01 Summoned-Summoned (12 page)

I laugh, still watching the ceiling. “Who hates Paris?”

“Have you been?” Her tone is accusatory.

“No, can't say I have.”

“I like Italy more.” After a few silent moments, she sighs. “When I was little and she lived in Phoenix, sometimes I would get upset and runaway to her house. I guess my parents knew where I went, but she would let me stay there as long as I wanted. 

“She eventually ran away herself. She went to New Mexico and opened a restaurant so she could bake pies all day. When I got my first car, I started running away again. Every time I was upset or scared, I'd drive to her house. 

“But now she says New Mexico isn't far enough from the rest of the family, so she's moving to Italy. She left me the keys to her place, so I can still runaway.” Syd turns her head to look at me again. “The house is vacant.”

At this moment, so is my brain. I don't respond. I have no idea what we're talking about.

Syd seems to figure this out. 

She props herself on her elbows. “Let's go to New Mexico for a weekend.”

I have an urge to pack right then. We could leave now and arrive before breakfast tomorrow. That includes stopping for a backseat romp along the way.

The trip can't happen. I wouldn't be able to explain to her if I have to leave for work, or to Karl if he notices any charges on the cards.

I've never had to admit just how trapped I am. It's obvious now that my world involves more than just waiting for Karl to figure out the next move in the chess game that is my life.

Maybe I shouldn't have accepted change, but I'm not about to give it back. 

“We'll go,” I say, but I doubt the words are even mine. “Write down the address, and I'll figure something out.”

She has no idea what I've just agreed to.

***

We lie on the floor watching TV, stirring only to refill the hookah and smoke it down. When evening fades in, we gather enough energy to put on our shoes and walk to the taco shop at the end of the block. 

We eat
carne asada
tacos without speaking. It's a pleasant silence, where we are both just content with our food and our high and the fact we're going to screw like rabbits on Viagra after we  stop being so damn lazy.

Syd looks up at me, taco in hand. “Did you know it used to be illegal to import avocados into the U.S. from Mexico?”

I'm certain I missed the first half of this conversation. “Um, why?”

“Flies,” she says. “The U.S. government thought the avocados were infested with fruit flies.”

“So, there was a shortage of guacamole and it had to be rationed?” I give her a dubious look then laugh. “Was there an underground guacamole trade? You could buy it in half pints, but it's going to cost you?”

She shrugs. “No one went to look. They just thought they had flies and wouldn't import them. The Mexican government tried to barter, but they didn't get anywhere. So they put restrictions on importing from us.”

Syd's brain must be a strange place.

Her face looks serious, and she's no longer eating. Just drifting on her thoughts about produce and insects. 

“Finally, they sent someone to Mexico and they checked thousands of avocados. There weren't any flies. Never had been.” She drops her taco to her Styrofoam plate and frowns at it. “Can we go back now?”

I glance at my last taco, then at Syd. Her eyes are red. She has been hitting for a while, but I don't remember her eyes being that way when we left the house.

“Yeah, we can go,” I say, scooping up our plates and plastic ramekins. I dump them in the trash bin, and we head back to my place. 

Syd is quiet on the walk and after we arrive. It's not the pleasant sort anymore. I think I'm supposed to be upset about the history of avocados. She doesn't seem angry that I'm not, but maybe disappointed.

We lie on the floor to watch TV and doze. We don't even have sex, but I'm content with the warmth of her body against mine. Around midnight, she kisses me goodbye before leaving. And I still can't figure out why we were talking about avocados.

Late in the morning, Karl summons me. I expect he just wants to talk about what happened with the safe. Calling on the phone would be too mundane.

Instead, a guard passes me a manila envelope. I could probably wallpaper my bedroom from floor to ceiling with as many of these damn things I've been given.

“I need you to bring me that person, Dimitri,” Karl says.

I hate how he says my name. It has the distinct tone like he's commanding a Doberman to fetch.

“I need him alive.”

Great, another kidnapping. I want to ask if he's certain the target isn't deceased already, but I keep my mouth closed. As bitter as I am over the last misadventure, I haven't forgotten who wields the power around here.

Karl leans back in his chair. “This . . . I . . . wish.”

Satan starts humming a tune in my head again. I wait for Karl to begin our super fun version of Twenty Questions. No way he's letting go of the missing safe that easily.

He raises his eyebrows at me.

That's my signal to get fetching. Maybe he is over the safe, after all. 

I don't even bother going through the case file on my way out. If I see my abductee is another minor, I'm going to lose it. 

Dimitri Hayes, the cause of lifetime therapy bills across the nation.

Silvia appears out of nowhere. “Taking down another bad guy?”

“Yeah, Silv,” I say, without slowing. “I'm a regular Vin Diesel.”

She catches up to me. “Can I go with you?”

I scoff. “Lay off the blow.”

She matches my pace as we cross the yard and says, “Come on, Dim. Daddy won't let me go into the city alone.”

“Take the infirmary doctor and bring some mouthwash,” I say.

She wrinkles her nose. “You're nasty.”

“You have no idea.” I glance at her, then sigh. She's just going to whine until I either cave to shut her up, or Eileena goes Amazonian on me. “Get in.”

She claps, then bustles into the passenger seat.

“Don't smoke.” I back the car out and turn to head toward the big city.

She pulls down the visor, flips up the mirror, and starts messing with her hair. “Why aren't you ever any fun?” 

“Oh, I'm loads of fun when I don't have the drums of hell in my head.”

She gives me a contemplating look. “That kind of sucks, doesn't it?”

“Nah, it makes for an interesting online dating profile.” I shrug because her concern is a few years too late. “Where do you want to go, Your Majesty?”

She sits straight, though I doubt the reaction was even conscious. She knows who she is; she is multimillionaire Karl Walker's only thriving sperm. 

Mother Nature let her guard down on this one.

“McDonald's,” she says.

“What the actual fuck?”

She smiles, her perky expression matching her tone. “I've never been.”

“Wow, look how neglected you are,” I say. “You want the real drive-thru experience? You know, McDonald's is a delicacy in Japan.”

Her eyes widen. “It is?”

“How the fuck would I know?”

She frowns and stares out the window.

I start to feel bad for being prickish to her. Then I remember she's checking off days on her Hello Kitty calendar until I'm her personal servant, boy-toy, and henchman all in one. The guilt evaporates.

I turn on the radio and blast the usual music so neither of us feel obligated to speak. 

When I pull into McDonald's, Silvia scopes out the exterior like she's considering buying the place. Then again, maybe it is on her to-do list after Karl gets hit by a train.

At the register, she stands like she's part of the Royal Guard while stating her order. The girl would be an embarrassment if I wasn't pressed for time.

I need to hurry through this stupid whim so I can return her to the mansion and get on with the wish before the ticking bomb in my head takes out my brain like Hiroshima.

I order, pay, and hand Silvia the cup. “This is for drinks.”

She narrows her eyes, then flips her hair and stalks to the fountains.

“Hey,” I call after her and follow right behind. “I wasn't sure you had seen one made of paper us common folk use.”

She doesn't look amused as she fills her cup with ice and soda, then takes it upon herself to claim a table. 

I fill my own cup and join her, tossing down straws. “You'll need one of these, princess.”

She snatches up the straw, tears off the paper, and then stabs it through the lid like she's plunging a knife.

“Oh, knock it off.” I slide into the booth. “Stop getting butt hurt over everything.”

She purses her lips and looks across the restaurant, away from me, without speaking. I would appreciate the silence, except she is just stewing. Never know where that will lead.

I shuffle my feet. “Hey, did you know that it used to be illegal to import avocados?”

She meets my gaze, scowling. “What are you talking about?”

“I don't know,” I say with a shrug. “Something I heard. So why won't your dad let you come into Phoenix anymore?”

“He says the crime rate has spiked.”

I resist commenting that it would help if he stopped using murder as his upper hand.

Our order comes up. I go get the tray and set it down on the table.

Silvia takes her food, but her expression is still sullen. I slide back into my seat and unwrap my hamburger.

She says, “I can't wait for you to come live at the mansion.”

“I don't want to live at the mansion,” I say, doing my best not to sound horrified.

“So you plan to drive out to see me every day?” She flutters her eyes. “That's stupid.” 

She sets to work on her chicken nuggets and fries.

I stare at her, dumbfounded. As many times as I tell myself Silvia is driving with the engine off, she knows exactly where this vehicle is headed. Her father gets everything he wants, and her parents have been grooming her for next-in-line. Her wish is going to be my command.

A strange feeling settles over me as I realize mixing bloodlines just might negate them once and for all.

***

My head is playing a solid little ditty by the time I get back home from dropping Silvia off at the mansion. I wish she would pick better times to want to hang out, but it's not like I swing by when I haven't been summoned. Those days ended as soon as Karl made me his pet.

I swap out wallets and, with a resigned sigh, drop into my computer chair. I swivel back and forth as I browse through the case file and acquaint myself with my latest target.

His name is Robert. He's twenty-eight, lives local, and is working on his PhD in archeology. He likes spelunking, scuba diving, and skydiving. I bet he also likes alliterations.

No wife, no girlfriend, no offspring. Volunteers three weeks over the summer at a kids camp for underprivileged youth. 

I study his picture and the accompanying description. Brown hair, brown eyes, large front teeth, six-foot-two, one-hundred and eighty pounds.

“Well, gonna need benzos for this one.” I toss the papers onto my desk and head to my on-suite bathroom. I pull open the medicine chest. It's empty. 

When the hell did that happen? Who knows. The days kind of blur together sometimes.

I slam the door shut, grab my loaded jacket and the case file, and head out to my car. 

Time to replenish my supply.

***

I knock on Jesse's apartment door, unable to tell which sound is my fist and which sound is the bam-bam-bam in my brain. My vision wavers in and out. 

Entertaining Silvia has put me behind schedule as it is. Now I have this detour, and I'm already anticipating Jesse wanting to talk about Call of Duty and Warcraft and whatever else he does during his limited time spent conscious. 

He finally opens the door. “Dimitri, my man! Come in!”

I step into his living room. Fast food containers are spread across every table. Someone has been sleeping on the couch, and a cat has been using a pile of laundry as a litterbox.

Looks like he cleaned up the place.

He disappears into the kitchen, then returns and hands me a Pepsi. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” I say, but the word barely escape. 

My stomach is churning. I have to get going. Stocking up on benzos doesn't count as enough intention, not after this long. I need to start the hunt so I can get some relief.

He exits down the hallway. I stay rooted where I am. If I move, I'll probably fall over.

He returns a few minutes later.

“Cool, now I can get my X-Box out of pawn,” he says, messing with some vials and syringes and why the hell won't he hurry up?

“Jesse . . . ” I put out my hand, but my arm is twitching.

He doesn't seem to notice, still busy screwing around with the benzos and talking about some game with explosions and a naked lady. I can't follow the conversation.

I growl. “Can you just give them the fuck to me already?”

His head snaps up. I think he looks surprised. That's what I make out through the haze settling over my sight, anyway.

He's quiet, and then says, “Dude, you're fiending hard.”

“No shit,” I say, because I am fiending. Painfully so. Just not for the benzos.

He shakes his head. “I told you, this shit is mixed way too strong.”