by SL Hulen
“Thanks,” he shouted just before they disappeared. He took a deep breath and forced himself back into the van, but not before committing the silver car’s license plate to memory. He drove away almost faint with desperation. At the nearest intersection, he turned into a lot, where he could observe which direction they would take. His shaking hands had barely scribbled the number onto his wrist when Mieley glanced up and saw them driving past. The single-mindedness of a predator came over him as he followed the silver sedan to its eventual destination—St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Slinking low, his coveralls soaked in sweat, he caught a glimpse of the bracelet shining against her bronze skin as they walked inside, and his heart quickened.
Mieley chewed two more fingers bloody waiting for them to come out. After leaving the church, they stopped for takeout before turning onto a narrow road that snaked up to an isolated apartment complex atop a high mesa. It bore more than a cursory resemblance to the ancient Israeli stronghold of Masada. He wondered if the design was intentional, if anyone in this shithole bordertown would have recognized it.
Eyeing the guardhouse in front of the opening gate, he eased his foot off the accelerator. Security gates often had cameras; it was better not to take a chance. Seconds later, his prey disappeared as the gate slid closed. A guard, the gate—they were of little consequence. He had the plate number.
Chapter Nineteen Victoria
Unaware that they were being followed, Victoria inched the car -through the slowly opening gate.
“Hiding in the back row with that sinister device in your hand. Who do you think you’re fooling?” Khara chided. “You’re avoiding your spiritual responsibilities, Victoria.”
“Forgive me if I wasn’t in the mood.”
“Father Donato agrees with me,” Khara asserted in a way Victoria found irritating. “Although, in his infinite wisdom, he says that everyone must consider the man on the cross in their own time.”
“I’ve never spoken to him or anyone else about my religious inclinations because I don’t have any. Besides, I had to take that call. It was a client.”
“Despite your insolence, Father Donato praises you. He told me that countless prayers are said on your behalf in his church.”
“Marta,” she sighed. “Apparently there are others. I’m learning to pray the rosary, and then I’ll pray for you, too.”
“Knock yourself out.”
Khara looked at her strangely, and then turned her attention to the steaming bag of flautas they’d picked up on the way home. If, in her days of endless study, Khara had any inkling that a kitchen was useful for anything besides warming soup and making coffee, she made no mention of it.
Inside the apartment, Khara slid out of her sandals, seized the white paper bag, unfolded the top to release the aroma of fried tortillas, and took their dinner outdoors. There, a sky the exact color of orange sherbet threatened to distract Victoria from the events of the day and perhaps it would have, except that as she set her purse down, the heavy envelopes seemed to weigh her heart down all over again.
After a meal she scarcely touched, Victoria dialed the Picasso of document forgery, Anton Murgat. This time he was almost pleasant and agreed to meet at four o’clock the following day. Your father would be ashamed. Elias’s words echoed through her mind.
“Victoria?”
“Yes.”
“Your uncle won’t stay angry with you for long.”
“You don’t know him. Underneath that suave exterior, Elias can be a stubborn mule.”
“Thousands of years have passed, and yet some things remain the same.”
“You said it.” Victoria checked her watch, surprised to find that it was too early to turn in. “Maybe tonight we could try watching something besides the Science Channel. What about culture? You’re missing out on entire spectra of knowledge. How can you study a civilization without knowing what they found beautiful, or how they expressed themselves?”
“None of those things help feed a growing nation. Still, you make a good point. I leave the evening’s entertainment in your hands.”
“Well then, let’s see,” Victoria muttered, scrolling through the channels. “Perfect! Vertigo comes on in a half hour.” She brought some extra pillows from the hall closet and piled them on the floor, and then put on her sloppiest pajamas and tossed a University of Texas at El Paso football jersey to Khara. “I’ll make popcorn.”
At first Khara was reluctant to eat anything that exploded in the microwave. But when Kim Novak jumped from the steeple, Khara declared her a goddess and, preoccupied with admiration, swallowed a kernel or two. After that, the bowl emptied quickly and Victoria considered, with a smile, that they could have been any two girlfriends that night.
Later, a man with features indistinct except for the black sweep of his eyebrows entered her dreams. The color of his skin did not belong to the living, and his presence in her uncle’s office frightened her. Victoria awoke on the couch, saw Khara sleeping peacefully at the other end, and closed her eyes again. That was all she remembered the next morning. Sipping her coffee, it dawned on her that the man she had not recognized, the one who had sent ice through her veins, had been her Papí. To not recognize her father meant something, and it couldn’t be good.
At work, she reviewed a visa application for a new business with none of her usual enthusiasm. Returning several phone calls, she noted a mechanical edge to her voice and wondered if her client had noticed as well. After a passable day’s work, she ducked through the back door to escape Gracie’s disapproving glare. She had less than an hour before her meeting with Murgat, and she needed to pick up Khara.
“Did you speak with your uncle?” she inquired the moment Victoria opened the door. She was sitting on the rug in the middle of the room, bathed in a rectangular beam of sunlight. “I told you, it’s going to take some time for him to come around. At least a couple of weeks—maybe more this time.”
Chapter Twenty Victoria
Victoria had never been to the part of downtown to which Murgat directed her. For safety, she decided to park near the courthouse. It took only a few minutes and a turn or two down obscure streets before a completely different neighborhood revealed itself.
After passing the bus station, she and Khara walked along a street lined with adult stores and vintage clothing shops. There were plenty of curio markets—the kind crammed full of velvet sombreros, key chains, and huaraches. A cumbia blared from an open window of a dingy, three-story building, a pot of coral geraniums with enviable blooms sitting on the windowsill. A group of women lazed on the steps of a house that was most likely a brothel—or so Victoria assumed from the amount of skin visible.
“Wha’chu lookin’ at?” a young woman dressed in a leopard and lace tank top and not much else demanded.
Ignoring her, they continued. Though she remained silent, Khara’s eyes took in the smallest details while Victoria searched for the address, which she had scribbled on a piece of paper.
“Hey, beautiful!” a voice yelled from across the street. “I’ve got something red and slinky that’s just your size.”
Her middle finger began to rise, but she restrained herself. Ahead, a man in a sweat-stained guayabera with a pencil mustache leaned against an avocado-colored Impala. As they got closer, she looked him dead in the eye and drew up to her full five-foot, nine-inch frame. Reluctantly, he averted his inappropriate gaze. “A couple of spectacular pieces of ass,” he commented as they walked by. Victoria’s cheeks burned at the way his eyes continued to follow them, but she said nothing and kept her pace. “You girls working tonight? I’ll take you both for a hundred!”
She was about to shut him up when Khara moved in close. “A hundred paces behind. He’s been watching us since we left the car.”
“How can anyone be following us? No one knows we’re here,” Victoria protested, but spun around. Someone was there—a reedy silhouette in the afternoon sun. Instinctively, she reached inside her bag and slid a key between each knuckle of
her right hand before hurrying on. “It’s probably just Murgat making sure we’re alone.” Looking ahead, she saw a run-down building at the end of the street and said, “There. There’s no street number, but I’m pretty sure that’s it.”
Juegos Prohibodos was a squalid neighborhood bar infested with barflies of dubious gender. Khara gave Victoria an uneasy look and cringed at the blast of music and cigarette smoke pouring from the open door. “Forbidden games”—the name fit perfectly.
In the cave of darkness inside the door, they found Murgat waiting. He led them across a black-and-white-checkered dance floor, past bodies pulsing with angry movements exaggerated by black light, and down a narrow hallway. He opened the last door on the left, and they walked into a room with blood-red walls. A metal stool sat next to a tripod, accompanied by a metal desk and a banker’s chair on casters. Amid the squalor, however, was an impressive array of magnifying lamps, ink pads, and craft knives. A dingy sheet hung from nails on the wall.
“So this is where you ply your trade,” Victoria said casually.
“Taking notes, are you?” Murgat asked, turning his wolfish yellow-green eyes on her. Then he removed the camera from its perch and checked it.
“Just stating the obvious,” Victoria noted.
In a plain white blouse and no makeup, Khara held Victoria’s driver’s license tightly in her right hand.
“You’re going to see a flash,” Victoria warned, “but it’s only a function of the instrument.”
“Afterwards, will I have an official document like yours?”
“You’ll have something better,” she promised, pointing to the card clenched between Khara’s fingers. “That is only for driving. You’ll have a passport. With it, we can travel across the borders of other countries.”
Murgat guided Khara to the stool and tilted her chin forward. “Now, just look this way and hold it…hold it,” he instructed. “No, no, this way a bit.”
She grimaced at the first few blasts of light, and closed her eyes after that. Twenty-thousand dollars had, however, bought a consummate professional with the patience of a saint. Murgat stood silent and unruffled, even letting Victoria coach Khara.
“I’ll count—one, two, three. When I say three, open your eyes and smile.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re having your photo taken, and the timing has to be just right.”
Khara did her best to follow the instructions. She closed her eyes. “Shouldn’t a likeness inspire admiration and respect?”
“Not always; sometimes they’re just for fun. Imagine how much more authentic the portrait of a king would be if he were laughing, or playing with his dog.”
“If only you knew the hours upon hours spent preventing just such an ordinary image,” Khara answered, sounding slightly annoyed.
The slapping of Murgat’s rubber sole on the floor went unheeded.
“I’m ready now,” Khara announced. She sat stiffly, her hands folded in her lap and a confused expression on her face.
Tucking a strand of greasy hair behind his ear, he bent over the camera.
“Are you comfortable?” Murgat paused to drag a light closer to the stool. “Sorry ’bout the music; something for everyone, I guess.” He gave Kha Victoria was becoming accustomed to the effect Khara had on people, and was working on a nickname for it. Here was Murgat, a convicted felon, tripping all over himself. At first she’d thought of it simply as charisma—or better yet, Kharisma. But even that failed to capture his incapacitation as he observed the Egyptian girl through his lens. No, it had to be something over the top, which is when Kharissima hit her. This girl had it in spades.
A few moments later, he looked at Victoria as though he had forgotten she was there, and then told Khara, “All right, miss, we’re done.” His eyes narrowed and something in his voice changed as he held out an ink-stained hand. “You owe me ten now, and the rest when I deliver,” he informed Victoria.
“And when will that be?” she inquired, handing over the envelope crammed with $100 bills. “We’re in a hurry.”
“Give me a week or two; I’m backed up. ’Sides, I’m giving you my best work.”
“You’re not giving me anything. I’m paying a fortune, and I expect your best work. Two weeks, Murgat. Not a day more.” He stepped away to let Khara pass through the door, and then moved into Victoria’s path. “Careful with the rest of my money,” he sneered before moving aside.
Outside the bar, Khara uncovered her ears and exhaled deeply. “Not even in dreams could I have imagined such depravity. That place has at least three toes in the Underworld— perhaps four.” Once they were out of earshot, she added, “Menefra would have loved it.”
Occasionally, she stole glances behind them to see if the stranger had reappeared. It turned out to be as Victoria thought—a simple coincidence. Still, Khara seemed unsatisfied and kept quiet, her forehead lined with worry. “Can Murgat be trusted?” she asked out of the blue.
“He’s no fool. I’ll bet he’s still wondering how I found him and what connections I have with the DA’s office. Murgat’s got a solid reputation for not ratting out clients. Besides, I think you charmed him.”
Evening was falling quickly, and they wasted no time returning to the more respectable streets of downtown. Here and there a shop-sign flickered and came to life in the lengthening shadows. A stream of office workers began pouring out of buildings and onto the streets, shoulders close, heads down, seemingly preoccupied with the single thought of getting home. The two women easily blended in.
When Khara lingered in front of a store window, seeming to admire some bolts of colorful fabric, Victoria thought nothing of it until Khara leaned closer. “He’s back,” she hissed. “I knew my senses had not deceived me. Look for yourself.”
Victoria glanced over her shoulder and caught sight of a figure weaving decisively through the foot traffic a half-block behind them. Something about his monotonous features struck her as familiar—and recent. Beyond that, she could not place him at all. He sensed her looking at him and in the instant when their eyes locked, she was transported to that terrible day on the riverbank when her mother’s cries for compassion were answered with brutality. Sensing the presence of malice, her mind went numb and her feet froze.
“Do you know him?”
Victoria shook her head.
Khara took her by the elbow and they hurried on. “I remember now,” she proclaimed. “The man with the bloody fingers.”
“Who?”
“He was there, yesterday, at the museum—just as we were going inside. He asked you something, didn’t he?”
“Directions of some sort. I didn’t get a good look at him.” They moved under the awning of another window where they would be less visible. Several mannequins in various stages of undress looked out, and a woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses with a navy silk blouse draped over her shoulder glanced at them quickly and went back to her work of dressing them.
“Give me your outer garment.”
“Why?”
“Quickly!”
Victoria handed Khara her tan blazer, which she thrust into the hands of the first person who approached. As luck would have it, it happened to be a young woman, who eyed them suspiciously.
“Have you ever needed help from a stranger?” It became obvious that Khara was well-schooled in the art of persuasion.
“Is this some kind of trick?” the perplexed young woman answered with her own question as her eyes swept Khara’s face and her fingers studied the summer—weight wool of the jacket.
Thankfully, Victoria’s mind was clear again. “See the man pushing the crosswalk button? He’s just crossed that corner for the second time. He’s following us.”
“What does he want with you?”
“Nothing good.”
“Please, there is no time to waste,” Khara interjected. “Wear this,” she coaxed, taking the coat from the woman’s hands and sliding it onto her shoulders. “It will confuse him.”
Unexpectedly, the young woman’s expression hardened. “He’ll be angrier now” she cautioned under her breath. “They’re always angry when you try to get away.” Her fingers quickly undid her braid, releasing hair was as dark as Victoria’s and a bit longer before she slipped her arms into the jacket. Before she set off, zig-zagging through the pedestrian traffic in such a way as to attract attention, she looked back for a second. Don’t get caught, her expression said. Then Victoria could see nothing of her except the tail of her favorite jacket flying like a cape.
“The temptation is to run. Do not yield to it,” Khara stressed. “Victoria?”
After having temporarily lost touch with time and space at the sight of the man, Victoria retained only a dim memory of how she and Khara faded into the stream of pedestrians like rings of smoke into the graying dusk and made their escape.
Chapter Twenty-one Mieley
He observed the two women as they left the parking garage on foot. The hot wind fanned flames of pain in his left hand. He took a moment to scrutinize it, grimacing at the damage he had done. This won’t look good for my National Geographic interview, he thought. Need to get back on the medication.
He got out of his car and followed them. Even from half a block away, he noticed things the average person would miss. Mere inches separated them as they walked. When their footsteps quickened and their hands brushed against each other, it was without the least bit of awkwardness. Evidently, theirs was no strict attorney-client relationship.
In the sea of dark skin and hair, Mieley felt conspicuous. The feeling threatened to overwhelm him. He had to remind himself, as he walked the dusty streets where neither the shop signs nor the conversations were in English, that he was still in the United States.
His quarry headed down back streets and into a seedy nightclub. Perhaps, he thought, licking his lips, Elias’s niece has a more interesting side. A man wearing green sneakers led them inside. Mieley was left to imagine what they might be doing and with whom they might be doing it. When his imagination got the better of him, he went inside.