Cry Havoc (19 page)

Frank shrugged, starting with a physical description, but Marguerite interrupted, “No, no, no. What’s she
like?
Her personality.”

“Like I said, she’s not very big, but she’s … forceful. She seems larger than she is. She’s proud. Arrogant. Been used to having things her way for a long time.”

“How does she dress?” Marguerite asked. “Tell me about her appearance.”

“She’s flamboyant. She’s got a big personality and she dresses big. She had on a red blouse, silk I think. And big hoop earrings. Lots of bracelets. Very—”

“Does she wear beads?”

Frank peered into her memory.

“Yeah. I thin—”

“What color?” Marguerite barked.

Frank closed her eyes, unprepared for the interrogation.

“I want to say glass. Red. Maybe white.”

Marguerite’s unexpected smile was as powerful as a searchlight. Turning to Darcy, she asked, “How well do you remember your
orishas?”

“Not very well.”

Marguerite rolled her eyes.

“Which one would be associated with red and white?”

Darcy had to think a minute but his answer was apparently satisfactory, for Marguerite said, “There. You’re not as stupid as you think.”

“I’m not the one who thinks I’m stupid,” Darcy bickered back.

She flipped her hand at him.

“You two leave,” she told the detectives. “I will take care of Mr. Hernandez. What I’m going to do,” she told him carefully, “is rid you of the spells this woman’s put on you. I’m going to give you protection too, like an invisible shield, so that whatever she tries to put on you will bounce right off of you and back to her.”

Marguerite took one of Hernandez’s hands in both her own. She leaned into his face and asked, “Do you believe I can do that?”

Hernandez glanced at Frank again, then back at the woman holding his hand. They waited for his answer. Finally it came in a timorous nod. Marguerite tilted an eyebrow at Frank and Darcy. They returned to the living room where Frank studied Marguerite’s art collection. She couldn’t vouch for its quality but the quantity was impressive enough. Running her good hand over a beaded fetish, Frank asked, “What was she giving me the third degree for?”

“I don’t know.” Darcy sulked. He’d been morose all day and Frank had to prod him for answers.

“How long’s this going to take?”

“About an hour.”

“What’s she going to do?”

Pressing his thumbnail into the caulking of the windowsill, he shrugged. “I suspect she’ll cleanse him—rub oils on him and smudge him—then she’ll invoke an
orisha.
My guess is she’ll call upon Shango. That seems to be Mother Love’s god. Plus, he’s the god who protects against evil. She’ll have to set an altar to attract him. The gods are like six-year-olds. They’re easily bribed. She’ll pray over Hernandez and probably make him a mojo that’ll make him feel safe. But like I said, it all depends on how much faith Hernandez has in her.”

“What’s an
orisha?”

“One of the African gods. There’s a whole pantheon with a specific hierarchy, much like the Greek pantheon. Each god has dominion over a specific natural phenomenon. They each have their own attributes and personalities. It’s pretty involved.”

Frank nodded at a tall carving of a bent old man.

“She do any of these?”

“No, she just collects them. She’s a physics professor.”

“No kidding?”

When Darcy didn’t respond, she asked, “Where at?”

“UC Irvine. She’s a bigwig in plasma physics.”

“Plasma physics,” Frank repeated. She was thinking Marguerite was as impressive as her ex when a door banged.

“Where’s your daughter?”

“She’s spending the night at a friend’s. I wanted to see her but Marguerite doesn’t like the schedule disrupted. She can be a regular bitch.”

Frank examined a row of book spines.

“That why you left her?” she ventured.

“It was the other way around.” Darcy grunted, then volunteered, “I used to have a pretty bad temper. I came home drunk one night, I don’t even remember it, but I guess I hit her. I woke up in the tank and by the time they let me out she’d changed the locks. She packed my things in a couple of boxes and brought them outside for me. Her brothers were with her. She had a big gash on her cheekbone and her right eye was swollen. She told me to expect the divorce papers within a week and that I’d never see Gabby—my daughter— again.”

Darcy went Code 2 again and Frank said to the books, “I thought you had custody every other weekend.”

“Yeah, we’re working it out. It’s not as much time as I want with her, but it’s better than what it used to be. She wouldn’t even let me see her in the beginning, or call her. She had a restraining order. Plus those brothers. But it’s getting better. I’ve just got to be patient and not lose my temper. That only sets me back.”

The conversation died in uncomplaining silence. Darcy went outside to spit tobacco and Frank wished she’d brought some work to do. She pulled a book from the shelf, a doctoral thesis on African religious art.

She found Shango in the index but it directed her to Xango. She browsed the indicated entries, discovering he was the god of pride, arrogance, and warfare. He loved all physical sports, often carried an ax or a club, usually made of copper, and his favorite colors were red and white.

As Darcy said, he was associated with all natural phenomena, ruling over lightning and fire. That reminded frank of Jill’s informant, who claimed to have seen lightning over the Slauson house.

Even as Frank rationalized that the CI had seen a spotlight or some explicable weather event, her lower brain whispered,
not a coincidence.

Frank flipped to another entry. Xango was the god to call upon for help with black magic. He had to be propitiated with large offerings, and was especially fond of crabs. A red rooster should be used for sacrifices to Xango, and though he was fair, and often called upon to settle judgments and disputes, he had a fierce temper, often burning those who offended him.

Lincoln Roosevelt torched in a St. Louis flophouse. Billy Daniels burned while he slept. Gough’s pimp immolated in his hooptie. Tito Carrillo rolled up and lit like a blunt.

Frank snapped the book shut. Was the Mother appeasing her god and eliminating competitors at the same time? Why hadn’t she burned Danny too? Or the Colombians? Because she’s smart enough to change her MO, Frank answered herself.

She jumped when Marguerite opened the door. Shelving the book, Frank asked, “All done?”

Marguerite approached without a sound, as if she were trying to catch a spooked animal.

“I’m done with
him,”
she emphasized. She crossed her arms and they disappeared under the overhang of her breasts.

“How much contact do you have with Mother Love?”

Darcy started to come in the front door, but Marguerite held up a hand.

“Leave us alone,” she said without looking at him. Darcy retreated. Frank was tempted to join him. Holding Marguerite’s gaze was like holding a live coal and Frank almost stepped back. She didn’t. Besides making her look silly, she realized, it wouldn’t do any good. She could be standing across the room and Marguerite James would be just as formidable.

“We’re investigating her nephew’s murder. He worked for her. She was one of the last people to see him. I’ve talked to her.”

“Just about the investigation?”

Frank hesitated.

“Other stuff. She explained
santeria
to me. Said she was a healer. Could see things. She warned me about a dog.” Frank held up her bandaged hand and gave Marguerite her most winning grin. “I didn’t listen.”

“That’s all? No other contact?”

“No offense, Mrs. James, but why am I getting the third degree? Hernandez is your client, not me.”

As if Frank hadn’t spoken, Marguerite pressed, “Did she ever touch you, or offer you food or a drink?”

Frank shook her head, then remembered her visit to the church.

“She put her hand on my arm for a second.”

“Did you notice an itching or burning afterward?”

Frank had a crude answer, but asked instead, “Is Hernandez ready?”

Marguerite’s head tilted to the side, the physicist analyzing data.

“I gathered from the tone of our telephone conversation that you don’t have much use for my religion. I don’t care about that. I’m not a proselytizer. But like Mother Love I can see things, Lieutenant. And I can see her hand all over you. It’s like you’re walking in a black cloud and you don’t even know it. I can help if you like. Maybe. I’ve heard much about her. Her hand is very strong.”

Frank smiled, “I appreciate your concern, but I think I can handle her. Are you done with Hernandez?”

Marguerite also smiled, but where Frank’s smile had bordered on condescension, Marguerite’s was wise, the secrets in her eyes hidden in plain view. Frank felt oddly contrite.

“I’ll get him,” the priestess offered.

Marguerite led a much calmer Hernandez to the front door. She and Darcy exchanged terse custody plans for the following weekend, then Frank paid her fifty dollars cash. Per their telephone conversation, Frank was to pay whatever she felt the service was worth. Frank had consulted with Darcy who’d explained mambos traditionally didn’t charge for their work, accepting donations instead. Marguerite took the money without looking at it. She started to close the door.

“Wait,” she said, ducking inside. When she came back, she handed Frank her university business card. Her home phone was written on it.

“If you change your mind, call me. Anytime.”

Hours ago the neighbors had flipped “Closed” signs and pulled iron gates across their doors. The halogens over head were all shot out and Saint Barbara’s Spiritual Church of the Seven Powers crouched in the dark. Above it, a thin rind of moon curled against newly blackened sky. It was beautiful. Frank thought about forgetting this. Just showing up at Gail’s and locking the door and holding her all night.

Voices spilled from across the street. Frank looked at the moon once more then followed a vague crack of light at the side of the church. She listened at the door, recognizing the Mother’s sultry timbre.

“Who got Spirit wid’ ‘em?” she implored, and Frank stepped inside.

The church was dim with incense smoke and dull yellow lights. The Mother clapped next to the pulpit, exhorting the small congregation. Frank sat in a vacant pew, meeting the eyes she felt all over her. But even a lifetime on the streets couldn’t prepare Frank for what she saw in the Mother’s eyes. It hit her like a blow to the head, a flare of hatred, so pure and undisguised it was breathtaking. A perfect black-hole of hate.

Frank’s bladder swelled. Bullets nor knives or angel-dusted behemoths had ever scared Frank as much as the tiny woman in front of her. No one could hate that much and not kill. Or worse.

Tommy Trujillo bounced into her head. He’d beaten her up on her way home from school one day. She was in third grade, he was in fifth. He wanted her Batman lunch box. He took it after bashing her ear bloody. When she told her father what had happened, he’d slapped her. Frank had been stunned.

“Do you know why I hit you?”

She’d backed away from him. He’d followed, slapping her again. It was a light slap, its unexpectedness more frightening than its sting. He slapped her again. And again, until Frank was furious. Until she slapped back. Then he’d grinned and pulled her to him. Kissed her tears.

“You know why I did that? To make you mad. You know why I wanted to make you mad?”

When Frank shook her head he’d said, “Because mad is better than afraid. Anger you can use. You can fight with it. But fear’ll just eat you up. You may as well lie down and die if you’re afraid. I’m not always gonna be there to protect you. Your mom neither. You gotta learn to protect yourself. Next time somebody wants to fight you, get mad at ‘em. Remember me slapping you, okay?”

The old memory came like a benediction, allowing Frank to rein her fear. She forced a cool smile. To her surprise the Mother bent double, erupting in laughter. She clapped gleefully and capered in circles. Her eyes flashed at Frank, hands cracking like a bullwhip.

“Who’s got the Spirit here?”

She cocked an ear at the assembly. Frank looked around, hiding her shaking hands in her pockets. Maybe twenty-five, thirty people were scattered among the pews. About a third were black, the rest Latino. Roughly the same ratio of men to women. They all appeared expectant.

A hand shot up and a woman claimed, “I got the Spirit, amen!”

“She say she got the Spirit! Ache!” the Mother clapped, her s’s tangling in their hurry.

“Who else got the Spirit now?” she demanded.

“I do! Praise be, I
do!”
a voice called out.

The clapping increased. Against the walls, toward the front of the church, Frank counted eight men sitting around an array of drums—round ones, cone-shaped, hour-glassed, congas. They sipped from glasses, nodding at the Mother. Frank watched one poke around in his nose then inspect his finger with great care. They were older men with more lines between them than a Rand McNally atlas. Blue incense drifted over their heads.

“Who
else
is filled with Spirit?” Mother Love howled.

Souls cried they had the Spirit. The Mother’s hands moved faster. Her flock followed the tempo, clapping, rocking, nodding in time. The Mother bellowed her queries in the same meter, but faster now. Testimonies rang out like rifle shots. The Mother praised each one, chanting a rhythmic sing-song.

“I call down the Spirit—ache!—of the god of the earth! Praise be! I call down the Spirit—yes sir!—of the Lord of the skies! Amen! I call down the Spirit—ache—of the god of all Spirits! Amen! Come down! I call the Spirit—praise God!—to fill our hearts. Come down! Fill us now! Ache!”

The hypnotic litany gained speed. Mother Love equally thanked the wind and sun and rain, ancestors, spirits and saints. Her followers joined in, shouting, “Amen!” and “Ache!”

Frank watched one of the old men touch his drum. He listened intently between pats, his eye following the Mother. He tapped to her rhythm, hesitant until he’d captured it, then he beat the skin firmly. Another man followed him, then one drummer after another picked up the beat. Deep boomings rolled under lighter, faster notes. It sounded like raindrops falling into puddles while thunder rumbled in from an ugly horizon.