Blue Diablo

Wicked Game

I dreamed of fire.

As on the worst occasions, I woke with the sheets sodden from terror sweat. The sky glimmered with pearly, predawn light, dispelling some of the gloom. I lay there, clammy, my heart thudding like I’d been running. For a moment I couldn’t get my breath and the shaking wouldn’t stop. Chance used to get up and make me hot chocolate whenever this happened, his eyes half-lidded with sleep. He wouldn’t speak, just deliver the drink in a ritual that let me know I wasn’t alone. I have no idea why, but cupping the mug between my hands always made me feel better.

You’d think it’d go away for good after so many years, but the nightmare always comes back in times of trouble, like a reminder. Things always get worse when the dream returns; it’s a reliable foretelling device in its own way. If I could be sure it was my mother, trying to reach me somehow, I wouldn’t mind as much. I don’t have much faith there’s anything left of her, though, and I’ve tried several speakers for the dead. They always claim there’s interference, a bad connection between this world and the next. I don’t try to reach her anymore. Like I said, I have the feeling she gave everything she was to me, and then just floated away in wisps of smoke, not even a ghost.

Still unsteady, I crawled out of my sweaty nest and headed for the kitchen. I’d make my own cocoa, dammit. If I could find it. Rummaging around in Chuch’s kitchen, I unearthed a box of instant. That’ll work.

As I filled a cup from the tap, a click made me spin around, sloshing water on my thighs. A tall, dark-haired woman stood glaring at me from the doorway that led in from the garage. “Who the hell are you?”

“Corine,” I said, wondering whether lukewarm tap water and a heavy mug would offer any real defense. She looked ready to claw my eyes out.

But her wrath went another way. “I’ll kill him,” she bit out. “No, I’ll cut his thing off. I’m gone four days and here you are in your underwear. Pendejo!” She stormed down the hall toward Chuch’s room.

“It’s not underwear,” I said, glancing down at my shorts. She wasn’t listening. With a shrug, I popped my mug into the microwave.

Within thirty seconds—and the microwave timed it—I heard, “Eva, corazon, I—ow!” Chuch emerged in a pair of pajama pants, heading for the kitchen at a dead run. Eva followed, steely-eyed and ready to castrate. “Corine, tell her it isn’t how it looks.”

“What isn’t?” Yeah, I played dumb as I mixed the chocolate powder into the hot water. Stirred, watching his agitation increase.

“You slept on my couch!”

He’d thank me for this later. “You said she left you. What business is it of hers?”

“Dios, I only went to my mama’s house to think about things. We’re still married, Jesus Maria Ortiz Obregón! You’re going to hell!”

Oops. Maybe I wasn’t helping. “You never mentioned you were married.”

Chuch eyed me with dislike as I brought the spoon to my mouth, tasting the cocoa. “It wasn’t important! You—”

That was the wrong thing to say. “Wasn’t important! Five years and it wasn’t important. Just like I don’t matter to you as much as your precious cars.”

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.”