Kiss Me, I'm Undead

by Tasha L Driver

  Whoops. There went the mood, but I decided to continue trying to keep it light. “Well, the doc said I was dehydrated...” He waited patiently for the story he knew was coming. “...but the nurse said I was dead.”

  “Told ya.”

  “I am clearly not dead, Miguel,” I said too loudly and got looks from his co-butchers and a little old Pakistani lady being helped by one of them.

  “Not technically dead, mami. Undead, right?”

  “No. I’m alive. Just...just sick. That’s all, okay?”

  He looked sheepish. “Whatever you say.” He wiped his hands on a towel. “You here for info or a few cuts?”

  “Both.”

  The grin Miguel gave me was sexy and devious. He put both hands on the counter and leaned forward “Which do you want first?”

  “Can’t you just tell me while you get my order together?”

  “Nope. I want to know which is more important to you.” Oooh, this little bastard.

  I had to actually think about it, which was amazingly ridiculous. Obviously, the info was some super important shit. But as I stood there on the customer side of the beef counter, I wanted to dive into it and go to town. I wanted to eat everything there and more, getting dirty from the bloody juices. Holy hell, I was losing my goddamned mind. I decided the best tactic was to control myself and give him the answer that wouldn’t satisfy his need to believe I was a fucking zombivamp. “Info, shitfucker. You know what’s more important to me.” He did. He so did.

  Miguel pushed away from the counter and tilted his head, contemplating for a moment. What? I had no clue. It amazed me that someone so young was so knowledgeable and in tune to others around him. He should be doing something other than being a butcher. That was when it occurred to me that I’d never bothered to ask much about his life and what he did when he wasn’t here. He told me about the movies, but...

  “Miguel, do you go to school or anything?”

  “Me. Nah. I don’t have the money for it and don’t really want to have loans piling up. I definitely won’t put that on my mama either.”

  Huh. I was right about his insight into things. “So, is this all you want to do?”

  “Oh, hell no!” He laughed that great laugh of his. I waited for him to tell me his dreams. Look at me caring about others for a change. “I’m saving up to open a P.I. agency.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me! Are you shitting me?”

  “Nope.”

  “So that’s why you’re always in everyone’s business.”

  “Yep.” He grinned. “Speaking of...Lemme come around to that side.”

  He did and took off his dirty, red-stained coat as he went. I took a good look at him. Shined black combat boots peeked from underneath a pair of crisp blue jeans. He wore a plain black crewneck t-shirt and a thin, gold chain with a saint’s medallion hanging from it. His stubble made his perfectly tan-colored baby face appear slightly older, and I could tell that his deep mahogany colored hair was smooth and silky and grazed the nape of his neck even from under the hairnet he wore to cover it.

  I removed my sunglasses to look him right in his eyes that perfectly matched his hair color. Suddenly, I did see a man. He could easily be an excellent P.I. one day. He had a better chance of it than I did, that’s for sure. If not a real one, with his looks, I could see him playing one on T.V. He reminded me of a young version of the newer Latino guy on that FBI show that’s been on forever.

  When he got close to me, he asked, “Can I get a hug now?”

  “Of course. But don’t try that shit from yesterday.”

  He chuckled, then put his arms around me and held on, wrapping me in warmth. “Sorry they didn’t have real answers for you at the clinic, mami,” he whispered in my ear then let go and stood a couple of feet away. Close enough to let me know he was still with me, but far enough away to let me know that he wanted more from me than to be his girl. He was my friend. And a good one at that. I’d been discovering quite a few of those lately.

  Blinking back tears, I pushed, “So what do you know?”

  “Well, I asked around the store and heard a rumor.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It sounds like a couple of the guys that turned up dead had been hanging around the neighborhood for a few days each before the South Side Slasher got them.”

  “The who?”

  He covered the “O” his mouth had formed with his hand and casually sat on the edge of one of the refrigerated units nearby. “Sorry, mami, I forgot I gave the killer a name.”

  I was mortified. “Why?”

  “The cops say it’s just gang killings, and the news is barely reporting it, even though there’s been three victims which legit makes him a serial killer. Usually, SK’s get a nickname, so I gave him one myself.”

  “That’s morbid, Miguel.” He shrugged, and I realized that if he wanted to be a P.I., morbidity was probably okay with him. “Go on.” I motioned to punctuate that I wanted the rest of the info.

  “So, anyways, the guys were, like, casing the neighborhood. Some folks said they were looking for the same girl.”

  I gasped and sat next to him. The cold from the refrigeration felt good because I’d suddenly flushed. “What girl?”

  “Some redhead.” What? “They had a picture of her. Julio says she had bright red hair, but natural-looking, with super-green eyes, and a few freckles. Probably Irish. He told them the Irish stick to Western Avenue, the Northside, and the ‘burbs.”

  I put my sunglasses back on, suddenly having the feeling that a contact had slipped.

  Miguel narrowed his eyes. “You okay, mami?”

  “Fine. It’s just bright in here.” Which it was, but I also couldn’t remember the last time I dyed my hair and wondered if any roots could be seen peeking through or if they were all coming in the same silver color as my streak. That silver streak may have been a silver lining.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not much...but if you know this Irish chick, tell her I said to be careful...Kiera.” Damn Miguel and his too-perfect perception.

  “I don’t know her,” I lied and stood up. “So, if that’s all you’ve got, I’m ready to order now.” I hoped he couldn’t hear the tremble in my voice.

  He stood up as well and grabbed his work coat, sweeping it on with practiced ease. He almost looked cool as fuck. “What would you like?”

  I pulled out the crisp fifty-dollar bill that I’d taken from the envelope Frank gave me and gave it to Miguel. “Pack me up whatever that gets me. You choose. I need it to last at least a week.” Ashamed at what I was going to ask, I added, “And can you make me more of that ‘juice’ from yesterday?”

  “You got it, Zombivamp. I’ll make you a gallon of it.”

  I WALKED OUT OF THE meat department with twelve pounds of various beef cuts and a gallon of blood spiced with tamarind and orange scared shitless that the one person whom I’d never want to find me knew exactly where I was. Suddenly, I was glad for the Southside Slasher. Whoever he was, he was keeping any info from getting back to Jorge. I hoped.

  Before leaving the supermercado, I stopped by the beauty counter run by the Egyptians to make an appointment for a haircut and dye job STAT.

  The Po-Po Ain't So Bad. Maybe.

  Two days later, I met my little group at the taquería again. I’d just come from my appointment at the beauty counter, and Miguel noticed me first with a loud, appreciative whistle. Jack, Jill, and Frank turned to me, and I watched as each one’s eyes became various sizes of saucer-like wideness.

  “Girl. You look good. Like an alternative lily-white angel.” I had to laugh at Jill’s odd compliment. The men all nodded their heads in agreement.

  Last night, after fretting for the thousandth time about how close the Xolotl’s were possibly getting to finding me, I decided on a major change. One that would throw them off the track even if any information about my appearance had gotten back to Jorge.

  I had the Egyptian hairdresser strip the rest of t
he black dye from my hair. Then he dyed it platinum blond with white highlights to blend with the skunky streak and, lastly, tinted it all with the babiest of blues. He cut super short bangs like the picture I’d shown him of one of my style idols, Christina Ricci, and gave me a wispy, medium-length pixie cut that came just to my earlobes in front and the nape of my neck in back. Jillesa was right about one thing. All the light colors surrounding my head and the feathery look gave me the appearance of having a halo.

  When I’d first looked in the mirror, I just about died from the shock of losing all my beautiful, long hair, even though it wasn’t my natural ginger color. But after a few minutes, I felt good. Literally. The change from black to blond and the fairy-like cut gave me the opportunity to imagine that my sins had been wiped away with the magical transformation.

  I walked over to the table and sat down in the empty seat that already had a rare steak and some “jamaica” waiting for me. “I love you, Miguel.” I smiled over at him, gushing at the gesture. He knew too much, but I was finally okay with that. It was good that someone could help me with the sickness I was experiencing.

  “Is there something y’all lovebirds want to tell us,” Jill quipped as she handed over a reused shopping bag that contained the clothes she’d borrowed the other night.

  I snatched it from her, “No,” and took out the shoes, first inspecting them, then hugging them to me when I didn’t see any stains or scuffs. “These are the only lovers I need in my life. Thank you for being good to them.”

  “You’re welcome, baby. Your clothes were a hit.” She adopted an accent I’d never heard from her before but assumed was an exaggeration of Black and gay. “The mens was awwlll over me.” I chuckled and glanced at Frank, who wasn’t amused at all. He rolled his eyes. Poor guy. “I may have to borrow your clothes more often. The way I put them together, they look good as hell.”

  “You can take whatever you want. It’s time for a new look as you can see.” I ran my hand through my hair. It felt weird, but still good.

  “Why,” Jillesa screeched. “Did you find out something?”

  “Well,” I glanced at Miguel and took a nervous sip of my drink. Yum. That helped. “Let’s hear what you guys found out first.”

  Jack looked up from his plate, his mouth full of taco. Grunting around it, he chewed quickly, then wiped his hands and grabbed a file from under the table. It looked like a police jacket. “Here’s what I could scrounge up. It wasn’t easy because they are considering it three separate incidents. Hell, only one file was in homicide, the rest were in vice as gang-related.”

  He handed the file to me. It contained copies and printouts from all the investigations on the murders. There wasn’t much. It appeared that the police weren’t concerned about “gang violence” in Chicago at all. The first page had a color photo printed on it. It was a mugshot of a young man, but that young man had cold eyes I’d never in a zillion years forget.

  Jack explained, “The first few pages are on the guy from the shooting at the club. His name was Rodrigo “The Bullet” Hernandez. He’s a high-level assassin wanted in Mexico and in four U.S. states. If he was after you, Kayla, you’re lucky as fuck that Mama G had your back, because this fucker is known for never missing a target.”

  I felt concurrent senses of gratefulness, fear, and shame. I looked sheepishly at the end of the table where Frank sat.

  He shook his head, “S’okay, lil’ sis.” He was regressing slightly to the monosyllabic man I knew just over a week before, and that worried me, but it was Jack who reached over and squeezed his shoulder.

  “Your mama’s a straight hero man.” Jack looked at me. “He’s not worried, he’s proud. Mama G is recovering now anyway.” I wondered how he knew that before me. And when did they get chummy enough to sit near and touch each other? They looked like besties all of the sudden.

  I straightened up and cleared my throat. “Well, that’s really good to hear. So is Gray Ey—, I mean, Rodrigo Hernandez, connected to any gangs or cartels that they know of?”

  “Well that’s the crazy thing. He wasn’t. He had always been a freelancer.”

  “How do they know he isn’t now.”

  Frank pointed to the file as if he knew exactly what was in it. “Turn the page.”

  I did, and Jack went on. “The other two guys are John Does. No ID’s. Probably illegals. But they had something in common.” I looked down at three photos, probably taken from the corpses, and what was in them scared the shit out of me. “They both had the same tattoo, only one was inked and the other was scarified. It’s a dog. The symbol of a Mayan god. And that symbol has been noted on a young cartel out of L.A. They are so young that no one knows much about them or who their capo even is, but I’ve been told they are vicious. Trying hard to make a name for themselves. They named the cartel after that Mayan god. I can’t pronounce it because it’s in the native language, more foreign to me than Spanish, but it’s spelled X-O-L-O—”

  “The Xolotl,” I interrupted because I was already sure.

  “Yeah,” Jack said surprised. Frank and Jill looked at me with pity. Miguel put his arm around me and squeezed me tight. “The two Does had the mark of this cartel. So did Hernandez.” I snapped my head up, shocked at his statement. “Only his was branded in. New and still healing. He had to have been recently initiated. It seems like the cartel is changing the way the tattoo is applied.”

  I spoke slowly, feeling strange and out of time. “They didn’t start with tattoos. Hell, they didn’t even have a name at first. Then Jorge remembered stories of this god his grandmother told. He started to worship the god, Xolotl, and ask it for more power. The more drugs he brought over the border, the more powerful he got, and he attributed it to Xolotl so that’s where the name came from.

  “At first, everyone that was initiated was tattooed with that damn dog on their forearm. He wanted it to be known who was beginning to run L.A.’s streets. After a couple of years, though, Jorge became obsessed with the new initiates proving themselves to be tolerant of pain. He forced them all to have the tattoos scarified with a fucking long blade knife. It was the test of fear. He could mark you as his own or he could cut your fucking arm off.” I shook my head out of the memories. “My guess is that he’s moved to branding. Hurts like a motherfucker, but heals cleaner. More identifiable.” Which was obvious from the three pictures. How did I not notice that marking on Gray Eyes that night? I guess it was just dark, and I was too focused on the intensity I saw in his gaze.

  Gina noticed it, though. I now knew that was exactly what she was trying to tell me in the hospital that day. She must have heard about that mark on the other two and recognized it. Hell, for all I knew, Gina was aware of my entire past or had heard that these guys were after someone who resembled me. There’s nothing that woman didn’t know. She was like Miguel, only with mafia intel. I bet if they’d remained in that life after Frank Sr. died, she’d have ended up a boss herself.

  “Kayla, honey,” Jill softly got my attention, “do you have one of these brands?”

  “No, I wasn’t a Xolotl...” She sighed with relief. “...but I belonged to him. Jorge. He marked me. Mine is a butterfly. I was his mariposa roja. Red Butterfly. I can’t show you the brand because of where it is, but...” I reached into my eye and pulled out one of the contacts that made my eyes blue instead of green. My hair is actually red. Really red.”

  “Holy. Fucking. Shit,” Jack exclaimed. “One of them had a picture of a girl on him.” He grabbed the file from me and flipped through it. Pulling out a page and showing the rest of us, he asked, “Is this you?”

  I nodded. The girl in that picture was so young. Still innocent. She hadn’t seen the worst of it all yet. Part of the picture had been cut off, but you could see the bronze-colored arm possessively held around the twenty-year-old freckled redhead with bright green eyes that showed a hint of fear.

  “I didn’t recognize you at all.”

  “Shit, neither did I,” said Frank.

&
nbsp; Jill snatched the paper away and looked closely, her mouth agape. “Jesus Christ, girl. I see a little resemblance, but just barely, and only because I saw you dressed down that day. Is this what all the clothes, hair, and makeup is about?”

  “Not completely,” I shook my head. “I like the Rockabilly look, and it reminded me of my dad and listening to old records with him, but I didn’t always get dressed up like that. Not until I needed a way to disguise myself.”

  “It worked.” Miguel spoke up for the first time. “Those guys had been showing that picture all over the neighborhood and nobody could tell them that was you.”

  “For real?” Jillesa asked.

  “Yep,” said Miguel.

  “I wonder how Hernandez got so close then.” Jack pondered. “How did he know you were at the club?”

  Jill smacked the back of his head. “Dumbass! You’re supposed to be a cop? If he’d asked even one person that went to the club regularly on the nights she worked, they would have told him about her. She may not look like the girl in this photo anymore, but how many White girls hang around here?” She shook her head slowly back and forth like her brother was the biggest idiot she’d ever met.

  “Right,” I said. “Miguel told me about the picture, so that’s why I changed my hair and makeup. I’ll probably start wearing my clothes emo or hipster-style, but that doesn’t change my skin color. I may have to leave here.”

  Frank reached over for my hand. “We won’t let that happen. Tell me what they want from you, and we will help you figure out something.”

  I paused in thought. How much to tell them? The last thing I wanted was for them to want me gone. “I witnessed two murders. One was of an undercover DEA agent. That’s why I’m in WitSec. Not to mention, as Jorge’s girlfriend for six years, I know a hell of a lot about him. I can testify if they get enough evidence together to bring him up for trial.”

  Jill clapped her forehead with her palm. “Which reminds me, I went out with that lawyer last night—don’t forget about my payment for that—and he told me you need concrete physical evidence plus another eyewitness to bring him down. It makes sense. If it’s just your word, his lawyers could claim you were just an angry girlfriend, jealous that he dumped you for someone else or something like that.”