilities and hadn’t been doing my homework.
Besides, after taking the GED I had flat-out declined to do any more studying for a while. I wanted a break.
In other words, I had no excuse. “Do it or don’t. Hazlo o no,” my grandmother often said. She was like a Latina Yoda with a cauldron.
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