I swallowed a laugh. I wish I could say the same for Wendy and Honey, who giggled openly. Pointing.
He rapped the cane on the cement like a gavel and stepped closer. “There you is, I been waitin’ for y’alls dead asses. Where you bitches been?”
I for one was appalled. Not at his deft use of ebonics, but at the Grillz he wore. I’d initially thought they were gold teeth. But as he entered our comfort bubble, I noticed that the word “shaman” was spelled out across his teeth in diamonds—er—cubic zirconia.
“Dude, you talk just like Davonne Graham.” Honey grinned.
“Thanks. You the girl with a question to ax. Get yo ass ova here.” He gestured for her to come forward.137
She slipped passed me, but I held onto her belt and dropped in behind. “That’s right. I—” she began.
“Oh I already knows the question.” He tapped his ’fro with the tip of his cane. “And it’s a sad thang. A sad sad sad thang.”
“Well if you could just—”
“Shit. You know what it is?” His eyes widened.
“What what is?” I asked, unable to hold a fashion comment back any longer. “And why are you dressed like a—”
“A mothafuckin’ white tragedy, that’s what.”
Honey’s mouth dropped open, she glowered. “But I’m Korean.”
“Don’t matta none.”
“Listen. Don’t you think you’re being a little racist?” Wendy pointed out, literally.
“I can’t be no racist, bitch. I’s a minority.”
I pushed Honey behind me, the logistics of which were becoming increasingly difficult, as the walls were smaller on one end of the hallway than the other. “Not where we are, you aren’t. The way I see it we’re the minority and you’re being offensive.” I felt a knuckle in my back and looked back at Wendy. She mouthed, “You’re offended?”
I shook my head, mouthed back an exaggerated “No, of course not,” and went back to work. “We’ve driven a long way to meet you, and this poor girl just wants to see her brother again. The least you can do is drop the bullshit posturing and give us an answer.”
“You gots the answer. Bust a cap in the bitch. She’ll be eyein’ her brotha real quick.” He jutted his jaw, pursing his lips.
Wendy must have sensed my anger, as she grabbed Honey’s hand and stomped off up the stairs.
I twirled toward M.C. Shaman. “Okay Mr. M.C. Wannabe Gangsta. I’m gonna need another answer before I leave here or I know one racist Indian that’s going to go missing.” I cocked my jaw open, clicking at the man until his eyes were saucers and he’d begun to back away into the bright room.
“No. No. No. Don’t do that. I got tons of answers. You just don’t know the questions.”
I followed him in. A card table sat square in the middle of the room under a pendant lamp, a label-less bottle rested on the motheaten green felt, a glass next to it; stacks of cellophane envelopes sat awaiting sets from piles of Grillz.
“Holy shit. Those aren’t by any chance enchanted,” I asked.
“Now there’s a question. Hells yeah. They all gots the magixes. I see you familiar with my product.”
I thought of The White House, the mistakes, the clusterfuck. “Not really. So, how about we start with a way for Honey to see her brother again?” I asked.
“Well, sure. There are tons of ways. An ocularis, for instance. Drink?”
“What’s that?” I pointed at the bottle.
“Alcohol. Whatchoo mean what’s that?” He poured a shot and slid it toward me.
I sat down and fondled the glass. “No. What you just said. Ocularis?”
“Just like a telescope only different. You don’t see no stars, you see spirits. But it don’t matta. Her problem ain’t about seeing her brother. Her problem about dyin’. Bitch is gonna die soon and there ain’t nothin’ you can do about it.”
“Why? How?” I reached for the shot glass, tossed it back and whistled. Rotgut. Probably made it himself in a rusty bucket. Still, I needed a little pick-me-up. His words were hitting hard.
“Don’t know why but seem to me she get beat to death. Nasty way to bite it, you ask me.” He poured me another.
“Who?”
“Don’t know that, either.”
“Jesus, can’t we go do a sweat or do some kind of vision quest or some other Indian shit and figure it out?” I rolled my eyes.
“Who’s being racist now?”
“Well you are a shaman, aren’t you?”
“God, no.” He stood up and snatched his pimp cup.
“What?”
“I’m a psychic … and a pimp. I just like the name M.C. Shaman. Helps with my street cred.”
I imagined the sad little patch of cement outside. “Don’t you mean ‘road cred’? There’s not even enough pavement outside to call it a street.”
“Whatever. All I’m sayin’ is your girl’s gonna die. Or supposed to.”
“Supposed to?”
“Sometimes you can stop these things.”
“I can?”
“No.”
“Jesus, you just said—”
“I know. I thought it’d make you feel better. Kinda don’t wanna go down your food hole.” A series of giggles erupted from M.C. Shaman, nervous as hiccups.
“I see.” I stood up and walked back into the hall.
“Wait. I do see one more thing.”
I stopped but didn’t turn around.
“Caves. Lots and lots of caves.”
Caves. Yeah. I got that one already.
I was done with M.C. Shaman. Done with mystics, psychics, seers, whatever. If there was a way to save Honey it was going to come from good old-fashioned ingenuity or perhaps a big mouth, and I’m pretty sure you know I’m not talking about a snappy comeback.
129 I hadn’t seen one yet, but you know Wal-Mart parking lots. There’s bound to be one mining the cement somewhere— guaranteed to be explosive.
130 Let’s observe a moment of silence.
131 That’d be me.
132 There might have been one, but unless it’s right in front of me, or properly advertised, I’m not going to go looking for it.
133 Particularly funny is the one with the little girl crying into an empty Christmas box. Sorry little Missy, Mommy loves the slots, now.
134 Progress!
135 As opposed to the farm fresh scent of newly expelled urine, of course.
136 You, being a racist and all. I won’t tell.
137 In case you need some interpretation. I’m ashamed of you, really.
Chapter 19
The Worst Realization
Ever, Seriously
Travel is the bane of a vampire’s existence. For the most part, the big freeway chain hotels are full of families and people that will be missed. If, say, you have an early morning craving you end up having to drive to some downtrodden neighborhood to feed, and then you run the risk of dawn. The best course of action is a downtown hotel. But that has its own series of risks; you’ll likely have to valet, so there goes the getaway car. Now, bed and breakfasts. There’s a solution.
—Gary Smagille’s Budget Travel for Bloodsuckers
As the Crow Reservation gave way to Montana ranch land, the horizon flattened out paper thin and wind swept off the snow-capped Big Horns like a frigid hurricane. Scott’s Mustang, arguably the most aerodynamic of the three vehicles, rocked with each gust and I ought to know; I was spread-eagled in the passenger seat, clutching the headrest with white knuckles, Scott’s hand searching for the sweet spot between my legs.
“The way I see it …” He drew languorous circles around my nasty nugget.138 “We’ve got three likely scenarios.”
“Uh huh.” I tensed my thighs, trapping his fingers in place for a moment.
“One—the most likely—your boy Fishhook has been up to no good. He killed Tad for the mushroom haul.”
I slid my hand across his thigh groping the bulge he’d cultivated.
“Aah … or t
wo. The weirdo family shapeshift … and are killing off perfectly good white people.”
I hummed a response. His fingers moving faster now, crossed and trapping my clit like a wish. I played my fingers across the fly of his jeans, teasing with the idea of springing that bad boy from its cell.
“Th-th-three.” He stuttered. “I haven’t mentioned this before now, but there’s a strong possibility that Markham’s onto my little defection and he’s sent Randy or Darryl to follow up and finish the job. At least we know for sure they’re werewolves. What’s worse, I’ve got a pretty decent nose and I didn’t catch a whiff of werewolf ass on anyone in that parking lot last night.”
That last sentence killed my libido. I left his cock struggling, reached for his wrist and gave it a pat. “Yeah, I’m done down here, let’s pick that back up later.”
“Are you serious?” He watched for me to shift into a grin, gestured at his lap, and then shoulders slouched, pulled his hand away. He wiped off what little moisture I was able to manufacture on his pants leg. “You’re gonna give me blue balls, you know?”
I lifted my hips off the seat, straightened my panties and pulled the discount skirt out of my ass. “So when were you going to tell me about your new theory?”
“I just thought about it on the drive from Billings.”
“Okay, smart guy, then get this shit. Who killed the albino girl? That was only two days out. Markham couldn’t have found out your plans that quick, unless he’s got you LoJacked or something. Do you remember that wereslut shoving an electronic tampon up your butt?”
“How’d you know?” Scott asked with a wink. “Did you ever think maybe he didn’t trust me to begin with?”
I hadn’t. “That would definitely make it plausible. But why would they kill that girl?”
“A warning?” He shrugged.
“To whom?”
“To me. To let me know that they’re out there and watching me not do my job.” As if to drive his point home, he fiddled with the rearview mirror.
“Why not just put you down?”
He cringed at the lame dog reference.
“Sorry. But, well, you know? Why hold back?”
“I guess they should have really. I would have in their position.”
“So maybe that’s not what’s happening.”
“But just in case, when we get to Rapid City, we’d better build a fort and hunker down.”
“That’s all very frontier, stud, and don’t think I don’t appreciate the image, but I can’t.”
“What?”
“I’ve got plans.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Okay.” I held up my hands in surrender. “My mother’s about to kick it. She’s in some hospice center as we speak. As wonderful as it’s been having this whole adventure to take my mind off her, time’s up. I can’t put off the inevitable. Gil’s agreed to go with me, just to help me through it.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, babe. Must be horrible for you.”
“Oh no no no. I mean yes.” I shook my head. “Oh yes. It’s horrible, but not for the reasons you’re thinking. Ethel’s totally getting what’s coming to her. She was a real asshole. Gil and Wendy were the ones who talked me into getting closure.” Complete with air quotes on “closure.”
“I was just going to let the issue die.”
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“It’s just … That’s a little harsh. She is your mother.”
I could feel my mouth contorting into a cat’s anus. How dare he? “How dare you make judgments?” I asked, swiveling in the seat to face him.
“I was just saying—”
“I heard you. I’m just not in the mood to take criticism from my own private stalker.”
“Also harsh.”
“It was meant to be.”
“Listen. Wendy and Gil are right in some respects. It’s important to clear the air before she dies. But you also need to understand that—”
“Don’t say it.” I couldn’t bear to hear it spoken.
“We all take after our parents in one way or another. In a sense, you owe a lotta what makes you so cool to your mom. Sure there were bad times. We all had those, but there were good times, I bet. Fun times. Times where I bet you even admired her.”
I seethed.
But didn’t have to cover his mouth. Scott knew enough to keep quiet this time. We sat in silence as we crossed the border into South Dakota. His words echoed in my head the entire time, mixed with my own in a symphony of shame.
Just like Mom.
It was true. God it was true. The bitch had worn off on me like a red shirt dropped in with the goddamn whites. It was in my freshman year at Seattle Community College that I first noticed the similarities and began to shove the reality down as deep as Wendy could a Twix bar.
Take a look….
Jordan Lamb-Corey was a 14-year-old advanced placement student working through a tough social challenge and not just a premature hyphen. The girl was a legitimate genius, SAT scores off the charts, president of the Honor Society and a complete social reject. It didn’t help that her parents cut a deal with her high school to split up her time between college course-work and age-appropriate social activities (lunch, sports, dances).
The way Jordan’s days were scheduled you’d think she was a CEO or a Hollywood actress on a press tour, and not the shy bookworm. Which is why I found her in the college library, reading Candace Bushnell in a study carrel.
“The thing about that book …” I flicked the cover to see Sarah Jessica Parker and the girls stepping out.
“Huh?” She shuddered with surprise, sheepish eyes peeking over metal-framed glasses.
“The thing about that book is that it makes you want to live it, right?” I squeezed in between her and the carrel and sat on the desk, crossing my legs.
She scanned my look. Head-to-toe afternoon glamour complete with pearl drop earrings, a stunning updo and the finest Edith Head knock-off lunching suit I could find. Heels of course. Pointy as hell.
“You’re really gorgeous.” Jordan pushed her glasses up the thin bridge of her nose, revealing a startling red indent. The girl’s lips were thin and nearly as pale as her pasty cheeks.
“I know, right? Sadly, you’re not. But you can be. I’ve seen you hanging around here and you look a little out of your element. Though …” Her clothes were mildly grungy, flannel shirt over a Screaming Trees T-shirt, holey-kneed jeans with words doodled on the fabric in ballpoint pen. “… you might want to hook up with the potheads in the teachers’ lounge.”
“No!” She yelled. Heads poked up from their studies. She dropped to a whisper. “I don’t do drugs.”
“Of course not. Who said you did?”
She shrugged.
“The trick is to run with it and never let them know they fazed you.” I breezed over the fact that I’d been the offensive party and reached over and took off her glasses. She squinted, grabbed them from my hand and slid them back on with a grimace.
“I don’t have any friends around here. In high school, either, really. Everybody sucks.”
I hatched my scheme right then and there.
“Isn’t that the truth?” I assessed her hair, thick, shoulder-length and not at all scraggly. I could work with it. “Let’s do a makeover. What do you say?”
As her thin lips stretched into a smile, they flattened a bit becoming almost plump. Almost attractive. Workable.
“Meet me after school. I’ll be at the Starbucks.”
“Which one?”
“Duh, the new one.”
She nodded and so began my gracious tutelage of the poor girl.139 If I had my way, Jordan would be the most popular girl in her school by the end of the week. I could dream, right?
Now, it’s important to note that I, myself, was not particularly popular—nor was I a geek, mind you. I was feared and that’s nearly as important.
“So. Do you at least know the Five Deadly Digs?�
��
“What? Like slams or something?” she asked.
“Something. Let’s practice.” I stepped away cocked my jaw and looked from her shoes, up her legs to her eyes, cringed and shook my head.
“Oh my God, what?” Jordan brushed at her top, prodded her hair, for debris, presumably.
“That, bitch, was number one, The Look. It’s an up and down perusal followed by the slow shake of the head. Non-verbal critique is essential for diminishing your adversary to a miniscule blithering idiot.” I gestured to the girl. “Case in point.”
“Gawd. Nice.”
“It’s not about nice. It’s about winning. Two. Metaphor. See that woman over there?” I pointed to an overweight thing stepping out of a city bus, at least five children in tow and lugging a sixth in a car seat, likely named Sciatica. “Like so.” I yelled across to the woman, “Bitch, it’s a vagina not a clown car!”
Jordan’s head sunk into her shoulders. “Holy shit! That was evil.”
“No. That was number two and not the freshest comparison, either. I think I picked it up from my mother. By making an intellectual connection between one thing, the vagina, in this case, to a ridiculous comparison, we gain a significant advantage on our opponent, in this case, the lovely Welfaria over there. Which brings me to number three. Renaming. Don’t ever call someone by their proper name. It’s like giving up your power and people with high self-esteem don’t do that. Got it?”
Our high heels clicked in tandem.
“Next up. Superficial agreement. Let’s try. You ask me to do something.”
Jordan thought for a moment, then asked, “Could you meet me after school today?”
I laughed. “Uh … yeah.” I nodded. “I’ll totally do that. For sure. Whatever. See? How’d that feel.”
“Crappy.”
“Excellent. Last one. The truth. Get to know people’s secrets. Nothing cuts a person off at the knees like a well-timed revelation. Since I don’t know any about you we’ll forgo practice, but keep your eyes open and listen.”
Within weeks, like magic the girl developed quite a following amongst the other students. By homecoming, she was a princess, by holiday break banging the quarterback, by prom the first sophomore queen. She was unstoppable. We’d meet in the library and conspire.
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