wouldn’t say that necessarily.”
“He certainly could’ve tried. Had ample opportunity. But instead he killed someone in front of you.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“He was showing off,” the santero says with finality. Then he puts a menthol in his mouth.
“If you light that, Kia will fuck us both up on behalf of her uterus.”
Baba Eddie nods, showing a generous amount of restraint toward his young office manager, in my opinion.
“And this other partially dead fellow—Trevor, you called him?”
“Yes.”
“A minion of some kind, perhaps. Maybe even a reluctant one.”
“Why reluctant?”
“He also could’ve at least attempted to kill you, save his own life. Was he even armed, Carlos?”
That hadn’t really occurred to me in the frenzy of the moment. I’d just been glad the kill was clean. “No,” I admit.
“There’s a missing piece to this equation.”
Sasha. “You think?”
“No doubt.”
“Eddie! You comin’?” Russell calls from the front. “Reservation’s for eight. I don’t wanna be fuckin’ late.”
Baba Eddie rolls his eyes and stands. “Such a poet, that one. The trials and tribulations of a domesticated santero, Carlos. I swear . . .”
“True love is a feisty bitch.”
“You have no idea.”
“I really don’t,” I say and follow him out through the curtain.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
S he’s here. Sasha. The missing piece. Looking sullen again, but she lights up when she sees me. Which causes pangs of fear and delight to supercharge through my veins. I sit at her table like that’s just what we always do, and then I put all the good things I think about her into a smile. I don’t smile much, so I try to make them count.
She blushes. “Happy to see me?”
“I am.” And so glad she wasn’t here last night to absorb my drunken truth-telling. “Always.”
She rolls her eyes. “No drinks this time?”
“I’m . . .”
Still hungover.
“Taking a break.”
“Ooh-la-la.” A mischievous smile.
“But you want one?” I make to get up, and she stops me, putting a chilly, perfect hand on mine.
“No, it’s fine. Stay.”
I sit, and she leaves her hand there for a blissful second before retrieving it. Her eyes are glued to my face though, probably trying to make sure I’m not suddenly repulsed by her coldness. That’s what I’d do anyway. Makes no sense, because obviously I’m cold too, but petty insecurities don’t politic with reason. I know as well as anyone.
Less than twelve hours earlier, I was sitting where she is and blathering back and forth with Amanda. I send up a little prayer of thanks to whoever’s listening that grieving and coolheadedness prevailed.
“You want to go somewhere?” I say. I realize that sounds like a complete come-on, which I hadn’t totally meant it as, so I add: “A walk or something?”
She relaxes a little and nods. “Sounds lovely.”
* * *
I don’t mean to, but we end up veering toward the park anyway. I swear the place has a gravitational pull to the less-than-living. Anyway, it’s a beautiful, fresh night; the air is crisp and perfect like some divine hand was feeling meticulous about putting each piece into place. Sasha’s wearing a black peacoat that adds a pleasing militant element to her otherwise debonair swagger. Sproingy black curls bounce out from under a knit cap and surround her face in an inky ocean of hair. I want to take that face in my hands and put my own face against it and let our connecting faces be the fulcrum that swings our two bodies together and let the winter night guide our combined life forces into an intimate tangle that obliterates all our fears and regrets, but instead I just smile and offer her my arm.
Riley says ladies like it when you go slow right up until this one particular moment in time—Point Zero, he calls it—when everything changes and you gotta switch into hunting mode. The idea being that there’s a diminishing series of digital numbers that
“He certainly could’ve tried. Had ample opportunity. But instead he killed someone in front of you.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“He was showing off,” the santero says with finality. Then he puts a menthol in his mouth.
“If you light that, Kia will fuck us both up on behalf of her uterus.”
Baba Eddie nods, showing a generous amount of restraint toward his young office manager, in my opinion.
“And this other partially dead fellow—Trevor, you called him?”
“Yes.”
“A minion of some kind, perhaps. Maybe even a reluctant one.”
“Why reluctant?”
“He also could’ve at least attempted to kill you, save his own life. Was he even armed, Carlos?”
That hadn’t really occurred to me in the frenzy of the moment. I’d just been glad the kill was clean. “No,” I admit.
“There’s a missing piece to this equation.”
Sasha. “You think?”
“No doubt.”
“Eddie! You comin’?” Russell calls from the front. “Reservation’s for eight. I don’t wanna be fuckin’ late.”
Baba Eddie rolls his eyes and stands. “Such a poet, that one. The trials and tribulations of a domesticated santero, Carlos. I swear . . .”
“True love is a feisty bitch.”
“You have no idea.”
“I really don’t,” I say and follow him out through the curtain.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
S he’s here. Sasha. The missing piece. Looking sullen again, but she lights up when she sees me. Which causes pangs of fear and delight to supercharge through my veins. I sit at her table like that’s just what we always do, and then I put all the good things I think about her into a smile. I don’t smile much, so I try to make them count.
She blushes. “Happy to see me?”
“I am.” And so glad she wasn’t here last night to absorb my drunken truth-telling. “Always.”
She rolls her eyes. “No drinks this time?”
“I’m . . .”
Still hungover.
“Taking a break.”
“Ooh-la-la.” A mischievous smile.
“But you want one?” I make to get up, and she stops me, putting a chilly, perfect hand on mine.
“No, it’s fine. Stay.”
I sit, and she leaves her hand there for a blissful second before retrieving it. Her eyes are glued to my face though, probably trying to make sure I’m not suddenly repulsed by her coldness. That’s what I’d do anyway. Makes no sense, because obviously I’m cold too, but petty insecurities don’t politic with reason. I know as well as anyone.
Less than twelve hours earlier, I was sitting where she is and blathering back and forth with Amanda. I send up a little prayer of thanks to whoever’s listening that grieving and coolheadedness prevailed.
“You want to go somewhere?” I say. I realize that sounds like a complete come-on, which I hadn’t totally meant it as, so I add: “A walk or something?”
She relaxes a little and nods. “Sounds lovely.”
* * *
I don’t mean to, but we end up veering toward the park anyway. I swear the place has a gravitational pull to the less-than-living. Anyway, it’s a beautiful, fresh night; the air is crisp and perfect like some divine hand was feeling meticulous about putting each piece into place. Sasha’s wearing a black peacoat that adds a pleasing militant element to her otherwise debonair swagger. Sproingy black curls bounce out from under a knit cap and surround her face in an inky ocean of hair. I want to take that face in my hands and put my own face against it and let our connecting faces be the fulcrum that swings our two bodies together and let the winter night guide our combined life forces into an intimate tangle that obliterates all our fears and regrets, but instead I just smile and offer her my arm.
Riley says ladies like it when you go slow right up until this one particular moment in time—Point Zero, he calls it—when everything changes and you gotta switch into hunting mode. The idea being that there’s a diminishing series of digital numbers that
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