The Witching Hour: 11 Enchanting Novels Featuring Witches, Wizards, Vampires, Shifters, Ghosts, Fae, and More!, page 89
I almost felt flattered that he’d singled me out for his special attention.
Dale Taylor turned up in the shop not five minutes after Enselmo left.
“This is bad business,” he said.
“Well, it is bad for business,” I said, pretending I’d misunderstood him.
“I’m not fooling around, Aixa,” he said with an edge to his tone. “Enselmo Porras is nobody you want to mess with.”
“A otro perro con ese hueso,” I said. “Give that bone to another dog.”
I knew Dale wouldn’t appreciate the impromptu Spanish lesson, but this was an argument we’d had before. To change the subject, I brought up the ghost I’d seen on the hillside. I’d been mulling over what the appearance of the apparition meant and my grandmother’s cryptic warning. I’d asked her what she had meant but she swore I’d just heard her voice in my imagination. “I still think you should leave,” she’d said. ‘Your heart knows what I am talking about.”
“Has anyone in your world gone missing lately?” I asked Dale.
“Which one?” he asked.
“Your government world,” I said.
“Why?” he asked with his eyes narrowed.
“I saw a guy up in the hills a couple of days ago. A gringo.”
“Okay,” he said.
“He was dead,” I said. “About five-eight, meth addict skinny, wearing a nice suit.”
Dale didn’t say anything, so I added, “His hands had been cut off.” That got a reaction.
“Did he have one blue eye and one brown one?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He didn’t have a face.”
“Jesus.”
Dale thought about that for a minute.
“Was he an informant?” I asked. “Or one of the Shadow’s crew?”
He gave me “the look” so I didn’t pursue the topic. Instead, he glanced around to make sure no one was looking and leaned over the counter to give me a quick kiss. Dale and I had been sleeping together, on and off, for a year. I’d seen right through his claim of making a living exporting the kitschy “folk art” you find in any border town. It had taken longer to figure out the folk art trade was just a cover for the real business he was in, which was exporting another kind of product entirely. He made a good living from the narco niche of the export business, and he spread the cash around. A lot of people in Sangre de Cristo owed their living to him. Or to his friends. It’s a poor city; people couldn’t always afford to take the moral high ground.
What most people didn’t know—and I didn’t learn for a while—was that not all of the cash Dale earned was dirty. His real real job was working for the DEA. That was one of the reasons we kept our relationship secret. Or as secret as you can keep such things in a small town. My grandmother was not a fan of Dale’s, but she mostly kept her criticisms to herself. She didn’t want a repeat of my parents’ love story playing out to the second generation.
Another reason we’ve kept our relationship quiet was that Dale didn’t think anyone who knew me would believe I was sleeping with a narco, and that would put his cover at risk. So as far as anyone knew, I was headed for spinsterhood, and he was a party boy who paid for his pleasures.
Dale lived a triple life, juggling so many identities that he sometimes got lost in what was real and what wasn’t. But he never forgot what was true.
He was a good man with a good heart. It surprised me to learn that he knew Grace and that he’d been a benefactor to her orphanage since he arrived.
She said Dale was “generous.” Since Grace had married into the class of rich people who dress in shabby clothes and live in falling-down houses rather than flaunt their wealth, I figured that “generous” in her terms was what a regular person would call a whole lot of pinche money.
I also knew Dale had paid to move the widow of a murdered police officer to Naucalpan after failing to convince her to take refuge in San Antonio, where she had relatives. Naucalpan used to be something of a safe haven from the narco wars, but these days I wasn’t sure there was any such thing. We’d thought we were safe in Sangre de Cristo, but the night of blood and fire had shown us what a delusion our notion of “safety” was. I did what I could, and so did Father Paz, but the old priest had been fighting pancreatic cancer for two years, and all that was left of him was 130 pounds of gristle, bone, and faith.
He drank the teas I made him and looked the other way when I sneaked a little magic into them, but I could only do so much. By the time he admitted he was sick, it was already too late for almost anything but a miracle.
Dale had offered to fly Father Paz to some cancer clinic in Los Angeles known for proton therapy and other bleeding-edge treatments, and when the priest said “no,” Dale flew some specialist down to consult with him privately. The doctor had flown back to Los Angeles the next day, nursing a hangover from the epic drinking binge he’d shared with Father Paz after he’d determined there was nothing he could do for the priest.
“You’re a stubborn old man, Simon,” Dale had said to the priest after that, frustrated that Father Paz didn’t seem to be taking the situation seriously.
“I wish you’d all just let me die in peace,” Father Paz had complained.
Dale had laughed at that. “If you die, who will listen to my confession?”
I saw the look that passed between them then and realized that Father Paz really did hold Dale Taylor’s secrets.
Dale cared about me — maybe even loved me — but his personal life and needs came a distant second to the demands of his job. Still, the job didn’t keep him from worrying about me. And good-hearted or not, it was annoying to have him worrying about me like I couldn’t take care of myself. I not only have my abuela’s red hair, I have her powers and I have made a reputation of my own, especially since I killed Tomas Hernandez. Dale still didn’t know the details about that and never would. I had put all kinds of magic barriers in place in anticipation of what I thought Tomas might do to me. He’d never touched me, not in the important places. And thankfully, the episode had not ruined my sex life with Dale.
Dale had lived in Sangre de Cristo long enough to have heard the things they said about me. He was in a position to know that most of what they said was true. To his credit, it didn’t seem to faze him much. But he, like everybody in town, had been wondering what would happen in the aftermath of Tomas’ death, and now that Enselmo was here, I guessed they could stop wondering. I suspected that all hell was about to break loose.
“You seem anxious,” I said to Dale to change the subject again, reaching for a jar of dried passion flower blossoms and shaking a good measure into a small paper bag. “Brew these up in a tea and you’ll feel better.”
I held the bag out to him.
He shook his head but took the bag. “This conversation isn’t over,” he said.
Oh, yes it is, I thought. “Que tengas un buen día,” I said.
The second time Enselmo Porras entered my shop, it was clear he wasn’t there just to say hello.
He was carrying a small blue bakery box when he entered, grease-spotted and tattered, like he’d fished it out of a dumpster.
He put the box on the counter, right next to a rack holding vials of essential oils. Even over the sandalwood candle burning on the counter, I could smell the shit inside the box.
I wondered if he’d taken the dump himself or ordered one of his minions to do it.
That thought gave me a mental picture that was hard to dismiss.
“A gift from my employer,” he said, and as before, he glanced around the shop to see if I was alone. “He was not happy to hear of the demise of Tomas Hernandez.”
“Then he was the only one,” I said.
He laughed at that, and it was a surprisingly pleasant sound. “You did me a favor,” he said. “The little shit was stealing from me. But management likes to do its own hiring and firing.”
So he’d heard the rumors about my participation in Tomas’ demise. I couldn’t help but glance at the pastry box stinking up my shop.
He followed my gaze. “My boss doesn’t think it’s good for business to have his enterprise disrupted by a troublesome woman,” he continued, his eyes lingering on my face for an uncomfortably long moment. “No matter how beautiful she is.”
Enselmo was smoother than Tomas at delivering a cheesy line, but otherwise, he was just as repellant.
And who was his boss? No one was really sure who Enselmo answered to. My abuela called the person in charge of the narcos “the Shadow” because of the pall he’d cast over our little town. Dale just called him “that motherfucker.”
Dale was particularly keen to find out more about the man who was paying the men who were moving into town like an invading army, dragging their wives and families and sweethearts like so many camp followers. New businesses were still springing up all over town to cater to the luxurious tastes of the newcomers. “First the nail salons,” Dale said, “then the yoga studios. Can Starbucks be far behind?” He was keeping an eye on the new residents, but he was more concerned with identifying the man behind the curtain. He was all too aware that the last person who’d gotten anywhere near close to learning that name had been abducted and tortured to death like Kiki Camarena. Steve Estevez had been the name of the man whose ghost I’d seen. His hands had been mailed to the DEA office in Dallas, Steve’s home town. Dale told me Steve had left behind a family. Every DEA agent carrying a badge wanted retribution for his death.
If I knew Dale, he’d be watching Enselmo closely, probing him for a weakness, looking for a chink in his armor. I didn’t much like the idea of Dale baiting Enselmo. I couldn’t shake the image of sharks in a feeding frenzy over a bucket of chum thrown in the water.
I couldn’t forget the sight of Steve Estevez’ ruined face.
“El Señor is not happy with you at all,” Enselmo said, drawing my attention away from my reverie.
Seriously? I thought. Even in the world of the narcos, where nicknames are often grandiose to the point of absurdity, calling someone “God” seemed a bit over the top.
“Every action casts a shadow,” he said, sounding like he’d memorized the lines from some telenovela. “And you, Aixa Riley, have cast some very long shadows.”
I shrugged, pretending a bravado I didn’t feel. “I’m not much of a one for talking in riddles,” I said. I glanced at the pastry box again. “If you have a message for me from your boss, why don’t you just deliver it?” I said, as if I could not smell the reek.
He smiled at that, and again, his smile was too wide.
I realized with a start that there was some sort of evil aura around him, something overlaying his own aura, and I somehow had missed it. Which meant that someone had cast a spell to hide it from me.
That someone could only be Rosamara Quintana.
Her power was much more potent than mine, and it scared me that she could have cast her protection on Enselmo so elegantly that I hadn’t even seen her hand in it.
Until he’d smiled that too-wide smile.
“My employer is a businessman,” he said, “and he likes his business to run smoothly.”
“Did he even know who Tomas was?” I asked, genuinely curious.
He shrugged. “No importa,” he said. “It’s the principle of the thing. You don’t mess with El Señor.”
I didn’t say anything. I recognized the conversation for the threat it was, and I was waiting for him to get through the preamble and get to the point. I almost said, “Oooh, El Señor is scary,” but managed to throttle the impulse before the words actually spilled from my mouth. I waited. He waited. Then he smiled again. Hugely. And I could see his black aura leaking from his eyes like tears as he leaned over the counter. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to recoil from the cold evil coming off him in waves.
“It’s the town that’s important to us,” he said, “not the townspeople. Lo entiendes? If you interfere again in matters that do not concern you, I will drown this town in a river of blood.”
With that he swiped a tamarind lollipop and sauntered out the door. His aura followed him like a slime trail. I took the disgusting box out to the dumpster, then spent the rest of the afternoon fumigating and purifying the shop. I had to stop myself from compulsively washing my hands ever five minutes. If I could have, I would have plunged them in boiling water to sterilize them.
Getting home to my little nest with its wards and protective charms was an almost physical relief.
8
Tainted Love
A few days later I heard that Enselmo had rented a house on the eastern outskirts of town — the largest single-family home available — and that the mayor had already called to pay his respects. That didn’t surprise me. One of the persistent rumors Dale was working with was that “El Señor” was cousin to the mayor’s wife. The rumors could just be envious gossip, but it seemed like every time there was narco-related trouble in town, the mayor was conspicuously absent. He had been out of town on the night of blood and fire, and since Tomas Hernandez’ death, he’d often been away on “urgent business.”
I’d always assumed the mayor was a little…morally flexible…but I’d never thought he was out and out corrupt until the town’s police chief was killed and he passed over the logical choice in favor of promoting Esteban Cordero, whose cousin “Little Stevie” was a shot-caller for Los Zetas until he got gunned down in a drive-by during his daughter’s quinceanera.
In the wake of the police chief’s death and the violence that followed, the town’s inhabitants had coalesced into several groups. Narco money was still flooding into town, and there were those who were anxious to drink in the wealth.
Enselmo’s arrival would be good news to them.
Enselmo had a woman. Esperanza knew all the gossip about her—Esperanza had an intelligence network the CIA would envy—and she’d filled me in one afternoon while she was helping me do inventory at the botanica.
Enselmo’s woman was named Leelee, and she was a busty blonde from some little town in the Texas panhandle. She’d hooked up with El Tiburón because he was her way out of town and a future that would have turned her into her mother — a faded beauty with a bad Vicodin habit and a lack of self-esteem.
Leelee had been a cheerleader at UTEP at the same time I was going to school in Austin, but unlike me, she hadn’t really had a plan. Cheerleading and sorority activities had occupied a lot more of her time than studying for the degree in sociology she was supposed to be getting. Her father, who’d worked at a chicken processing plant in Amarillo, had encouraged her to pick a major that would lead to job that paid more than minimum wage, but she had graduated just as the recession hit, and the only position she’d been able to find was working as a counselor at a drug rehab clinic, where she used her skills to social engineer the addicts out of their pills.
The addicts always had pills in their pockets, even as they lined up for their paper cups of methadone and juice. Leelee liked her vikes, and when she had extra pills she sold them to friends for a little pocket money. Leelee liked nice things and she never had quite enough money for all the nice things she wanted.
Leelee had met Enselmo Porras by chance when he’d come to the rehab clinic looking for one of his mules. The guy had disappeared with a few kilos of El Señor’s product and gone on an epic binge. Enselmo’s guy had overdosed in an alley and the product was long gone. The Shark’s trip to Brownsville would have been a total loss if Enselmo hadn’t taken one look at Leelee and fallen in love. She represented everything he’d dreamed money could bring him, the blonde princess he could show off to his gringo clients, the trophy he could flaunt as an outward symbol of his success.
He brought Leelee to the house in Sangre de Cristo and then left her there while he attended to business elsewhere. Leelee was pushing thirty and knew her sell-by date was fast approaching so she didn’t complain—at least not to Enselmo—but if she walked away from him, she wouldn’t have much to show for it but some expensive jewelry she could hock for ten percent of its worth and an expensive pill habit that he had fed to keep her dependent.
So Leelee kept her mouth shut and her head down. She hated being stuck in Sangre de Cristo. She’d grown up in trailer parks next door to barrios and for her, being an American in Mexico was a step down, even if she was living in the biggest house in town.
I met Leelee the day after she arrived. She’d emerged from a huge SUV parked in front of the tobacco shop and, after buying a pack of cigarettes, she’d wandered into the botanica. I could tell she’d taken the grand tour of Sangre de Cristo and was already plotting her exit strategy. I wished her good luck with that.
“Hola,” she said as she stepped through the door, and I couldn’t tell if that was the extent of her Spanish or if she was just being polite because she wasn’t sure I spoke English or not.
“Hello,” I said in my unaccented English, and her face lit up.
“You’re American,” she said with some relief.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m Aixa Riley.”
She held out a manicured hand. “Leelee Francis.” Her hand was warm and soft and decorated with a gorgeous ruby ring that looked like a drop of crystallized blood caught in a golden web.
“That is a beautiful ring,” I said. “Pigeon’s blood ruby?”
“You know your gems,” she said, flattening out her hand so I could see it better.
“I like bling,” I said, but the truth was, I was getting a vibe off the jewel that I was pretty sure Leelee couldn’t feel. The stone had absorbed the violence of its former owner’s death. Without even touching it, I got a glimpse of a woman who’d been butchered and a mound of cocaine turning pink with her blood.
I saw the hand with the ruby ring twitching in a death spasm. I saw a man’s hand sliding the gem off a pale finger and handing it to Enselmo, who casually put it in his pocket, heedless of the blood.
