She seemed like she was building up a head of steam so I interjected, “I did sleep on the couch and it isn’t how it looks. Chuch is helping us out for a day or two.”
“Us?” Eva looked oddly crestfallen. Maybe she enjoyed yelling at him, and if what she’d thought was true, she would’ve had a lifetime supply of ammunition.
“Yeah, us.” Sleep rumpled, a red T-shirt hiding the worst of the damage, Chance rubbed his eyes as he came into the kitchen. He looked for me, found me, and offered a half smile. It was an I’m glad you didn’t leave me in the night sort of look. I didn’t blame Eva for checking him out, even with her estranged husband standing right there. My ex just has that effect on women.
“Is there coffee?” Chance asked.
“I’ll make some,” Eva said, sounding subdued.
I had a residual headache from the dream but at least the shakes were gone. If Eva hadn’t turned up, I would have offered to cook breakfast. My scrambled eggs are great. They’re also the extent of my kitchen skills, unless you count quesadillas, salsa, or microwaving stuff other people have made.
Over huevos rancheros, we filled her in. On my own, I don’t know whether I would have trusted her, but Chuch did, of course, and when you’re staying in a woman’s home, you owe her some respect. Turned out she came from a long and distinguished line of curanderas, but she didn’t have the don. That’s Spanish for gift. We heard all about it, and by the time the meal was over, I felt sorry for Chuch. The woman was a talker.
While they spoke, I washed the dishes. It’s polite to clean up when someone else cooks for you. I remember that from my mother’s upbringing.
“So are you home for good, mi corazon? I missed you.” The mood turned a little squishy for my taste and I braced for some canoodling. While I’m all for sex, preferably lots of it, I don’t enjoy watching other people have it.
“If you promise to pay some attention to me. No more spending all your time under those cars, okay?”
I could see he wanted to protest that was how he made their living but evidently decided that discussion would keep. Silently I commended his common sense when he simply nodded and changed the subject.
“I’m gonna go see if Booke’s gotten back to me. Thanks for breakfast.” Chuch kissed his wife on the cheek.
That left the three of us in the kitchen, but I didn’t want to hear any more stories about how Eva’s abuela could cast out evil spirits by rubbing an egg all over someone’s naked body. It might well be true but I needed a shower just thinking about it. As I headed for the bathroom, I heard her say, “You’re hurt, pobrecito. Let me look at your bandages.”
My jaw clenched, and my step stuttered. I made myself continue. It didn’t matter who changed the dressings as long as someone did. Eva wasn’t encroaching on my territory. I didn’t have territory.
Twenty minutes later, I presented myself in Chuch’s office. A designer would call the walls eggshell, but it looked dingy white to me. It was decorated in early garage sale, but damn if he didn’t boast the biggest, baddest metal desk I’d ever seen. I was pretty sure all four of us could take shelter under it in case of a tornado. More plaid on a rundown recliner Eva had likely banished from the living room. Among protective knots and clusters of beads, license plates hung on the walls, probably from the first cars he’d restored.
I purely coveted his lamp, though. It would go perfectly in my living room, a naked woman cast in wrought iron for the base and a gloriously overbedizened shade. Black velvet, gold fringe and beads—need I say more? I wanted it, but it wouldn’t do to make an offer right away. If I ever got tired of it, I could sell it. Hey, I’m a professional, after all.
He sat clicking away for a minute before acknowledging me. “You got a mean streak, you know that?”
“So I’ve heard.” Most recently, when I wore the frangipani perfume to bed with Chance. “Did your boy get back to you?”
“Sure did. He wants to talk to you two so I’m setting up a VoIP.”
I pondered while he worked and eventually put it together, as I’m not what you’d call tech savvy. At this point, I don’t have a desktop system, a laptop, or even a BlackBerry. My cell phone suffices for my messaging needs, and I check my e-mail only once every two weeks at the Internet café near my house. Those are all over the place in Mexico since a lot of people see a computer as something you just need to use occasionally rather than a must-have amenity for the home.
“Huh,” I murmured, thoughtful. “I draw a picture and this morning, a guy in another time zone is ready to help. I’d never have guessed you could get information about this kind of thing so fast from online contacts.”
To be honest, I’d be afraid to broach the subject. I had a hard enough time dealing with people face-to-face who could see my scars as proof and still thought I was mental. I dropped down in the Barcalounger with a sigh.
Chuch flashed me a smile. “Hey, that’s why they invented the Internet, hermanita. To talk about weird shit and download porn.”
As the software ran its diagnostic, Chance strolled into the office. There weren’t enough chairs so he propped himself on the edge of the monster desk. He looked better today, his wounds bandaged and artfully concealed by a great Boss shirt. Few men could pull off shimmering black and silver stripes with such aplomb. In that same shirt, Chuch would look like a pimp.
Chance arched a brow. “All set?”
A male voice answered in an Oxford accent, albeit a bit tinny from the speakers. “I can hear you. Can you hear me?”
“I can. My name’s Chance, and I appreciate your time.” As he shifted his weight, I tried not to think about the edge of the desk biting into his butt. That used to be my job, and trust me when I say the man has a truly remarkable ass.
God, I needed to focus.
“Loud and clear,” I said. “I’m Corine.” I didn’t know whether that was correct etiquette but I enjoyed pretending I had some manners, at least in the beginning.
Chuch didn’t. “What you got for us?”
There was some urgency, I admit.
“I’m Ian Booke. Let us remember the niceties,” the Englishman chided. “As well as the rules of engagement. Beat me in a game of virtual chess and I’ll tell you what I know.”
Well Played
To his credit, Chuch tried to get around it. “This is important. I’ll play you later.”
But Booke held firm: no contest, no info.
Chance pushed to his feet and rested his hand on the back of Chuch’s chair. “Up. I’ll give him a game.”
Sighing, the other man got to his feet and moved to the recliner. Well, I didn’t intend to sit and watch a virtual chess match, and clearly, Chuch did so I gave him my seat. There were limits to what an ex should expect. Instead I made my way back to the kitchen, where Eva sat in a pool of sunlight, reading the paper. Studying her, I decided she and Chuch were a bit of an odd couple, him short and stocky, her tall and model slim.
She’d been biting on a red pen, so she had a smudge of ink on her upper lip. As I joined her, I saw she’d been circling want ads.
“Job hunting?” Stupid thing to say, but then I never claimed to possess good social skills. Living as I do sort of discourages that.
Eva nodded. “Chuch makes enough money, but I get bored, you know? I want to do something interesting this time, though.”
I searched for a suitable reply. “You’ve held boring jobs?”
In fact, I could relate. Since I can sell just about anything—you might even call it a preternatural gift—I’ve worked in retail my whole life. It doesn’t get much worse.
“Yeah. Who knew being a private eye involved so much sitting around in cars? Really dull.”
“You used to be a PI?” Despite myself, I registered some awe. I always had a weakness for Mickey Spillane and Dashiell Hammett. I loved diving into a noir detective novel with guys in fedoras and trench coats and with smart-mouthed dames wearing too much lipstick and killer shoes.
“Well.” Her expression turned mulish. “I didn’t actually get the license, but what’s the big deal? It’s just a piece of paper and I can print one that looks just as good. I helped my clients just the same and probably charged them less.”
Biting my inner lip against a grin, I processed the information. So Eva specialized in forgery. That was good to know. Just like you never know when you’ll need your ride tricked out, you never know when you’ll need a passport cooked. In fact, I could use one.
“So what’s the problem?”
“Chuch says I’m going to end up in jail the first time a disgruntled client reports me to the license board.”
“So make sure they’re all gruntled.”
Eva grinned at me. “That’s what I said. But it really is boring, so I’m looking for a new gig.”
“I run a pawnshop in Mexico City.”
Don’t ask me why I volunteered the information when I’d done my best to make sure nobody could find me, but Eva seemed harmless. Chuch would tell her anyway, I rationalized, if she asked. But truthfully, I was simply hungry for female company. When I fled in the middle of the night, I severed all links to my old life, including my best friend, Sara. If I ever worked up the nerve, I’d call her. I didn’t know whether she’d be glad to hear from me or want my head on a pike.
“That sounds . . .” She hesitated.
“Boring?”
“Well. Yeah.”
We both laughed, and I decided I liked her. “It has its compensations. There’s nothing like finding a lost treasure or making a great deal on something.”
“So what’s your part in all this?” she asked, getting up to pour us some coffee. “I know Chance wouldn’t have chased all that way after you unless you can do something for him nobody else can. He’s not the sentimental type.”
Christ, how right that was, and it stung to hear such a home truth spoken by a relative stranger. If only I’d seen him that clearly at the start of our relationship, I wouldn’t be emotionally starved and half-heartbroken over him, even now. To cover how much it still hurt, I sipped my coffee, trying to decide what to tell her.
“I’m a handler,” I said at last, unsure whether she even knew what that was.
Immediately she reached for my hands and turned them palms up. “Dios mio.” Eva crossed herself as she studied scars old and new. “What a curse.”
I felt dumbstruck by her perspicacity. I almost never told anyone. People didn’t believe my claim, and if they did, it colored their view of me. If they romanticized such powers, they ranked me up there with sugarplum fairies, helpful brownies, and the good witch Glinda. If they demonized them, then I fell somewhere between the Wicked Witch of the West and something you summoned with blood at a crossroads.
To my surprise, she didn’t ask about the scars. There are so few handlers out there; maybe she didn’t realize I’m unusual. If I’d been born with this ability, it wouldn’t work like this. It’s more common to petition a practitioner for a divination spell that will permit him or her to read the energies stored in an object, but like all divinations, the information produced can be double-edged and unreliable.
