Hard Trauma

by Franklin Horton

  The cashier gave Ty his change and retook a seat on a stool. He looked out the window toward the street and didn’t make eye contact with Ty. “You don’t want no part of that, man.”

  “You don’t believe in it?”

  “I ain’t gonna say I don’t believe, you know what I’m saying? My grandma’s into it too. My sister burns candles to her.”

  “So where does your grandmother go to get her...stuff? You know, candles and shit. For her...shrine.” He kept throwing out what little information he had, hoping it would make his request sound authentic.

  “Little botanica down in Wakefield. You know where that’s at?”

  Ty shook his head.

  “You can Google it. I took her there once. Tiny place.”

  “Do you mind to look it up for me?” Ty asked. “My phone is a piece of shit.”

  The guy sighed, rolled his eyes, and gave a pretty good show of just how much Ty had inconvenienced him. He looked up the directions and scribbled them down on a scrap of paper. He slid them across the counter with a “will that be all?” look.

  It wasn’t.

  Ty held up a printed copy of the picture of Fidelia Mendoza leaning on the back of the RV with the puppy in her arms. “You ever seen this woman before?” He assumed that she had to come into this store sometimes because it was the closest one to her home. Surely she’d wandered up here for something.

  “You a cop?”

  Ty wanted to deliver some badass line. No, I’m not a cop, I’m your worst fucking nightmare or You’re going to wish I was a cop when I’m done with you. He didn’t think fast enough.

  The cashier moved his eyes from the picture to Ty. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  They were the only people in there. Ty reached across the counter and grabbed the cashier by the wrist before he could yank it away. The young man struggled but Ty held him like a vise. If he couldn’t find Tia, he was going to make her come to him.

  “Listen, I know a punk bitch like you probably doesn’t know Tia personally but you know people who do. You let her know that Tyler, a friend from Virginia, wants to speak to her.”

  Ty released his wrist and the young man snatched it back, rubbing the place where Ty’s iron grip had held him. Ty tore off a scrap of paper from the directions to the botanica and wrote down the number to his new phone. He shoved it across the counter.

  “You throw this away and it won’t go well for you. Tia’s going to want to talk to me. She finds out you didn’t relay the message and you can probably guess what her people will do to you. That son of hers, he’ll fuck you up.”

  Ty left the store, a dangling bell ringing as he exited. When he got in his truck, he turned back to the store and saw the kid glaring at him. He raised his phone and shot a picture of Ty, then of his license tag.

  That was okay with Ty. He was all in now. There was no turning back.

  38

  The botanica was a squat block building not significantly different from the corner store Ty had just visited. It was painted bright green with the name of the business hand-painted in purple letters on the side. There were no hours listed but there was a phone number to call if no one was there and you had an emergency. He wondered what kind of emergencies they got called out for.

  Ty parked next to the building and noted there were no windows. An air conditioning unit was fit into a hole in the wall. Condensation dripped from the back corner. The ground beneath it was so parched that the moisture evaporated nearly as fast as it fell. At the windowless front door, Ty hesitated, uncertain of the protocol. Did you just go in? Did you knock?

  He decided to do both, tapping on the door with his knuckles as he twisted the handle.

  “Come in,” called a voice from inside.

  Ty wasn’t sure what he expected but this was certainly not it. He was anticipating an old crone in some dark room, lit with candles, and smelling of bitter potions. Instead he found a brightly-lit and clean interior. The walls were decorated with folk paintings and draped with bright cloth. Several tables and shelves displayed a variety of items, from jewelry to candles. Some held items Ty didn’t recognize. If there was a theme to the room, it was that nearly every item featured the image of that robed, grim reaper figure.

  He shut the door behind himself and stood there. He was mesmerized by one display in particular that took up an entire corner of the small room. A life-size skeleton stood there draped in an elegant hooded robe of embroidered white silk. One hand was extended, a small globe clutched in the bony fingers. A scythe lay against the other shoulder. Red plastic jewels were set into the eye sockets, giving the statue a menacing presence. Ty couldn’t pry his eyes from it.

  “Can I help you?”

  Ty had been experiencing sensory overload since opening the door. The interior was disorienting, like a magical room that was larger inside than the outside led you to believe. He’d been so taken by the skeleton that he’d failed to observe the proprietor. Behind a small counter, his eyes landed on a Latina who must have been in her late twenties. She was far from the hunched crone Ty was expecting. Her hair was blonde with pink streaks, she wore black lipstick, and her face was painted in what Ty assumed to be magical symbols. She almost resembled those sugar skulls that Ty had seen tattooed on people. She was both beautiful and a little scary at the same time.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, smiling at his befuddlement.

  “Yes, thank you.” He gestured at the skeleton in the corner. “Is this Santa Muerte?”

  She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “It’s a shrine to Santa Muerte. People who don’t have shrines at home come to make offerings to her. People who cannot come here in person pay me to burn candles to her. I also sell smaller statues and candles for folks who want a shrine at home but don’t need something so...”

  “Dramatic?” he offered.

  “Exactly.”

  “So, is this your place? I was expecting someone more...”

  “Witchy?”

  “No, ancient, actually. I guess I was expecting a little old crone.”

  “Maybe I’m an old crone who can alter my appearance?” she said. “I might appear differently to the next person.”

  He stared at her, unsure of what to say.

  She laughed into her hand. “I’m teasing. You’ll find old women at some botanicas. If that’s your preference, I can give you some addresses. They won’t have pointy hats and brooms, though.”

  He waved a hand. “No, that’s not necessary. You’re fine.”

  She frowned but the expression went over his head. Like a lot of guys, he didn’t get that being “fine” was not complimentary. It was the equivalent of “you’ll do.”

  “What can I do for you, Señor?”

  “I’d like to learn more about Santa Muerte,” he said. It was the only place he knew to start.

  She nodded at his request. “I can do that. I am a business, though. I charge for my time. I offer consultations and Tarot readings. I do spells, cleansings, and even personal rituals. Thirty minutes of my time is fifty dollars.”

  Ty was a little taken aback by her abrupt, businesslike manner. It could be because he was a Southerner, used to a different ritual where commerce was involved. In his region, people were not quite so blunt about demanding money for their time. People went into barber shops, gun shops, and garages and spent all day flapping their jaws without spending a dime.

  Yet it made sense. It wasn’t like there was a line stretching out the door. He was sure she had bills to pay. He counted out fifty dollars in cash and slid the bills across the counter. She deftly folded them and tucked them into a low-cut shirt.

  She pulled a small whiteboard from beneath the counter and scribbled on it in marker: Consultation in progress. Come back in thirty minutes.

  With the sign hung on the door, she gestured for him to take a seat at a tiny round table with two chairs. A deck of tarot cards sat in the center. Ty sat down carefully, afraid he might break the flimsy
wooden chair. He was not a little guy. He nervously laced his fingers in his lap and tried not to move.

  She sat down across from him and placed her hands on the table in front of her, palms down. “I’m Lucia. What should I call you?”

  He found it interesting that she didn’t ask for his name, as if she came from a world where the use of aliases was customary. “I’m Ty.”

  “Okay, Ty, what can I do for you? What is it you want to know about Santa Muerte?”

  He fell back to the story he’d used at the bodega. “My grandmother has become interested in Santa Muerte. Very deeply involved, actually. It’s all she talks about. I want to know more about it.”

  Lucia raised a thin eyebrow at him. “Your grandmother?”

  Ty found himself captivated by her beauty, despite the bizarre lines and dots on her face. She seemed supernatural, as if he’d entered another plane when he came inside. He wondered if she actually was a witch and she was charming him with a spell.

  “Was your abuelita, your grandmother, a murderer?” she asked.

  “No!” Ty exclaimed. “Are you kidding?”

  “Then was she a prostitute?”

  Ty was shocked. “Nothing like that. She’s a sweet old lady who raises a garden and loves cats. I’m just concerned about her.”

  Lucia gave him a doubtful look. “Your story sounds like bullshit, Ty. Why are you wasting my time? Ask me what you really want to know.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Santa Muerte is virtually the patron saint of the underclass, the downtrodden. She protects the people society has forgotten or turns their backs on. She is typically not the saint of sweet little Anglo cat ladies.”

  Ty let out a deep breath. So much for his plan. “Fair enough. It’s not about my grandmother. I do need to know a little about Santa Muerte.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter why?”

  Lucia gave him an assessing look, which looked odd on such a highly decorated face. “It matters now, since you lied to me once already. I have to be sure of your motives. Are you a reporter or something?”

  Ty met her eye. “I’m not a reporter. I’m trying to find someone who disappeared. She was kidnapped and I have reason to believe that the person who kidnapped her is involved in Santa Muerte.”

  Lucia considered this a moment before replying. “You have to understand that crime is not a component of Santa Muerte, though she is revered as the saint of killers, thieves, sex workers, and drug dealers. It is part of the acknowledgement that death is always close when you live that life.”

  “I’m from the east,” Ty admitted. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  Lucia reached to a nearby shelf and removed a statue of Santa Muerte about a foot tall. She placed it in front of Ty. The statue was wearing a bright red robe with a hood. He noticed that she was depicted differently in several of the little statues.

  “She has various names. The Skinny Woman, The Bone Lady, Saint Death, and others. I personally prefer to use the name Holy Death. While her roots are ancient, the modern worship of Santa Muerte goes back to the 1950s. It’s said to have come from Catemaco. Do you know Catemaco?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a city of witches in Veracruz. Male witches. Brujos.”

  “A city of witches?” Ty repeated, having trouble picturing such a thing. He couldn’t imagine someone casually referring to a city in America, say somewhere in Nebraska, as being a city of witches. He had no idea there were such things.

  “Yes. It’s a very powerful city. They have supernatural festivals there every year. They didn’t invent Santa Muerte, though. It’s suspected the practice goes back farther, perhaps all the way back to the ancient Aztec goddess of death. That’s why the Catholic Church does not acknowledge Santa Muerte. They condemn it as devil worship. As black magic.”

  “Is it?”

  Lucia looked him in the eye. “There is dark and light in everything, Ty. There are people who take it to the extreme. Some ask very big things from Santa Muerte and she demands large offerings in return.”

  “Like human sacrifice? Human remains?”

  Lucia got up from her chair and went behind the counter. She retrieved a stubby black candle, placing it beside the statue on the table, and lit it with a wooden match. “We do not keep black candles on the shelves. People who need black candles know to ask for them. A black candle burned in devotion to Santa Muerte will ensure her protection. It will also help if you are seeking vengeance.”

  “Is this a ritual? What you’re doing now?”

  Lucia locked her eyes onto his. The candle flickered hypnotically. Ty couldn’t look away from her. From somewhere she produced a small card and propped it against the statue. Ty dropped his eyes for a moment and saw a picture of Santa Muerte looking like the grim reaper. The card read “Holy Dead” across the bottom.

  “Most Holy Death, I ask that through this image you will cover this man with the cloak of your protection, that you will always take care of him, that you will guide him through snares and dangers. Give him your blessing so that he will never lack the things he needs. Give him strength, health, prosperity, and protection.”

  Ty sat up straight in his chair. “Okay, that was definitely a ritual.”

  Lucia smiled at him. “You paid for my time. With the questions you are asking, you will need protection. It’s the least I can do.”

  Ty reached into his shirt pocket and removed the piece of paper. He unfolded it and slid the picture of Fidelia Mendoza across the table. “Do you know this woman? They say she’s called Tia. Is she a customer of yours?”

  Lucia didn’t touch it. She looked from the picture to Ty without a word.

  Ty leaned forward and said urgently, “Look, I came here all the way from Virginia in search of a missing child. She was abducted from a truck stop where I was working. This woman was involved.” He tapped the picture with his finger for emphasis. “I know her name is Fidelia Mendoza and I know she worships Santa Muerte because the police found a shrine in her home. There was a dead child on it, if that means anything to you. Has she been in here buying any of those black candles from under the counter?”

  Again, the beautiful eyes stared at him. Not angry, not defiant, just observing. Did this woman even blink?

  Ty reached into his pocket and withdrew a hundred dollar bill. He tossed it onto the picture. “Can you tell me anything about Fidelia Mendoza? Please?”

  Lucia studied the money for a while before coming to some conclusion. She placed an elaborately decorated nail on the bill and pulled it toward herself. She folded it, tucking it into her bra, along with the money he’d already paid her. She tapped the picture with another pointed fingernail, the tapping loud in the silence of the room. “This here is a bad bitch. You don’t mess with her. I know she looks old and shit but she’s dangerous. She used to run a neighborhood north of here and she’s still got juice.”

  “Why do you think she’d be involved in kidnapping a child? Is that her business now? Is she involved in human trafficking?”

  This was the first thing Ty said that provoked any measurable reaction from Lucia. She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms in front of her. She waved her nails through the air in some kind of nervous gesture, a flair of color that was almost subconscious.

  “I don’t know anything about what people do. I don’t ask because their business is not my business. All I know is that Tia is devoted to Santa Muerte and comes here sometimes for supplies.”

  Ty bored into her. “Look, you have all my money. I’m trying to find a child who was taken from her mother. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  Lucia took the prayer card with Santa Muerte on it and slid it across the table to him. “You should put that in your pocket. It carries a blessing and you’re going to need every bit of protection you can get. The only other thing I can tell you is that you should go home. Go back east and forget Santa Muerte. Forget Tia. Forget this child.”
<
br />   Ty slid the card into his pocket and stood. “Thank you for your time. If I leave my number, will you call me if you hear anything?”

  She shrugged noncommittally. “I can’t stop you from leaving it.”

  He went to the counter and took one of her business cards, writing the number to his burner phone on the back. She took a beaded rosary from a hook and slid it across the counter to him. He noticed that instead of a cross, the rosary held the shiny skeletal visage of Santa Muerte.

  “Take it. You paid for it,” she said. “You’ll need it.”

  He shoved it in his pocket with the prayer card and mumbled a thanks. He suspected she had more information than she was sharing but she wasn’t parting with it. He couldn’t blame her. This was her land and her people. He was an outsider who could be putting her in danger. He headed toward the door, uncertain of what his next step was going to be.

  “Please come again,” she said, not sounding at all like she meant it.

  Ty opened the heavy steel door and the heat slammed into him, the light blinding. He paused to fumble for his sunglasses, slipped them on, and went outside. He found himself staring down the barrels of three handguns, three cold faces hovering behind weapons.

  “Hands up!” one of the men ordered.

  Ty did as he was told.

  The men searched him but he didn’t have any weapons on him. The FBI had his Glock and he hadn’t seen his knives since Barger took them. He had his Tavor X95 rifle in the truck but that didn’t do him a hell of a lot of good right now. One of the men cuffed his hands and shoved him between the shoulder blades. “In the fucking car.”

  The car was a late 70s Pontiac four-door in mint green. The engine was running and the AC was cold. Ty was shoved into the back, falling across the vinyl seats. With his cuffed hands in front of him, he pushed himself upright as one of the men took a seat beside him. The other two piled into the front.

  Ty could tell these men were of the same cut as the two sicarios he’d fought in the desert. He didn’t know if they were assassins sent to kill him, but they were hard men. They handled their guns comfortably, like soldiers, and that told him something. It told him they used them often.