Mean Streets (18 page)

“What have you got?” he asked as we pushed through the door to the X-ray machine and other lab paraphernalia.

I put the white cardboard box down on the machine’s table and carefully removed the little dog statue. He started to reach for it, then stopped.

“You—um . . . it’s OK to touch it without gloves, isn’t it?”

“I think so. I’ve been handling it bare-handed all morning.” I had supposed I’d know if there was anything toxic on the figure’s surface, but there really wasn’t any way that I would. I looked at the small black dog as I clutched it by its middle and hoped it wasn’t dusted with anthrax or the like.

Fish paused to pull on a pair of purple gloves before he took the figurine from me. Then he scraped a bit of the black paint into a glass tube and repeated the scraping on the bottom of the dog’s foot, where the mellow orange clay was bare of glaze or paint. The sheen of Grey on the sculpture’s surface rippled and squirmed as he scraped, but it didn’t flare or change color—either of which would have been bad signs. He added some chemicals to the tubes and put them aside in a large white machine.

“I’ll run a couple of tests on those while we’re at it,” he said. He poked some buttons on the machine. Then he turned back to the X-ray table. “Now, let’s look at this little guy. . . .”

Altogether, Fish took three views of the dog. Since the morgue had updated to digital X-ray, we didn’t have to wait for the pictures to be developed, but just viewed them on the computer screen behind the radiation barrier. There was indeed something inside the clay dog.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a bundle of faint lines that showed on every picture. It was in a different spot each time.

“Something loose in the hollow interior. Let’s crank up the resolution. . . .”

Fish poked a few keys and the image of the bundle got larger and more clear.

“Looks like hair or threads knotted together. Whatever it is, there’s not much of it,” Fish observed. “I could pull it out and examine it if you didn’t mind reopening that hole in the dog’s belly.”

One condition of the bequest was that the dog statue be put on the grave intact by me and only me. I didn’t think it would qualify as “intact” if part of its secret bundle were missing, not to mention the plug of clay in the figure’s belly. And I didn’t have much time to sit around in Seattle: it was already October twenty-eighth, the trip was going to be a long one, even by air, and I didn’t know where in Oaxaca City Hector Purecete was buried. I wasn’t fool enough to think there was only one cemetery in town, so I’d have to do some investigating in Oaxaca before I could complete the conditions of the bequest, as Nan insisted on calling them.

“I don’t think it should be removed, unless you suppose it’s something illegal,” I said, frowning at the picture.

“That small? Nah, not likely to be anything drug-related, or human remains. Unless it’s hair, like I said, in which case it probably got in there while the dog was being painted. It’s too fine to be plant matter and there’s not enough of it to be worth much if it’s any other fiber. It’s not dense enough to be metal strands, either. Without actually seeing it with my own eyes and running tests, my best guess is still human hair.” Then he shrugged and added, “Or a few strands of some really long-haired animal’s fur or tail. Maybe horse tail . . .”

Noises in the hallway and a sudden agitation among the ghosts indicated the post-lunch return of Fish’s coworkers. We packed up the figurine and Fish led me back out, promising to call when he had the result of the tests on the clay and paint. I headed back to my office to clear off my schedule and check on the flights Nan had promised to book for me on behalf of the estate.

Only Nan’s work had any specific deadlines on it, so it wasn’t difficult to rearrange my meetings and appointments—I don’t make that many anyhow. The biggest hurdle was finding someone to look after my pet ferret while I was gone, and that was taken care of by tracking down Quinton and depositing the tube rat with him. I suspect Chaos prefers him over me, since he will happily carry her around with him all day in one deep pocket or another, while I usually have to leave her at home. Anyhow, she didn’t look grieved to see me go, even if Quinton did.

We sat in the glass picnic shelter beside Ivar’s Acres of Clams on the waterfront and talked while we ate our fish and chips. Chaos helped us with the chips and ignored the gulls screaming outside, even in the late-October chill, for their tithe of greasy fast food. Ivar Haglund may have loved those damned birds, but to me they were a nuisance worse than persistent spooks: ghosts don’t poop on you.

“Oaxaca?” Quinton questioned. “Why?”

“Some nonsense with a bequest. There’s a set of instructions—sorry: conditions—that have to be fulfilled.”

“Like in one of those movies where you have to stay in the haunted house overnight or change your name to Gaggleplox?” he asked. “Those usually don’t work out well—most of the cast ends up dead or the inheritance turns out to be a stash of counterfeit bills.”

I made a face. “That’s in the movies. This is just a job. Find the right grave, put the dog on it, and wait for daybreak.”

“And in between is when all hell could break loose. Which seems pretty likely considering your talents.”

“It’s possible,” I conceded, “but the money is pretty attractive and I don’t get a sense of danger from the statue—just trouble.”

He snorted. “Just trouble . . . And why did this woman pick you? Did you know her?”

I shook my head and pinched off a bit of fried potato for the ferret. “No. I didn’t know her and I don’t know why she picked me for this job. I assume she somehow knew what I can do, but how she knew, that’s the big mystery. And why I agreed to go. Maybe there’s some clue to be found about why this happened to me and not to every person who’s ever had a near-death experience. There must be someone who knows more about all of this than I do, or the Danzigers do, or every vampire from here to Vancouver seems to.” I felt a flush on my face that didn’t come from the space heater overhead and realized I was getting angry. Not at Quinton, but at the shifty fate that had yanked the rug out from under me when I’d died only long enough to have my life wrenched into a shape beyond my control.

“But if it was this Arbildo woman, she’s already dead,” Quinton said.

“Then I’ll hunt her down in the Grey.” At least my change of life had come with useful skills. I was still figuring them out more than a year later, but I no longer hated and resented them.

My flight was set for 11:40 that evening with a five-hour lay-over in Dallas before I could fly on to Mexico City and from there to Oaxaca, but even with the delay, I’d still have a few hours once I got to Oaxaca City to find the records office and start looking for the grave of Hector Purecete.

I finished up my food and gave Chaos a final scratch around the ears. Quinton got a lot more than an ear scratch, which annoyed the ferret, judging by the way she kept pushing herself in between us and snagging our kisses for herself. Jealous little furball.

 

 

 

The trip was smooth. Right up to Mexico City, where they broke the dog.

The customs agent was going through my bag when it happened. There was the box with the little clay dog inside. He held it up.

“Is this a gift?” he demanded in a crabby, tired voice.

I’d have guessed he was near the end of his shift if it wasn’t quite noon, but maybe he was aware in his own way of the cranky, dispirited, overexcited motion of the Grey as much as I was. The customs area was aroil in the flashes and clouds of hundreds of passengers’ emotional energy giving shape and color to the loose power of the magical grid. It chafed and roared and twisted through the space around us like angry lions in a too-small cage. The sound of the Grey was a strong, steady hum with a sharp edge, like barbed wire under silk.

That sharpness was probably why my response was inappropriately flippant: “No. It’s a dog,” I said.

One really shouldn’t joke with security people of any kind while they are on the job; most have had to leave their sense of humor in their locker with their civilian clothes. He raised his eyebrow and opened the box, rooting inside with his blue-gloved hand—every employee at airport security looks like they’re about to play doctor in some very unpleasant way these days. He snorted in surprise and jerked his hand out with the figurine not quite gripped in his sweat-sticky glove. You’d have thought the little dog had bitten him from the way he moved. His hand yanked back, jerking upward a little as the statuette cleared the edge of the box. The black object moved up, popping out of his loose grip, and arced into the air, ripping a slice of glove with one pointed ear as it went. It was like slow-motion film, watching it rise from safety and crash to the hard linoleum beneath our feet.

As it hit the floor, it flashed a panic-bolt of silver white into the Grey. The little clay dog shattered, a tiny bundle of dark fibers bouncing onto the floor amid the terra-cotta shards. With a silvery gasp, the flash rushed back toward the broken figurine and coalesced into the ghost of a dog.

The ghost dog looked around, then looked at me, and whined piteously. It was a rangy, mongrel beast with the shape of a stunted greyhound and the coat of a shaggy pony. It sidled up to me and leaned against my legs and I felt its cold Grey shape press against me with its memory of weight.

The customs agent looked at the smashed figurine and bent to pick the tiny knot from the wreckage. “Eh?” he mumbled. “What is this?”

I shrugged. “Hair?” I guessed.

He looked at it, rubbed it between his fingers, sniffed it. Then he motioned to one of his coworkers, who walked over and rubbed a small cloth swab over the little bundle. He put the swab into a machine while the first man moved me and my bags to another table deeper inside the security zone. Someone else swept up the bits of clay and put them in a plastic bag. The dog stuck to me like a shy toddler.

“Nada,”
said the man with the machine.
“Este es pelo.”

They put a little of the clay dust from the broken figurine into the machine, but that also yielded “nada.” The customs agent looked sad as he finished inspecting my bag and closed it up, handing it and the bag of shards back to me with what almost looked like a contrite bow, and an apology for breaking my dog.

“De nada,”
I replied. Then I asked for the knot of fluff back, which he thought was odd, but he dug into the trash and retrieved it for me anyhow. I dropped it into the bag of broken ceramic—it wasn’t intact anymore, but better to keep it all together, just in case, I thought.

He handed me a claim form to fill out if the dog had been insured, and I took it, even though I doubted the figurine was valuable. I was sure it was the ghost that was the important thing.

The spirits of Mexico hummed and roared. The ghost dog pasted itself to my heels and shadowed me around the halls of the Mexico City airport as I tried to find a place to put down my bags and make a phone call. Of course, the place I found was a bar.

I threw myself and my bags down and ordered a beer while I called Nan on my cell phone. Seattle being close to the other border, I’d had international calling added to my service long ago. Sometimes I wondered how I’d managed without a cell phone so long. Other times I wished I still had my pager.

It took a few minutes to get connected to Nan.

“Hello, Harper.”

“Hello, Nan. Mexican customs broke the dog.”

“Is it reparable?”

“No. But I have a major part of it,” I added, looking at the cowering ghost at my ankles.

“Where are you?”

“Mexico City airport.”

“Banda is located there. He may have instructions for that contingency.”

She gave me his number. I wrote it on my cocktail napkin, as is traditional in that sort of situation. “If I call this guy, I may miss my connection to Oaxaca,” I warned her. “I’m already running tight because of the mess at customs.”

“I’ll have Cathy reschedule you to a later flight and call you back with the information. Is there anything else?”

“No. I’ll let Cathy know if anything is still out of whack when she calls.”

“Good. Stay in touch.” And she was off the phone as fast as that.

I finished my Negra Modelo and called the number on the napkin. I felt itchy from annoyance and lack of sleep—I don’t get more than a fitful doze on planes, since my long legs end up cramped and headrests are never in the right place for me. I always longed to upgrade to first class, but the PI business usually comes with a tourist-class budget.

Guillermo Banda answered his own phone. He spoke English like a New Yorker as soon as he heard how bad my Spanish was.

“Miss Blaine! You’re here! This is excellent! How is the perrito? The little dog?”

“Customs broke it.”

“Fuck! Pardon me. My client would be very upset to hear it. If she weren’t dead.”

“Which is why I’m here at all.” Talking to this guy was like talking to Lou Costello, and I was afraid I might start laughing. “I do have part of the dog and I could take that up to Oaxaca, if you think that would be in the spirit intended.”

“I don’t know. . . .” There were noises in the background and he muttered away from the receiver something about Puerto Vallarta, which was rejoined by a feminine giggle.

I tried to keep him on track. “Well, if you could tell me what it was your client had in mind with this condition, I’m sure we can figure out a way to satisfy the spirit, if not the letter, of her request.”

“That I also don’t know. Miss Arbildo wasn’t very . . . forthcoming.”

“How long had she been your client, Mr. Banda?”

“Oh, years! Years and years! But we never spoke. She came in to update her will last year and before that we’d only seen each other twice. I inherited her account from my partner, who died a few years back in a plane crash. Horrible.”