Dirty Magic (12 page)

He shot me a look that I was too smart to mistake for respect. “What about the Os?”

“Aphrodite Johnson doesn’t bother with that cryptic bullshit.”

“So our friend is a tagger. Any history of dealing?”

“Hasn’t been collared for it yet,” I said. “But he’s looking awfully nervous for a graffiti artist without his paints.”

Marvin’s posture was casual, but his eyes worked over the street as if he was waiting for someone to attack. Morales and I were parked in a lot down the street, so he hadn’t eyeballed us yet.

“Should we have a chat with him?” I asked.

Morales watched for a few moments. Finally, he picked up his magazine again. “We’ll wait.”

“Why?”

He sighed and dragged his eyes from the magazine. “Because, Nancy Drew, we’re trying to find evidence, not have a heart-to-heart with the guy.”

I considered calling him to task on the Nancy Drew thing, but it was better than Cupcake, so I let it slide. Plus, as soon as Morales said it, a limo pulled up to the corner. We both sat up straighter. Marvin sauntered to the car and leaned in through the open window. I tried to adjust my angle, but I just couldn’t see inside past Marvin’s skinny ass.

“Wait for it,” Morales said.

Just then, the Herald pulled something out of his pocket. Couldn’t tell what, but I was guessing he wasn’t passing notes. “Can you see it?”

“Shit,” Morales said. “No.”

A split second after Marvin passed the item into the window, it rolled up and the limo took off like a shot. I spun around to grab the license plate. “Got it.”

Morales picked up the cell he’d stashed on the dashboard. “Shadi. Yeah. Need you to run a plate for me.”

I held up the pad with the numbers while he read them off.

“Call me back when you got it,” Morales said and hung up. “All right, let’s go have a chat with Marvin.”

He put the car in gear and drove toward the front of the club. The closer we got, the more alert Marvin’s posture became. His eyes narrowed as Morales slowed near the corner.

I didn’t know if he recognized me or if his criminal Spidey-sense just told him who we were, but he started walking at a rapid clip down the side street. When he reached the alley behind the building, he sprinted off like a gazelle.

“We got a runner,” Morales said in a bored tone. “Go get him.”

I frowned. “Why me?”

“I’m driving.” He glanced over. “Go on.”

The sly tilt of his lips told me he expected me to balk. Trust me, I considered it. After all, I was still in the stupid suit and heels, a detail my new partner had clearly not forgotten.

“Fine.” His eyes widened as I reached for the handle and threw the door wide. I hit the ground running. A jolt of pain raced up my ankles as I sprinted in front of the car, but I dug in and ran faster. The heels were a bitch, but damned if I was going to let Morales think I couldn’t hold my own.

I shot off down the alley, my gaze lasered on Marvin’s rapidly retreating back. “We just want to talk to you, Marvin.”

“Ah, hell no!” he yelled over his shoulder. He hurdled a cardboard box and headed straight toward a chain-link in the distance.

“Goddamn it.” My heel skidded on a puddle of grease. I windmilled my arms and caught myself before gravity won the battle. Now that I was good and pissed, I was able to put a little extra gas in my stride.

I managed to grab a handful of Marvin’s shirt.

“Bitch, you crazy!” he shouted, struggling for the top.

I managed to get my other hand on his waistband. A good yank later, he came tumbling down like a sack of pointy elbows and ass cheeks. He landed directly on top of me.

“Uh!”

Marvin struggled against my hold, but I gripped hard despite the pain in my ass and my twisted ankle.

“I told you to catch him, Prospero,” said an amused voice behind me, “not make out with him.”

“Shut the fuck up and help me.”

Two scuffed boots entered my field of vision, followed by a face bearing a shit-eating grin. In two seconds, he had Marvin subdued. While they both watched, I dragged myself off the nasty pavement.

My right shoe lay to the right, so I limped over and grabbed it. As I bent down, I noticed a vomit stain on my elbow and a smudge of something disconcertingly brown on my skirt. “You’re paying for my dry cleaning,” I said.

Morales opened his mouth to respond, but Marvin beat him to it. “I was you, I’d burn that shit.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, we were parked in a lot a few blocks from the Green Faerie. Mr. Funny Guy was pouting in the rear seat. I was back there with him because Morales said he didn’t want his passenger seat to get dirty.

Ass.

“Y’all gonna get me killed picking me up in broad daylight!” The paint spatters that decorated his hands were brilliant against his white-knuckled grip on the tail of his T-shirt. The black shirt also sported fresh red paint stains over the logo for the popular Alchemist rock group, Spirit of Vitriol.

“And selling potions won’t?” Morales said from his spot in the front. “Come on, Marvin.”

“Picasso,” he corrected. “And I already told you, my homeboy PeeWee got a sweet gig as one of them chauffeurs. He was asking for directions.”

“A chauffeur was asking for directions?” Morales asked.

“Didn’t say he was a good chauffeur.”

“Where was he headed?” I asked. “To the stash?”

Marvin feigned an almost convincing frown. “What’s a stash?”

I rolled my eyes. “Who’s putting Gray Wolf on the streets?”

“What’s Gray Wolf?” This time his pupils dilated, as if his eyes were trying to hide secrets.

Morales raised a brow. “You know, Marvin, the jails are full of assholes who wouldn’t talk.”

“Stop calling me Marvin,” he said, setting his jaw at a stubborn angle.

Morales’s cell chimed. He grabbed it and punched a button like he wished it were Marvin’s face. “What? Hey, Shadi.”

While he talked to her, I stared down Picasso. He met my look with a curious one of his own. Finally, he said, “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?” I snapped.

“Being a traitor.” He didn’t say it in an accusing tone. More curious. Like maybe he was thinking of becoming one himself.

Since that’s exactly what I wanted him to do, I thought for a moment about my answer. “Not gonna lie. It’s not easy.” He nodded as though that’s what he expected me to say. I leaned forward. “But I’ll tell you this: I don’t miss looking over my shoulder and waiting for the fuzz to snatch me up.”

“Cut the shit, Prospero.” He laughed. “Helping you two might get the fuzz off my back, it might not. But it sure as hell will get me ass-fucked by Volos.”

I raised a brow. “So he’s back in the game?”

“You already knew that, right?” He shook his head. “Problem is you don’t got the evidence. And I ain’t got none to give you.”

At that moment, Morales ended his call. “Plates checked out. National Limo owns the car and the registered driver is Jerome Simmons, who goes by the alias PeeWee.”

“I told you,” Marvin said. “PeeWee works for them.”

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t selling him a potion.”

Marvin made a disgusted sound and jerked back toward the seat. “If I sold to the man, where’s the money at?” He raised his hands. “Ask me, y’all are holding a brother against his will. This is some straight-up kidnapping and shit.”

Morales and I exchanged a look. Technically we couldn’t hold him without charging him with something, but there were ways around that. We were grasping at straws now. When we’d patted him down, we’d found only a box of breath mints he’d clearly forgotten about, a Velcro wallet, and a pack of generic cigs in his pockets. His wallet turned up a bus pass, a few bucks, and a condom that looked like he’d stolen it from a Gas ’N Gulp in the ’90s.

I glanced at the glowering Herald. As much as I didn’t want to let this go, we weren’t getting anywhere. I shook my head at Morales.

“All right, Marvin,” he said. “Looks like we gotta throw you back.”

“Wait,” he said. “Don’t suppose you could spare a little extra scratch.”

Morales and I shared a look. “For what, exactly?” I asked.

He sat up straighter. “Seeing how I told you it’s Volos.”

Morales laughed. “I’m pretty sure the judge won’t accept hearsay from a known vandal as proof.”

The kid chewed his lip. “Okay, look. All I know is Volos has some plan cooking. A big one.”

“What kind of plan?”

“I don’t know exactly.” His eyes darted around quickly, like he was looking for ideas. “Maybe he’s trying to take over where Abraxas left off.”

“Good-bye, Marvin.” Morales reached for the door.

“Wait! I helped you, right?”

I snorted. “That’s about as useful as you telling us Volos prefers boxers over briefs.” For the record, he preferred nothing at all. At least he hadn’t a decade earlier.

“Hey! What do you want here? You ain’t gonna get that kind of evidence interviewing low-level assholes like me.”

“So we’ll go up the chain,” Morales said. “Bye now.”

“Shit,” Marvin said, not moving. “Good luck with that. Ain’t no one want to get in the middle of this turf war.”

I tilted my head. “Wait. What turf war?”

The kid froze and swallowed. “Just, you know, everybody trying to stake a claim.”

“Out!” Morales threw open the door and pushed the kid out. Marvin stumbled into the alley.

“Hold on,” I said, grabbing Morales’s arm. “He knows something.”

“Should have shared it when he had the chance.” He threw a couple of crumpled bills out the door after Marvin. “Here’s a little something for your dry-cleaning bill.” He hit the gas before I could grab the door and slam it shut.

I leaned over the back of his seat. “I don’t think we should leave him here.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re in Votary territory. If anyone saw him with us—”

“Sounds to me like Marvin needs to be more careful about the company he keeps.” Morales elbowed my hand away and slammed the car into drive.

As he drove away, I cast a final, apologetic glance out the back window. Marvin was pulling himself off the filthy alley floor, clutching the bills in his hand, and watching our exit with eyes that glittered with hate.

T
hat night, I pulled Sybil into the driveway after picking her up from Joe the Mechanic’s shop. In the passenger’s seat was a bucket of chicken, a bag of groceries I couldn’t afford, and my shoulder holster. Part of me wanted to just hide out in the car and eat the extra-crispy in silence. But I’d already received two impatient texts from my brother demanding to know when I would be getting home with food. So I gathered my stuff and trudged toward the door.

Mez had been nice enough to drop me off at the mechanic’s shop after work. He drove one of those fancy, potion-fueled cars and spent the entire drive trying to talk me into buying one, too. I just smiled and nodded because I appreciated the ride, but I resented the hell out of the suggestion. The Jeep had been the first major purchase I’d made in my life that hadn’t been funded by dirty magic. It had taken six months of riding the bus, eating ramen, and forgoing any sort of luxuries to buy it from the fry cook at the diner I’d worked in after I left the coven. I mean sure, she was primer gray, needed enough repairs to put my mechanic’s kid through college, and the interior smelled like dirty gym socks, but she was mine.

According to Joe, the culprit of that morning’s no-go was a corroded battery that had eaten through all the surrounding connectors and terminals. Because I’d let the problem fester so long, the repair cost twice what it would have if I’d just needed a new battery. It would have cost three times that had I not also promised Joe to help Joey Jr. with his latest speeding ticket.

I used my foot to push open the kitchen door. The bucket of chicken was hot against my rib cage, and the groceries and holster were balanced precariously in my left hand.

Danny was doing homework at the table. “Hey,” he said without looking up.

“Grab something, will ya?” I asked.

He sighed and took the chicken from me. Instead of setting it down, he ripped off the lid and pulled out a drumstick. I grimaced at him and lugged the groceries to the counter. The sounds of him munching on that chicken leg made me want to claw my skin off.

“Oh yeah, Pen called. Said she wanted to hear about your new assignment or something.”

“I’ll tell her later at group.” I nodded and pulled a box of cereal out of the bag.

“Ah, shit.”
Smack, smack.
“Why didn’t you get the cinnamon kind?”

I pointed to the large ceramic jar set up by the sink. On it, I’d written
CURSES $1
. “Pay up, kid.”

He sighed and shoved the drumstick between his teeth. Then he dipped into his pocket and dug out a handful of change. With exaggerated movements, he dropped the coins in the jar. “Happy?” he said over his mouthful.

I nodded. “Now, back to your complaint. When you get a job you can pick the fu—” I caught myself just in time—“freaking cereal.” The box slammed onto the counter like a gunshot. “Now put that chicken down and help me put these away.”

His expression became the one teenagers had used on their parents for generations. The one that made you long to walk out the door and never look back.