behalf.”
“And how much do you charge for these services?”
“It depends.” The Mother lifted her shoulders.
“On?”
“The severity of the problem. How much time it will take to effect a cure. The materials I use.”
“What materials do you use?”
She shrugged again.
“It depends.”
Frank monitored the Mother’s reaction as she asked, “Do you sacrifice animals?”
“Sometimes,” was the offhand reply. “Again. It depends on the nature of the problem.”
“Give me an example.”
“All right. A client comes to me—”
“—are your clients the members of your congregation?”
“Sometimes. Not always,” the Mother answered, annoyed at the interruption. “They come to me with a problem. It could be something as simple as a client’s lost her wedding ring to a case as serious as someone’s boy got shot in the heart four times. Sometimes I can find the ring using the diloggun. The gods suggest where to look for the lost item. To thank them we offer their favorite food and drink. For something as complicated as saving a life, larger sacrifices are required. A life for a life.”
“Is that what those chickens and doves at your house are for?”
The Mother nodded.
“Do you ever use bigger animals?”
The Mother held Frank’s gaze easily.
“Sometimes a goat or pig. Once I sacrificed a bull”—her white teeth flashed—“but that was such a bother I’ll never do that again.”
When humans are so much easier, Frank finished for her.
“How’d you get into this? The spiritual and Lukumi stuff.”
“You’re born to it, child. Someone in my line’s always had the gift. Usually a female child but sometimes a boy. My uncle Kuban had the sight. He could heal. My mother had it. She passed it on to me. I learned how to heal from her. From my grandmother too. They were steeped in the Spiritual Church and I followed that for a time.
“Then a client introduced me to santeria and I realized that my true path was to follow the ancient gods. I studied to be an olosha, a priestess, and in 1994 I was ordained by the Church of the Lukumi Babalu Aye.”
“You see your clients—do your healing—over at Slauson?”
The Mother rearranged some flowers on the pulpit, purring, “That’s right.”
“Who’s that beggar that hangs around outside your place? The old one wrapped in the blankets?”
The Mother threw an eye at Frank.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Got cataracts, gray hair, wears about half a dozen blankets, even now, in the heat.”
“There are many beggars in this city. Am I expected to know all of them?”
“This one hangs around your place a lot,” Frank pushed.
Fussing with some pots around her arrangement, the Mother asked, “Why do you want to know?”
“I know a lot of them, but I don’t know this one. I was just wondering if it was a client of yours.”
When the Mother didn’t respond, Frank continued, “So you see clients at home and this is where you do church stuff, right? The singing and preaching. All that.”
The Mother laid a hand on Frank’s bare arm. Her touch was cool and dry and Frank was reminded of a snake shedding its skin.
“If you’re so curious, why don’t you come to a service and find out. There’s one tomorrow night at seven o’clock. Even better”— the Mother leered—“come to a bembe. You’ll really see something there. I’m having one two weeks from this Saturday. It starts at five-thirty. At my home. For a client’s daughter.”
As if leaving, Frank turned away from the Mother’s touch.
“What’s a bembe?”
“It’s an initiation ceremony into the faith. It’s where the initiate is chosen by one of the gods. I don’t usually allow outsiders, but I’ll make an exception in your case.”
“The initiate is chosen by one of the gods to do what?”
“Why, to serve!”
The Mother bared her teeth in a shark’s smile. Frank ignored the shiver crawling up her spine. With an effort at
“And how much do you charge for these services?”
“It depends.” The Mother lifted her shoulders.
“On?”
“The severity of the problem. How much time it will take to effect a cure. The materials I use.”
“What materials do you use?”
She shrugged again.
“It depends.”
Frank monitored the Mother’s reaction as she asked, “Do you sacrifice animals?”
“Sometimes,” was the offhand reply. “Again. It depends on the nature of the problem.”
“Give me an example.”
“All right. A client comes to me—”
“—are your clients the members of your congregation?”
“Sometimes. Not always,” the Mother answered, annoyed at the interruption. “They come to me with a problem. It could be something as simple as a client’s lost her wedding ring to a case as serious as someone’s boy got shot in the heart four times. Sometimes I can find the ring using the diloggun. The gods suggest where to look for the lost item. To thank them we offer their favorite food and drink. For something as complicated as saving a life, larger sacrifices are required. A life for a life.”
“Is that what those chickens and doves at your house are for?”
The Mother nodded.
“Do you ever use bigger animals?”
The Mother held Frank’s gaze easily.
“Sometimes a goat or pig. Once I sacrificed a bull”—her white teeth flashed—“but that was such a bother I’ll never do that again.”
When humans are so much easier, Frank finished for her.
“How’d you get into this? The spiritual and Lukumi stuff.”
“You’re born to it, child. Someone in my line’s always had the gift. Usually a female child but sometimes a boy. My uncle Kuban had the sight. He could heal. My mother had it. She passed it on to me. I learned how to heal from her. From my grandmother too. They were steeped in the Spiritual Church and I followed that for a time.
“Then a client introduced me to santeria and I realized that my true path was to follow the ancient gods. I studied to be an olosha, a priestess, and in 1994 I was ordained by the Church of the Lukumi Babalu Aye.”
“You see your clients—do your healing—over at Slauson?”
The Mother rearranged some flowers on the pulpit, purring, “That’s right.”
“Who’s that beggar that hangs around outside your place? The old one wrapped in the blankets?”
The Mother threw an eye at Frank.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Got cataracts, gray hair, wears about half a dozen blankets, even now, in the heat.”
“There are many beggars in this city. Am I expected to know all of them?”
“This one hangs around your place a lot,” Frank pushed.
Fussing with some pots around her arrangement, the Mother asked, “Why do you want to know?”
“I know a lot of them, but I don’t know this one. I was just wondering if it was a client of yours.”
When the Mother didn’t respond, Frank continued, “So you see clients at home and this is where you do church stuff, right? The singing and preaching. All that.”
The Mother laid a hand on Frank’s bare arm. Her touch was cool and dry and Frank was reminded of a snake shedding its skin.
“If you’re so curious, why don’t you come to a service and find out. There’s one tomorrow night at seven o’clock. Even better”— the Mother leered—“come to a bembe. You’ll really see something there. I’m having one two weeks from this Saturday. It starts at five-thirty. At my home. For a client’s daughter.”
As if leaving, Frank turned away from the Mother’s touch.
“What’s a bembe?”
“It’s an initiation ceremony into the faith. It’s where the initiate is chosen by one of the gods. I don’t usually allow outsiders, but I’ll make an exception in your case.”
“The initiate is chosen by one of the gods to do what?”
“Why, to serve!”
The Mother bared her teeth in a shark’s smile. Frank ignored the shiver crawling up her spine. With an effort at
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