Dead Man (Black Magic Outlaw Book 1) (4 page)

 

 

 

 

Miami Beach is an island. A series of islands, really. A lot of people don't know that. Downtown Miami is on the coast, then you've got Biscayne Bay between it and the beach. Everyone's familiar with the downtown skyline view from the MacArthur Causeway, the highway bridge that connects the two.

That's what I watched from the Metrobus as I crossed over. Yes, I was using public transportation. You might think it's been an especially unglamorous day for me, but I was used to the bus. My family was dirt poor.

Seeing the skyscrapers in full sunlight brought a smile to my face. I didn't know why. I'd seen them countless times before but I recognized that, this time, I was fortunate.

I'd been dead. For a year apparently. That was a lot of time to lose. A lot of time for things to change.

The urgency of finding my family grew muddled. I realized they wouldn't be in danger anymore. The time for that was long past. Now I just wondered if they knew what had happened to me. If they'd be happy to see me again.

Of course they would, right? But it's a little complicated. (Family always is.) As the firstborn, my parents were a bit disappointed in me. First in the family to reach higher education, I wasted the opportunity by dropping out after two years of community college.

I was a lousy student. I couldn't concern myself with the banalities of academics. So I read a lot. Novels, comic books—anything that required imagination. I used that background to imagine something more. To be open to the impossible. And when I found it, the magic, it felt like it had always been a part of me.

Luckily, my sister had gone down a different path. Seleste knew about my skills, but she hit the books with more dedication than I ever had. She was on track to go to law school. I was proud. Our parents were too, of course, but I always felt I'd let them down.

Honestly, I didn't always honor them as I should have. The whole black magic thing ran me in secret circles. I kinda closed off to them. Didn't pay enough attention. Things had never been crazy at home but constant disappointment has a way of souring things. I wondered what disappearing for a year could do.

The bus cruised past the city proper and headed down Flagler Street. Miami's laid out on a grid system, streets running east to west and avenues north to south. Flagler Street is the heart of Miami. Street zero. North 1st Street is above it and South 1st Street is below. It doesn't mean it's the best part of Miami, but it's Miami all right.

We passed all the run-down strip malls and
mercaditos
. This was Little Havana, and it was my stop. I rang the bell and exited the Metrobus with an uneasy sigh.

I strolled down the sidewalk. (It wasn't pink here.) When I passed a mailbox, I dropped Robert Greene's wallet inside. It wasn't certified, but I hoped the postal carrier would be in the mood for a good deed.

On the corner was a small cafe. No interior, just a windowed bar running along the sidewalk. Old men and hustlers leaned confidently on the counter, laughing and debating local politics. Who was corrupt, whose parents were real Cubans, even a mention of Castro. There was always talk of Fidel, but now they were referring to his brother Raul as
el presidente
. I supposed the old dictator had finally kicked it sometime while I was dead myself. I wondered if we toasted beers in hell. I paused with a frown, the manifestation of change sinking in.

As I stood, the scent of marinated beef and toasted bread caught my nose. It was instantly recognizable. My stomach growled. For some reason, I was ravenous. I kept my head down, pulled out a small wad of cash, and stepped up to the sidewalk counter.

I ordered. "
Un cafecito y un pan con bistec, por favor.
" The old lady smiled and placed a shot of Cuban coffee in front of me. It was served in a tiny disposable cup, like something you'd put ketchup in.

If ever there was a nectar of the gods, this was it. It's not American coffee, and it certainly isn't your typical Starbucks espresso. Cuban coffee is dark, strong, and bitter. Add a metric fuck-ton of sugar and stir until a rich cream froths the top and you have lightning in a paper cup. It made the waiting easier.

When my sandwich came, I was in heaven. A marinated steak sandwich, screw sauce, because it's meat and it's for tasting. For crunch, it's stuffed with loads of potato sticks. And the bread... Cuban bread is a thing of art. On the outside it looks like French bread except smoother. On the inside, it's a whole other story. It's lighter, fluffier, and soft to the touch, perfect for squeezing on a flat press into a sandwich. It gets stale in two minutes flat if left in the open air, but my sandwich didn't last that long. It tasted so good I knew I wasn't dead anymore. Yeah, a real existential experience.

I popped a cone-shaped paper cup from a dispenser on the wall and filled it from a water jug. I needed to cleanse my palette and digest. Or maybe I was stalling. Having something familiar like this meal was incredibly comforting. I desperately wanted to be in the company of my parents and little sister again. But faced with the possibility, I had no idea what I would tell them.

Mind you, the benefits of being an animist aren't easily explained. It's not something I can chat on the phone about with the extended family in Cuba. My sister never minded, but my parents didn't think the dark arts had any future. In the end, maybe they were right. I had gotten killed, after all.

I gulped down the miniscule amount of water and crushed the cup in my hands. Regret wasn't my style. I was a seat-of-the-pants kinda guy. Live in the moment. And that's what I was now: alive, for the moment.

A famous poet once said, "Seize the day. Put little trust in tomorrow." Well, that's why I was here. I tossed the cup in the
basura
, left my change on the counter as a tip, and headed down the block.

Off Flagler, the businesses gave way to apartments and duplexes, then private housing. Cracked sidewalks and paved driveways, tiny lots with multiple cars out front. My destination snuck up on me and I was at the chain-link fence before I noticed. The house was in bad shape. Yellow paint flaked off the walls. The security bars were faded from the sun. This was a far cry from the Versace Mansion, but it was my home.

The first odd thing I noticed was the "Beware of Dog" sign wired to the fence. We didn't have a dog and there wasn't one in sight. I fought off a frown when I considered my absence. My dad had a bad back and my mom and sister wouldn't be able to fend off a burglar. Without me around, it was likely they got a dog for protection. Even more likely, they just put up the sign in a feeble attempt at security.

The Mustang parked on the street was new too. There was no telling who it belonged to, but it was parked up to the fence like the driver owned the place. My sister could have gotten new car. I peeked inside. A pair of women's panties hung from the rearview mirror.

Uh, sister and I might need to have a conversation. I shook my head and smiled, then unhinged the gate and approached the door.

It struck me that I didn't have my keys. I patted my pockets out of habit anyway. The front door was open but the metal security door was closed and locked, so I rapped against it loudly.

"Guess who," I said hesitantly, deciding to play this as a light-hearted prank.

Yeah, bad idea. I'm full of those.

A man with an exposed beer belly hanging over his shorts came to the door and gave me the stink eye. "
Que tú quires?
"

"Uh..." I switched to Spanish. "Where's Lydia Suarez? And Oscar?"

The man's face didn't soften at the names of my parents. "Who?"

"The owners of this house," I said, but I immediately knew I was wrong. The Mustang on the street, the dog sign... I didn't need to see the blank face of this stranger to know that my family didn't live here anymore.

"I don't know who you're talking about," he said gruffly. "This is my house."

I remained quiet, absorbing the news. I think I swayed a little.

Where does a person go when they have no home?

 

 

 

 

I was dazed when I left the doorstep. Not sullen, not nostalgic, but straight up dazed.

The man with the Mustang and rearview-mirror panties was in
my
house, and I wanted to tell him to get out or else I'd make him. I didn't care if he flashed a deed to the property—I had a mind to storm past him and lock myself in my room and blast rock music.

Still reeling from everything else, I did the smart thing and walked away. Maybe it would've been smarter to ask questions, but walking away was as smart as I could handle. Give me some credit. I could always approach later with a cooler head.

With nowhere specific to go, I strolled the old neighborhood, seeing things I recognized, but also seeing plenty of differences. Plenty of cars I had never seen before. A new roof on the Sanchez house. An iron gate on the corner. A missing palm tree.

Slowly I was getting the feeling this wasn't my neighborhood anymore.

The icing on the cake was the brand new stadium where the Orange Bowl used to be. A sleek building in place of the familiar rust bucket.
My
rust bucket. That wasn't the type of thing that changed in a single year.

A parked Fiat next to me chirped as it unlocked. I'd never seen the tiny car before, and I don't mean in the neighborhood. I mean I've never seen the model before. No one was in the car so I turned and kept walking, and that's when I saw the curvy hottie walking my way.

This girl was gorgeous. Supermodel hot, with her own Latina flair. That's not just code for big ass, although hers was serious business. She was short, tan, and had long, straight hair like a styled wig. I couldn't get a good look at her body because she wore loose sweats, but it was obvious from the way her blouse hung that she had a big chest.

The star of the ensemble cast, though, was her face. Plump lips, a Marilyn Monroe style beauty mark above on the left, and deep-brown eyes with matching eyebrows that incited intrigue. I couldn't
not
be fascinated with the girl, and she was dressed down.

She watched me curiously as she approached. I maintained my gait, tried to not look too impressed, and even managed a wink when she was close. That drew a puzzled smile.

I didn't know if that was good or bad.

I continued on, too wrapped up in my own problems to act. Or that's what I like to tell myself. The truth is, I was too chicken to say anything. This girl had the face of a diva. Very intimidating to my former (muscle-less) self. I liked to pretend I was smooth, but nobody was
that
smooth.

"Francisco?" came the singsong voice from behind me. "Is that you?"

I turned quickly, too quickly, with my left hand raised and my right in a fist at my side. A knee-jerk defensive move that made me look like a jerk. I couldn't blame myself for being a little jumpy, but would she? The pretty girl raised an eyebrow, puzzlement becoming shock.

"It
is
you!"

She took some hurried steps my way. I backed up and warded her off with my hand. I didn't know this woman. She saw my reaction and froze in her tracks. The shock on her face transitioned to relief, then fear.

"Who are you?" I demanded, checking the street for any activity.

"You don't recognize me, Cisco?" Her head made a little sweeping motion as she said my name, like women do in movies when they cop an attitude. Except there was no attitude on display, just a little hurt. "It's Milena. Seleste's best friend."

It all came crashing back. My sister and Milena Fuentes were inseparable. And now that she mentioned her name, it was all too obvious. I lowered my guard immediately.

Milena and Seleste were always a little overweight. No one would dare call them fat (especially with me around), but nobody could deny their raw beauty. Milena, especially, had the kind of charming smile that drove men to crazy places. Because I'd always defended them, I think she kind of had a crush on me. But we were eight years apart in age, and I didn't chase high-school tail.

But there was a big problem with Milena right now. Namely that she wasn't sixteen years old anymore. The girl in front of me had lost the weight but kept the curves. She'd filled out and walked like a woman, and she didn't look nearly as innocent and shy as I remembered.

This was definitely my little sister's best friend, but not the same Milena I knew.

"You have boobs now," was all I managed to get out. That's right. Cisco Suarez can be real smooth.

A smile flickered on her face, but she forced it down. "That's the first thing you notice?" Her eyes flashed and narrowed, and it didn't look like she was flirting. She squared herself to me in sudden anger. I didn't know what to expect, so when she slammed both hands into my chest, I figured I got off lucky.

"I went to your funeral, asshole!"

I quickly understood the mixture of pain and anger on her face. The puzzlement made sense. But there was relief as well, like I wasn't the only one who needed answers.

"My funeral..."

She stared at me hard, friendly eyes growing cold. "All this time I thought you were dead. After everything that's happened. And you just show up in the hood and give me a wink?"

"I..." I almost hyperventilated. But I cleared my throat. Shook it off. Got back in control. "I didn't know," I offered weakly.

That gave her pause. She must have seen something on my face. I wish she told me what it was because I had no idea. I was supposed to be calm and in control, with a plan for everything,
Ocean's Eleven
style. Instead, I had no idea how to feel.

"How long have I been dead?" I asked, remembering the thin, flat screens at the hotel and the portable screens at the pool. Even the brand new Fiat ten feet away.

Milena swallowed. Her anger was shaken now, a cocktail of rage and sympathy with a garnish of surprise. "Ten years," she whispered.

My breathing went into overdrive again, which is a stupid expression because overdrive is slower than fifth gear. But I stumbled anyway, worry attacking me from all angles.

Ten. Fucking. Years.

I pinched myself. I double-checked my pulse. Definitely alive, probably not dreaming. I'd been dead for ten fucking years and the world had rolled on without me.

Suddenly light-headed, I caught the ground with my hands and knees. Between gasps of oxygen, which I was pretty sure I still needed, I forced the words out. "My family?"

Milena's mouth opened. Her words, like mine, came hard. Her lips twisted as she debated how to answer.

"What happened to you, Cisco?" she asked softly.

I grunted. In urgency. In warning. In desperation. "My family?" I demanded.

The girl swallowed slowly. "You don't know?" Her hand covered her mouth and her eyes watered. "I went to their funerals too."