The woman hustled them both inside, closed the door and bolted it. Vega saw what looked like a waiting room; a couple chairs, stack of magazines, a little reception area behind a sliding window. Someone had painted a life-size horse across one wall with crude skill. The place smelled of urine and animal musk under a patina of disinfectant.
"Down the hall," the skinny lady said, in passable Spanish.
They were ushered into separate rooms. Vega's was about the size of a big closet, with an examination table and nothing else. Bars covered the one window. The door was reinforced with metal and had made a clicking sound when the woman slid it shut. Locked. He could probably kick his way out, but not without a lot of noise.
He heard Rodolfo's high-pitched voice in the next room. A brief conversation. Then silence.
The door rattled, slid back. The white-smocked woman stepped through, a big hypodermic in one hand. She looked blowzy and tired, like maybe she had been shooting up before they found the house.
"What's the needle for?" Vega said, in un-accented English.
The woman stopped. Her eyes flared. "TB skin test."
"I've already had one."
"In Mexico? I doubt it." She stepped closer, raising the hypodermic. "Now just give me your arm—"
He clamped one hand over her mouth. The other grabbed the hypodermic, snatched it free and jabbed down into her bony thigh. A little shriek mmmmphed around the edges of his restraining hand. She convulsed, twice, and went slack in his arms. He laid her down on the table.
"For your sake," he said, "I hope that wasn't something lethal."
Rapid footsteps echoed from the hallway. Vega peered out around the door and saw a man of roughly his proportions charging toward the room. Dark-skinned, long black hair tied back in a queue, and what looked like a Remington pump-action cradled in his arms. Vega jerked his head back.
He reached down and unclipped the chain from his pocket.
Two hundred and eighty pounds of Native American hurtled through the door. The heavy gave him a surprised look, then saw the woman heaving on the examination table. He shook his head.
"No comprende," Vega yelled. Before the shotgun barrel could swivel toward him he seized his .38 and whipped the chain across the Indio's face in a vicious arc. A red smile blossomed on his cheek. Vega jacked a left up into the ample gut, drew back his fist, and hooked him again across the temple. Hot puke blasted past his shoulder. The heavy dropped.
Vega snatched up the shotgun. He pushed the Indio, groaning, into the examination room and locked it.
More noises from the end of the hallway. Rustling.
He sprinted toward the sound, barreled through a half-open door into an office. A blond man in a suit was rifling through a desk, looking for something. His head jerked up as Vega ran in.
It was the Anglo from Rafe' Limas's porch.
Vega leveled the shotgun. "Away from the desk."
The Anglo did as he was told.
A brass placard atop a bookcase read: DR. STREIT, VETERINARIAN. Two diplomas hung on the far wall. The furniture was cheap, wood-grain finish over pressboard, and the whole office looked like it could be knocked down and set up somewhere else in under fifteen minutes.
Vega said: "You've picked an interesting sideline, Doctor."
Streit swallowed. His chin quivered. "I don't keep much money here …"
Behind the desk was a narrow door with a heavy padlock. Vega motioned toward it with the gun. "What's in there?"
"There? Nothing. Medications." Streit shifted his body in front of the door.
"Open it."
"I don't think—"
Vega jabbed the shotgun barrel into his stomach. "Open it."
Streit nodded. Hands shaking, he fished a key out of his pocket an un-did the padlock.
Beyond lay a windowless room, maybe eight by eight feet. Egg-carton soundproofing puckered the walls. Fluorescents glinted off a stainless steel operating table and a wheeled cart loaded with surgical tools. Atop the cart lay bloody gauze, scalpels, forceps, and the toothed crescent of a bone saw. The air reeked with eye-watering ammonia.
Vega saw a plastic cooler under the table. He slid it toward him with his foot and lifted the lid. Resting atop a mound of ice lay two red, roughly fist-sized pieces of pulpy meat.
He whistled through his teeth. "Organs. Very nasty."
"It's not—it's not as barbaric as it looks."
The operating table had three broad leather straps stretching across it. Vega toyed with one of the buckles. "So, Rodolfo and me, we were going to make that air-conditioned trip to Phoenix after all. Or parts of us, anyways."
"Who are you?" Streit said.
"That's a good arrangement you have with Limas. He picks the young, healthy-looking illegals, the ones without any attachments, and sends them your way. You've got a cover operation and probably the medical connections to fence the organs. Nice."
Streit licked his lips.
"You got careless dumping the bodies, though."
"I can get you money," Streit said, trying to force some professionalism into his voice. "If you give me some time."
Vega made a show of thinking about that.
"Drugs? I can get ketamine, morphine, pharmaceutical-grade cocaine, you name it. I've got a license. You could deal and I could be your supply. You don't look like a cop to me."
"You've got that right."
"So what do you say?"
He gestured with the gun. "Get on the table."
Streit didn't want to do it, but a couple taps with the shotgun made him more tractable. Vega bound his hands and feet with the leather straps. Streit, obligingly, tried to scream.
"Good thing you sound-proofed the room," Vega said.
Streit spat up blood. "What're you going to do? Kill me? Or are you going to torture me first, you sick piece of shit?"
"I'm thinking about that. Your nurse gave a shot to my friend, Rodolfo. Is he going to live?"
"He'll be fine."
Vega nodded. "Good. Now, killing you makes things more complicated down the road. For me, anyways. What I think I'll do is take your van—"
Streit let out a breath of relief.
"—and leave you here, just the way you are. I'll pass your name along to my employer, and she can find someone to do for your sorry ass."
The breath choked off in Streit's throat. He did a credible imitation of an albino.
"Jesus," he said, "Jesus."
That's my name, agreed Vega.
†
Jesus Contra las Brujas Plasticas
(Jesus Versus the Plastic Witches)
The banger came on time for his appointment. A little guy with soulful eyes and sideburns that reached all the way to his chin, despite having a shaved head. Blue-black tats on the crook of skin between his left thumb and forefinger. Vega pressed himself closer to the door's crack, squinted. Yes, he could make them out. The letters 'B' and 'S' with a tiny cross between. Barrio Sombra.
He watched Dona Cruz invite the guy in and gesture toward a table covered with white cloth. The banger sat, averting his eyes while she lit candles. She'd wrapped a shawl around her head and shoulders, and the cloth made fluttering sounds as she reached out and worked the flint wheel of an ancient lighter. Vega thought she looked like a priest preparing for midnight mass.
He was hiding in a closet, barely big enough to hold him. His shoulders brushed the Dona's old pantsuits and linen dresses. He figured it was a hundred degrees in there.
The banger cleared his throat. "I need to talk about—"
"Don't tell me, Ernesto," Dona Cruz said, settling down across from him. "I know what brought you here. I see it in your face. Also certain stars, which I can see through the roof of the house. Yes, even in daylight."
"You know about my brother?" Ernesto said.
"Yes."
"He's going on trial. All he's got is a public defender. And the charges are serious, felony possession."
Dona Cruz waved her hand. She s
et a tall green candle on the table between them. "You think for a moment about what you want. For your brother. Maybe the judge, deep down, he turns out to be an understanding person. Maybe the jails are too full, and they put your brother on probation. Think about that."
Ernesto nodded. Dona Cruz took the old lighter out of her pocket and held it to the candle's wick. Sssnkt. Another flame joined the others already dancing in the room.
"Let me see the money," she said.
Ernesto pulled a wallet out of his back pocket. He thumbed several bills and pushed them across the table. Vega squinted again; they were hundreds. Christ. The kid didn't have the money to hire his brother a decent lawyer, but just enough to blow on the local bruja. What a waste.
Dona Cruz snapped open a silver case and withdrew a cigarette. She leaned forward and lit it using the candle's flame, took a couple puffs, and passed it across the table to Ernesto, who puffed as well. She put the cigarette back in her mouth. "I'll see to it that your thoughts and prayers go to the right saint. Don't worry about your brother. Tell your family not to worry, either."
Ernesto shook her hand, his eyes welling up. He thanked her ten times and probably would've kissed her wrinkled forehead, but she told him she had work to do. When the kid turned to go Vega saw the telltale bulge wedged against the back of his shirt. An automatic pistol. The reason Dona Cruz kept him around during her "readings."
He waited until Ernesto left before squeezing out of the closet. Sweat dripped from his temples. He watched Dona Cruz open the big greasewood cabinet—the armario magica—where she kept her witch's dolls. Over the old woman's shoulders he glimpsed a procession of gaudily dressed saints, some of whom he recognized, and some who seemed to have Mayan or Aztec origins. Prominent was a stuffed horned owl. Dona Cruz put the money in a clay bowl at its feet. After a moment's silence, she took the cigarette from her mouth and pressed it against the wooden lips of one of the saints, a somber man in a green robe with gold trim. Then she closed the cabinet doors.
Smirking, he wondered how long it would take for the money to find its way into her purse.
She turned and caught the smile on his face. Her eyes narrowed. "For someone with so much Yaqui blood," she said, tapping his broad chest, "you don't put much faith in spirits."
"I'm not ignorant. Unlike most of the people you lure in here."
"Don't talk that way. Disrespect to me, that's one thing. But to them—" she jerked her thumb at the cabinet. "Very foolish."
"I'll be more careful."
"Do you remember what I need you to do? This afternoon?"
Said it like she was his mother. Don't forget your errands, mijo. He couldn't keep his shoulders from slumping.
"I asked you a question."
"Yes. I remember."
"Good." She stepped close enough for him to smell the tobacco on her breath. The top of her shawled head only reached the bottom of his neck, but that didn't stop her from grabbing his shirt and pulling him down until he was level with her eyes. She smiled, her teeth a panoply of yellowed enamel and gold. "Are you afraid of me, Vega?"
"I'm afraid of poverty," he said.
* * *
Dirty deeds for the witch-lady.
A week earlier she'd asked him to score several ounces of human fat. She was making a special candle, she explained. He told her fat was fat, he could go down to the carneceria and get as much as they needed, but she told him no, he'd bring her the real thing or he could hit the pavement, and don't try to fool her because she'd know. So he'd gotten a part time job at the regional medical center, wheeling bodies down to the morgue. Kept a box-cutter and a baggie with him at all times. A transient came in, victim of a stabbing, and when the pathologist got around to recording her autopsy she noted an eight-inch chunk taken out of his flabby thigh.
The things he did for money.
This time around what she wanted was less creepy. Some competition had just opened downtown, and she had asked him to check it out. He borrowed his cousin's catering van and drove to the address she'd given.
The building was a small shop, sharing a wall with an unfinished furniture store. He parked across the street. A sign hung from the front awning read "Wayward Spirits." Below it, taped to the window, was a poster depicting a shirtless Indian with flowing white hair. He had his arms spread out wide and a big rainbow stretched over his head. Hand-painted letters next to the poster read:
TAROT READINGS
PAST LIFE GENEALOGY
PSYHIC OBJECTS D'ART
Didn't look like much. He took out a clipboard and pretended to fiddle with it, keeping a sidelong eye on the entrance. Fifteen minutes rolled by and no one went in or out. The van was growing hotter, so he reached for the keys to get the AC started.
Someone tapped on the passenger-side window.
He startled, almost dropping the keys. He hadn't heard any footsteps. A woman peered at him through the window, one hand shielding the top of her forehead. She had short black hair and a narrow face. Something long and white dangled from each ear.
He reached over and rolled down the window, not sure what to say. But it didn't matter because she started talking. "So you're the caterer, huh? I didn't order any catering. Pretty sure the furniture guy didn't, either. So you're on your break or you're curious about the shop. I'm thinking curios." She thrust a hand into the cab. "Ellen Redfeather."
She spoke fast and jittery, like she'd just gulped a couple espressos, and there was a nasal twang to her voice Vega couldn't place. East Coast, maybe. He looked down at her hand. Silver and turquoise rings on every finger, plus about a dozen silver bangles encircling her wrist. The white things hanging from her ears were eagle feathers, dipped in an inch and a half of red paint.
He shook her hand. "Jesus."
"Well, Hay-Soos, you want to come inside, check the place out? We haven't had many customers today, so who knows, maybe you'll get a free reading."
"Sure."
He opened the door and stepped out. The strange little woman walked around to the front of the van. She wore white suede moccasins, which explained why he hadn't heard any footfalls.
"You own this place?" he said, nodding toward the shop.
"Yup. Sole proprietor, though I've got some help."
He followed her skinny ass across the street. She seemed to be putting some extra swish in it. He couldn't tell how old she was—late thirties or well-preserved forties, probably. A chime jangled as she pushed open the front door. He stepped into the familiar smells of incense and candles, plus book binding.
There were lots of books. Slick covers crammed into hardwood shelves or stacked in piles, some still in boxes. He glanced at the titles. Accumulating Positive Energy and Wealth. Meso-American Diet Secrets. The Shaman's Guide to Good Sex.
"Cody?" she called out. "I'm back."
A beaded curtain at the rear of the shop rustled. Slipping through came a tall guy with a sandy blond beard. He nodded to Ellen and shuffled over, an unopened packing box in his arms. Sleepy-eyed dude, but built like your classic SoCal weightlifter. Sculpted biceps straining under the box's weight. He gave Vega a banal smile.
"Cody, this is Mr. Jesus," Ellen said. "We get any company while I was out?"
"Just Snakebite. He's waiting in the back."
"But no customers, huh?"
"Not a one."
"Well, shit." She turned to Vega. "What is it with people in this town? Nobody got any problems? If this was Long Island the neurotics would be lined up around the building already."
He liked her lack of pretense. "How long have you been open?"
"Two days. Yeah, I suppose it's premature to be thinking about bankruptcy." She waved a jangling hand toward the curtain. "Look, I've got to talk to my associate for a second. When I'm done you and I are going to have a serious reading. One you can tell all your friends about."
He watched her slink away. Behind him, Cody had torn the box open and was shoveling out books, humming as he worked. Too absorbed for conver
sation. Vega drifted toward the back of the store. He could hear Ellen's staccato voice, talking with a male. The guy wasn't getting too many words in. Vega tried to peer sideways through the curtain, and just in time caught a pair of jeans about to break through the plastic beads.
A dark-skinned Hispanic stepped out. About his own height, but slender, wearing a maroon guayabera shirt. Vega recognized him. It was hard not to. The man's face had an open wound the size of a half-dollar, just below his cheek. You could see right through it to a piece of yellowed jawbone underneath. The flesh around the wound had withered and turned a shiny black.
He nodded at Vega; the quick, tilt-your-chin-back gesture of a fellow vato, and left the shop through the front door.
Ellen parted the curtains. "You know that guy, don't you?"
"His name's Manuel Reyes, but everyone calls him Cantil."
"I thought his nickname was Snakebite."
"Close enough. A Cantil is a Mexican pit viper. Their venom rots flesh. Manuel was unlucky enough to be struck in the face."
"Yeah, he told me the whole story." She crooked her finger. "Come on back."
He followed her into what looked like an ordinary stock room. Or half of it, anyway. The other half had a glass-topped table and two plush chairs. Several purple crystals had been arranged atop the table, surrounding a deck of black, oversized Tarot cards.
"It's none of my business," he said, taking a seat, "but you might want to be more careful with the company you keep. Cantil's a known drug dealer."
"Really?" Ellen arched an eyebrow. She took a small plastic baggie out of her pocket and tossed it next to the cards. The baggie had white powder in it. "Huh."
"Is that part of the reading?"
"Not officially, but you can have some if you want." She opened the baggie and shook out a crude line. Snuffed it up without a straw or rolled-up twenty. "Harsh," she said, wrinkling her nose. "You might be wondering why someone as spiritually advanced as me is snorting drugs. The answer is I deny myself no experiences. I'm above conventional morality."
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