Upside Down

8

Marta Ruiz felt as if she was standing between heaven and hell as ten high-pressure nozzles-five each on opposing walls-assailed her. She stood naked in the center of the stone-tiled shower stall as cold water stung the front of her body and hot scorched her backside. Her mind was far away, her thoughts as unfocused as the eyes of a newborn. Unless she was in a completely safe place, as she was now, Marta could ill afford the luxury of letting her mind wander. In her line of work, safe places were rare. The house, which she shared with Arturo, was located in the woods north of Lake Pontchartrain miles outside Covington, Louisiana.

Marta turned off the jets and dried off using a thick towel. She stood before the full-length mirror and studied the most important weapon she owned-her chiseled and finely tuned body. The first and most important rule in her line of work was to stay in fighting trim. When she wasn't on a job she spent several hours a day in her well-equipped gym, working out on the Nautilus machines to maintain her strength. Her five-foot-five-inch frame was as close to perfection as diet and exercise could make it. She maintained a balance in her muscle structure because being too bulked would slow her and limit her range of movement, while having too little muscle would cost her strength and stamina. She swam laps in the pool behind the house, ran ten miles a day, practiced gymnastic exercises to give her stamina, balance, and strength. She kept up her proficiency with a wide variety of weapons. She could slow her heartbeat and hold her breath for over three minutes. She maintained her peak condition-pushed herself because her clients paid a lot of money for perfection.

Part of her regimen included training in absolute darkness, using the sounds and scents of her adversaries for orientation. Her sparring partner was a sixteen-year-old neighbor boy who lived a half mile up a dirt trail that ran along the Tchefuncte River. On those days the boy came, Marta wore a blindfold and went weaponless, while he used a bamboo sword and tried to hit her as many times as he could before she disarmed him. She would pay him five dollars for every blow he delivered until she took the sword away. He had never made more than five dollars, but he kept trying harder, which she appreciated. Like a blind person, each time she played the game her hearing and other senses took the place of her sight.

She smiled at her mirror image. At twenty-nine she could still pass for a teenager. If she wore her hair short it would be easier to take care of, but she loved her long hair and so did men, which gave her an edge more important than an ability to disguise herself. She studied her face and how her hazel eyes, heavy black eyebrows, high cheekbones, strong chin, and full lips worked together.

Marta put on a plush robe, wrapped her hair in a towel, and went into the bedroom humming. Hard hands grabbed her from behind. The intruder locked his forearm tight around her middle, and pressed a blade against her throat. His body odor assailed her nostrils, but under that there was a very familiar scent.

Marta grabbed his wrist, pressed her fingers against the back of his hand, and disarmed him. Effortlessly, she now held his trademark switchblade to his throat.

“Poor baby,” she crooned teasingly. “Did the little girl get the better of you?”

“Okay, I give up,” he said.

She kissed him full on the lips, both cheeks, and on his smooth forehead before handing back his knife.

“You have been sweating, Arturo,” she said.

“It was a long morning.”

She stood, pulled him to his feet, and embraced him. “Come and take a shower, Arturo. We can spend a few minutes talking. I've hardly seen you all week.”

Marta led him into the bathroom, and while he took off his clothes she set the water to cascade from the overhead nozzles.

“How did you do that?” he asked, perplexed.

“I read the instructions. They are in the-”

“The contractor should come show me again. I wasn't paying attention to him before.”

“I'll show you,” she told him.

While he stood under the water soaping himself and singing, Marta picked up his soiled clothes and dropped them into the hamper. She would wash and dry them later, as she always did. As he lathered his body she sat on the deep stone counter with her legs crossed and admired him. He was the only man she had ever loved-ever cared about at all. “Are you hungry?”

“No. Just tired.”

“I'll cook you something. I've got some of the wine you like and I picked up some prime steaks.”

“I got a triple this morning,” he said.

She shrugged. “So did I. That prick Cecil Mahoney and two of his little geckos. I just pinched off their teensy little heads.”

“I didn't think that pig was telling the truth, but Bennett did. Mahoney was insane. Anyway, I found Amber and got back the envelope. And I brought your fee. Bennett was pleased by your triple, even if it wasn't the right triple.”

“I'm happy he was pleased,” she said sarcastically.

“He invited me to bring you to his club tonight, but I told him you are a simple girl who doesn't care for noisy places.”

“What I don't care for is bad food, boom-boom music, watered-down drinks, sweaty people, and flashing lights. And I especially don't care for your boss. He should work in a circus.”

“He pays me good money and I have complete protection, which doesn't exactly hurt you.”

“I handle my own protection. And I prefer working for different clients and taking the assignments I want to take. The money is better than working for a single person.”

“Less long-term security,” he argued.

“Nobody who needs our services can offer long-term security.”

“So you don't want the piddling amount Bennett sent to you? Twenty thousand is not bad for killing the wrong people.”

“It was good exercise. I helped only because I love you, Arturo. As always, I will back you up. Not for the money, but because you need me.”

“I'll keep the twenty then.”

“I will take the money and invest it, because you will only waste it on toys you can't be bothered to learn to operate. You are too impatient, Turo. That is a bad thing.”

She stared at the lines of scar tissue scattered over his torso, made by knives, and the four familiar bullet wounds, left from three separate incidents. “You are like an alley cat, Turo. But for your battle scars you would have a perfect body.”

“I think of my scars as a road map of my life.”

His offhand comment filled her with sadness. “It isn't how you learn something, it's how you use the knowledge.”

“Always preaching,” he said curtly. “Church is out. I don't need your advice. I am a man, a professional, so let's drop it.”

He cut off the water and dried himself with the towel she tossed him. After he had combed his hair and wrapped the towel around his waist, she said, “Even with the scars, you are just too pretty. Those long eyelashes, the brows, those big golden eyes, and lips any woman would kill to have for herself.”

He tensed at the reference to femininity, as she knew he would. But it was true.

Arturo took her face between his hands, kissed her hard on her lips, and stared into her eyes. His amber-colored eyes held her soul and he knew it. “You love me.”

“I love you, Turo.”

“Love is a weakness. It will get you killed, Marta. That is my sermon to you.” Arturo turned and left the bathroom.

After they ate the steaks Marta cooked for them, and while she washed the plates, Arturo sat at the table smoking a cigarette.

“I thought you quit,” she said, concerned.

“I quit all the time,” he answered. “I'll quit again tomorrow.”

“It's bad for your wind.”

“It relaxes me. I work hard so I deserve to feel good.”

“Things that feel good aren't always good for you.”

“You know, you should preach on television.” He crushed out the cigarette and turned on the big plasma-screen set. A reporter was standing in front of an old building.

“Look!” he said excitedly. “I made the news!”

“… And we understand that police are searching for a twelve-year-old girl, one of the victims' daughter, who my sources inside the police department tell me might have witnessed her mother and another woman being murdered. Authorities are not releasing the names of the two victims yet, but as soon as they notify next of kin I hope to have that for you. If you are wondering how the police can effectively enlist the community's help in the search for a young girl whose name they won't release, so am I. It looks like it's going to be up to the department to resolve this. New Orleans detective Michael Manseur is leading the investigation. He should be familiar to New Orleanians as the detective who arrested Terrance Woodhouse last year for the murder of…”

“Fuck!” Arturo screamed. “There wasn't no kid! I searched the place. It's a trick.”

The telephone started to ring.

“Fuck!” he yelled. “That's Jerry. What I'm going to do, Marta?”

Arturo stared at the ringing telephone like it was a rattlesnake.